_Mirandella_, and _Oitero_ the frontier town, without beholding a
military uniform, and just as if I had been travelling for amusement.
The inhabitants of the considerable towns were hospitable and cheerful:
from all of those to whom I spoke, I heard the highest encomiums on
the army which had but the day before delighted them with its grand
appearance. The villages in the province of _Tras os Montes_ presented
but little of the power or of the will to afford hospitality to the
stranger; many of the houses were shut up and deserted, while those
which were inhabited were stripped of almost every accommodation. This
arose from the fear which the poor of that province entertained of a
passing army, whether friends or foes--they had retired on the approach
of ours, as they were often in the habit of doing from the French,
and had not returned when I passed. As a proof of the feelings they
entertained for the safety of their provisions, &c., I will mention
a circumstance in which I was concerned. I had taken possession of a
cottage, in a miserable village, between Villa Real and Mirandella; it
was inhabited by an old woman, her married daughter, and two little
boys: they received me with great civility. I, as usual on the march,
enquired whether any sort of provisions in the village could be
purchased; and was told that I could not--all was gone--they had been
destroyed by the French. I asked if I could not find a fowl, or a few
eggs? No, all was gone;--“_nada, nada, nada_.” I therefore ordered my
servant to prepare some chocolate and cold beef, on which I was about
to sit down to dine, when I heard a cock crow as if under ground;--the
countenances of my hostess and her daughter changed. “Very odd!”
thought I:--the cock crowed again:--the greatest confusion was evident
in the old woman’s face--she bustled about--threw down a stool--slapped
the door, and made every kind of noise possible; but the cock crowed
a third time; when my servant, who was a droll Portuguese, without
further ceremony addressed the old woman, pointing at the same time
to a huge old chest which stood on one side of the room, “_La esta o
gallo, Senhora_,” (there is the cock) said he; and then removed a small
chest from the top of the large one--opened the lid; when out flew the
tell-tale bird, followed by seven of his hens, delighted, no doubt,
as much with his release as their mistress was mortified. I, however,
relieved the old lady’s embarrassment, by putting a couple of _crucadas
novas_ (about four and sixpence) upon the table: the sight of the money
settled the business, and she, without hesitation, gave me two of her
prisoners--fine fat hens--assuring me that she had lost many by the
soldiers; and fearing another loss from me, she had determined to pack
up her poultry in the chest: many had bought fowls from her before, but
forgot to pay for them. I passed a pleasant evening and night at this
poor cottage, and the whole family gave us a loud “_Viva os Inglezas!_”
at parting next morning.
The country through which I passed was highly picturesque--it was
beautiful to look at, but most tiresome to travel over: in general the
roads are more like craggy beds of rivers than passages constructed
for communication and the benefits of commerce. I remember that the
very morning I left the old woman’s cot, it was no more than eight
o’clock when I came in sight of the town at which I was to halt. I was
on the top of a mountain: beneath me was a river, winding through a
fertile valley, on the opposite side of which stood another mountain,
apparently not a mile from me; and at the base of the latter was the
town, the bells of which I could hear ringing; yet it was five o’clock
in the afternoon before I entered it, although I never halted--so
intricate and difficult was the winding and steep road I had to pass
over. Having mentioned this, I am reminded of a circumstance that
occurred as soon as I entered the town, which gave a melancholy proof
of the besotted slavery in which the minds of the Portuguese peasantry
are held by their clergy. An alarm had been given; the bells were all
set in furious motion; every body was running through the streets
towards one place. I left my servant with the horses, and proceeded
along with the scattered crowd. Every face was woe-begone--as though
some dire calamity, such as fire or earthquake, had occurred. The
numbers of the people increased as I advanced. We arrived at the
principal church: I pushed my way into it, and there the most piteous
lamentations assailed my ears. The church was filled with people--all
on their knees; tears were streaming down the old people’s cheeks, and
the crowd beating their breasts in sorrow. The cause of this mourning
was _not_ an earthquake, though it _was_ a conflagration. However,
it was neither the church nor the priest that was burnt; but the
doll-dressed figure of the Virgin Mary, which had caught fire from the
carelessness of the church-clerk, in allowing a lighted candle that he
held to touch her holy petticoat!--the satin had blazed; but the flames
were soon extinguished, and the damage done was happily confined to the
melting of one of her ladyship’s wax fingers, scorching her left cheek,
discolouring several tinsel ornaments, and seriously injuring the
outer-petticoat. For this the town was thrown into confusion, and the
streams of its grief let forth! What crowned the farce, was a young,
ignorant-looking priest haranguing the mob upon the calamity; pointing
with apparent intensity of sorrow at the burnt hand; kissing it and
imploring his dupes to join him in his grief; no doubt with a view that
they should join him afterwards in raising funds for _re-dressing_
the Virgin. Such is the deplorable ignorance of the people of a fine
country! Yet there is a strong party in Europe, who seek to shut out
from them the glorious rays of a liberal constitution, and therefore
every chance of enlightenment! But, thank Heaven! there are others who
will spread the light amongst them:--the torch of British Liberty now
burns over their heads; and they keep their eyes on it, in spite of the
“holy” and hateful fogs that are ever rising around them.
I entered Spain from Oitero. In crossing from the one country to the
other a thin wood intervenes, and for six or seven miles through it,
neither house nor hut is to be seen: it is level ground, and covered
with brush-wood. A few goats and their herdsman were all the living
things I saw while crossing it: not a bird flew over me.
At the first village which I entered in Spain, I met with some British
soldiers (detached) with a commissariat officer, who informed me that
the centre column of the main army had entered Salamanca, headed by
Lord Wellington, and that the French were retreating everywhere,
without making any opposition. Next day I pushed on in hopes of
overtaking the troops belonging to my division, and now the country
forming a fine level, I was enabled to increase my speed. At length I
could descry the wide and sweeping track of the advancing armies--in
the abstract, melancholy to contemplate! The country was chiefly
covered with a luxuriant crop of corn, over which the immense column of
the army passed, with its baggage, artillery, and cattle:--the traces
of the cavalry--of the infantry--and of the cannon, could be distinctly
and plainly distinguished from each other; and although their road was
through the high and firm corn, the pressure upon it was so great that
nothing but clay could be seen, except at the verges of the tracks,
where the broken and trampled wheat was less over-trodden. Then there
was as much cut down for forage as destroyed by feet; the mark of the
rough sickle of the commissaries, the dragoons, and the muleteers,
were in patches all around, disfiguring the beautiful waving ocean of
yellowing corn--_ocean_ indeed--nothing can give so just an idea of its
expansion: the corn in that country, does not grow in fields enclosed
like our English, but over the whole face of the land, making one
wide plain of vegetation, sprinkled at various distances with little
villages, which look like heaps of red tiles to the distant eye of the
observer: I have counted not less than twenty-two villages within one
circular view. Such was the country, nearly all the way to Palencia.
On the third day after I entered Spain, I overtook the rear of the
column--I think it was the fourth division--and continued to march with
it. Here I had an opportunity of seeing the Portuguese troops in a
large body; and they afforded me subject for delightful reflection. I
could not help thinking what different beings they appeared, and under
what different circumstances they were placed, from their state and
prospects about three years before, when I first saw them in the field,
a short time after the battle of Busaco: _then_ a more wretched-looking
set of creatures never were beheld--the predatory Arabs were not worse
clothed, worse disciplined, or worse fed; there was neither uniformity
in dress, nor equipment for comfort--threatened by a rapacious enemy,
then in the heart of their hapless country--harassed by partial
defeat--their only hope resting on their handful of gallant defenders,
the British soldiers:--how different did they appear _now_!--orderly,
cheerful, healthy, well disciplined, well armed; their polished
accoutrements glistening in the sun; their utensils for comfort all
neatly packed upon their backs; tents on their mules; provisions with
their commissary: not shut up in a niche of their plundered country,
menaced and insulted, but proudly marching towards the heart of
Spain--of France (as it turned out)--their hated invaders in their
turn flying before their regenerated ranks; the British by their side,
and leading them on after the bloody and successful struggles of three
years. Oh! it was a sight that could not be seen and reflected upon,
without a bounding of the heart! And their cheers, as their clean blue
columns passed through the Spanish towns, spoke to the slave’s breast,
a magic tongue. Proud indeed may those feel, whose indefatigable
exertions brought the soldiers of Portugal to the pitch of perfection
in which they then were, and grateful may be that nation to protecting
England for those mighty services. “Liberty!” was the cry through
the ranks, and “Liberty!” was the cry from the crowd, as they passed
through the towns of Portugal and Spain. Their songs were embued with
their sentiments of patriotism; and they sung them often as they went:
their musicians cheered and nourished this feeling, and their national
air “_Vencer ou morir_,”[5] as sung by a number of them, when they
encamped on the frontier of France, with the French in their front,
preparing for battle, was, from its patriotic sentiments and martial
yet melancholy music, one of the most soul-stirring anthems that ever
flowed from the patriot’s heart:--PORTOGALLO, the composer of
it, may fairly claim a portion of the laurels which were gained by his
countrymen in every action fought after it became popular. I have heard
it boldly played in the teeth of the enemy by the Portuguese bands; and
I marked the countenances of the listeners with delight: it made all
Portuguese hearts pant for the fight, and swell with revenge for the
injuries of their trampled country; and as the voices joined the music,
“_Vencer ou morir_” was not sung without _meaning_.
I have written English words to the air, and perhaps they may not be
unacceptable here:--
PORTUGUESE NATIONAL SONG.
I.
The tyrant smote our country--
Arise! arise! revenge the blow:
His ranks are there--prepare--prepare
To meet the hated foe.
Oh! blessed sun of Freedom,
O’er the fight shine high, shine high!
For we’ll conquer--we’ll conquer--
We’ll conquer--or we’ll die.
II.
Pure blood our fathers gave us,
And pure still through our veins it runs;
Far better lose the last drop here,
Than taint it for our sons.
Oh! spirits of our heroes,
In the fight be nigh, be nigh!
For we’ll conquer--we’ll conquer--
We’ll conquer--or we’ll die.
III.
The axe will strike the oak down,
The lightning will the tower lay low;
But nations smote by tyranny,
Grow stronger every blow.
Revenge, revenge in the battle,
To the heart and sword be nigh!--
Oh! we’ll conquer--we’ll conquer--
We’ll conquer--or we’ll die.
The power of music combined with poetry, seems more gigantic when
applied to the struggles of a people for liberty--or in other words--to
exalt the passion of patriotism, than any other emotion of the heart;
perhaps, because the passion _itself_ is more susceptible of excitement
than others. The songs of every nation speak more strongly the
character of the particular people to which they belong, than any thing
that can be written by the pen of the commentator or the historian.
It was a great statesman who said “Give me but the power to write the
songs of a nation, and I will govern them;” an observation in my mind,
of no less strength than truth. The war-songs of every people are part
of their arsenal; and by no means the least in power. The Scotch pipes
have done nearly as much as the claymore. An instance of this occurred
with the late gallant Colonel Cameron of the 42d. The piper was
detached from the corps by the order of the General at an engagement
in Holland--the men went into action without him;--they charged, and
were repulsed. The General, on the evening of the same day, said to
the Colonel, “Don’t boast of your 42d again.” To this censure Colonel
Cameron replied, “General, _you_ are to blame--you took our arms from
us.”--“How?”--“You took the pipes from us: let us have _them_, and
we’ll prove the 42d worthy of the highest boast.” This was done; the
regiment had an opportunity next day of charging with the pipes behind
them, and they covered themselves with glory. The Irish too, at the
storming of Badajos, carried the breach to the tune of “_Garryowen_,”
played by their own band under the most destructive fire. The power
of national song was so feared by Buonaparte, that he forbade the
Swiss air “_Le Ranz des Vaches_” in his army, lest the natives of that
country should desert. It was stated in the French National Assembly
that the Marseillois Hymn brought a million of recruits to the army;
and certainly it might be said that Dibdin’s songs did more for the
British navy than the whole of the _press_-gang. The anthem of “_God
save the King_” every body values, yet none have said, (although I
believe it to be truth) that it is a strong bulwark of the throne--that
it throws a sublimity--a grandeur--a general respect around royalty;
excites the warmest sentiments of devotion, and secures unconscious
attachment. The national hymn of Portugal is strongly expressive
of that mixture of melancholy and martial boldness of sound which
inspires the hearer to meditate revenge for injuries done; and, as
the Spaniards suffered in a similar way to the Portuguese, _their_
national song carries with it a sentiment precisely similar to that
of Portugal. This song was not composed during the days of Ferdinand,
but while the nation was struggling, in concert with the British, for
liberty; and every Guerilla sung it--every peasant sung it--every
child sung it. Its title is, “_A la Guerra Espaniolas_;” the Spanish
words of it are simple, but strong; and the music, like the national
air of the Portuguese, is truly beautiful. The following are English
words, written for it among the mountains of Biscay; and to those of my
readers who know the air, perhaps they will be acceptable.
THE SPANISH NATIONAL SONG.
I.
The curse of Slavery’s o’er us,
And suffering Freedom weeps;
No hope--no hope’s before us
While Spain’s bright spirit sleeps.
But if her slumbers lighten,
Then Freedom’s glance will brighten,
And lips shall cease to sigh, and hearts to pain.
So let us smite
The drum of fight;
She’ll wake and rise again.
To the war--to the war, ye Spaniards!
The hour is nigh,
To break your chain;
Your rights to gain.
Live free--live free,--or die!
II.
In death our sons are sleeping
Our homes in ruin laid;
Our daughters o’er them weeping,
Alone--forlorn--betrayed!
In vain is Britain’s bravery,
To rid you of your slavery;
In vain her heroes bleed--her arms resound,
Unless the fire
Of Freedom’s ire
Burn every heart around.
To the war--to the war, ye Spaniards!
The hour is nigh
To break your chain;
Your rights to gain.
Live free--live free,--or die!
--But enough of music: let us now march on without it.
I proceeded with the fourth division, and arrived after two marches,
at the high banks of the Esla: there it was that I beheld the
concentrated army--at least the greatest part of it. Some of the
troops had passed the river and “opened the ball” with the enemy on
the opposite bank: their rear guard had a brisk engagement with our
advanced cavalry, and the 10th Hussars had the honour to draw the first
blood of the campaign--they “_astonished_” the French Dragoons not a
little. After this brush the enemy continued their retreat rapidly, in
the direction of Burgos.
The crossing of the Esla by the army, as I beheld it, was one of the
most impressive, magnificent, and beautiful sights that was ever
presented: I will describe it briefly, from my memory, upon which it is
indelibly delineated.
The river Esla, at the point where the army crossed, is in breadth
equal to the Thames at Richmond or Windsor; high banks--or rather
hills--rise abruptly on either side, for the most part covered with
short trees and underwood: the approaches to the river are by even
pathways winding down each side of it. When standing on that bank where
first I saw the river, the water appeared to be about three hundred
yards below me, and its course bending so as to exclude a farther view
of it than the segment of a circle of about a mile in length. On my
left, where the river began to appear, and where the hill on which I
stood pushed itself forward and terminated in an overhanging rock,
the ponton was placed--immense boats at regular distances, and well
planked, so as to form a passage of about twenty feet in breadth,
railed on each side compactly: so admirable a bridge it was, that one
would suppose it to have been a permanent rather than a temporary
erection, which could be at a moment removed and carried wherever
the army went. Over this passed the troops, with the exception of
some cavalry who forded at another part, and five of whom (Germans)
were swept away by the current in crossing. An idea may be formed
of the vast quantity of soldiers, muleteers, women, horses, mules,
artillery stores, equipage, and baggage, which covered the hills near
the ponton, when I say, that I was from ten o’clock in the morning
until five in the afternoon, before it came to my turn to pass the
water; and all this time the bridge was filled with columns of men.
We who waited for our turn, sat on the hill under the trees, eating
cold beef and biscuit, chatting, and admiring the splendid scene. The
day was as bright as the sun; a general hilarity spread over every
countenance; the Spanish and Portuguese muleteers cracked their loud
jokes with the soldiers--laughed and sung--ate their rations, and
toasted their friends in grog. To add still more interest to the scene,
many elegant English ladies--wives of the officers--were to be seen
upon the rock which overhung the river, with their gay parasols and
waving feathers, while immediately below was the bridge with its moving
mass--horse--foot--artillery--baggage--and followers:--a little above
this, and still beneath the ladies, were groups of bullocks swimming
across the river, and with difficulty gaining the opposite bank, owing
to the power of the current; while others were climbing the opposite
hills, refreshed and relieved from the dust of their day’s travel,
by the cool water from which they had just emerged. The distant and
lessening line of troops as it winded upwards to the plain above, and
broke into several divisions to take up ground for the night, added
an admirable perspective background to the picture. Then arose the hum
of the crowd--the loud command--the laugh--the mingling of different
languages--the lowing of oxen--the neighing of horses, and the braying
of the less noble animals--the clear sky--the bright sun--the crystal
river, overhung and darkened in the distance by bold rocks, on which
the wondering goatherd lay as his goats carelessly browsed--it was
a scene never to be forgotten. Every soldier saw at a glance the
collective strength of the great military machine of which he formed
a part--all beneath his eye, as it were in a theatre: this heightened
the glow of pride within him, and elevated his spirit with the buoyancy
of glorious hope--all was cheerfulness, and the army looked more
like conquerors, than men about to enter into a bloody and doubtful
contest. I spent seven hours in admiring, and then crossed in my turn
the ponton; took up my quarters for the night, with my horses, under
a shed; and slept as soundly as the Prince who was cast into a seven
years’ sleep by a fairy.
The morning was only opening her eyes, when the drum beat and we
turned out: the fires of the night were expiring; around many of which
groups of soldiers were assembled, packing up their knapsacks and
fixing their accoutrements. The moving to and fro of military figures,
all over the level ground, before me--the tingling of the mules’
bells--the drums at various distances--the early birds chirping--the
horses champing their barley--the men biting their biscuit--the
increasing hum and the coming daylight--by degrees, dissipated the
heaviness which naturally succeeded to a short _field_ sleep, and the
cheerfulness of the preceding day was restored throughout.--The column
was in motion; and the field, where thousands crowded, was, in a few
minutes, as naked and silent as a desert.
At this ground we had expected a desperate fight; but with the
exception of a brush with our Hussars, the enemy showed no wish
to trouble us. The soldiers now became still more elevated with a
confidence in success; and the wishful cry which every where along
the march had resounded in their ears, from the inhabitants, “_Vamus
a Francia!_”--“(_Away to France!_)” was considered as about to be
realized; yet most of the army expected that we should first have a
desperate struggle at the Ebro.
We marched by Aguilar to Palencia; our light cavalry by Zamora and
Toro: the right and centre columns of the army, with Lord Wellington,
passed through Salamanca to Valladolid--the whole directing their
march to Burgos. At Palencia I first saw the ponton boats in their
carriages: they were drawn by oxen; each boat had a carriage to itself,
and each carriage was drawn by from twelve to sixteen. The boats were
reversed--or bottom uppermost--and seated on them were the pontoneers,
dressed in naval uniform; these were men specially employed to launch
the boats, form the bridge, and, in short, to conduct that service
through all its branches. I had but a faint idea of the extreme
ponderosity of warlike machinery until I beheld these boats upon their
carriages: the battering rams of the Romans were go-carts compared with
the ponton train on the march: the Spaniards, as they passed, threw
up their eyes in an ecstasy of admiration at the sight of them, and
cheered loudly while they were in view. Over those boats were to pass
to France, which they feared and hated, the invading and delivering
armies--over them the cannon that was to thunder their victory:--this
thought was enough to make them cheer, and their “_vivas!_” were well
answered by the troops that followed.