the necessity, or rather the action, so deeply, as never, I do believe,
to have succeeded in reasoning the painful recollection away. It clung
to him like a superstition, in fact—for you must notice, he had
sacrificed, as it were, his hereditary honour to save me—a thing perhaps
more fanciful, less dependent on personal character, and more on
externals and reputation, than with us. Yet so delicate was his feeling,
and his wish to conceal it from me—that it was only by further
acquaintance with his character I could observe it—or understand the
restless tread on that poop at midnight—the frequent abstraction and
sudden fitfulness of his conduct towards the officers who had first
suggested his conduct—mixed with a singular regard towards
myself—notwithstanding, nay, as if _because_ of all. Nothing, as he
afterwards confessed to me, almost with tears, could have induced it,
except his recognition in me of an officer and a gentleman, an
unfortunate stranger, whose country had been gratuitously opposed and
defeated by French aid—when those of his own race were about to murder
him ignominiously. His sword, however, he said, should have been trusted
to alone, at all hazards; or, as he afterwards recollected, the
frigate’s guns might have been turned toward the neighbouring town;
indeed, next morning he had even sent to acknowledge the deception, with
a refusal to give me up, and an offer of personal satisfaction to the
American in command. Still, not only to have destroyed for ever the
prestige of French honour, with all its securities, but to have falsely
pledged the escutcheon of his own family, never before soiled, was a
thought which enraged him against himself, against others, almost beyond
control. It was useless to reason with my friend; it was perfectly
hopeless to attempt consoling him; in truth, during the quiet of our
voyage, a kind of insanity seemed to possess him, the only lucid
intervals in which were our conversations on subjects as remote as
possible from that. I think he secretly abhorred the manners of the
colonials, like the American alliance, and saw a degree of retribution
in the terrible defeat by Lord Rodney. I myself have reason to recollect
America with mingled feelings of horror and satisfaction”—he glanced for
a moment towards his wife, whose placid features betrayed no
consciousness of the allusion to her first conjugal letters—“so that, my
dear Thorpe, you may easily believe I could not help sympathising with
him!”
“But surely, Sir Godfrey,” continued the graduate, with very logical
insensibility, “you must be of opinion that this country, inclined, as
it now seems, to copy England, will be”—
“Like the Count de Charlemont and his friends, I should think, with
their English riding-coats and bulldogs!” involuntarily broke in Charles
Willoughby, with a laugh: he had been listening very intently; but the
laugh ceased at his father’s sudden look.
“Do not interrupt Mr Thorpe, boy!” said the latter, rather sternly; then
relaxing next minute at the abashed and flushed look, which made him
feel as if his tone had been too harsh—“what do you mean—what Count—what
did you say?”
“The mayor I had to visit this evening, you know, sir,” replied Charles,
“the Comte de Charlemont, I mean—Charlemont is the village we got mobbed
in.”
“De Charlemont?” repeated his father slowly, looking at him, “de
Charlemont? You mistake, my boy—or is this some silly presumption of
yours? That name I thought I had not allowed to slip from me. I never
have permitted myself to mention it. Pronounce the name again.”
Charles did so distinctly and firmly. “That is curious,” said his
father, rising from his seat. “Were you listening to what I told Mr
Thorpe just now, Charles?”
“Yes, sir,” said the boy, frankly.
“And I think I uttered no such name?” added the baronet.
“No,” said his son with gravity, “there was no name mentioned, except
the Count de Grasse and Lord Rodney—I particularly noticed.”
“Ah—well,” was the only additional remark, as his father turned to the
old stove-filled hearth-place, and leaning his arms above, stood plunged
in thought; Mr Thorpe calmly reasoning on, till it was past time for
prayers to be read, and for retirement. “I shall call on the Comte de
Charlemont,” said Sir Godfrey, the last thing, to Lady Willoughby.
THE SPANISH REVOLUTION.
_Madrid, 14th August 1854._
Dear Ebony,—My last letter was dated immediately after the first
circulation in Madrid of a document, which had a most important effect
on the fate of the military insurrection, that soon grew into a popular
revolution. You will remember that after the action of Vicálvaro, on the
30th June, the insurgent generals drew their forces southwards, still
lingering, however, within a few leagues of Madrid, as if in hopes that
the capital would make a demonstration in their favour. But Madrid
remained tranquil—almost indifferent; and every post brought accounts of
similar apathy in large provincial towns, on whose rising in arms
O’Donnell and his friends had doubtless reckoned. A few small bodies of
troops and some armed civilians repaired to the insurgent banner; there
were trifling disturbances in the Huerta of Valencia; a daring partisan,
one Buceta, surprised the slenderly garrisoned but strongly situated
town of Cuenca. But these incidents were unimportant; without
co-operation on a far larger scale, it was evident the insurrection was
a failure, and that O’Donnell and his little army, isolated in the midst
of a population which seemed to have lost all spirit (even that of
revolt), must soon either make for the frontier, or risk an action with
the greatly superior forces concentrating to oppose them. But O’Donnell
had a card in reserve, which he was perhaps unwilling to play, but yet
was resolved to risk before abandoning the game as lost. In a
proclamation, dated from Manzanares, a town nearly half-way on the road
from Madrid to Granada, and whither a division under General Blaser was
proceeding, although slowly, to operate against him, he issued a
declaration in favour of the National Guard, of provincial juntas, and
of the assemblage of the Cortes, in which the nation, through its
representatives, should fix the basis of its future government. The
effect of this profession of faith was soon seen. So long as the
generals had limited themselves to invectives against Sartorius and his
colleagues, and against the system of corruption and immorality they had
fostered into a monstrous development, the nation had remained inactive,
because it saw no assurance of gain in a mere change of men, and because
no prospect was held out to it of a complete change of system. But when
O’Donnell spoke out, and threw himself frankly into the arms of the
popular cause, he had not long to wait for backers. On the 15th, 16th,
and 17th July, Valencia, Valladolid, Barcelona, Zamora, and, most
important of all, Saragossa, declared against the government, and the
fall of the ministry was inevitable. On the morning of the 17th, Madrid
received the double intelligence of some of these _pronunciamientos_,
and that the Sartorius cabinet was out. It was understood that General
Cordova, a statesman without talent, and a general without resolution,
was to head the new ministry, to which end he had long been intriguing,
currying favour with the King-consort, and with a less legitimate
influence at court. There was to be a bullfight on the afternoon of
Monday the 17th July—the first fight that had been permitted since
O’Donnell’s insurrection; and it became known in the morning that
Cordova and his friends intended getting up a small _emeute_ or
demonstration, when, between seven and eight o’clock, the streets should
be thronged with the ten or twelve thousand spectators issuing forth
from the bull-ring. The intention of this was doubtless twofold—to let
off a little of the popular steam, and to give an air of popularity to
the incoming ministry. But Cordova and his advisers had not sufficiently
felt the pulse of the people, or duly estimated the possible results of
so imprudent a manifestation. It was like exploding fireworks in a
powder-magazine; and the moment selected made the trick still more
hazardous. On the sultry evening of a burning July day, when several
thousand men of the middle and lower classes should just have quitted
the spectacle which excites them to the utmost, and habituates them to
bloodshed, to raise, in the streets of Madrid, even the simulacre of a
riotous banner, and that at a time when the people were galled by a long
period of oppression and misrule, and when an insurrectionary army was
in the field, was surely an act of as self-destructive madness as ever a
doomed and blinded man was afflicted with. Early in the day, one or two
leaders of the liberal party in Madrid had spoken to me of the proposed
demonstration, and had intimated their intention of being on the watch
to improve it, should circumstances turn favourably for their views.
Evening came, and the bullfight took place; after it, as usual, the
streets were crowded, especially the Puerta del Sol and adjacent
thoroughfares. It was about eight o’clock when the first symptoms of
disturbance were apparent. Numerous groups were formed in the streets,
and parties of men marched through them at a rapid pace, shouting
_vivas_ for liberty, and down with the ministry. The resignation of the
ministry, I must observe, had not yet been officially published, but it
was well known to have been accepted, and that, as far as the cabinet
went, Spain was in an interregnum. This was the moment chosen by General
Cordova for the farce which was to prove a tragedy. I was reminded, as I
watched the proceedings of the night, of the Italian robber story, in
which a party of practical jokers, and very _mauvais plaisants_, having
gone out with corked faces and leadless pistols to frighten some friends
abroad on a pic-nic, suddenly find amongst them the chocolate visages,
fierce whiskers, and blunderbusses charged to the muzzle of the genuine
brigand and his band, and heartily deplore the sorry plight in which
their folly has put them. So it was in Madrid on the 17th July.
The armed police, up to that evening so numerous that nowhere could you
walk ten yards without encountering them, were withdrawn from the
streets; the soldiers were all in their quarters—the very sentries had
disappeared: the main guard, which mounts at a large solid building on
the Puerta del Sol, used by the ministry of the interior, but best known
as the _Principal_ (chief guard-house), had closed the strong gates of
the edifice, and gazed listlessly through the windows at the movements
of the mob. Every precaution was taken to avoid collisions between the
authorities and the harmless rioters who were to carry out Cordova’s
plan. But its execution had scarcely begun when the mockery was turned
into earnest—so much so, that I am still at a loss to explain, except by
the confusion consequent on a change, and the real absence for some
hours of all government in Madrid, the want of any opposition to the
insurgents. At first, however, the disturbance was a mere riot, although
it soon grew into a political revolt. The bands of men that roamed the
streets, with shouts, sticks, and a few with arms, presently began to
seek modes of actively employing themselves. Long before the hour
(between ten and eleven o’clock) at which, as I afterwards ascertained,
the Progresista chiefs in Madrid had decided on an outbreak, the people
were busily at work. Before nine o’clock they repaired to two public
offices where they knew there were arms—the house of the political
governor and the town-hall—and, without opposition from the municipal
guards they found there, got possession of between seven hundred and
eight hundred muskets. These were regularly served out to the people by
the leaders of the movement; and soon, on the Puerta del Sol, an immense
crowd, in great part armed, besieged the doors of the Principal. The
soldiers within had their orders not to oppose the people, but they did
not think proper to admit them into their guard-house. Hard by was an
enclosure of planks, placed round some of the demolitions going on in
the Puerta del Sol (a flagrant job of Señor Sartorius), and there were
also beams from the falling houses. Planks and beams were seized by the
mob, piled against the doors of the Principal, and set on fire. The dry
wood, parched by the summer sun of Madrid, burned like straw. There was
danger of the whole building being consumed. The military evacuated it,
and the mob took possession. It would have saved a great deal of
fighting, and not a few lives, if they had kept it when they once held
it; but, as I have already shown, there was a want of organisation at
this early period of the night, and no definite intention, on the part
of the masses, of accomplishing a revolution. Even up to eleven or
twelve o’clock that night, many persons not inexperienced in such
movements thought that the disturbance was a mere popular
effervescence—the expression of the joy and relief felt by the people at
being rid of their tyrants—and by no means anticipated the serious
events that were to grow out of it. The Principal was abandoned by the
people, and again occupied by troops. Meanwhile, at other points, the
mob was actively mischievous, or, I should perhaps rather say, it
actively employed itself in revenging its wrongs on the authors of much
of its misery. Below a window, in one of the most frequented and central
thoroughfares of Madrid, which I occupied at intervals during the great
part of that evening, the passage of strong bodies of the people
continued. A great many weapons were now to be seen amongst
them—muskets, fowling-pieces, blunderbusses, antiquated firearms of all
kinds. At the same time the great majority were unarmed; but their blood
was up, their will was strong, and their hands were ready for anything.
That night was so full of events that few thought of looking at watches,
and I cannot therefore give you the hour at which incidents occurred, or
set them down in the exact order of their occurrence, especially as I
often changed my place between the hours of eight and two, making
excursions into different parts of the town, but frequently returning to
the window before mentioned, which, as headquarters and central post of
observation, was an excellent position. One of the first acts of
violence committed was an attack on the house of Don Luis Sartorius,
Conde de San Luis, a man whose name will ever be pre-eminently infamous
in the annals of political crime. On their way to his house the people
got a ladder, set it against the front of the Principe theatre, which
had been endowed when he was in office, and broke to pieces a stone over
the entrance on which his name was carved. On reaching his residence
they turned his furniture, pictures, and valuable library into the
street, and made a bonfire of them. I know of literary amateurs who, on
hearing of this, hurried to the spot, hoping to rescue some of the rare
and curious books he was known to possess: but their efforts were in
vain; the people would allow nothing to be taken away, everything was
for the flames. At first the second floor of the house was respected,
but presently it was known that it had lately become the residence of
Esteban Collantes, the minister of public works, who had sent in, it is
said, only a few days before, twelve thousand dollars’ worth of
furniture. After Sartorius, Collantes, Domenech minister of finance, and
Quinto the civil governor, were the three men in Madrid most detested by
the people. Collantes was the _gamin_, the mischievous scapegrace, of
the San Luis cabinet, devoid alike of dignity, morality, and common
decency. The discovery that he abode above his chief colleague was a
godsend to the enraged mob, and his chattels quickly shared the fate of
those of Sartorius. Similar destruction proceeded at the houses of the
renegade liberal Domenech, of the Marquis de Molins, minister of marine
of Count Vista-hermosa, who had commanded under General Blaser at the
action of Vicálvaro, and who was then following up with a division
O’Donnell’s retiring forces; and at those of the well-known capitalist,
Salamanca, and of Count Quinto, the alcalde-corregidor, and governor of
Madrid. At these two last houses, especially, great destruction of
property took place. Rich furniture, pictures of high value, plate,
costly ornaments, jewels (especially at Salamanca’s), to the amount of
many thousands of pounds, valuable papers, government securities, and
even, it is said, bank notes and coin, were destroyed by fire. There is
reason to believe, however, that some of the more portable of these
things, particularly the jewels, were stolen—not, as I believe, by the
people, who, throughout the whole revolution, set an example of honesty
and disinterestedness—but by the professional thieves, who are always on
the look-out upon such occasions, and by servants in some of the houses
attacked, who, knowing where their masters kept their most precious
effects, had great facilities for purloining them. A friend of
Salamanca’s went to his house to rescue some valuable papers, and also,
if possible, some jewels of great price, which were in an iron chest
under a bed. Amongst these jewels was a diamond of remarkable beauty,
whose history is rather curious. It had been given, set in a ring, by
Count Montemolin, to an attached and faithful follower of his and his
father’s fortunes. This gentleman afterwards desired to dispose of the
stone, retaining the ring as a memorial, and addressed himself, with
this object, to a well-known London jeweller. The jeweller advised him
to retain the gem, for that, being of a most unusual size, he should
have difficulty, if he bought it, in selling it again—should, perhaps,
have to cut it down, &c. &c., and ending by naming a sum, which he
acknowledged to be less than its value, as the most he could afford to
give for it. The offer was accepted. Señor Salamanca afterwards paid
£3000 for it. This ring, with other valuable jewellery and a number of
unset stones—worth altogether many thousand pounds—were in the iron
chest. Salamanca’s friend reached the house, secured the papers, and
went to the chest. It was open and empty.
Meanwhile the people continued in motion in almost every part of the
town. It was by no means the rabble that were abroad and stirring; many
persons of the better classes were active in promoting the tumult. In
the streets the leaders could be heard consulting together, and planning
whither they should proceed. One party went to the Saladero prison to
release the political captives detained there; another strong band,
including general officers and persons of note and rank, repaired to the
town-hall, appointed a committee, and drew up a representation to the
Queen, which was delivered to her by a deputation. She promised to give
it favourable consideration. Before this time there had been movements
of troops in the town, but no hostilities. Towards two in the morning,
however, a decided change took place in the aspect of affairs, and
firing commenced at two points. After the deputation had returned from
the palace, and reported the result of its mission (amongst other
things, the Queen had expressed her earnest desire that there should be
no effusion of blood), the committee, which was soon to be a junta,
exhorted the crowd assembled in the square of the town-hall to return
home and await the result of what had been done. They were disposed to
do this, when in the Calle Mayor several companies of infantry opened
fire upon them. This roused their indignation and anger, and
thenceforward a struggle was inevitable. About the same time as those
volleys were fired there was an affray around the princely mansion, or
as it is usually called the palace, of Queen Christina. There, too, the
people had assembled (throughout the night, “Death to Christina!” had
been one of the most frequently repeated cries), had stoned and smashed
the windows, forced their way into the house, thrown out furniture and
valuables, and lit an immense bonfire with them—finally setting fire to
the house itself. The scene presented by the triangular _plaza_ in front
of the dowager-queen’s residence was striking enough. The wild figures
and furious activity of the insurgents—amongst whom were not a few women
inciting the men to mischief—contrasted with the passive attitude of a
small body of infantry, which tranquilly looked on at the proceedings of
the mob. At last, when a considerable portion of the furniture of the
right wing was blazing in the plaza, making it as light as day, and
illuminating the half-curious, half-frightened physiognomies that peered
from the windows of the neighbouring houses, the handful of troops were
reinforced by two companies, which at once fired on the people. Two or
three volleys cleared the plaza; a tolerable number of persons were
killed and wounded. There was firing at about the same time in other
parts of the town—in the Calle Mayor, as already mentioned—and
skirmishing between the troops and people, the latter of whom had begun
to assume the offensive; and from that moment it was pretty evident that
a sharp conflict was at hand. But it was not yet fairly engaged in,
owing to the absence of orders for the military, and of leaders and
organisation for the mob. A new and most unsatisfactory ministry, with
General Cordova and the Duke of Rivas at its head, had been appointed,
but could not be said to have as yet assumed command. And there was also
mistrust as to the extent to which the troops might be depended upon to
act against the people. On the other hand, the movement had commenced so
suddenly, and so many incidents had filled the few hours that had since
elapsed, that nothing like method had as yet been introduced into the
proceedings of the insurgents. On the 18th there was a good deal of
desultory fighting, and in several places severe conflicts took place;
but few barricades were thrown up, and the skirmishing was chiefly from
street corners, and from the doors of houses. It was easy to see that
the inhabitants of Madrid sympathised with the revolution, and wished
well to the insurgents. In many places, when these were hard pressed,
and compelled to run, doors were seen suddenly to open to receive them,
and again were quickly closed. The insurgents were as yet but
imperfectly armed. You might see groups of half a dozen standing at the
corner of a cross street, with perhaps two muskets or fowling-pieces
amongst them, the others having sticks and swords—the latter often
strange old-fashioned weapons, that looked as if they had belonged to
the middle ages, and picked out of a curiosity-shop. These gentry would
protrude their heads into the main thoroughfare, and watch the
favourable moment for a shot at some military post or passing picket. If
the shot drew pursuit upon them, they were off into the doors of
neighbouring houses, like rabbits into their burrows, or else away
through a labyrinth of lanes to harass some other point. A glance at a
map of Madrid, if you chance to have one at hand, will show you how well
adapted this most irregularly built capital is to the operations of a
body of insurgents perfectly acquainted with its intricacies. The uneven
surface—the town being built on a collection of small hills—the narrow
crooked streets, jumbled together without any sort of order or
system—the numerous small squares or open places, in passing over which
troops are liable to find themselves under a cross fire from half a
dozen different corners—the whole configuration of Madrid, in short,
greatly favours its inhabitants when they choose to rise in arms against
the garrison. Amongst the most remarkable events of the 18th was the
desperate fight maintained by the people against a body of gendarmes,
who, all old soldiers, defended themselves with signal valour, but were
finally overcome, some of them killed, and the rest disarmed. These
gendarmes, or civil guards, as they are here called, were in some sort
the Swiss guards of the Madrid July revolution—equally firm in duty and
discipline, and almost equally odious to the people, whom they punished
pretty severely, and who did not always give them quarter, when vast
superiority of numbers at last gave them the advantage which they
certainly would not have had in more equal conditions of force. One of
the most dashing things done by the insurgents on the 18th was clearing
the Plaza del Progreso (one of the larger squares in the heart of the
town) with the bayonet, after firing had for some time gone on. The
soldiers were fairly driven out by the civilians, and the square and
adjoining streets were quickly converted into a fortress, into which
there was little probability of the military again penetrating. On the
afternoon of the same day a number of lives were uselessly sacrificed,
owing to the recklessness and vindictive spirit of a retired officer, a
friend of Cordova’s. This person, although no longer in the army,
obtained command of a couple of guns, some infantry, and a few dragoons,
and, proceeding to the Calle Atocha, one of the principal streets of
Madrid, opened a heavy fire of artillery and musketry, firing round shot
into the houses, and grape down the street. He did a great deal of
damage—some of it to private houses in which no insurgents were or had
ever been—killed a few persons, most of them persons who had nothing in
the world to do with the insurrection, but who were sitting, inoffensive
and terrified, in their houses—lost thirty or forty of his own men, and
finally cleared a few hundred yards of street. But this was small gain
to the cause he defended, for the insurgents he drove away merely
changed their place, and when he departed they returned to contemplate
the ravages he had committed in the dwellings of peaceable citizens, and
to go forth upon the morrow more embittered than ever to the fight.
It was the 19th, however, that was by far the most important and
interesting day of the revolution. The aspect of the night that preceded
it was very singular. The day had been hot and bright, as usual in
Madrid at this season, and from early in the morning until half-past
eight at night the firing had been incessant and frequently very sharp
in one or other part of the town. When night fell, the noise and glare
were suddenly succeeded by profound silence and darkness. There was no
moon; except in a very few streets not a lamp was lit, and the
inhabitants received hints to show no lights in their windows. The
streets, which during the latter part of the afternoon had been little
frequented, owing to the numerous shots that were flying (the soldiers,
in some places, firing on every civilian they got sight of), were now
almost deserted. There was something very strange and alarming in the
complete stillness and gloom prevailing in this densely peopled capital,
which in ordinary times is all bustle and blaze until midnight or later.
Looking from a first-floor window, nothing was to be seen, except now
and then a dark figure gliding stealthily along or darting across the
street; but, on venturing out, you soon saw that the people were neither
idle nor off their guard. They were in groups behind their
barricades—which began to be numerous, although few of them were as yet
of a formidable aspect. Meanwhile the revolutionary junta was sitting at
the house of Sevillano the banker, a wealthy man, of liberal politics,
who had been an object of suspicion and persecution to the Sartorius
government. A depot of arms was ordered to be formed there, a
well-organised system of defence was decided upon, the barricades were
ordered to be strengthened and new ones to be made. Within two or three
hours after daybreak on the 19th, there were hundreds of barricades in
Madrid, many of them of great height and strength. The town presented a
most singular spectacle. The whole of its central portion, with the
exception of the Principal, which was garrisoned and stoutly defended by
a few companies of grenadiers, was soon in the hands of the insurgents.
These displayed astonishing activity and readiness of resource.
Everything was converted into means of offence or defence. Those of the
inhabitants who took no part in the fray, yet did all they could to
assist those who did. The enthusiasm was general. In the street in which
I that morning found myself, there were several barricades. Most of
these were commenced after five o’clock. As soon as the neighbours saw
two or three men at work, raising the pavement with picks and crowbars,
they hastened to supply them with materials, running out of their houses
with empty boxes, dilapidated furniture, and old matting. When
mattresses were asked they were freely given, and many hundreds of them
were used in the barricades. A patriotic carpenter, nearly opposite to
where I was stationed, who usually occupies his time in making coffins
for the dead and trunks for the living, brought out of his yard some
heavy boards, of great length, which extended completely across the
street, and formed an excellent skeleton for a barricade. Before eight
in the morning, the firing had begun on all points, and the bullets were
singing through the streets in every direction. Besides defending their
positions and attacking those of the military and civil guards—who had
taken possession of houses here and there in the districts occupied by
the people, and held them with great tenacity—the insurgents busied
themselves in various other ways, completing and strengthening the
barricades, collecting arms, making cartridges, preparing the houses for
defence in case the soldiers forced their foremost defences. Quantities
of paving-stones were taken up to the roofs and higher floors of the
houses, to throw down upon the enemy. Women and children assisted in
this labour. It was curious to observe the women. Notwithstanding danger
from bullets, they were all at their doors and windows. Some of
them—these were the younger ones—seemed to think it great fun; some of
the older ones looked ghastly and terrified enough; whilst others,
chiefly of quite the lower orders, were fierce partisans—as much so as
their husbands and brothers, who in perfect silence, but with deadly
resolution, were loading and firing from barricade, window, and
house-top. I heard one sturdy dame, crimson with exertion and
excitement, who bore in her brawny arms a basket of supplies to a
barricade then under fire, express her determination, should the troops
get into the street, to shower upon their devoted heads the whole of her
kettles and crockery. When a thrifty housewife comes to such extremes as
this, it is evident her blood is up. But the forced loan imposed by
Sartorius had come home to the pockets of the lower classes of
tax-payers, and had greatly exasperated the women.
I profess to send you mere sketches of the revolution—not its history,
which the newspapers have already in great measure supplied—and
therefore I do not consider myself bound to trace all its events, but
limit myself chiefly to what I saw. An artist who should have
perambulated Madrid during the 19th and 20th July would have found
abundant and striking subjects for his pencil. Feverish activity was the
characteristic of the first day, armed and vigilant repose of the
second. Repose from fighting, but not from toil, for, although there was
a cessation of hostilities—the Principal having surrendered (not,
however, until the afternoon of the 20th, when its garrison was
literally starved out), the whole town, with the exception of a few
barracks and buildings at its extremities, being in the possession of
the insurgents, and the Queen having sent for Espartero, which was all
that Madrid asked—the insurgents were still mistrustful, and in no way
relaxed their watchfulness. The medley of arms amongst them—particularly
on the 19th, for on the 20th they were better supplied with muskets—was
curious to observe. Many had scabbardless swords, which they used as
walking-sticks, thereby greatly improving the point; others had pistols,
some of tremendous length and most antiquated construction. There were
not a few _trabucos_ to be seen. These are tremendous blunderbusses,
wide at the mouth, which scatter a handful of _postas_ (large slugs), or
carry a ball full four times the size of a musket-ball. Here is a man
with a curved scimitar, which must have been handed down to him from
some Moorish ancestor, bound to his waist by a bit of old sash; yonder,
on a door-step, out of the exact range of fire, but the bullets striking
from time to time the balcony above her head, sits a woman playing with
a dagger, which she looks quite capable of using. I write only what I
myself observed. On the morning of the 20th I walked round many of the
barricades when their defenders were breakfasting. One group had got a
guitar for a table. It rested on the knees of a circle, and supported
their bread and sausage. There was great sobriety; during the whole of
the revolution I saw no case of drunkenness.
I leave you to imagine the alarm and confusion at the palace during all
this time. The poor, feeble, helpless Queen was distracted by many
counsellors. Her evil genius, the Duchess of Rianzares, was at her
elbow, urging her to resist to the utmost; for Maria Christina well knew
that, if her daughter yielded to the revolution, she herself would have
to quit Spain or do penance. She neglected to do the first until it was
too late, and must now submit to the second. Then, however, aided by
such bad advisers as Roncali, Cordova, Gandara, she excited the Queen to
resist and fight, or, if necessary, to fly from Madrid and plant the
royal standard elsewhere. There were about 3000 soldiers in and near the
palace, in the Retiro gardens, and in two or three barracks—every day
the palace cooks provided dinner for 3500 mouths;—these troops, which
included a powerful artillery, were to form the nucleus of a force
speedily to be assembled, and which was to crush the revolution. A civil
war might in this way have been brought about, but the universal spirit
of opposition to the Queen, and of indifference—if not dislike—to the
dynasty, that the Spaniards have since shown, sufficiently proves that
it would not have been of long duration; and its end would inevitably
have been the ejection of Isabella II. from her dominions. It was
written, however, that the misguided Sovereign should have another
chance of retaining the crown to which she has done so little honour. If
there were some persons at court who desired to see her leave Madrid for
a fortified place—or for any place where she would not be exposed to the
pressure of that revolution which they dreaded—there were others who
dissuaded her from departure, and even resolutely opposed and forbade
it. The ladies of honour, the officers of the halberdiers—that corps
which in 1841, under the command of General (then Colonel) Dulce, so
stoutly and successfully resisted an attack upon the palace—protested
that the Queen should not leave; and one of the former went so far as to
seek an interview with a well-known liberal and promoter of the
revolution, and to inform him of what was planning. The Marquis of
Turgot, the French ambassador, being consulted, advised the Queen by all
means to remain where she was. Even the Queen’s husband, poor, feeble,
ill-treated Don Francisco de Assis, showed spirit in the cause of
prudence, and vehemently protested against her removal from Madrid. Then
came—from Saragossa, the eastern stronghold of Spanish liberalism—not
Espartero, as was expected, but a messenger, bearing the conditions on
which the man of the day, whom all demanded and desired, would come to
Madrid. The exact contents of these conditions have not transpired, but,
from what has since passed, we may presume that they were tantamount to
giving Espartero almost unlimited power, and that, by accepting them,
the Queen bound herself to be guided in every respect by him and the
cabinet he should form. Few hours were passed in deliberating whether or
no they should be accepted, but those were hours of storm and strife
within the palace. The wicked, finding their projects ruined and their
power gone, fell out amongst themselves. There are strange stories of
what then occurred, especially between the Queen, her husband, and her
mother; of high words and bitter recrimination, and even of blows struck
and swords drawn. The exact truth is difficult to ascertain, for
scandal, very rife in Madrid, has distorted it into various forms; but I
believe there is no doubt that Christina, furious at seeing her daughter
about to accept conditions most unpalatable to herself, suffered her
Italian blood to move her to unbecoming violence. On the other hand the
King, reflecting how much of the unpopularity and difficulty that now
overwhelmed his wife was due to the boundless cupidity and unscrupulous
manœuvres of the Duchess of Rianzares and her husband, is said to have
vented his indignation on the latter, and even to have drawn a sword
upon him.
The ten days that elapsed between the summons sent to Espartero and his
arrival at Madrid, were days of much anxiety, and even of serious
apprehension. The junta governed, but its authority was not strong, and
there was danger of excesses by the democratic and turbulent population
of the low quarters of Madrid. The greatest danger was of an attack on
Queen Christina’s house. For two or three days this was seriously talked
of. The people were bent upon burning it. To do this would have been to
entail the destruction of a street that runs at the back of the
dowager’s palace, and one side of which forms part of the same block;
probably, also, the destruction of the British Embassy, which is
separated from it but by an interval of a few feet. Fortunately, things
occurred to distract the attention of the people, and no attempt was
made to carry out the imprudent design. The only acts of violence that
had to be deplored were the shooting of three or four obnoxious persons
belonging to the secret police. One of these was the infamous Francisco
Chico, the chief of that institution, who certainly richly deserved the
fate he met, for he had committed many and heinous crimes. A strict
watch was kept for the ex-ministers, and had they been caught, in those
first moments of excitement and fury, when the people were still hot
from the fight, they assuredly would have been killed.
To keep the people employed, the temporary authorities rather encouraged
the building and strengthening of barricades. The Spanish nation has
been so often cheated out of the results of its insurrections, and has
so repeatedly beheld a half-effected revolution converted into a
reaction, that it was determined this time to guard against such
delusions and disappointments. Such, at least, was the case in Madrid.
Under a broiling sun, they toiled as if life and death depended on their
exertions. Most of the barricades, at first constructed of very
heterogeneous materials, and without much regard to symmetry, were taken
down, and rebuilt of paving-stones and earth. The operation was a great
nuisance. The town was continually in a cloud of dust; passage through
the streets, obstructed by these temporary fortifications, was extremely
slow; at night one risked breaking his legs by tumbling into holes, or
his shins by stumbling over huge blocks of stone and other building
materials. The result of all this labour and inconvenience was, that, by
the 25th of July, Madrid contained upwards of two hundred and eighty
barricades of the first magnitude, each one of which was the centre of
(on an average) eight or ten smaller redoubts and defences. Besides
stones, of which the principal parapets were chiefly composed, the
materials used were bricks, tiles, bags of sand, beams, mortar,
diligences, private carriages, carts, and furniture. On the first days
of the revolution, it was curious to observe how, in the haste and
enthusiasm of the moment, good and even handsome furniture was taken out
into the street by its owners to be knocked to pieces in the barricades.
Flags and streamers adorned them all, and at nearly every one, raised
upon altars covered with coloured cloths, were portraits of
Espartero—horrible caricatures, many of them, but nevertheless the
objects almost of adoration on the part of the people. After nightfall
there were lights placed round these portraits, which in some instances
were accompanied by others of O’Donnell, Dulce, and latterly (but only
in a few cases) of the Queen, and music of every kind, from excellent
bands down to a single cracked guitar, played behind the barricades, in
front of which the people assembled in crowds. The revolution, serious
enough at first, had now become a sort of festival. The people were too
unsettled to return to their customary occupations; business of all
kinds was suspended; the streets were continually crowded with men of
the lower orders, armed, idle, but very well-conducted; whilst the
better classes, to whom, now that the preliminary object of the
revolution (the placing of Espartero at the head of affairs) was gained,
the whole thing was an intolerable nuisance, longed for the arrival of
the man whose presence alone would content the multitude, and restore
Madrid to its normal condition.
At last he came, and certainly his reception was a triumph. The road was
lined with people for miles without the town. The military and civil
authorities went out to meet him as far as the _Venta_ of the Holy
Ghost, half a league from Madrid. The garrison was formed up on the
right hand outside the Alcala gate, and the National Guard on the left.
His approach was announced by a general peal of all the church bells of
Madrid. There were triumphal arches, and every balcony in the town was
draped with coloured hangings. But the glorious part of the ovation was
the unmistakable and irrepressible joy of the people, and their
demonstrations of affection. The whole population of Madrid was either
outside the town or in the streets. Women of all classes abounded in the
crowd, and were vehement in the welcome they gave to the popular hero.
His carriage could hardly proceed for the people that thronged around
it, eager to touch his hand or even the skirt of his garment. This
continued the whole of the way to the palace, which is at the opposite
extremity of the town to that at which he entered, and all the way back
to Espartero’s temporary residence near the Puerta del Sol. The Duke de
la Victoria is far too warm-hearted a man not to be deeply moved by such
a reception, and I saw him more than once wipe the tears from his eyes.
The good effects of Espartero’s presence in Madrid were soon apparent.
Confidence returned, and in a short time we got rid of the barricades.
There was more difficulty in disarming that portion of the population
unfit to be trusted with arms, but this too was effected by advertising
for their purchase. Thereupon musket and carbine, rifle and blunderbuss,
came quickly into store. The ministry which Espartero formed did not at
first give general satisfaction to the liberal party, for the political
views of some of its members were at least doubtful; but soon its prompt
and judicious measures won it good opinions. Its first and greatest
difficulty was the Queen-mother. On this point the people would not give
way, or listen to reason. A few words from Espartero had sufficed to
make them remove their beloved barricades, but with respect to Maria
Christina they were inexorable. Armed men beset the gates of the town
and the avenues to the palace, and swore she should not depart till she
had rendered an account of her stewardship, and refunded at least a part
of her plunder. Night after night, and till past daybreak, Espartero and
the ministers, and the veteran patriot San Miguel—who, after rendering
immense services to the cause of order during the revolution, had been
appointed captain-general of the province—remained at the palace,
anxious to effect the departure of the Dowager Queen. But when she could
have gone she would not; and when she would, it was no longer possible.
At first her escape might have been managed, had she consented to go off
quietly in a post-chaise, without state or many attendants. But this did
not suit her. She had two enormous diligences at her daughter’s palace,
to convey herself and her family, her suite and her baggage. And on the
night that she might have gone, she made various difficulties, like a
person who was being forced to go, instead of one whose safety depended
on speedy flight. She seems to have been completely infatuated, and she
dallied and lingered until it was too late. It became impossible to
remove her from Madrid without a serious collision with the people. The
systematic, persevering, and determined manner in which they kept watch
was attributed to higher instigations than that of their ordinary
chiefs. It was said, with what degree of truth it is impossible to
ascertain, that they were prompted and directed by persons in authority,
who thought it unfair that the cause of so much evil to Spain should be
allowed to escape with her spoil to live luxuriously in a foreign land.
O’Donnell was mentioned as one of those who would gladly see justice
done on the unscrupulous and heartless Duchess of Rianzares. The
character of that general renders this not unlikely; but there is no
proof of it, and it is a mere report. What is certain is, that
Espartero, whose fault it is to be too easy and forgiving, rather than
severe and vindictive, was very desirous to get the Queen-mother
away,—possibly not only out of pity and consideration for her daughter,
but because he felt that her detention in Spain would be an additional
embarrassment to his government. He did not conceal his opinion of her;
he would not even have seen her, had she not, one night, after he had
repeatedly refused her an interview, abruptly entered a room where he
and the other ministers were assembled with the Queen. But he would have
facilitated her departure. Amidst her delays, pretensions, and
indecision, the moment passed, and even his power and influence were
insufficient to secure her exit from Spain without a combat and a
sacrifice of life; or, at the least, without deeply offending the
people, and imperilling the tranquillity of Madrid—if not of the whole
country. When things came to this, persons at the palace proposed
various plans for escape in disguise. Such escape was not easy, for the
people rigidly scrutinised all who left the palace, and armed parties
outside the town examined every vehicle that passed. It is said that
some one proposed to Christina to disguise herself as a black woman
(there are a great many negresses in Madrid), and answered for her
escape if she would do so, but that she refused, on account of two
remarkable dimples in her cheeks, which she made sure would betray her.
The poor lady begins to have more wrinkles than dimples; but she was
doubtless right not to risk detection in such ignoble disguise. Her
features are of course extremely well known here, and had the people
caught her making off in masquerade, she certainly would not have
escaped rough usage, and perhaps her life would have been sacrificed.
What could her daughter then have done? Hardly have retained her throne,
already slipping from under her—and her crown, whose brightness is so
grievously dimmed by the humiliation her errors have brought upon her.
It seems incredible that a sovereign should be found sufficiently
wanting in pride to put pen to such a manifesto—I should rather say to
such an apology—as was signed by Isabella II. on the 26th July last.
Doubtless nothing less would do; but surely most princes—or they are
meaner than the world believes them—would have preferred abdication to
so humbling themselves. In that notable proclamation, she completely
cried _peccavi_, promised better behaviour, and protested her entire
adherence to Espartero’s political principles. Since he has been here,
her conduct towards him has been such as to make it appear miraculous
how she ever managed to do without him. She constantly requires his
presence, and, notwithstanding the immense deal of business he has to
attend to, he is obliged to go daily to the palace. Doubtless she has
not yet quite recovered from the alarm of the revolution, and looks upon
Espartero as her best safeguard. I will not attribute any covert or
perfidious motive to a sovereign who has suffered severely for her
errors, and has pledged herself to amendment. But it would be very
desirable to separate her from her mother, whose intriguing spirit will
never be at rest so long as there is life in her body, and a possibility
of her working evil. She continues at the palace, instead of being sent
away from Madrid, and guarded in some castle or royal residence. Of
course, there are difficulties in the way of removing her, and it seems
cruel to separate her from her daughter, from whom, perhaps, before
long, she may be separated for ever. But the paramount consideration is
the welfare of Spain; and, moreover, in reality, the links that bind the
two ladies to each other are of a less tender nature than may be
supposed, or would seem natural. Christina, it is well known, has never
loved this daughter, whom she shamefully neglected, and, it may almost
be said, wilfully corrupted, with a view to place upon her throne the
Duchess of Montpensier. She has that influence over Isabella which long
habit, and the ascendancy of a strong mind over a weak one, naturally
give to her. And probably the Queen hangs more than ever upon her
mother, now that her lover has been sent away, and her palace cleared of
that crew of supple courtiers, ready for any base subserviency or
corrupt complaisance, who have so long infested it. “It is absolutely
necessary,” the venerable San Miguel is reported one day to have said to
the Queen, “that the Señor de Arana should go on a mission to Ciudad
Rodrigo. There he will be very near to Portugal, and may easily pass
into that country.” This caused instant anxiety and alarm. “You answer
to me for his life,” was the reply. “It runs not the slightest risk,”
said the old general, and so the thing was arranged. The favourite
departed, and is perhaps already as completely forgotten by the person
most interested in retaining him here as he appears to be by everybody
else. He is not likely to be recalled, so long as Espartero is in power,
and it is to be hoped he will not be replaced. The clearance of the
court was left for the Duke de la Victoria, who assumed the office of
governor of the palace, and speedily dismissed the titled and
embroidered, but impure, crowd that haunted its halls and avenues.
Availing myself of the roving and desultory license conceded to the
letter-writer, I step back a few weeks to note some small but not
uninteresting circumstances, which I find I have omitted to mention.
When O’Donnell’s outbreak occurred, not only were the civil guards
removed from their duty on the roads and concentrated in the capital,
and at other points, to act in bodies as troops against the insurgents
and against the people, but the numerous police of Madrid became too
much engrossed by their political avocations to heed the ordinary
objects of their solicitude. The proper regulation of the streets was
neglected, and a prodigious swarm of beggars, emerging from their
habitual lurking-places, spread itself over the town. The streets were
infested by the most revolting deformities. The least disagreeable
section of the mendicant mob was that consisting of the blind men, who,
always numerous in Madrid, were now apparently in redoubled strength.
There is an independent spirit amongst these _ciegos_, and they seldom
beg, but poke their way about with a big stick, or are led by a friend,
and sell newspapers, flying sheets, and extraordinary supplements. Since
the revolution there has been much work for them, and from seven in the
morning until late at night one hears their discordant cries, consisting
generally of the names of new newspapers, (many have been started within
the last month), the _Esparterista_, the _Independencia_, the _Sentinela
del Pueblo_, or of the announcement of the “latest news from the
palace,” “the departure of the _tia Cristina_,” or “the life of the
robber Sartorius,”—all for two _cuartos_, or one halfpenny. It were
unjust to these benighted dispensers of intelligence to class them
amongst the beggars, although they certainly are a nuisance, owing to
their straightforward manner of perambulation, which compels everybody
to keep out of their way who does not desire to have their heavy feet
stamped upon his, or their protruded stick thrust against his shins. But
the blind are quite agreeable and ornamental compared with the maimed,
the diseased, the shrivelled, the distorted, who lie under walls and
upon the staircases of public buildings, station themselves at street
corners, ride about on donkeys, and everywhere disgust you with their
nauseous presence, and pester you with their piteous whine. The
Spaniards are charitable—that is to say, they are great alms-givers—and
this of course encourages street-begging. There are places of refuge and
humane establishments in Madrid whither all destitute persons have a
right to repair—whither, indeed, it is the duty of the police to compel
them to betake themselves. But for some time past it can hardly be said
that there has been any police in this capital; and I assure you that a
walk through it is anything but a gratification, either to the eyes or
the olfactories. It is full of strange, complicated, and most unfragrant
odours, to which the puzzled and tortured nose involuntarily and in vain
attempts to ascribe an origin. And it is plentifully besprinkled with
objects that should never be seen out of an hospital. Here, seated or
squatted on the pavement of one of the most crowded thoroughfares, is a
wretch with an arm shrivelled to the bone; here another whose leg grows
up behind his back, his foot appearing over his shoulder. Here is an
unfortunate creature who almost reminds us of the days when lepers sat
by the road-side and implored alms. A little farther on a man, in an old
soldier’s coat, displays the hideous stump of his amputated leg; and in
this narrow passage we run up against a boy leading a donkey, on which
is stretched, upon his belly, a shapeless mass of humanity, his limbs
naked, and every one of them in some way or other distorted and
deformed. And here—haunting the narrow court that leads to the
post-office, and whose asphalt pavement, most injudicious in this
climate, grows sticky and stinking beneath the beams of the August
sun—is a tall young fellow without any arms at all, who, in the names of
many saints, entreats pity upon a _pobre joven_, unable to work, and
expects you to put your coppers into his waistcoat pocket. As if
political revolutions and vagabond music had some mysterious connection,
the number of street bands, Italian harp-players, organ-grinders, and
guitar-strummers, that have deafened us during the last six weeks, is
something extraordinary. It was noticed by persons here that on one
particular day, early in July, all these itinerant professors
disappeared, and it was inferred that an outbreak was close at hand. But
either the musicians had been falsely alarmed, or a general feast or
fast held by them was the cause of the suspension of their hostilities
against the tympanum of Madrid, for no insurrection occurred at that
time, although we had not very long to wait for it.
The Spanish revolution of 1854 has, I need hardly say, not been
accomplished without some expense. Revolutions are costly amusements:
from the State they take money, and from the people days of labour.
Although this one has, up to the present time, especially as regards
Madrid, and in all Spain except Catalonia, been particularly orderly for
a movement of the kind, and remarkably free from excess and riot, there
still is a bill to pay. The provincial juntas, during their few days of
local but almost absolute power, issued various decrees that would have
played havoc with the finances had they not been promptly repealed by
the regular government established under Espartero, to which, however,
even up to the present moment, some of these juntas refuse to give up.
In many provinces important taxes were taken off, without any measures
being adopted to replace the heavy deficit their abolition would
occasion in the public revenue. And some of these taxes were of daily
collection, as, for instance, duties on goods entering towns. Then there
were barricades to be paid, damages to be repaired, streets to be
repaired, and many other charges. And the outgoing ministers, when they
saw their political end approaching, took scandalous liberties with the
public money. Of the portion of the forced loan that had been collected,
but a few thousand reals were to be discovered, although at least half a
million sterling had been got in, and paid at Madrid into the coffers of
the State. In short, as regards finance, the new government has entered
office under most unfavourable circumstances. But the purses of
Progresista capitalists, rigidly closed to the Sartorius ministry, are
freely opened to that of Espartero. And no time has been lost in
effecting savings in various departments. Numbers of useless clerks and
government officials have been dismissed; and although, according to the
very bad rule here observed, all these men are entitled to more or less
retiring pension, to be more or less punctually paid, still the economy
is considerable. But the great saving will result from the character of
the men who have come into office, and who are all respected for their
integrity. O’Donnell, it is true, made his fortune in no very reputable
way—by the slave-trade, when he was governor of Cuba—but that has been
such a common and received practice that it would be erroneous to infer,
from his having followed it, that he would necessarily take bribes in
Madrid, or defraud the country he assists to govern. A Spanish general,
sent out to command at the Havanna, sees nothing improper—as there is
certainly nothing extraordinary—in receiving his ounce or two of gold
for every slave landed. Don José Concha, now on the eve of embarking for
Cuba to resume the post he formerly held there, is almost the only
instance, for many years, of resistance to the temptation held out to
West Indian captain-generals by the importers of the raw article from
Africa. In Spain, however, O’Donnell passes for an honourable man, who
keeps his word when it is pledged, and is incapable of the baseness and
peculation of which Spanish ministers have been too often guilty.
Although formed and headed by the most popular man in Spain, and
composed of men by no means unwelcome to the nation, the present
ministry, brief though its existence yet has been, has not escaped
censure for some of its acts. Of course, all the persons whom the
revolution has upset, all the employés who are put on half-pay, all the
friends of the polacos, the partisans of Sartorius, Bravo Murillo,
Roncali, and other notorious ex-ministers, who now find themselves sunk
in the slough of despond, are furious against the new order of things,
and spare no pains to damage the government by propagating false reports
and malicious inventions. On the other hand, the ultra-liberals, the
republicans and clubbists, look upon the present men as a mere
compromise, and declare that the revolution has been nipped in the bud,
and has not gone half far enough. They have faith in Espartero, and
discretion enough not violently to agitate, at least for the present,
against his government; but here there are clearly the elements of two
oppositions, one factious and reactionary, the other, by its impatience
for progress, nearly or quite as dangerous. The most recent and the
principal ground of complaint the latter party has found, is the
intimation in a ministerial document published two days ago in the
_Madrid Gazette_, and which preludes to a decree regulating the mode of
convocation of the Constituent Cortes—that the government intends to
admit no discussion as to the permanence of Isabella and her dynasty on
the Spanish throne. There is at present a very strong feeling in Spain
against the Queen personally, and against the race to which she belongs;
and those who desire to see her compelled to abdicate, or dethroned by
the vote of a National Convention—the proper name for the single popular
chamber that is to assemble on the 8th of next November—do not perhaps
sufficiently reflect on the difficulties to which such a measure would
give rise. They are ready to remove, but are they prepared to replace,
the erring daughter of the treacherous Ferdinand? My belief is, that
were Isabella to-morrow to sign her act of abdication, it would be
joyfully received by a large portion of the nation, but that discord
would ensue as to who or what should replace her. During the latter days
of the Sartorius ministry there were seven or eight candidates in the
field for the premiership—as soon as it should be vacant. There have
lately been nearly as many named for the throne, should the present
sovereign quit it. First there is her daughter, with a long
regency—probably that of Espartero. But this would only lead to fresh
complications. The Princess of the Asturias is a puny, unhealthy child;
besides which there are reasons, known to all, and which I need not
particularise, that make it extremely doubtful whether the Spanish
nation would accept her as their sovereign even in name. This admitted,
there are still many to choose out of, but there are difficulties and
objections in every case. There are Montemolin, Montpensier, Don Pedro
of Portugal: a federative republic has been talked of, and some have
ventured to hint even at Don Enrique, the Queen’s cousin and
brother-in-law. The two last, however, are out of the question. The
priest party would give all its support to Montemolin, and, were an
attempt made to change the dynasty, he might possibly find sufficient
adherents to commence a civil war, whose duration and consequences to
Spain it would be impossible to foresee. Montpensier would find few
partisans. Brought into Spain by intrigue, and against the wish of the
people, he has wanted either the tact or the opportunity to gain their
esteem and affection. Living in retirement at Seville, he has been
little heard of, and the general opinion of his abilities is decidedly
poor. I say nothing of the Spanish dislike to a French sovereign, or of
the opposition that the present ruler of France would probably make to
his elevation to the throne of Spain. Amongst the better classes here
there is decidedly a leaning to the young King of Portugal. The
favourable accounts received of his talents and character, the increase
of importance that would be given to Spain by the union of the two
countries into the kingdom of Iberia, the commercial advantages to be
derived from the command of the whole course of the two great rivers
that traverse Portugal and the greater part of Spain,—these are some of
the circumstances that induce many here to cast wishful looks in the
direction of the young heir of Braganza. Pedro V., they say, would suit
them well. And even some of the objections urged against the scheme,
such as the vast difference in customhouse tariffs and religious
tolerance in the two countries, are set down by them amongst the
advantages and inducements to their union. The converts in Spain to such
a reduction of the imports on foreign manufactures as should destroy
smuggling, benefit the treasury, and produce an increase of the demand
for Spanish produce, daily augment in numbers. As to religious
tolerance, the Spaniards begin to see that it is inseparable from true
liberty, and to be ashamed of the system of bigotry that disgraces their
country. The appointment of Don José Alonso, a most determined opponent
of ultramontane influence, to the ministry of Grace and Justice, is
significant of the feeling prevailing here, and of a probable move in
the right direction. The liberals all declare the existing concordat to
be doomed, and if the Pope opposes the great alterations that will be
made in the present system, and which will doubtless include the
expulsion of the Jesuits, and a great reduction in the hierarchical
establishment in Spain, it is by no means impossible that the whole
fabric of papal interference will be swept away, and that Spain will
have the Spanish church as France has the Gallican.
There still are certainly considerable difficulties in the way of the
union of the two crowns and countries. In the first place, is it sure
that the King of Portugal would accept the arduous task of governing
Spain? Would it be wise of him to exchange his present humble but safe
and respectable position amongst the sovereigns of Europe for one
certainly much more exalted, but also infinitely more arduous, and even
dangerous? Admitting, however, that he made up his mind to this, how
would the Portuguese like the plan? Waiving the question of national
antipathies, to which exaggerated weight has been given, how would
Portuguese pride endure that Portugal should be absorbed in Spain, even
whilst giving her a king? And what would they say to the loss of the
valuable smuggling trade of which Portugal is now the depôt, and which
is carried on through her ports and territory? If there be not a customs
union, there can be no real union between the countries. It is not
likely, however, that Portugal will long benefit in the way it now does
by the absurd Spanish tariff, of which a reform is inevitably
approaching. That tariff is doomed by the increasing good sense of the
nation and by the example of others, and its existence can be a question
only of time. There are other difficulties, such as the fusion of the
two debts and the election of one capital (is Madrid or Lisbon to be
sacrificed?) but it is thought that all these things might be reconciled
and arranged in a satisfactory manner. It is hoped France would not
object, and England’s co-operation and aid are reckoned upon—as they are
admitted to be indispensable. The Iberian monarchy, with Pedro V. on the
throne and an English princess for his wife—such is the dream of many
here. That at least a part of it may be realised, is certainly not
improbable. And I have reason to know that such a plan has occurred,
some years since, to persons in high places, not in this country, whose
influence, if steadily and perseveringly applied, would go far towards
carrying it out. No time could be more favourable for that than the
present, when England and France are bound in close alliance and cordial
amity, and when Spain is thoroughly disgusted with the dynasty that has
so long misruled her.
There is much more to be said on this subject of a change of dynasty,
but for the present I must conclude, for here is the middle of the
month; and moreover writing long letters with the thermometer at
fever-heat is almost too much exertion. And so, for at least another
moon, I quit the complicated question of Spanish politics, and bid you a
hearty farewell.
VEDETTE.
_Printed by William Blackwood & Sons, Edinburgh._
-----
Footnote 1:
_Narrative of a Journey through Syria and Palestine in 1851 and 1852._
By Lieut. VAN DE VELDE. 2 vols. Edinburgh, 1854.
Footnote 2:
The old name for Corinth. The famous rock of the Acropolis is 1800
feet high, and is a most prominent object from Athens, and all the
open country to the east.
Footnote 3:
The landscape here described is well known to travellers, being on the
road between Corinth and Mycenæ. The Apesantian mount, with its broad,
flat, tabular summit, overhangs Nemea, where three magnificent
Corinthian pillars are all that remain to proclaim, amid the solitude,
the once splendid worship of Nemean Jove. The defile of _Tretus_ is
described by Pausanias (ii. 15), and by Colonel Mure in his Travels.
Footnote 4:
The temple of Juno, near Mycenæ, of which the remains have lately been
discovered.
Footnote 5:
The well-known ruins of Tiryns, at the head of the Argolic gulf,
between Nauplia and Argos. The “galleries” make a fine figure in
illustrated tours; but Tiryns, situated on a low elliptical hillock,
will disappoint the traveller. Not so _Mycenæ_, of which the remains
are truly sublime, and well worthy to be associated for ever with the
memory of the “king of men.”
Footnote 6:
The old name of Ægina, whose maritime strength and commercial dignity
are celebrated by Pindar. (Ol. viii.)
Footnote 7:
Naxos.
Footnote 8:
The climate of Rhodes is delightful. The Atabyrian mount is mentioned
by Pindar, in the famous ode to Diagoras (ol. vii.), αλλ ὦ Ζεῦ πάτερ
νὡτοισιν Αταβυριου. κ. τ. λ.
Footnote 9:
On the subject of _Lycia_, and the topography of this part of the
poem, it is perhaps superfluous to refer our readers to Sir Charles
Fellowes’ works, and the travels, in the same district, of Professor
Edward Forbes, now of this city.
Footnote 10:
A warlike people in Lycia mentioned by Homer—Σολύμοισι κυδαλἰμοισι.
Footnote 11:
So Homer. Arrian, in his life of Alexander (ii. 5), alludes to this
plain, or one bearing the same name, near the river Pyramus in
Cilicia.
Footnote 12:
Colonial Land and Emigration Commissioners’ Report, 1853.
Footnote 13:
_Of the Plurality of Worlds; an Essay. Also a Dialogue on the same
subject._ Second Edition. Parker and Son, 1854.
_More Worlds than One, the Creed of the Philosopher, and the Hope of
the Christian._ By Sir DAVID BREWSTER, K.H., D.C.L. Murray, 1854.
_The Planets: Are they Inhabited Worlds?_ Museum of Science and Art.
By DIONYSIUS LARDNER, D.C.L., Chapters i., ii., iii., iv. Walton and
Maberly, 1854.
Footnote 14:
HERSCHEL, _Astron._, § 592.—[We quote from the first edition.]
Footnote 15:
_Age of Reason._
Footnote 16:
_More Worlds than One_, p. 199.
Footnote 17:
_Ibid._, p. 202.
Footnote 18:
_More Worlds than One_, p. 230.
Footnote 19:
_Essay_ (2d edition), p. 261.
Footnote 20:
_Dialogue_, p. 37.
Footnote 21:
_Essay_, pp. 133, 134.
Footnote 22:
_Ibid._, pp. 299, 300.
Footnote 23:
_Ibid._, pp. 308, 309.
Footnote 24:
Psalm cxv. 16.
Footnote 25:
Isaiah, xlii. 5.
Footnote 26:
Isaiah, xlv. 12, 18.
Footnote 27:
_More Worlds than One_, p. 17.
Footnote 28:
_Essay_, p. 359.
Footnote 29:
_Essay_, p. 359.
Footnote 30:
_Ibid._, pp. 94, 95.
Footnote 31:
_Ibid._, pp. 98, 99.
Footnote 32:
_Ibid._, p. 103.
Footnote 33:
_Ibid._, p. 104.
Footnote 34:
_Essay_, p. 360.
Footnote 35:
_Ibid._, p. 360 (Professor Owen).
Footnote 36:
_Ibid._, p. 362.
Footnote 37:
_Ibid._, pp. 364, 365.
Footnote 38:
_Essay_, pp. 370, 371.
Footnote 39:
_Essay_, pp. 371, 372.
Footnote 40:
_Ibid._, pp. 375, 376.
Footnote 41:
Matt. xvi. 26, 27.
Footnote 42:
_Dialogue_, pp. 53, 54.
Footnote 43:
_Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands_. By Mrs HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 2
vols. London: 1854.
Footnote 44:
_An Apology for the Colouring of the Greek Court._ By OWEN JONES.
London, 1854.
Footnote 45:
White marble.—This contempt of white marble is about as wise as
Walpole’s contempt of white teeth, which gave rise to his well-known
expression, “The gentlemen with the foolish teeth.” Yet though a
people have been known to paint their teeth black, white teeth, as
white marble, will keep their fashion.
Footnote 46:
“_Circumlitio._”—See Mr Henning’s evidence before Committee of House
of Commons on the preservation of stone by application of hot wax
penetrating the stone, and his mode of using it, similar to the
encaustic process.
Footnote 47:
In the _Clouds_, Aristophanes makes Socrates swear by the Graces—σοφῶς
γε νῆ τάς χαριτας—twitting him, as the scholiast remarks, upon his
former employment, alluding to his work of the Graces.—_Clouds_, 771.
Footnote 48:
“Inter _statuas_ Græci sic distinguunt teste Philandro, ut statuas
Deorum vocent ἔιδοιλα; Heroum ξοἄνα; Regum ἄνδριαντας: Sapientum
εἴκελα; Bene-meritorum βρενεα; quod tamen discrimen auctoribus non
semper observatur.”—HOFFMANN’S _Lexicon_.
Footnote 49:
We do not presume to be critical upon the Bœotian schoolmaster’s
Greek; but no modern student would take him for an authority in
prosody. He says the impetuosity of the genius of Homer hurried him
into a false quantity in the first line of the _Iliad_, in the word
Θεὰ. Plutarch was forgetful of the rule of _a purum_ in the vocative.
His prejudice is sufficiently shown in his essay _On the Malignity of
Herodotus_, whom he disliked, because the historian did not speak over
favourably of the Bœotians. “Plutarch was a Bœotian, and thought it
indispensably incumbent on him to vindicate the cause of his
countrymen.”—BELOE’S _Herod_.
Footnote 50:
The “devotion”—the estimation in which the Athenians held their gods,
at the very time of their building magnificent temples, and of their
highest perfection in art, we may fairly gather from their dramatic
performances. If Zeus himself was treated with little reverence, other
deities to whom they erected statues fared worse. Bacchus is exhibited
on the stage as a coward—Hercules as a glutton.—_Vide_ Aristophanes
and Euripides. So much for the motives invented for the Athenians by
Mr Jones. Had such motives been appealed to, not a drachma would have
been obtained.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Re-indexed footnotes using numbers and collected together at the end
of the last chapter.
4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
5. Denoted superscripts by a caret before a single superscript
character, e.g. M^r.