[3] _Die Pyrenäen._ VON EUGEN BARON VAERST. Zwei Bände: Breslau, 1847.
Baron Vaerst's animated account of his Pyrenean wanderings and
observations, forms one of the pleasantest books of its class we for
some time have met with. As the issue of a German pen, one so
agreeable was scarcely to be expected. Whatever be thought of the
present condition of German literature--and our opinion of it is far
from favourable--all must admit that the department of voyages and
travels has of late been execrably provided. Since Tschudi's Peru, now
eighteen months old, nothing of mark--scarcely any thing worth a
passing notice--has been produced by German travellers. There have
appeared a few books of eastern travel, others of stale description
and oft-repeated criticism from Italy. Prince Waldemar's physician
gave us a dull narrative of his journey to and through India, where he
was so injudicious as to get shot just as his observations became of
interest. It was time something better should turn up. Germans, hardy
and adventurous travelers and shrewd observers, are but moderately
successful in describing what they see. Of course, there are brilliant
exceptions. Tschudi is one of the most recent, Vaerst, allowing for
the comparative staleness of his subject, really does not come far
behind him as a lively and expert writer. Most German tourists either
drivel or dogmatise; are awfully wise, and ponderous, and somniferous,
or mere trivial verbose gossips, writing against time and paper, with
a torrent of words and a drought of ideas, like Kohl, the substance of
any four of whose volumes might, with perfect ease and great
advantage, be compressed into one. The best travels, now-a-days, are
written by Englishmen, and our large and daily-increasing store of
admirable books of that class does honour to the country. The French
are vastly amusing, but they are too fond of romancing, and do so
artfully and unscrupulously mix up what they invent at home with what
they see abroad, that they mislead and impose upon the simple and
unwary. Without taking for example such an extreme case as Alexander
Dumas--notorious as a hardened delinquent, writing travels in
countries whose frontier he has never crossed, and chuckling when the
same is imputed to him--we find abundance of more modest offenders,
serving up their actual experiences with a humorous sauce, in whose
composition and distribution they display much skill and wit. For
instance,--one might suppose the vast number of books about Syria,
Egypt, Turkey, and so forth, that have appeared within the last few
years in England, France, and Germany, would have left little of
interest to tell about those oriental regions, and that whatever was
at present written would be a mere _rechauffé_, without spice or
flavour,--an unpalatable dishing-up of yesterday's baked-meats. In his
"Anti-Liban, Scènes de la Vie Orientale," M. Gerard de Nerval
practically demonstrates the fallacy of such an opinion, and shows how
talent and humour will give fresh zest to a subject already handled by
a host of artists. Of course, we do not accept all his romantic scenes
and _contes dialoguées_ as literal facts,--they are the gilding of the
pill, the seductive embellishments of a hackneyed subject; but an
attentive reader will sift character and information from them. And
after all, when a whole library of gravity has been written about a
country, it is surely, allowable, in an age when fun is so rampant
that even history is strained into burlesque, to write of it gaily,
and place a setting of amusement round facts that would otherwise
hardly obtain perusal. And we do not smile the less at M. de Nerval's
facetious stories about Javanese slaves, Greek captains and Druse
festivals, at his proposals of marriage to Scheiks' daughters,
recounted by him with commendable assurance, and at the smart French
repartees he puts into the mouths of solemn Egyptian pachas, because
we trace without difficulty the operation of his lively imagination
and decorative pen. On the other hand, there are French books of
travel as dull and sententious as those of any Teuton who ever
twaddled. As a specimen, we refer our readers to the long-winded
periods and inflated emptiness of that wearisome personage, Monsieur
X. Marmier.
Less convenient of access, the Pyrenees are far less visited than the
Alps. It is on that account, perhaps, that they are more written
about. People now can go to Switzerland without rushing madly into
print--indeed it would be ridiculous to write a descriptive tour in a
country thoroughly well known to nine out of ten of the probable
readers. But it seems very difficult for any one versed in
orthography, and able to hold a pen, to approach the Pyrenees without
flying to the ink-bottle. And it is astounding to behold the
confidence with which, on the strength of a week or two at Pau, a few
pints of water imbibed at Barèges, or a distant view of the Maladetta,
they discourse of three hundred miles of mountain, containing infinite
variety of scenery, and richer perhaps than any other mountain range
in the world in associations historical, poetical, and romantic. On no
such slender experience does Baron Vaerst found his claims as
chronicler of this most splendid of natural partition-walls. "Thrice,"
he tells us, "and under very various circumstances, have I visited the
Pyrenees, passing over and through them in all directions, both on the
French and Spanish side; so that from the Garonne to the Ebro I am
well acquainted with the country, to which an old predilection
repeatedly drew me. It is now twenty years since I undertook my first
journey, at the close of a long residence in France. At leisure, and
with all possible convenience I saw the different Pyrenean
watering-places, remaining six months amongst them. I was a sturdy
pedestrian and good climber, and I passed nearly the whole summer in
wandering over the mountains, accompanied by able guides, bending my
stops whithersoever accident or the humour of the moment impelled me,
and pausing in those spots that especially pleased me. The snug and
secret valleys of the Pyrenees are world-renowned. I know no region
which oftener suggests the thought,--Here it is good to dwell--here
let us build our house!"
Ten years later the Baron re-visited his well-beloved vales and
mountains; this time in the suite and confidence of the pretender to
the Spanish crown. Thence he forwarded occasional details of the civil
war to various English, French, and German newspapers, and had the
reputation with many of being a secret agent of the northern powers,
intrusted with a sort of half-official mission, and authorised on
behalf of his employers to prepare the recognition of Don Carlos as
king of Spain, which was to follow--so it was then believed--immediately
on the capture of Saragossa, Bilboa, or any other important fortress.
The favour shown him by the pretender accredited the report, which in
some respects was disagreeable to the Baron, whilst in others he found
it useful, as giving him facilities for seeing and getting knowledge
of the country. In all security and with due military escort, he took
his rambles, accompanied by Viscount de Barrés, a French officer in
the Carlist service, who had been Zumalacarregui's aide-de-camp, and
who conducted him over the early battle-fields of the civil war, in
the valleys of Echalar and Bastan; to the sea-coast, to the sources of
the Ebro, and over the high mountains of Guipuzcoa. Barrés spoke
Spanish and Basque; he was familiar with the country and its usages,
and able to give his companion an immense store of valuable
information, the essence of which is concentrated in the book before
us.
"My first journey in the Pyrenees was made on foot; the second
entirely on horseback. Although the Carlist army in the Basque
provinces was then thirty thousand strong, not a single carriage or
cart followed it; even the royal baggage was carried on mules.
Finally, just one year ago, I started on my third Pyrenean expedition,
this time in a comfortable travelling carriage. I undertook the
journey not for amusement, but in obedience to medical injunctions.
Lame and ill, I could neither ride nor walk, and was unable closely to
approach my beloved mountains. I hovered around them, like a shy lover
round his mistress, going as near as the carriage-roads would take me.
How often, in the golden radiance of the sun, in its glorious rising
and setting, in the soft moon-light, and through the driving storm,
have I gazed with absorbing admiration at those mountain peaks, and
forgotten myself, my sufferings, and the world!"
Cheerless and discouraging were the circumstances under which, in the
autumn of 1844, Baron Vaerst started upon his third journey
southwards. He was sick, dispirited, and in pain, the weather was
abominable, and he felt uneasy lest the Breslau theatre, whose manager
he for some years had been, should suffer from his absence. A strong
love of sunshine and the south, however, consoled him in some measure
for these disagreeables, and good news of the progress of his
theatrical speculation contributed to raise his spirits. His plans
were very vague. He would go south, and chance should fix him. At the
"Roman Emperor," at Frankfort, he fell in with the hereditary prince
of Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt and Baron Rheinbaben. They agreed to travel
together to Marseilles, and thence take ship for Madeira. Baron Vaerst
had set his mind upon wintering in the Canaries. He had been reading
Leopold Von Buch's fascinating description of their beauties, and had
decided that the valley of Lavanda alone would repay the voyage. In
imagination he already inhaled the perfumed air, spiced with odours of
orange and pomegranate; already he sauntered beneath bowers of vines
and through almond groves peopled with myriads of canary-birds. His
friends took the contagion of his enthusiasm, and Funchal was the goal
of all their desires. From Frankfort their second day's journey
brought them to Mannheim. Here a gross attempt at imposition awaited
them. "Having not a moment to lose, in order to catch the Mühlhausen
railway, we called out somewhat impatiently from the steamer's deck
for four horses to convey us to the station. A man made his appearance
with two, and insisted upon harnessing one to each of our heavy
travelling carriages, maintaining that he would drive us as fast as
any body else could with four. Of course we accepted his offer, but on
our way we were stopped by another coachman, who demanded payment for
a second pair of horses, ordered, although not used, by us, and which
he alleged were provided. We saw no signs of them, and refused
payment. The man screamed and stormed, called heaven to witness our
injustice, and appealed to the passers by to protect him against it.
At last the spectators took our part, and it turned out that the
fellow was owner of the two horses we used, which were all he
possessed. The second pair existed but in his imagination. I had
travelled over all Europe, and was accustomed to all kinds of
cheating,--which I do not, like Herr Nicolai in his Italian tour,
allow to disturb my good humour,--but I confess that such a
magnificent piece of impudence was entirely new to me, and as such I
deem it worthy of record."
After descending the Saone from Chalons to Lyons, cooped by hail and
rain in the narrow cabin of the steamer, with a couple of hundred very
miscellaneous companions, the three Germans posted forward to
Marseilles, but were pulled up at Avignon by lack of post-horses, all
engaged for the Prince of Joinville and Duke of Aumale, then on their
way to Naples to celebrate the marriage of the latter with the
Princess of Salerno. So they had time to examine the city which a
partial chronicler has styled noble by antiquity, agreeable by
situation, stately by its castle and battlements, smiling by the
fertility of its fields, loveable for the gentle manners of its
inhabitants, beautiful by its wide streets, wonderful for the
architecture of its bridge, rich through its commerce, and renowned
all the world over! This pompous description, always an exaggeration,
is now little better than a series of untruths. The walls are in
ruins, the streets narrow, angular, and uneven, the old castle of the
Popes looks more like a prison than a palace, commerce there is none,
and the murder of Marshal Brune, in 1814, by a furious mob, belies the
gentleness of the population. In Avignon, seven Popes reigned for
seven times ten years; it had seven hospitals, seven fraternities of
penitents, seven convents of monks and as many of nuns, seven
parishes, and seven cemeteries.
At Marseilles disappointment awaited the pilgrims. They had planned to
proceed to Lisbon, and thence by an English packet to Madeira; but
they were now informed that no steam-boats went either from Cadiz or
the Portuguese capital to the Canaries, and that the sailing vessels
were of an uncomfortable and inferior description. By these, at that
season of the year, they did not deem it advisable to proceed; so the
trip to Madeira seemed unlikely to be accomplished. They consoled
themselves as well as they could by inspecting all worthy of visit in
the pleasant capital of Provence, and by enjoying the luxurious
_table-d'hôte_ dinners of the Hotel de l'Orient. At this excellent
inn, as chance would have it, Prince Albert of Prussia, travelling
incognito, a short time previously had for some days put up. The arms
upon the carriage of Prince Schwarzburg included an imperial eagle,
borne by the counts and princes of his house since the time of
Günther, emperor of Germany and count of Schwarzburg. The prince
travelled under the assumed name of Baron Leutenberg, but the
double-headed eagle on his shield convinced the hotel keeper he was
some imperial prince, and on learning this from the _valet de place_,
he and his friends thought it advisable to come to an understanding
about prices, the more so as they occupied the same rooms inhabited
some time previously by Queen Christina of Spain, whose bill, in three
weeks, amounted to eight-and-twenty thousand francs. The apartments
were sumptuously fitted up, with mirrors that would have done honour
to a palace, and in the centre of the hotel was a large court, after
the Spanish fashion, enclosed on all sides with high arcades. In the
centre of this _patio_ a fountain threw up its waters, and around were
planted evergreen bushes and creepers. In the burning climate of
Marseilles, one of the most shadeless, and often--for two or three
months of the year--one of the hottest places in Europe, such a cool
and still retreat is especially delightful.
During Baron Vaerst's stay at Marseilles, the fine French war-steamer,
Montezuma, arrived from Africa, bringing the hero of Isly, Marshal
Bugeaud, and a numerous suite. The evening of his arrival, the
conqueror of the infidel visited the theatre, where Katinka
Heinefetter sang in the "_Favorite_." To give greater brilliancy to
his triumphal progress through France, Bugeaud had brought over a
number of Bedouin chiefs, who now accompanied him to the playhouse.
Amongst them were the Aga of Constantine, Scheik El Garoubi, several
learned Arabs proceeding to Paris to study Arabian manuscripts in the
Royal Library, and, most remarkable of all, the son of the famous El
Arrack, a stanch ally of France, who, after a victory over a hostile
tribe, forwarded to the Marshal five hundred pair of salted ears,
shorn from the heads of his prisoners. These Arabs, in their rich
oriental garb, studded with gold and precious stones, and scenting the
air with musk for a hundred yards around, interested the public far
more than the opera. With characteristic gravity and indifference they
listened to the music, and to the noise and exclamations of the
restless southern audience. But the curtain rose on the ballet, and
the first _entrechat_ electrified them. They rose from their seats,
leaned over the front of the box, and were as excited and alive to
what went on as any vivacious passionate Provençal of them all. The
next day, crowds assembled before the hotel, upon whose balcony the
Bedouins complaisantly took their station, and sat and smoked their
pipes in view of the people.
Future writers of travels would do well to take example from Baron
Vaerst in the choice and arrangement of their materials. He sustains
attention by a judicious alternation of lively and serious matter.
After detailing his progress through a district, or observations in a
town, he usually devotes a chapter to a brief but lucid historical
sketch of the place or province. For the filling of his volumes he
does not rely solely on what he sees and orally gathers, but has
studied numerous works relating to the history, traditions, and
prospects of the interesting country he writes of, and makes good use
of the knowledge thus acquired. A list of his authorities is prefixed
to his book, and if some few of them are of no great value, the
majority are trustworthy and of high standing. Caution, however, is
necessary in our reception of the Baron's own opinions and inferences.
He protests his wish to tell truth, to show no favour to friends, and
render ample justice to enemies. But he is a rabid Carlist, a
supporter of erroneous doctrines on more than one point relating to
Spain, and at times his predilections clash with the desire to be
impartial, by which we doubt not he is really animated.
Marseilles, the most flourishing of French seaports, is also one of
the gayest and most agreeable of French provincial towns. Its
inhabitants, active and industrious, have been noted from time
immemorial as a hot-headed and turbulent race. Amongst them the
peaceful pursuits of agriculture never found encouragement; they were
always rough seamen and adventurous traders, bold, enterprising, and
warlike. Both in ancient and modern times, they, like all commercial
tribes, have ever shown an ardent love of freedom and independence. If
they exhibited royalist tendencies, in 1814 and 1815, it was far less
from love to the Bourbons than from hatred to Napoleon. The emperor's
continental system had totally ruined the trade of Marseilles, and in
his downfall the Marseillese foresaw a recommencement of their
prosperity. During the blockade a paltry coasting trade was all they
retained. At the present day, Marseilles, evidently intended by nature
to be the greatest of French trading towns, has far outstripped its
former rivals, Nantes, Bordeaux, and Havre. The port is the rendezvous
of all the nations of the earth, a perpetual scene of bustle and
excitement, resembling a great fair, or an Italian carnival. All
varieties of oriental garb, Greek and Armenian, Egyptian and Turkish,
are there to be seen; parrots and other exotic birds chatter and
scream, apes and monkeys grimace in the rigging of the ships, and huge
heaps of stockfish, spread or packed upon the quay, emit an unbearable
stench. The water in the harbour is thick and filthy, but the natives
proclaim this quality an advantage, as tending to preserve the
shipping. The greatest faults to be found with Marseilles, are the
want of cleanliness and abominable smells occasioned by want of proper
sewerage. Otherwise, as a residence, few in France are more desirable.
The streets are well paved, and consequently dry rapidly after rain:
the climate is glorious, and although the immediate environs are
barren and sandy, and the roads out of the town ankle-deep in dust,
shade and verdure may be found within the compass of a moderate drive.
Baron Vaerst stands up as a champion of Provence, which he maintains,
with truth, has received less than justice at the hands of those who
have written of it as a naked and melancholy desert, a patch of Africa
transported to the northern shore of the Mediterranean. In the very
barrenness of portions of it he finds a certain charm. "Even the
environs of Marseilles," he says, "almost treeless and fountainless
though they be, have a striking and majestic aspect. The clear deep
blue of the heavens, the blinding sun, reflected in a blaze of fire
from glittering waves to white chalk hillocks, half-hidden amongst
which Marseilles coquettishly peeps forth; the scanty vegetation, of
strange and exotic aspect to the wanderer from the north; the elegant
country-houses, with their solitary pine trees, whose dark green
crowns contrast with the pale foliage of the olive, compose a
beautiful and characteristic picture. The chief colours are white and
gold; green, more pleasant to the eye, shows itself but here and
there, and at times entirely disappears. Those who speak of Provence
as one broad barren tract, can know little beyond the naked cliffs of
Toulon; are strangers assuredly to the Hesperides-gardens of Hyères,
to Nice with its palm trees and never-varying climate, and above all
to Grasse. I do not mean the Grasse between Perpignan and Carcassone,
but Grasse near Draguignan. The appearance and perfume of this garden
defies description. In Grasse the best French pomatums are
manufactured, and thence are forwarded to all parts of the world. Vast
fields of roses, mignionette, pinks, violets, and hyacinths, swarming
with bees, and hovered over by thousands upon thousands of bright-hued
butterflies, and plantations of orange trees, covered at once with
fruit and blossom, enchant the eye, and fill the air for leagues
around with a balmy and exquisite fragrance. But even as the most
venomous snakes dwell by preference under the stateliest palms, so is
the whole of Provence too often swept by the terrible mistral. This
pestilential wind, called by Strabo the black death, withers tree and
flower, tears roofs from houses, raises clouds of dust and pebbles,
and penetrates to the very marrow of man and beast. To me it was so
painful, that it poisoned all my enjoyment of the beauty of the
country. I can easily imagine that under the influence of so rough and
rude a scourge, men may acquire the like qualities, and may justify
the truth of Arago's reproach, that "the manners of the people of
Toulon are brutal as the mistral which ravages their vineyards."
Upon inquiry it appeared that an English steamer would leave Lisbon
for Madeira on the 1st of December. But the only possible way to reach
Lisbon in time was by means of a Spanish boat, then lying in the
harbour of Marseilles, and the Baron had little taste for that mode of
conveyance. Only a few days previously, the boiler of the Secundo
Gaditano, belonging to the same company, had burst far out at sea,
when several persons were dangerously hurt, and the vessel was
compelled to return to Marseilles, instead of prosecuting its voyage
to Barcelona. Its successor, the Primer Gaditano, had good English
engines, and seemed well appointed, and at last the three travellers
engaged berths. The vessel was warranted to sail on the 23d November;
but in spite of this promise, and of passengers' remonstrances, the
faithless consignees detained her till the morning of the 27th. Of
course there was no chance of getting to Lisbon in time for the
packet, but there was a possibility of meeting it at Cadiz, where it
was expected to touch; and the Baron and his companions, having paid
for their places, took their chance. To their surprise and annoyance,
when the overladen boat groaned and puffed its way out of the harbour,
its prow was turned, not towards Spain, but towards Toulon and Italy.
This strange circumstance was soon explained by one of those
extraordinary laws peculiar to Spanish legislators, intended, we
presume, to encourage the shipping interest of Spain, but which, to
any but its framers, certainly appears wonderfully ill adapted to the
end proposed. Spanish vessels, arriving from foreign ports, at a
certain distance from the Spanish frontier, pay much lighter dues than
those whose point of departure is nearer home. Marseilles is within
the high duty limit, and accordingly the Gaditano wasted a day in
sailing to the little port of Ciotat, to have her papers countersigned
there, and obtain the benefit of the low rate. A pretty specimen of
what are commonly called _cosas de España_. "This," exclaims M.
Vaerst, with righteous indignation, "is what Spaniards call
encouraging their trade and shipping. A compilation of the various
contradictory commercial edicts and regulations propounded in Spain
during the last few centuries, would add an instructive chapter to the
history of the misgovernment of that unhappy country." And he cites a
few glaring examples of blind and stupid legislation. If one sovereign
gave wise decrees, and did not himself revoke and nullify them, his
successor was sure to repair the omission. Thus we find Ferdinand the
Catholic forbidding the importation of raw silk from Italy, in order
to encourage the native silk-grower. Fifty years later, under Charles
the Fifth, a law was published prohibiting the export of silk goods,
and allowing the import of the raw material. By such absurd
enactments, directly opposed to the true interests of the country,
the rapid decline of Spanish prosperity was prepared and
precipitated. Many of the acts of Ferdinand and Isabella were directed
to the encouragement of commerce. They improved roads, cut canals,
built bridges, quays, and light-houses. Under the judicious rule,
Spain grew in wealth and strength; her merchant fleets covered the
seas, her navy was the first in Europe, her enterprising mariners
discovered and conquered a new world. Now, how are the mighty fallen!
Impoverished and indebted, without a fleet, almost without colonies,
her commerce in the dust, her people, in misery, her rulers ignorant
and corrupt, not a vestige of her former splendour remains: And
foreign fishermen, intruding unopposed into Spanish waters, cast their
nets in full view of that Cantabrian coast, whose hardy inhabitants
were the first to chase the whale in his distant ocean haunts. A more
melancholy picture it were difficult to find, and it is the more
painful to contemplate, when we remember that no natural causes can be
assigned for such a decline, which must be attributed to the influence
of evil governors, worse counsellors, and a crafty and bigotted
priesthood.
Although the weather was fine, and wind favourable, most of the
passengers by the Primer Gaditano were grievously sick. Two Spanish
prebendaries especially distinguished themselves by extremity of
suffering, and at one of them the Baron, albeit an excellent seaman,
feared to look, lest he should vomit for sympathy. The unfortunate
_clerigo_ had tucked the corner of a napkin under his huge black
shovel-hat, and the cloth hung down over his shoulder and breast,
contrasting with the cadaverous yellow of his complexion. He was the
very incarnation of sea-sickness. At night, although the weather was
cool, the berths were hot, and most of the passengers lay upon sofas
in the cabin, where, when the wind rose, the state of affairs was
neither comfortable nor savoury. The Spaniards would fain have smoked,
but, fortunately for their companions, the prohibition affixed to the
cabin-wall was rigidly enforced by the captain. The dinner was hardly
of a nature to soothe squeamish stomachs. It was cooked Spanish
fashion, with a liberal allowance of rancid oil and garlic-flavoured
sausage. At last, on the evening of the second day, the steamer ran
into the harbour of Barcelona. It was only half-past six o'clock, but
the lazy quarantine and custom-house officials deemed it too late to
perform their duty, and not till the next morning were the Baron and
his friends allowed to land and take up their quarters in the Locanda
de las Cuatro Naciones, which a Spanish colonel had assured them, with
more patriotism than veracity, was equal to the first Parisian hotels.
Although the best in Barcelona, it by no means justified such a
comparison, but still it was excellent when contrasted with the
majority of Spanish inns; and, moreover, it looked out upon the
Rambla, a magnificent promenade, answering to the Boulevards of Paris
and the Linden of Berlin. The edibles, too, were capital; the game and
poultry and roasted pig's feet delicious, the dates fresh, the
American preserves of exquisite flavour, the red Catalan wines
objectionable only from their strength. And all these good things were
supplied in an abundance astonishing to men accustomed to the scanty
delicacies and make-believe desserts of most German table-d'hôtes,
where dainties appear only when the guests have properly gorged
themselves with bouilli and gherkins. Such sumptuous fare consoled the
invalid Baron in some measure for insufficiency of furniture and
absence of bed-curtains; and after dinner he strolled out upon the
Rambla, which he found thronged with cloaked Dons, yellow-jacketed
soldiers, and those pretty Catalan women, whose eyes, according to M.
de Balzac, are composed of velvet and fire, and who paced to and fro,
shrouded in the elegant mantilla, and going through the various
divisions of the fan-exercise. The theatre in the evening, and a visit
to the strong fortress of Moujuich, consumed the short stay the
travellers were allowed to make in Barcelona, and they returned on
board the steamer, which sailed for Valencia. They had got as far as
Tarragona, when the engines suddenly stopped. All attempts to set
them going were in vain; they were completely out of order, and the
unlucky Primer Gaditano lay tossing at the mercy of the waves, in
imminent danger of going ashore, until an English ship hove in sight
and towed her back to Barcelona. Here the Baron and his companions,
heartily sick of Spanish steamers and captains, finally abandoned
their Madeiran project, and resolved to cross the Pyrenees and winter
at Pau. Notwithstanding the many alarming reports of ferocious
highwaymen and recent robberies--reports of which every traveller in
Spain is sure to hear an abundance--the German consul assured them
they might proceed with perfect safety by the route of Gerona and
Figueras. The diligences on that road had not been attacked for a
whole year, and a terrible brigand, guilty of one hundred and
seventeen murders, and known by the nickname of Pardon, because he
never pardoned or spared any one who fell into his hands, had recently
been captured. Having received a dangerous wound, he had betaken
himself, with vast assurance, and under an assumed name, to a public
hospital, and whilst there, an accomplice betrayed him. Baron Vaerst
gives some curious statistical details concerning the number of
murders annually occurring in Spain, with a list of the most
remarkable persons slain in cold blood since the commencement of the
civil war, and various particulars of the different styles of thieving
practised in Spain. Some of his notions concerning the addictions and
habits of highwaymen are rather poetical than practical. "It is
strange," he says, "but not the less a fact, that brigands always
abound most in beautiful countries. They require a bright sky,
romantic cliffs, picturesque valleys, smiling plains, umbrageous
palm-trees, and fragrant orange groves, and an olive-cheeked mistress,
fanciful and fascinating, with raven-locks, and bright-glancing eyes.
Thus we find them most numerous in the fair regions of Italy; and in
that Spanish land so richly endowed by nature, that after all its wars
and revolutions it still shows more signs of wealth than of
desolation. Frederick the Great is said to have once asked which was
the richest country in the world. Some guessed Peru, others Chili, but
lie replied that Spain was the richest, since its rulers had for three
centuries done their utmost to ruin it, and had not yet succeeded." It
might have occurred to the worthy Baron, and we wonder it did not,
that the very wars and revolutions he speaks of, added to gross
misgovernment and absurd prohibitory tariffs (affording encouragement
to the smuggler, who is the father of the highwayman) have much more
to do with the multiplication of robberies, than the picturesque
scenery and orange trees; more even than gazelle-eyed she-banditti,
his idea of whom is evidently derived from the green-room of the
Breslau theatre. From an old campaigner, who served under Marshal
VORWAERTS, came up at La Belle Alliance to decide the fight, and has
since rolled about the world in various capacities and occupations
likely to quench romance, such fanciful notions were hardly to be
expected. But the Baron takes a strong interest in the predatory
portion of Spain's population, and has collected amusing stories of
notable outlaws, amongst others of the celebrated NAVARRO, whose
memory still lives amongst the people, perpetuated by hundreds of
popular songs, and by numerous _sainetes_ played at half the theatres
in Spain. He was quite the gentleman, possessed considerable talents
and some education, despised the vulgar luxury and ostentation of his
subordinates, and rode the best horses in Andalusia. He would walk at
noon-day into the country-house of some rich proprietor, order the
poultry-yard to be stripped to supply dinner for his followers, and
the fattest fowl of the flock to be stuffed for himself, not with
truffles, but with gold quadruples. If he found the stuffing not
sufficiently rich, he demanded a second bird, and left the house only
when his appetite was fully satisfied, and his pocket well filled. He
once stopped a jeweller on his way from a fair, took from him a sum of
four thousand francs, and then inquired if he had no jewels about him.
The man at once admitted that he had, and that he had sewn them into
his clothes, not, however, to preserve them from gallant cavaliers of
the road, but from the vile _rateros_--an inferior class of thieves,
operating on a small scale, who prowl in quest of isolated and
defenceless travellers. He produced his treasure, and then, without
waiting orders, took from off his mules a richly wrought silver
service, at which Navarro was greatly pleased, and swore that in
future he and his soldiers (he assumed at all times the style of a
military chief) would in future dine off the elegant workmanship of
the Castilian Cellini. Finally, having stripped him of every thing
else, the robbers made the unlucky jeweller give them wine from his
_bota_. It was very bad. "You are a miser," cried Navarro angrily,
"and do not deserve your riches. With treasures of gold and silver in
your coffers, you drink wretched country wine, like the meanest
peasant!" "Alas! noble sir," replied the man of metal, "I am very
poor, and live hardly and sparingly; I have eight children, no money,
but some credit, and nothing of what you found on me belongs to me."
"Sergeant," cried Navarro, "a glass of our best Malaga to the
gentleman." The order was obeyed, and whilst his men finished the
bottle, the captain again addressed the goldsmith. "See here," he
said, showing him a list of the concealed jewels, "my last courier
brought me this. Had you kept back a single stone, it would have fared
ill with you. But I take nothing from honest men and skilful artists.
Pack up your things, take this pass, give your wife and children a
kiss for Navarro, and if you are robbed upon the road, come and tell
me." Without wishing to calumniate the philanthropical M. Navarro in
particular, or his fraternity in general, we will remark, that such
stories as these may be picked up by the score in Spain by any one
curious of their collection. As, in Italy, industrious rogues, with
aid of file and verdigris, manufacture modern antiques for the benefit
of English greenhorns, so, in Spain, a regular fabrication of
robber-tales takes place; the same, when properly constructed and
polished, being put into speedy circulation in diligences and
coffee-houses, on the public promenades, and at the _table-d'hôtes_,
for the delectation of foreign ramblers, and especially of the French,
who gulp down the most astounding narratives with a facility of
swallow beautiful to contemplate. For the Frenchman, cynic and
unbeliever though he be, entertains extravagant ideas on the subject
of Spain. It is rare that he has been in the country, unless his
residence be within a very few leagues of its frontier, and he
pictures to himself an infinity of perils and horrors, to be found
neither in Spain nor any where else, save in his imagination. "Since
the war of Independence," says Baron Vaerst, "the French nourish
strong prejudices against the Spaniards; and old soldiers, especially,
who fought in that war, are apt to consider a large majority of the
nation as habitual murderers and poisoners. For certainly at that
time, murder and poison were proclaimed from every pulpit as means
approved by Heaven for the extermination of the arch-foe. The exiled
Spaniards whom, one finds scattered over France, especially over its
southern provinces, are more apt to confirm than to contradict such
stories. Discontented with their own country, they represent its
condition as worse even than it really is, and, like most unfortunate
persons, add blacker shades to what is already black enough." In
Spain, the land of idlers, not a town but has its gossip-market, an
imitation more or less humble of that celebrated Gate of the Sun,
where the newsmongers of the Spanish capital daily meet to repeat and
improve the latest lie, much to their own pastime, and greatly to the
consolation and advantage of the credulous correspondents of leading
London journals. In provincial towns, whither palace-chronicles and
metropolitan gossip come but in an abridged form, the report of a
diligence stopped or a horseman fired at affords all agreeable
variety, and is eagerly caught, magnified, and multiplied by the old
women in cloaks and breeches, who hold their morning and evening
confabulations in the sunshine of the Alameda, or beneath the
_plaza's_ snug arcades. Of course, the itinerant _gavacho_, the
Parisian tourist on the look out for the picaresque and picturesque
wherewith to swell future feuilletons, gets the full benefit of such
reports, expanded and embellished into romantic feats and instances of
generosity, worthy of a Chafandin or a José Maria. The tourist, in his
turn, superadds a coat of varnish to give glitter to the painting,
which is subsequently retailed in daily shreds to the thirty thousand
_abonnès_ of the _Presse_ or _Débats_. In his capacity of an old
soldier, who has run real dangers, and despises the terrors (mostly
imaginary) of gaping blunderbusses and double-edged knives, Baron
Vaerst does not condescend to make himself the hero of an encounter or
escape, although his last journey in the Peninsula led him through
districts of evil repute and small security. In Arragon, where there
had been no political disturbances for some short time before his
visit, "the roads were so much the more dangerous, and could be
considered safe only for muleteers, who have generally a pretty good
understanding with the knights of the highway. I met several thousand
mules going from France to Huesca, where a great cattle fair was held;
this made the road lively. Muleteers, suspicious-visaged gentry, many
of them doubtless smugglers or robbers, were there in numbers. The
country people fear the robbers too much to betray or prosecute them;
the authorities are feeble and inefficient; the rich proprietors pay
black mail as protection against serious damage. And if robbers are
captured, they at once become objects of general sympathy. There are
places where the jailer lets them out for a few days on parole, and
sends them to work unguarded in town or country, distinguished only by
an iron ring upon the ankle. The true gentleman-highwayman, however,
keeps his word of honour, even as he is gallant to the fair sex: he
leaves the plundered traveller the long knife, without which the
Spaniard rarely travels, and which is necessary, as he naively
expresses it, to cut his tobacco. He leaves him also his cigarette,
and often as much cash as will procure a night's lodging. If, favoured
by fortune, he rises to be leader of a band of smugglers, be comes to
a friendly understanding with the authorities, and agrees to pay a
price--usually, it is said, a quadruple or sixteen dollars--for the
unimpeded passage of each laden mule. For this premium the contraband
goods are often escorted to their destination by soldiers. When the
smuggler is unsuccessful, and finds himself with nothing but his
tromblon and knife, he turns robber, the ultimate resource of this
original class of men." There is here some exaggeration, especially as
regards the military escort of the smuggled lace and cottons; but
there is also much truth in this broadly pencilled sketch of how they
manage matters in the Peninsula.
On his way from Barcelona, Baron Vaerst met his brother-baron, De
Meer, then captain-general of Catalonia, who swayed the province with
an iron rule that made him alike dreaded and detested. Such severity
was necessary, for the Catalans are a troublesome and mutinous race,
and Barcelona especially is the headquarters of sedition and
discontent. Baron de Meer had a strong garrison at his orders, the
city lies under the guns of Monjuich, and the breadth of the long
handsome streets and open squares facilitate the suppression of
insurrection. Nevertheless, it had been thought advisable to fortify
and garrison several of the large buildings, and, in spite of the
opposition of the magistrates and inhabitants, to break through
various streets, so as to form long avenues, that might be swept in
case of need by artillery. These extreme measures were imperatively
called for by the numerous outbreaks in Catalonia, a province which
gives more trouble to the government than all the rest of Spain.
Barcelona has had a bad reputation for some hundred years past. It is
a resort of Italian carbonari, German republicans, and discontented
restless spirits from various countries; also the headquarters of
sundry revolutionary committees, and of the secret society known as
the _Vengeurs d'Alibaud_, to which that helpless and imbecile Bourbon,
Don Francisco de Paula, was said, a short time since, to be
affiliated. Alibaud himself lived in Barcelona, and only left it to go
to Paris and make his attempt on the life of the King of the French.
In one month (January 1845) sixty-two persons died a violent death in
Barcelona, of whom fifty-one were murdered and five executed, whilst
six committed suicide. As regards popular commotions and revolts, so
frequent of late years, Baron Vaerst, who has difficulty in admitting
that any thing can go on well under a "so-called liberal system,"
maintains that the Barcelonese have strong cause and excuse for
rebellion in the injury done to their manufactures by the close
alliance between Spain and England. He apparently imagines the Spanish
tariff to be highly favourable to English fabrics, and sighs over the
misfortunes of the hardly-used manufacturers, whose smoking chimneys
he complacently contemplated from the lofty battlements of Monjuich.
In short, he indulges in a good deal of argument and assertion, which
sound well, but, being based on false premises, are worth exactly
nothing. When he talks of the Catalonian manufactures as important and
flourishing, he is evidently ignorant that they are chiefly supplied
with foreign goods, smuggled in and stamped with the mark of the
Barcelona factories! This fact is notorious, and susceptible of easy
proof. The amount of raw cotton imported into Spain would make, as the
returns show, but a very small part of the goods issued from Spanish
manufactories. Were the contraband system exchanged for legitimate
commerce, at moderate duties, a few cotton-spinners, _alias_
smugglers, might suffer in pocket, but the increased trade of
Catalonia would employ far more hands than would be thrown out of work
by putting down a few badly managed spinning-jennies. The bigoted and
brutal Catalan populace, beyond comparison the worst race in the
Peninsula, cannot comprehend this fact; and the cunning few who do
comprehend it find their interest in suppressing the truth. The
French, too, who well know that in a fair market English cottons would
beat their's out of the field, take care, by means of such emissaries
as Mr Lesseps, to keep up the cheat. So, whenever there is a talk of
reducing the present absurd tariff of Spain, the Barcelonese fly to
arms, throw up barricades, bluster about English influence, and,
whilst thinking to defend their own interests, serve as blind
instruments to a disreputable foreign potentate. The Spaniards are a
very jealous and a very suspicious people, and have been ill-treated
and imposed upon until they have acquired the habit of seeking selfish
motives for the actions of all men. Such over-wariness defeats its
object. A section--by no means a majority--of the Spanish nation look
upon England as having only her own interests in view when she seeks a
commercial treaty with Spain, arranged on fair and reasonable bases.
Nothing can be more erroneous and delusive. England would gain very
little by such a treaty; the great advantage would be derived by
Spain, who now receives duty on one-eighth of the British goods
annually imported. We need not say how the other seven-eighths enter.
Spain has seven hundred and ten leagues of coast and frontier.
Gibraltar and Portugal are convenient depôts, and there are one
hundred and twenty thousand professional smugglers in Spain, the
flower of the population, fine, active, stalwart fellows, imbued with
hearty contempt for revenue officers, and whom we would back, after a
month's organisation, against the entire Spanish army, now amounting,
we believe, under the benign system of Christina, Narvaez, and
Company, to something like a hundred and eighty thousand men. In
short, it is notorious that Spain is inundated with English and French
goods. "In this state of things," says an able and enlightened
writer,[4] "I put the following dilemma to Spanish manufacturers:--Your
manufactures are either prosperous, or the contrary. In the former
case, conceding that the contraband trade knows no other limits to its
criminal traffic than those of the possible consumption, the
competition from which you suffer is as great as it can be. What does
it signify to you, then, whether the goods enter through the
custom-house, on payment of a protective duty, or are introduced by
smugglers at a certain rate of commission? And if your manufactures
are not prosperous, what need you care whether foreign goods enter by
the legal road or by illicit trade?" It were impossible to state the
case more clearly and conclusively. The smugglers charge fixed
per-centages, according to the nature of the goods and the place they
are to be conveyed to. These rates are as easily ascertained as a
premium at Lloyd's or the price of rentes on the Paris Bourse. Let the
duties of foreign manufactures be regulated by them, and smuggling,
one of the prominent causes of the demoralisation and misery of Spain,
is at once knocked upon the head. At the same cost, or even at a
slight advance, every importer will prefer having his goods through
the legitimate channel, instead of receiving them crushed into small
packages, and often more or less damaged by their clandestine transit.
And the money now paid to the smuggling insurers would flow, under the
new order of things, into the Spanish treasury, a change devoutly to
be desired by Spanish creditors of all classes and denominations.
[4] Marliani, _Histoire Politique de l'Espagne Moderne_, ii. 440.
Between Barcelona and Gerona the Baron was much amused by the
energetic proceedings of a _zagal_, or Spanish postilion, who jumped
up and down from his seat, with the horses at full gallop, to the
great peril of his neck, and sang never-ending songs in praise of
Queen Christina and of the joyous life of a smuggler, only
interrupting his melody to shout an oft-repeated _tiro! tiro!_ (pull!
pull!) and to swear Saracenic oaths at his steaming mules. "By the
holy bones of Mahomet!"[5] he would exclaim, "I will make thee dance,
lazy _Valerosa_! (the valorous;) rebaptize thee with a cudgel, and
then hang thee. Holy St Anthony of Padua never had a lazier jackass!"
"And then he ran himself breathless by the side of poor Valerosa, and
screamed himself hoarse, and flogged and flattered; and the oddest
thing was, that the beasts seemed to understand him, and showed fear
or joy as he blamed or praised them. Each mule had a name of its own,
pricked up its long ears when addressed by it, and testified, by more
rapid movements, that it well knew what laziness would entail.
Manuela, Luna, Justa, Generala, Valerosa, Casilda, and Pilar, the
zagal loved them all, and preferred caressing to punishing them. If
horses are generally bad in France, it is assuredly in great measure
because no nation in the world are more unfeeling to their beasts,
especially to horses, than the French. A large proportion of the
cart-horses are blind from cuts of the whip in the eyes; the
postilions cannot harness their cattle without giving them violent
kicks in the side; and one sees the poor brutes tremble at the
approach of their tyrants. Abuse, oaths, and blows are the order of
the day. The Arab makes much of his noble steed, and even the rude
Cossack looks to his horse's comfort before providing for his own."
[5] _El santo zancarron_, (literally, the holy dry bone,) an
expression handed down from the Moors, and very dangerous to be used
for some time after their expulsion, when an oath "by Mahomet"
sufficed to make the utterer suspected by the Inquisition of addiction
to the forbidden faith. It was to escape all suspicion of such
addiction that the Spaniards became great consumers of pig's flesh,
still a standard dish, in one form or other, at every Spanish dinner.
Probably it was the excellent quality of Spanish pork, as much as the
fear of the Inquisition, that perpetuated this custom.
The town of Gerona, well fortified, and possessing a strong citadel,
is celebrated for its noble defence against the French, related, in
interesting detail, by Toreno, in his "History of the War of
Independence." Its brave governor, Don Mariano Alvarez, having few
provisions, and a large garrison, economised the former, and was
prodigal of the latter. In repeated sorties he inflicted severe loss
on the besiegers. One officer, ordered on a very perilous expedition,
inquired, with some anxiety, what point he was to fall back upon.
"Upon the churchyard," was the consolatory reply of Alvarez. When
things came to the pass that five reals were paid for a mouse, and
thirty for a cat, and somebody talked of capitulating, Alvarez swore
he would have the offender slaughtered and salted, and would do the
same by all who hinted at surrender. After nine months' continual
fighting, all provisions being exhausted, the fortress was given up.
The garrison had dwindled from fifteen thousand to four thousand men,
and only a small portion of these were capable of bearing arms. The
protracted and glorious defence was to be attributed--so some of the
Spaniards thought--to the especial protection of the holy St Narcissa.
That respectable lady is the patroness of Gerona, where her ashes
repose; during the siege, a cocked and feathered hat was put upon her
statue, and she received the title of _generalissima_. Figueras, the
last town of any note before reaching the French frontier, is also a
fortified place. Taken by the French in the Peninsular war, it was
recaptured by the Spaniards, who entered in the night through a
subterraneous passage. Its citadel of San Fernando is one of the
strongest in Spain, and can accommodate fifteen thousand men. The town
itself is insignificant, and only celebrated for the scale and
solidity of its fortifications, which remain as a monument of former
Spanish grandeur. But they lack completion, and are ill situated,
which caused some connoisseur in the art to say that the mason should
have been decorated, and the engineer flogged.
Pau, the favourite resort of English sojourners in southern France,
was selected by the Baron and his companions for their winter-quarters;
and although, upon their arrival there, the severe cold and heavy snow
induced them to doubt the truth of the praises they had heard of its
mild and beautiful climate, they soon became convinced the encomium
was well merited. The meadows remained green the whole winter through,
and once only, in the month of March, came a fall of snow, which
disappeared, however, in forty-eight hours. From their windows, they
commanded a magnificent view southwards, bounded in the distance by
the lofty summits of the Pyrenees, supreme amongst which rises the
snow-covered dome of the _Pic du Midi_,--"a magnificent amphitheatre,
whose aspect is most sublime at night, in the full moon-light. Morning
and evening, at the rising and setting of the sun, the snowy points of
the _Pic_ resemble great spires of flame, blazing through the gloom.
With incredible suddenness darkness covers the lowlands, whilst the
tall peaks, clothed in ice, still remain illuminated, gleaming far and
wide above the broad panorama of mountains, like isolated lighthouses
on the shores of the mighty ocean." Many of the Pyrenean mountains are
known as the _Pic du Midi_; there is a _Pic du Midi d'Ossau_, another
of _Bigorre_, a third of _Valentine_, &c.; but the _Pic du Midi de
Pau_ is the highest, and rises fifteen hundred and thirty-one toises
(nearly ten thousand English feet) above the level of the sea. In like
manner many rivers bear the name of _Gave_, a Celtic word, equivalent
to mountain stream; but the Gave de Pau is the greatest and most
celebrated of the family. The Pic du Midi, from certain peculiarities
of position, was long thought the highest of the Pyrenees, till it was
ascertained that the Monperdu, the Vignemale, and the Maladetta, are
in certain parts more than a thousand feet higher.
Concerning the English residents at Pau, M. Vaerst says little or
nothing, except that he and his companions, although unprovided with
introductions, received visits and invitations from them, attentions
for which they probably had their titles to thank. The Baron seems to
have taken more pleasure in the society of the friendly French
prefect, M. Azevedo, with whom he had strenuous discussions on the
everlasting subject of the Rhine frontier. The Frenchman, like many of
his countrymen, insisted that the far-famed German stream is the
natural boundary of France, a proposition which M. Vaerst could by no
means allow to pass unrefuted. Indeed, the excellent Baron seems
particularly sensitive on this subject, for in various parts of his
book we find him in hot dispute with presumptuous Gauls who hinted a
wish to see the tricolor once more waving on the banks of that river,
which Mr Becker has so confidently affirmed they shall never again
possess. The Baron considers a hankering after the Rhine to be
ineradicably fixed, in every Frenchman's breast, and now and then
shows a little uneasiness with regard to the strife and bloodshed
which this unreasonable longing may sooner or later engender. We do
not learn how he fared in his discussions at Pau and elsewhere, but in
his book he advances eloquent and learned arguments against French
encroachment. In the very midst of them he is unfortunately
interrupted by a severe attack of illness, against which he bears up
with much philosophy and fortitude. "If pain purifies and improves, as
I have often been told, I ought assuredly to be one of the best and
purest of men. But although I have never yet lost courage under
physical or any other suffering, and have ever remained cheerful as in
the joyous days of my youth, I have yet no wish to continue thus the
darling of the gods, who, as it is said, chastise those they best
love." His patience, proof against pain, gave way at last, under a
less acute but more teasing infliction, and he breaks out into a
humorous anathema of the well-meaning tormentors who pestered him with
prescriptions. Every body who came within ten paces of him had some
sovereign panacea and unfailing remedy to recommend. He began by
taking a note of all these good counsels, with no intention to follow
them, but out of malicious curiosity to see how far the persecution
would extend. At the end of a week he abandoned the practice, finding
it too troublesome. In that short time, he had been strongly enjoined
to consult twenty different physicians, and to make trial of fourteen
mineral baths. One kind friend insisted on bringing him a mesmeriser,
another a shepherd, a third an old woman, all of whom had already
wrought marvellous cures. One recommended swan's down, another a cat's
skin, another talismanic rings and a necklace of wild chestnuts. He
was enjoined to sew nutmegs in his clothes, to wear a certain sort of
red ribbon round his throat, to cram himself with sourkraut. And each
of his advisers thought him disgustingly obstinate because he turned a
deaf ear to their advice, and discredited the virtues of their
medicaments, preferring those of his doctor. "I should long since have
been a _millionaire_," he says, "if every good counsel had brought me
in a louis-d'or. And truly I uphold the old Spanish proverb against
advice-givers: _Da me dinero, y no consejos_--Give me money, and not
advice."
Chained to the chimney corner by the unsatisfactory state of his
health, the Baron devoted himself to study and literary occupation,
pored over Froissart, acquired the old French, and revelled in the
gallant pages of Queen Margaret of Navarre. At Pau, indeed, his third
Pyrenean expedition concludes, but not so his book, for which he finds
abundant materials in the reminiscences of his two previous journeys.
His account of the Basques is especially interesting, containing much
that could only have been gleaned by long residence in the country,
and great familiarity with the usages of that singular people. Few in
number, these dwellers amongst the western Pyrenees are formidable by
their courage and energy; and from the remotest periods of their
history, have made themselves respected and even feared. Hannibal
treated them with consideration, and was known to alter his proposed
line of march to avoid the fierce attacks of this handful of
mountaineers. The Roman proconsuls sought their alliance. Cæsar,
against whom, and under Pompey's banners, they arrayed themselves, was
unable to subdue them. After the fall of Rome, the men of the Pyrenees
were attacked in turn by Vandals, Goths, and Franks; their houses were
destroyed, their lands laid waste, but they themselves, unattainable
in their mountains, continued free. A deluge of barbarians overflowed
Gaul and Spain; conquerors and conquered amalgamated, and divided the
territory amongst them; still the Pyreneans continued unmixed in race,
and undisturbed in their fastnesses. The vanquished Goth retreated
before the warlike and encroaching Saracen, and the crescent standard
fluttered amongst the mountains of northern Spain. It found no firm
footing, and soon its bearers retraced their bloody path, strewing it
with the bones of their best and bravest, and pursued by the
victorious warriors of Charles Martel. But of all the historical
fights that have taken place in the Pyrenees, there is not one whose
tradition has been so well preserved as the great defeat of
Charlemagne. The fame of Roland still resounds in popular melody, and
echoes amongst the wild ravines and perilous passes, whose names, in
numerous instances, connect them with his exploits.
The Basques are brave, intelligent, and proud,--simple but
high-minded. They have ever shown a strong repugnance to foreign
influence and habits; and have clung to old customs and to their
singular language. It is curious to behold half a million of
men--whose narrow territory is formed of a corner of France and
another of Spain, closely hemmed in, and daily traversed, by hosts of
Frenchmen and Spaniards--preserving a language which, from its
difficulty and want of resemblance to any other known tongue, very few
foreigners ever acquire. They have their own musical instruments--not
the most harmonious in the world; their own music, of peculiar
originality and wildness; their own dances and games, dress and
national colours, all more or less different from those of the rest of
Spain. There is no doubt of their being first-rate fighting men, but
the habit of contending with superior numbers has given them peculiar
notions on the subject of military success and glory. They attach no
shame to a retreat or even to a flight; but those antagonists who
suppose that because they run away they are beaten, sooner or later
find themselves egregiously mistaken. Flight is a part of their
tactics; to fatigue the enemy, and inflict heavy loss at little to
themselves, is upon all occasions their aim. They care nothing for the
empty honour of sleeping on the bloody battle-field over which they
have all day fought. They could hardly be made to understand the merit
of such a proceeding; they take much greater credit when they thin the
enemy's ranks without suffering themselves. And if they often run
away, they are ever ready to return to the fray. They are born with a
natural aptitude for the only species of fighting for which their
mountainous land is adapted. We have been greatly amused and
interested, when rambling in their country, by watching a favourite
game frequently played upon Sundays and other holidays. The boys of
two villages meet at an appointed spot and engage in a regular
skirmish; turf and clods of earth, often stones, being substituted for
bullets. The spirit and skill with which the lads carry on the
mock-encounter, the wild yells called forth by each fluctuation of the
fight, the fierceness of their juvenile faces, when, after a
well-directed volley, one side rushes forward to the charge, armed
with the thick bamboo-like stems of the Indian corn, their white teeth
firmly set, and a barbarous Basque oath upon their lips, strongly
recall the more earnest and bloody encounters in which their fathers
have so often distinguished themselves. These contests, which
sometimes become rather serious from the passionate character of the
Basques, and often terminate in a few broken heads, are encouraged by
the elder people, and compose the sole military education of a race,
who do not fight the worse because they are unacquainted with the
drill-sergeant, and with the very rudiments of scientific warfare. The
tenacity with which these mountaineers adhere to the usages of their
ancestors, even when they are unfitted to the century, and
disadvantageous to themselves, is very remarkable. The Basque is said
to be so stubborn, that he knocks a nail into the wall with his head;
but the Arragonese is said to surpass the Basque, inasmuch as he puts
the head of the nail against the wall, and tries to drive it in by
striking his skull against the point. When, in the ninth century, the
French Kings conquered for a short time a part of the Basque
provinces, they prudently abstained from interference with the
privileges and customs of the inhabitants, and when the whole of Spain
was finally united into one kingdom under Ferdinand the Catholic, the
Basques retained their republican forms. Every Basque is more or less
noble. The genealogical pride, proverbially attributed to Spaniards,
is out-heroded by that of these mountaineers, amongst whom a
charcoal-burner or a muleteer will hold himself as good and ancient a
gentleman as the best duke in the land. "In the valley of the Bastan,"
says the Baron, "all the peasants' houses are decorated with coats of
arms, hewn in stone, and generally placed over the house door; the
owner of the smallest cottage is rarely without a parchment patent of
nobility. A peasant of that valley once told me his family dated from
the time of Queen Maricastana. _El tiempo de la reyna Maricastana_, is
a proverb implying, 'from time immemorial.'" Certainly there is no
country where such equality exists amongst all classes; an equality,
however, rather pleasing than disagreeable in its results. The
demeanour of the less fortunate of the people towards those whom
wealth and education place above them, is as remote from insolence and
brutality, as it is from cringing servility. The poorest peasant,
tilling his patch of maize, answers the question of the rich
proprietor, who drives his carriage past his cottage, with the same
frank courtesy and manly assurance, with which he would acknowledge
the greeting or interrogatory of a fellow-labourer.
Baron Vaerst indulges in some curious speculations as to the origin of
this flourishing and unmixed race of mountaineers. "Some say they are
an aboriginal tribe, and that their language was spoken by Adam(!);
others set them down as an old Phœnician colony, whilst others
again vaguely guess them to be the descendants of a wandering horde
from the north or east. The language is like no other, and those who
speak it know nothing of its history. Except before God, these people
have never bent the knee in homage, and have never paid taxes, but
only a voluntary tribute, collected amongst themselves.
"Proud of the independence they have so well defended, they for the
most part, in order to preserve their nationality, have married
amongst themselves. The Basque tongue has one thing in common with
those of Spaniard Gascony, namely, the indiscriminate use of the B.
and the V. They say indifferently Biscaya or Viscaya, Balmaseda or
Valmaseda. The story is a well-known one, of the Spaniard who
maintained French to be a miserable language, because in speaking it
no distinction was made between a widow and an ox,--_veuve_ and
_bœuf_ receiving from him pretty nearly the same pronunciation. I
have still a letter from the well-known Echeverria, addressed to me as
Baron Baerst. Scaliger, when speaking of the Gascons and of their
custom of confounding the _v_ and _b_, says; _felicitas populi quibus
bibere est vivere_." Many troubadours have written and sung in the
Gascon dialect; the memory of one of the most ancient of them is
preserved in popular legends on account of his tragical fate. Beloved
by an illustrious lady, the wife of Baron Castel Roussillon, he was
enticed into an ambuscade and murdered by the jealous husband, who
then tore out his heart, and had it dressed for the Countess's dinner.
The meal concluded, he produced the severed head of her lover, told
her what she had eaten, and inquired if the flavour was good. "_Si bon
et si savoureux_," she replied, "_que jamais autre manger ne m'en
ôtera le gout_." And she threw herself headlong from her balcony. The
nobles of the land, the King of Arragon at their head, held the
conduct of the husband so unworthy that they threw him into prison,
confiscated his estates, and united in one grave the mortal remains of
the unfortunate lovers.
Whilst the Basques and Bearnese enjoyed a long series of tranquil and
happy years, Roussillon was a prey to bloody wars and to the ravages
of ruthless conquerors. Goths and Saracens, Normans, Arragonese, and
French, fought for centuries about its possession. This state of
perpetual warfare naturally had great influence on the character of
the people, who continued wild and savage much longer than their
neighbours. The passes of the Pyrenees were a constant motive for
fresh hostilities, and pretext for lawless aggression. The rich
committed every sort of crime, without being made personally
answerable. One of the old laws of Roussillon, significant of the
state of the country, fixes the rate of payment at which crimes might
be committed. Five _sous_ were the fine for inflicting a wound; if a
bone was broken, it was ten times as dear; a box on the ear cost five
_sous_, the tearing out of an eye a hundred; a common murder three
hundred _sous_, that of a monk four hundred, and of a priest nine
hundred. Other luxuries in proportion. From which curious statement, a
priest in those days appears to have been worth three laymen, and a
gouged eye to have been estimated at twice the value of a broken
bone. Flesh-wounds and punches on the head were decidedly cheap and
within the reach of persons of very moderate means. For the delightful
state of comfort and prosperity, indicated by this tariff of
mutilation and manslaughter, the men of Roussillon had to thank their
last Count, who, in the year 1173, bequeathed his dominions to
Alphonso II. of Arragon. Thence eternal strife with the French, who
did not choose to see the key to their country in the hands of a
Spanish prince; and Roussillon, the bone of contention, was also the
battle ground. Nearly five centuries elapsed before the treaty of the
Pyrenees put an end to these dissensions.
The sea, the Ebro, and the Pyrenees, form the natural boundaries and
bulwarks of the Spanish Basque provinces. Favoured by these defences,
the three provinces were the natural and safe refuge of the Iberians,
when hunted by various conquerors from the plains of southern and
middle Spain. Of Navarre, only the mountainous portion afforded
similar safety; the levels, and especially the rich banks of the Ebro,
were occupied by the victors. Biscay, Alava, and Guipuzcoa were never
under the dominion of the Moors, who obtained quiet possession of
Navarre as far as Pampeluna, but only held it about twelve years. Each
of the three provinces has its own constitution and rights, peculiar
to itself, some of the privileges and laws being of a very original
character. In Alava, the general procurator, or chief of the
provincial government, swears every year upon an old knife--the
_Machete Vitoriano_--to uphold the privileges of the province. "I
desire," he says, "that my throat may be cut with this knife if I fail
to maintain and defend the _fueros_ of the land." The Biscayan coasts
breed excellent sailors; as already mentioned, they were the first to
undertake the distant fisheries of the whale and cod. They are
probably better calculated for enterprising merchant-seamen than for
men-of-war's men, the inveterate independence and stiff-neckedness of
the race being obnoxious to regular military discipline. "_Quisiera
mucho mas ser leonero que tener carga de Biscaynos_,"[6] was a saying
of Gonsalvo de Cordova. The naval squadrons of Biscay, however, are to
be read of in history. It seems strange enough to Englishmen, to whom
these petty provinces are known but as obscure nooks of the Peninsula,
to read in Baron Vaerst's pages that "the fleet of Guipuzcoa, united
with that of Biscay, completely annihilated, in a bloody naval action,
fought on the 29th August 1350, the English fleet of King Edward the
Third, and thereby procured Spain an advantageous treaty of commerce
with England." There is small probability, we presume, of Lord
Auckland's sending half-a-dozen frigates to revenge this old insult by
fetching the present Spanish fleet into an English port, and there
retaining them until the wise men of Madrid reduce their suicidal
duties on foreign manufactures. We have stated our firm conviction
that England would gain little by such reduction. Little, that is to
say, in the way in which Messieurs Louis-Philippe and Guizot and their
organs are pleased to assume that she expects to be benefited.
"England," says a writer, already quoted, "has never asked any thing
for which she did not offer a generous reciprocity. If the Spanish
government, blind to its true interests, has constantly refused, in
consequence of chimerical fears and false views, to renounce a
prohibitive system, rendered illusory by smuggling, itself alone has
suffered. For England it is a mere question of morality. The
contraband trade compensates her for the ignorance of Spanish
rulers.... But the government of a commercial country must grieve to
see commercial transactions resting on the basis of smuggling--on a
violation of law and of public morality. England, where every thing
reposes on credit and good faith, submits with strong repugnance to
stipulations so organised that smuggling is the rule, and legal
traffic the exception."[7]
[6] "I would much rather be a keeper of lions than have charge of
Biscayans."
[7] Marliani, ii. 317.