Does Gibraltar, viewing the horrors which are continually taking place in
Spain, and which, notwithstanding their frequent grotesqueness, have
drawn down upon that country the indignation of the entire civilized
world, never congratulate herself on her severance from the peninsula,
for severed she is morally and physically? Who knows what is passing in
the bosom of the old Rock? Yet on observing the menacing look which she
casts upon Spain across the neutral ground, we have thought that provided
she could speak it would be something after the following fashion:--
Accursed land! I hate thee; and, far from being a defence, will
invariably prove a thorn in thy side, a source of humiliation and
ignominy, a punishment for thy sorceries, thy abominations and
idolatries--thy cruelty, thy cowardice and miserable pride; I will look
on whilst thy navies are burnt in my many bays, and thy armies perish
before my eternal walls--I will look on whilst thy revenues are defrauded
and ruined, and thy commerce becomes a bye word and a laughing-stock, and
I will exult the while and shout--'I am an instrument in the hand of the
Lord, even I, the old volcanic hill--I have pertained to the Moor and the
Briton--they have unfolded their banners from my heights, and I have been
content--I have belonged solely to the irrational beings of nature, and
no human hum invaded my solitudes; the eagle nestled on my airy crags,
and the tortoise and the sea-calf dreamed in my watery caverns
undisturbed; even then I was content, for I was aloof from Spain and her
sons. The days of my shame were those when I was clasped in her embraces
and was polluted by her crimes; when I was a forced partaker in her bad
faith, soul-subduing tyranny, and degrading fanaticism; when I heard only
her bragging tongue, and was redolent of nought but the breath of her
smoke-loving borrachos; when I was a prison for her convicts and a
garrison for her rabble soldiery--Spain, accursed land, I hate thee: may
I, like my African neighbour, become a house and a retreat only for vile
baboons rather than the viler Spaniard. May I sink beneath the billows,
which is my foretold fate, ere I become again a parcel of Spain--accursed
land, I hate thee, and so long as I can uphold my brow will still look
menacingly on Spain.'
Strong language this, it will perhaps be observed--but when the rocks
speak strong language may be expected, and it is no slight matter which
will set stones a-speaking. Surely, if ever there was a time for
Gibraltar to speak, it is the present, and we leave it to our readers to
determine whether the above is not a real voice from Gibraltar heard by
ourselves one moonlight night at Algeziras, as with our hands in our
pockets we stood on the pier, staring across the bay in the direction of
the rock.
'Poor Spain, unfortunate Spain!' we have frequently heard Spaniards
exclaim. Were it worth while asking the Spaniard a reason for anything
he says or does, we should be tempted to ask him why he apostrophizes his
country in this manner. If she is wretched and miserable and bleeding,
has she anything but what she richly deserves, and has brought down upon
her own head? By Spain we of course mean the Spanish nation--for as for
the country, it is so much impassible matter, so much rock and sand,
chalk and clay--with which we have for the moment nothing to do. It has
pleased her to play an arrant jade's part, the part of a _mula falsa_, a
vicious mule, and now, and not for the first time, the brute has been
chastised--there she lies on the road amidst the dust, the blood running
from her nose. Did our readers ever peruse the book of the adventures of
the Squire Marcos de Obregon? {13} No! How should our readers have
perused the scarce book of the life and adventures of Obregon? never
mind! we to whom it has been given to hear the voice of Gibraltar whilst
standing on the pier of Algeziras one moonlight evening, with our hands
in our pockets, jingling the cuartos which they contained, have read with
considerable edification the adventures of the said Marcos, and will tell
the reader a story out of the book of his life. So it came to pass that
in one of his journeys the Senor de Obregon found himself on the back of
a mule, which, to use his own expression, had the devil in her body, a
regular jade, which would neither allow herself to be shod or saddled
without making all the resistance in her power--was in the habit of
flinging herself down whenever she came to a sandy place, and rolling
over with her heels in the air. An old muleteer, who observed her
performing this last prank, took pity on her rider, and said, "Gentleman
student, I wish to give you a piece of advice with respect to that
animal"--and then he gave Marcos the piece of advice, which Marcos
received with the respect due to a man of the muleteer's experience, and
proceeded on his way. Coming to a sandy place shortly after, he felt
that the mule was, as usual, about to give way to her _penchant_,
whereupon, without saying a word to any body, he followed the advice of
the muleteer and with a halter which he held in his hand struck with all
fury the jade between the two ears. Down fell the mule in the dust, and,
rolling on her side, turned up the whites of her eyes. 'And as I stood
by looking at her,' said Marcos, 'I was almost sorry that I had struck
her so hard, seeing how she turned up the whites of her eyes. At length,
however, I took a luncheon of bread, and steeping it in wine from my
bota, I thrust it between her jaws, and thus revived her; and I assure
you that from that moment she never played any tricks with me, but
behaved both formally and genteelly under all circumstances, but
especially when going over sandy ground. I am told, however, that as
soon as I parted with her she fell into her old pranks, refusing to be
shod or saddled--rushing up against walls and scarifying the leg of her
rider, and flinging herself down in all sandy places.' Now we say,
without the slightest regard to contradiction, knowing that no one save a
Spaniard will contradict us, that Spain has invariably proved herself
just such a jade as the mule of the cavalier De Obregon: with a kind and
merciful rider what will she not do? Look at her, how she refuses to be
bridled or shod--how she scarifies the poor man's leg against rude walls,
how ill she behaves in sandy places, and how occasionally diving her head
between her fore-legs and kicking up behind she causes him to perform a
somersault in the air to the no small discomposure of his Spanish
gravity; but let her once catch a Tartar who will give her the garrote
right well between the ears, and she can behave as well as any body. One
of the best of her riders was Charles the First. How the brute lay
floundering in the dust on the plains of Villalar, turning up the whites
of her eyes, the blood streaming thick from her dishonest nose! There
she lay, the Fleming staring at her, with the garrote in his hand.
That's right, Fleming! give it her again--and withhold the sopa till the
very last extremity.
Then there was Napoleon again, who made her taste the garrote; she was
quiet enough under him, but he soon left her and went to ride other
jades, and his place was filled by those who, though they had no liking
for her, had not vigour enough to bring her down on her side. She is
down, however, at present, if ever she was in her life--blood streaming
from her nose amidst the dust, the whites of her eyes turned up very
much, whilst staring at her with uplifted garrote stands Narvaez.
Yes, there lies Spain, and who can pity her?--she could kick off the kind
and generous Espartero, who, though he had a stout garrote in his hand,
and knew what kind of conditioned creature she was, forbore to strike
her, to his own mighty cost and damage. She kicked off him, and took
up--whom? a regular muleteer, neither more nor less. We have nothing
further to say about him; he is at present in his proper calling, we bear
him no ill-will, and only wish that God may speed him. But never shall
we forget the behaviour of the jade some two years ago. O the yell that
she set up, the true mulish yell--knowing all the time that she had
nothing to fear from her rider, knowing that he would not strike her
between the ears. 'Come here, you scoundrel, and we will make a
bell-clapper of your head, and of your bowels a string to hang it
by'--that was the cry of the Barcelonese, presently echoed in every town
and village throughout Spain--and that cry was raised immediately after
he had remitted the mulct which he had imposed on Barcelona for
unprovoked rebellion. But the mule is quiet enough now; no such yell is
heard now at Barcelona, or in any nook or corner of Spain. No, no--the
Caballero was kicked out of the saddle, and the muleteer sprang up--There
she lies, the brute! _Bien hecho_, _Narvaez_--Don't spare the garrote
nor the mule!
It is very possible that from certain passages which we have written
above, some of our readers may come to the conclusion that we must be
partisans either of Espartero or Narvaez, perhaps of both. In such case,
however, they would do us wrong. Having occasion at present to speak of
Spain, we could hardly omit taking some notice of what has been lately
going on in the country, and of the two principal performers in the late
_funcion_. We have not been inattentive observers of it; and have,
moreover, some knowledge of the country; but any such feeling as
partisanship we disclaim. Of Narvaez, the muleteer, we repeat that we
have nothing more to say, his character is soon read. Of the
caballero--of Espartero, we take this opportunity of observing that the
opinion which we at first entertained of him, grounded on what we had
heard, was anything but favourable. We thought him a grasping ambitious
man; and, like many others in Spain, merely wishing for power for the
lust thereof; but we were soon undeceived by his conduct when the reins
of government fell into his hand. That he was ambitious we have no
doubt; but his ambition was of the noble and generous kind; he wished to
become the regenerator of his country--to heal her sores, and at the same
time to reclaim her vices--to make her really strong and powerful--and,
above all, independent of France. But all his efforts were foiled by the
wilfulness of the animal--she observed his gentleness, which she mistook
for fear, a common mistake with jades--gave a kick, and good bye to
Espartero! There is, however, one blot in Espartero's career; we allude
to it with pain, for in every other point we believe him to have been a
noble and generous character; but his treatment of Cordova cannot be
commended on any principle of honour or rectitude. Cordova was his
friend and benefactor, to whom he was mainly indebted for his advancement
in the army. Espartero was a brave soldier, with some talent for
military matters. But when did either bravery or talent serve as
credentials for advancement in the Spanish service? He would have
remained at the present day a major or a colonel but for the friendship
of Cordova, who, amongst other things, was a courtier, and who was raised
to the command of the armies of Spain by a court intrigue--which command
he resigned into the hands of Espartero when the revolution of the Granja
and the downfall of his friends, the Moderados, compelled him to take
refuge in France. The friendship of Cordova and Espartero had been so
well known that for a long time it was considered that the latter was
merely holding the command till his friend might deem it safe and prudent
to return and resume it. Espartero, however, had conceived widely
different views. After the return of Cordova to Spain he caused him to
be exiled under some pretence or other. He doubtless feared him, and
perhaps with reason; but the man had been his friend and benefactor, and
to the relations which had once existed between them Cordova himself
alludes in a manifesto which he printed at Badajoz when on his way to
Portugal, and which contains passages of considerable pathos. Is there
not something like retribution in the fact that Espartero is now himself
in exile?
Cordova! His name is at present all but forgotten, yet it was at one
time in the power of that man to have made himself master of the
destinies of Spain. He was at the head of the army--was the favourite of
Christina--and was, moreover, in the closest connexion with the Moderado
party--the most unscrupulous, crafty, and formidable of all the factions
which in these latter times have appeared in the bloody circus of Spain.
But if ever there was a man, a real man of flesh and blood, who in every
tittle answered to one of the best of the many well-drawn characters in
Le Sage's wonderful novel--one of the masters of Gil Blas, a certain Don
Mathias, who got up at midday, and rasped tobacco whilst lolling on the
sofa, till the time arrived for dressing and strolling forth to the
prado--a thorough Spanish coxcomb highly perfumed, who wrote love-letters
to himself bearing the names of noble ladies--brave withal and ever ready
to vindicate his honour at the sword's point, provided he was not called
out too early of a morning--it was this self-same Don Cordova, who we
repeat had the destinies of Spain at one time in his power, and who, had
he managed his cards well, and death had not intervened, might at the
present moment have occupied the self-same position which Narvaez fills
with so much credit to himself. The man had lots of courage, was well
versed in the art military; and once, to his honour be it said, whilst
commanding a division of the Christine army, defeated Zumalacarregui in
his own defiles; but, like Don Mathias, he was fond of champagne suppers
with actresses, and would always postpone a battle for a ball or a
horse-race. About five years ago we were lying off Lisbon in a steamer
in our way from Spain. The morning was fine, and we were upon deck
staring vacantly about us, as is our custom, with our hands in our
pockets, when a large barge with an awning, and manned by many rowers,
came dashing through the water and touched the vessel's side. Some
people came on board, of whom, however, we took but little notice,
continuing with our hands in our pockets staring sometimes at the river,
and sometimes at the castle of Saint George, the most remarkable object
connected with the 'white city,' which strikes the eye from the Tagus.
In a minute or two the steward came running up to us from the cabin, and
said, 'There are two or three strange people below who seem to want
something; but what it is we can't make out, for we don't understand
them. Now I heard you talking 'Moors' the other day to the black cook,
so pray have the kindness to come and say two or three words in Moors to
the people below.' Whereupon, without any hesitation, we followed the
steward into the cabin. 'Here's one who can jabber Moors with you,'
bawled he, bustling up to the new comers. On observing the strangers,
however, who sat on one of the sofas, instead of addressing them in
'Moors,' we took our hands out of our pockets, drew ourselves up, and
making a most ceremonious bow, exclaimed in pure and sonorous Castilian,
'Cavaliers, at your feet! What may it please you to command?'
The strangers, who had looked somewhat blank at the first appearance of
our figure, no sooner heard us address them in this manner than they
uttered a simultaneous 'Ola!' and, springing up, advanced towards us with
countenances irradiated with smiles. They were three in number, to say
nothing of a tall loutish fellow with something of the look of a
domestic, who stood at some distance. All three were evidently
gentlemen--one was a lad about twenty, the other might be some ten years
older--but the one who stood between the two, and who immediately
confronted us, was evidently the principal. He might be about forty, and
was tall and rather thin; his hair was of the darkest brown; his face
strongly marked and exceedingly expressive; his nose was fine, so was his
forehead, and his eyes sparkled like diamonds beneath a pair of bushy
brows slightly grizzled. He had one disagreeable feature--his
mouth--which was wide and sensual-looking to a high degree. He was
dressed with elegance--his brown surtout was faultless; shirt of the
finest Holland, frill to correspond, and fine ruby pin. In a very
delicate and white hand he held a delicate white handkerchief perfumed
with the best atar-de-nuar of Abderrahman. 'What can we oblige you in,
cavalier?' said we, as we looked him in the face: and then he took our
hand, our brown hand, into his delicate white one, and whispered
something into our ear--whereupon, turning round to the steward, we
whispered something into his ear. 'I know nothing about it,' said the
steward in a surly tone--we have nothing of the kind on board--no such
article or packet is come; and I tell you what, I don't half like these
fellows; I believe them to be custom-house spies: it was the custom-house
barge they came in, so tell them in Moors to get about their business.'
'The man is a barbarian, sir,' said we to the cavalier; 'but what you
expected is certainly not come.' A deep shade of melancholy came over
the countenance of the cavalier: he looked us wistfully in the face, and
sighed; then, turning to his companions, he said, 'We are disappointed,
but there is no remedy--Vamos, amigos.' Then, making us a low bow, he
left the cabin, followed by his friends. The boat was ready, and the
cavalier was about to descend the side of the vessel--we had also come on
deck--suddenly our eyes met. 'Pardon a stranger, cavalier, if he takes
the liberty of asking your illustrious name.' 'General Cordova,' said
the cavalier in an under voice. We made our lowest bow, pressed our hand
to our heart--he did the same, and in another minute was on his way to
the shore. 'Do you know who that was?' said we to the steward--'that was
the great General Cordova.' 'Cordova, Cordova,' said the steward.
'Well, I really believe I have something for that name. A general do you
say? What a fool I have been--I suppose you couldn't call him back?'
The next moment we were at the ship's side shouting. The boat had by
this time nearly reached the Caesodrea, though, had it reached
Cintra--but stay, Cintra is six leagues from Lisbon--and, moreover, no
boat unless carried can reach Cintra. Twice did we lift up our voice.
At the second shout the boat rested on its oars; and when we added
'Caballeros, vengan ustedes atras,' its head was turned round in a jiffy,
and back it came bounding over the waters with twice its former rapidity.
We are again in the cabin; the three Spaniards, the domestic, ourselves,
and the steward; the latter stands with his back against the door, for
the purpose of keeping out intruders. There is a small chest on the
table, on which all eyes are fixed; and now, at a sign from Cordova, the
domestic advances, in his hand a chisel, which he inserts beneath the lid
of the chest, exerting all the strength of his wrist--the lid flies open,
and discloses some hundreds of genuine Havannah cigars. 'What
obligations am I not under to you!' said Cordova, again taking us by the
hand, 'the very sight of them gives me new life; long have I been
expecting them. A trusty friend at Gibraltar promised to send them, but
they have tarried many weeks: but now to dispose of this treasure.' In a
moment he and his friends were busily employed in filling their pockets.
Yes Cordova, the renowned general, and the two secretaries of a certain
legation at Lisbon--for such were his two friends--are stowing away the
Havannah cigars with all the eagerness of contrabandistas. 'Rascal,'
said Cordova, suddenly turning to his domestic with a furious air and
regular Spanish grimace, 'you are doing nothing; why don't you take
more?' 'I can't hold any more, your worship,' replied the latter in a
piteous tone. 'My pockets are already full; and see how full I am here,'
he continued, pointing to his bosom. 'Peace, bribon,' said his master;
'if your bosom is full, fill your hat, and put it on your head. We owe
you more than we can express,' said he, turning round and addressing us
in the blandest tones. 'But why all this mystery?' we demanded. 'O,
tobacco is a royal monopoly here, you know, so we are obliged to be
cautious.' 'But you came in the custom-house barge?' 'Yes, the
superintendent of the customs lent it to us in order that we might be put
to as little inconvenience as possible. Between ourselves, he knows all
about it; he is only solicitous to avoid any scandal. Really these
Portuguese have some slight tincture of gentility in them, though they
are neither Castilian nor English,' he continued, making us another low
bow. On taking his departure the general gave the steward an ounce of
gold, and having embraced us and kissed us on the cheek, said, 'In a few
weeks I shall be in England, pray come and see me there.' This we
promised faithfully to do, but never had the opportunity; he went on
shore with his cigars, gave a champagne supper to his friends, and the
next morning was a corpse. What a puff of smoke is the breath of man!
But here before us is a Hand-book for Spain. From what we have written
above it will have been seen that we are not altogether unacquainted with
the country; indeed we plead guilty to having performed the grand tour of
Spain more than once; but why do we say guilty--it is scarcely a thing to
be ashamed of; the country is a magnificent one, and the people are a
highly curious people, and we are by no means sorry that we have made the
acquaintance of either. Detestation of the public policy of Spain, and a
hearty abhorrence of its state creed, we consider by no means
incompatible with a warm admiration for the natural beauties of the
country, and even a zest for Spanish life and manners. We love a ride in
Spain, and the company to be found in a Spanish venta; but the Lord
preserve us from the politics of Spain, and from having anything to do
with the Spaniards in any graver matters than interchanging cigars and
compliments, meetings upon the road (peaceable ones of course), kissing
and embracing (see above). Whosoever wishes to enjoy Spain or the
Spaniards, let him go as a private individual, the humbler in appearance
the better: let him call every beggar Cavalier, every Don a Senor Conde;
praise the water of the place in which he happens to be as the best of
all water; and wherever he goes he will meet with attention and sympathy.
'The strange Cavalier is evidently the child of honourable fathers,
although, poor man, he appears to be, like myself, unfortunate'--will be
the ejaculation of many a proud _tatterdemalion_ who has been refused
charity with formal politeness--whereas should the stranger chuck him
contemptuously an ounce of gold, he may be pretty sure that he has bought
his undying hatred both in this world and the next.
Here we have a Hand-book for Spain--we mean for travellers in Spain--and
of course for English travellers. The various hand-books which our
friend Mr. Murray has published at different times are very well known,
and their merit generally recognized. We cannot say that we have made
use of any of them ourselves, yet in the course of our peregrinations we
have frequently heard travellers speak in terms of high encomium of their
general truth and exactness, and of the immense mass of information which
they contain. There is one class of people, however, who are by no means
disposed to look upon these publications with a favourable eye--we mean
certain gentry generally known by the name of _valets de place_, for whom
we confess we entertain no particular affection, believing them upon the
whole to be about the most worthless, heartless, and greedy set of
miscreants to be found upon the whole wide continent of Europe. These
gentry, we have reason to know, look with a by no means favourable eye
upon these far-famed publications of Albemarle-street. 'They steal away
our honest bread,' said one of them to us the other day at Venice, '_I
Signori forestieri_ find no farther necessity for us since they have
appeared; we are thinking of petitioning the government in order that
they may be prohibited as heretical and republican. Were it not for
these accursed books I should now have the advantage of waiting upon
those _forestieri_'--and he pointed to a fat English squire, who with a
blooming daughter under each arm, was proceeding across the piazza to St.
Marco with no other guide than a 'Murray,' which he held in his hand.
High, however, as was the opinion which we had formed of these Hand-books
from what we had heard concerning them, we were utterly unprepared for
such a treat as has been afforded us by the perusal of the one which now
lies before us--the Hand-book for Spain.
It is evidently the production of a highly-gifted and accomplished man of
infinite cleverness, considerable learning, and who is moreover
thoroughly acquainted with the subject of which he treats. That he knows
Spain as completely as he knows the lines upon the palm of his hand, is a
fact which cannot fail of forcing itself upon the conviction of any
person who shall merely glance over the pages; yet this is a book not to
be glanced over, for we defy any one to take it up without being seized
with an irresistible inclination to peruse it from the beginning to the
end--so flowing and captivating is the style, and so singular and various
are the objects and events here treated of. We have here a perfect
panorama of Spain, to accomplish which we believe to have been the aim
and intention of the author; and gigantic as the conception was, it is
but doing him justice to say that in our opinion he has fully worked it
out. But what iron application was required for the task--what years of
enormous labour must have been spent in carrying it into effect even
after the necessary materials had been collected--and then the collecting
of the materials themselves--what strange ideas of difficulty and danger
arise in our minds at the sole mention of that most important point! But
here is the work before us; the splendid result of the toil, travel,
genius, and learning of one man, and that man an Englishman. The above
is no overstrained panegyric; we refer our readers to the work itself,
and then fearlessly abandon the matter to their decision. We have here
all Spain before us; mountain, plain, and river, _poblado y
desploblado_--the well known and the mysterious--Barcelona and Batuecas.
Amidst all the delight and wonder which we have felt, we confess that we
have been troubled by an impertinent thought of which we could not divest
ourselves. We could not help thinking that the author, generous enough
as he has been to the public, has been rather unjust to himself--by
publishing the result of his labours under the present title. A
Hand-book is a Hand-book after all, a very useful thing, but still--The
fact is that we live in an age of humbug, in which every thing to obtain
much note and reputation must depend less upon its own intrinsic merits
than on the name it bears. The present work is about one of the best
books ever written upon Spain; but we are afraid that it will never be
estimated at its proper value; for after all a Hand-book is a Hand-book.
Permit us, your Ladyship, to introduce to you the learned, talented, and
imaginative author of the--shocking! Her Ladyship would faint, and would
never again admit ourselves and our friends to her _soirees_. What a
pity that this delightful book does not bear a more romantic sounding
title--'Wanderings in Spain,' for example; or yet better, 'The Wonders of
the Peninsula.'
But are we not ourselves doing our author injustice? Aye surely; the man
who could write a book of the character of the one which we have at
present under notice, is above all such paltry considerations, so we may
keep our pity for ourselves. If it please him to cast his book upon the
waters in the present shape, what have we to do but to be grateful?--we
forgot for a moment with what description of man we have to do. This is
no vain empty coxcomb; he cannot but be aware that he has accomplished a
great task; but such paltry considerations as those to which we have
alluded above are not for him but for writers of a widely different stamp
with whom we have nothing to do.