[Picture: Cover of pamphlet] [Picture: Facsimile of last page of pamphlet] A SUPPLEMENTARY CHAPTER TO THE BIBLE IN SPAIN _Inspired by_ FORD’S “HAND-BOOK FOR TRAVELLERS IN SPAIN. ” BY GEORGE BORROW LONDON: PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION 1913 PREFATORY NOTE In 1845 Richard Ford published his _Hand-Book for Travellers in Spain andReaders at Home_ [2 Vols. 8vo. ], a work which still commands attention, and the compilation of which is said to have occupied its author for morethan sixteen years. In conformity with the wish of Ford (who had himselffavourably reviewed _The Bible in Spain_) Borrow undertook to produce astudy of the _Hand-Book_ for _The Quarterly Review_. The following Essaywas the result. But the Essay, brilliant as it is, was not a ‘Review. ’ Not until page 6of the suppressed edition (p. 25 of the present edition) is reached isthe _Hand-Book_ even mentioned, and but little concerning it appearsthereafter. Lockhart, then editing the _Quarterly_, proposed to renderit more suitable for the purpose for which it had been intended byhimself interpolating a series of extracts from Ford’s volumes. ButBorrow would tolerate no interference with his work, and promptlywithdrew the Essay, which had meanwhile been set up in type. Thefollowing letter, addressed by Lockhart to Ford, sufficiently explainsthe position: _London_, _June_ 13_th_, 1845. _Dear Ford_, ‘_El Gitano_’ _sent me a paper on the_ “_Hand-Book_” _which I read with delight_. _It seemed just another capital chapter of his_ “_Bible in Spain_, ” _and I thought_, _as there was hardly a word of_ ‘_review_, ’ _and no extract giving the least notion of the peculiar merits and style of the_ “_Hand-Book_, ” _that I could easily_ (_as is my constant custom_) _supply the humbler part myself_, _and so present at once a fair review of the work_, _and a lively specimen of our friend’s vein of eloquence in exordio_. _But_, _behold_! _he will not allow any tampering_ . . . _I now write to condole with you_; _for I am very sensible_, _after all_, _that you run a great risk in having your book committed to hands far less competent for treating it or any other book of Spanish interest than Borrow’s would have been_ . . . _but I consider that_, _after all_, _in the case of a new author_, _it is the first duty of_ “_The Quarterly Review_” _to introduce that author fully and fairly to the public_. _Ever Yours Truly_, _J. G. Lockhart_. The action of Lockhart in seeking to amend his Essay excited Borrow’skeenest indignation, and induced him to produce the following amusingsquib:— _Would it not be more dignified_ _To run up debts on every side_, _And then to pay your debts refuse_, _Than write for rascally Reviews_? _And lectures give to great and small_, _In pot-house_, _theatre_, _and town-hall_, _Wearing your brains by night and day_ _To win the means to pay your way_? _I vow by him who reigns in_ [_hell_], _It would be more respectable_! This squib was never printed by Borrow. I chanced to light upon itrecently in a packet of his as yet unpublished verse. The Essay itself is far too interesting, and far too characteristic ofits author, to be permitted to remain any longer inaccessible; hence thepresent reprint. The original is a folio pamphlet, extending to twelvenumbered pages. Of this pamphlet no more than two copies would appear tohave been struck off, and both are fortunately extant to-day. One ofthese was formerly in the possession of Dr. William J. Knapp, and is nowthe property of the Hispanic Society of New York. The second example isin my own library. This was Borrow’s own copy, and is freely correctedin his handwriting throughout. From this copy the present edition hasbeen printed, and in preparing it the whole of the corrections andadditions made by Borrow to the text of the original pamphlet have beenadopted. A reduced facsimile of the last page of the pamphlet serves asfrontispiece to the present volume. T. J. W. A SUPPLEMENTARY CHAPTER TO THE BIBLE IN SPAIN Does Gibraltar, viewing the horrors which are continually taking place inSpain, and which, notwithstanding their frequent grotesqueness, havedrawn down upon that country the indignation of the entire civilizedworld, never congratulate herself on her severance from the peninsula, for severed she is morally and physically? Who knows what is passing inthe bosom of the old Rock? Yet on observing the menacing look which shecasts upon Spain across the neutral ground, we have thought that providedshe could speak it would be something after the following fashion:— Accursed land! I hate thee; and, far from being a defence, willinvariably prove a thorn in thy side, a source of humiliation andignominy, a punishment for thy sorceries, thy abominations andidolatries—thy cruelty, thy cowardice and miserable pride; I will look onwhilst thy navies are burnt in my many bays, and thy armies perish beforemy eternal walls—I will look on whilst thy revenues are defrauded andruined, and thy commerce becomes a bye word and a laughing-stock, and Iwill exult the while and shout—‘I am an instrument in the hand of theLord, even I, the old volcanic hill—I have pertained to the Moor and theBriton—they have unfolded their banners from my heights, and I have beencontent—I have belonged solely to the irrational beings of nature, and nohuman hum invaded my solitudes; the eagle nestled on my airy crags, andthe tortoise and the sea-calf dreamed in my watery caverns undisturbed;even then I was content, for I was aloof from Spain and her sons. Thedays of my shame were those when I was clasped in her embraces and waspolluted by her crimes; when I was a forced partaker in her bad faith, soul-subduing tyranny, and degrading fanaticism; when I heard only herbragging tongue, and was redolent of nought but the breath of hersmoke-loving borrachos; when I was a prison for her convicts and agarrison for her rabble soldiery—Spain, accursed land, I hate thee: mayI, like my African neighbour, become a house and a retreat only for vilebaboons rather than the viler Spaniard. May I sink beneath the billows, which is my foretold fate, ere I become again a parcel of Spain—accursedland, I hate thee, and so long as I can uphold my brow will still lookmenacingly on Spain. ’ Strong language this, it will perhaps be observed—but when the rocksspeak strong language may be expected, and it is no slight matter whichwill set stones a-speaking. Surely, if ever there was a time forGibraltar to speak, it is the present, and we leave it to our readers todetermine whether the above is not a real voice from Gibraltar heard byourselves one moonlight night at Algeziras, as with our hands in ourpockets we stood on the pier, staring across the bay in the direction ofthe rock. ‘Poor Spain, unfortunate Spain!’ we have frequently heard Spaniardsexclaim. Were it worth while asking the Spaniard a reason for anythinghe says or does, we should be tempted to ask him why he apostrophizes hiscountry in this manner. If she is wretched and miserable and bleeding, has she anything but what she richly deserves, and has brought down uponher own head? By Spain we of course mean the Spanish nation—for as forthe country, it is so much impassible matter, so much rock and sand, chalk and clay—with which we have for the moment nothing to do. It haspleased her to play an arrant jade’s part, the part of a _mula falsa_, avicious mule, and now, and not for the first time, the brute has beenchastised—there she lies on the road amidst the dust, the blood runningfrom her nose. Did our readers ever peruse the book of the adventures ofthe Squire Marcos de Obregon? {13} No! How should our readers haveperused the scarce book of the life and adventures of Obregon? nevermind! we to whom it has been given to hear the voice of Gibraltar whilststanding on the pier of Algeziras one moonlight evening, with our handsin our pockets, jingling the cuartos which they contained, have read withconsiderable edification the adventures of the said Marcos, and will tellthe reader a story out of the book of his life. So it came to pass thatin one of his journeys the Señor de Obregon found himself on the back ofa mule, which, to use his own expression, had the devil in her body, aregular jade, which would neither allow herself to be shod or saddledwithout making all the resistance in her power—was in the habit offlinging herself down whenever she came to a sandy place, and rollingover with her heels in the air. An old muleteer, who observed herperforming this last prank, took pity on her rider, and said, “Gentlemanstudent, I wish to give you a piece of advice with respect to thatanimal”—and then he gave Marcos the piece of advice, which Marcosreceived with the respect due to a man of the muleteer’s experience, andproceeded on his way. Coming to a sandy place shortly after, he feltthat the mule was, as usual, about to give way to her _penchant_, whereupon, without saying a word to any body, he followed the advice ofthe muleteer and with a halter which he held in his hand struck with allfury the jade between the two ears. Down fell the mule in the dust, and, rolling on her side, turned up the whites of her eyes. ‘And as I stoodby looking at her, ’ said Marcos, ‘I was almost sorry that I had struckher so hard, seeing how she turned up the whites of her eyes. At length, however, I took a luncheon of bread, and steeping it in wine from mybota, I thrust it between her jaws, and thus revived her; and I assureyou that from that moment she never played any tricks with me, butbehaved both formally and genteelly under all circumstances, butespecially when going over sandy ground. I am told, however, that assoon as I parted with her she fell into her old pranks, refusing to beshod or saddled—rushing up against walls and scarifying the leg of herrider, and flinging herself down in all sandy places. ’ Now we say, without the slightest regard to contradiction, knowing that no one save aSpaniard will contradict us, that Spain has invariably proved herselfjust such a jade as the mule of the cavalier De Obregon: with a kind andmerciful rider what will she not do? Look at her, how she refuses to bebridled or shod—how she scarifies the poor man’s leg against rude walls, how ill she behaves in sandy places, and how occasionally diving her headbetween her fore-legs and kicking up behind she causes him to perform asomersault in the air to the no small discomposure of his Spanishgravity; but let her once catch a Tartar who will give her the garroteright well between the ears, and she can behave as well as any body. Oneof the best of her riders was Charles the First. How the brute layfloundering in the dust on the plains of Villalar, turning up the whitesof her eyes, the blood streaming thick from her dishonest nose! Thereshe lay, the Fleming staring at her, with the garrote in his hand. That’s right, Fleming! give it her again—and withhold the sopa till thevery last extremity. Then there was Napoleon again, who made her taste the garrote; she wasquiet enough under him, but he soon left her and went to ride otherjades, and his place was filled by those who, though they had no likingfor her, had not vigour enough to bring her down on her side. She isdown, however, at present, if ever she was in her life—blood streamingfrom her nose amidst the dust, the whites of her eyes turned up verymuch, whilst staring at her with uplifted garrote stands Narvaez. Yes, there lies Spain, and who can pity her?—she could kick off the kindand generous Espartero, who, though he had a stout garrote in his hand, and knew what kind of conditioned creature she was, forbore to strikeher, to his own mighty cost and damage. She kicked off him, and tookup—whom? a regular muleteer, neither more nor less. We have nothingfurther to say about him; he is at present in his proper calling, we bearhim no ill-will, and only wish that God may speed him. But never shallwe forget the behaviour of the jade some two years ago. O the yell thatshe set up, the true mulish yell—knowing all the time that she hadnothing to fear from her rider, knowing that he would not strike herbetween the ears. ‘Come here, you scoundrel, and we will make abell-clapper of your head, and of your bowels a string to hang itby’—that was the cry of the Barcelonese, presently echoed in every townand village throughout Spain—and that cry was raised immediately after hehad remitted the mulct which he had imposed on Barcelona for unprovokedrebellion. But the mule is quiet enough now; no such yell is heard nowat Barcelona, or in any nook or corner of Spain. No, no—the Caballerowas kicked out of the saddle, and the muleteer sprang up—There she lies, the brute! _Bien hecho_, _Narvaez_—Don’t spare the garrote nor the mule! It is very possible that from certain passages which we have writtenabove, some of our readers may come to the conclusion that we must bepartisans either of Espartero or Narvaez, perhaps of both. In such case, however, they would do us wrong. Having occasion at present to speak ofSpain, we could hardly omit taking some notice of what has been latelygoing on in the country, and of the two principal performers in the late_funcion_. We have not been inattentive observers of it; and have, moreover, some knowledge of the country; but any such feeling aspartisanship we disclaim. Of Narvaez, the muleteer, we repeat that wehave nothing more to say, his character is soon read. Of thecaballero—of Espartero, we take this opportunity of observing that theopinion which we at first entertained of him, grounded on what we hadheard, was anything but favourable. We thought him a grasping ambitiousman; and, like many others in Spain, merely wishing for power for thelust thereof; but we were soon undeceived by his conduct when the reinsof government fell into his hand. That he was ambitious we have nodoubt; but his ambition was of the noble and generous kind; he wished tobecome the regenerator of his country—to heal her sores, and at the sametime to reclaim her vices—to make her really strong and powerful—and, above all, independent of France. But all his efforts were foiled by thewilfulness of the animal—she observed his gentleness, which she mistookfor fear, a common mistake with jades—gave a kick, and good bye toEspartero! There is, however, one blot in Espartero’s career; we alludeto it with pain, for in every other point we believe him to have been anoble and generous character; but his treatment of Cordova cannot becommended on any principle of honour or rectitude. Cordova was hisfriend and benefactor, to whom he was mainly indebted for his advancementin the army. Espartero was a brave soldier, with some talent formilitary matters. But when did either bravery or talent serve ascredentials for advancement in the Spanish service? He would haveremained at the present day a major or a colonel but for the friendshipof Cordova, who, amongst other things, was a courtier, and who was raisedto the command of the armies of Spain by a court intrigue—which commandhe resigned into the hands of Espartero when the revolution of the Granjaand the downfall of his friends, the Moderados, compelled him to takerefuge in France. The friendship of Cordova and Espartero had been sowell known that for a long time it was considered that the latter wasmerely holding the command till his friend might deem it safe and prudentto return and resume it. Espartero, however, had conceived widelydifferent views. After the return of Cordova to Spain he caused him tobe exiled under some pretence or other. He doubtless feared him, andperhaps with reason; but the man had been his friend and benefactor, andto the relations which had once existed between them Cordova himselfalludes in a manifesto which he printed at Badajoz when on his way toPortugal, and which contains passages of considerable pathos. Is therenot something like retribution in the fact that Espartero is now himselfin exile? Cordova! His name is at present all but forgotten, yet it was at onetime in the power of that man to have made himself master of thedestinies of Spain. He was at the head of the army—was the favourite ofChristina—and was, moreover, in the closest connexion with the Moderadoparty—the most unscrupulous, crafty, and formidable of all the factionswhich in these latter times have appeared in the bloody circus of Spain. But if ever there was a man, a real man of flesh and blood, who in everytittle answered to one of the best of the many well-drawn characters inLe Sage’s wonderful novel—one of the masters of Gil Blas, a certain DonMathias, who got up at midday, and rasped tobacco whilst lolling on thesofa, till the time arrived for dressing and strolling forth to theprado—a thorough Spanish coxcomb highly perfumed, who wrote love-lettersto himself bearing the names of noble ladies—brave withal and ever readyto vindicate his honour at the sword’s point, provided he was not calledout too early of a morning—it was this self-same Don Cordova, who werepeat had the destinies of Spain at one time in his power, and who, hadhe managed his cards well, and death had not intervened, might at thepresent moment have occupied the self-same position which Narvaez fillswith so much credit to himself. The man had lots of courage, was wellversed in the art military; and once, to his honour be it said, whilstcommanding a division of the Christine army, defeated Zumalacarregui inhis own defiles; but, like Don Mathias, he was fond of champagne supperswith actresses, and would always postpone a battle for a ball or ahorse-race. About five years ago we were lying off Lisbon in a steamerin our way from Spain. The morning was fine, and we were upon deckstaring vacantly about us, as is our custom, with our hands in ourpockets, when a large barge with an awning, and manned by many rowers, came dashing through the water and touched the vessel’s side. Somepeople came on board, of whom, however, we took but little notice, continuing with our hands in our pockets staring sometimes at the river, and sometimes at the castle of Saint George, the most remarkable objectconnected with the ‘white city, ’ which strikes the eye from the Tagus. In a minute or two the steward came running up to us from the cabin, andsaid, ‘There are two or three strange people below who seem to wantsomething; but what it is we can’t make out, for we don’t understandthem. Now I heard you talking ‘Moors’ the other day to the black cook, so pray have the kindness to come and say two or three words in Moors tothe people below. ’ Whereupon, without any hesitation, we followed thesteward into the cabin. ‘Here’s one who can jabber Moors with you, ’bawled he, bustling up to the new comers. On observing the strangers, however, who sat on one of the sofas, instead of addressing them in‘Moors, ’ we took our hands out of our pockets, drew ourselves up, andmaking a most ceremonious bow, exclaimed in pure and sonorous Castilian, ‘Cavaliers, at your feet! What may it please you to command?’ The strangers, who had looked somewhat blank at the first appearance ofour figure, no sooner heard us address them in this manner than theyuttered a simultaneous ‘Ola!’ and, springing up, advanced towards us withcountenances irradiated with smiles. They were three in number, to saynothing of a tall loutish fellow with something of the look of adomestic, who stood at some distance. All three were evidentlygentlemen—one was a lad about twenty, the other might be some ten yearsolder—but the one who stood between the two, and who immediatelyconfronted us, was evidently the principal. He might be about forty, andwas tall and rather thin; his hair was of the darkest brown; his facestrongly marked and exceedingly expressive; his nose was fine, so was hisforehead, and his eyes sparkled like diamonds beneath a pair of bushybrows slightly grizzled. He had one disagreeable feature—his mouth—whichwas wide and sensual-looking to a high degree. He was dressed withelegance—his brown surtout was faultless; shirt of the finest Holland, frill to correspond, and fine ruby pin. In a very delicate and whitehand he held a delicate white handkerchief perfumed with the bestatar-de-nuar of Abderrahman. ‘What can we oblige you in, cavalier?’ saidwe, as we looked him in the face: and then he took our hand, our brownhand, into his delicate white one, and whispered something into ourear—whereupon, turning round to the steward, we whispered something intohis ear. ‘I know nothing about it, ’ said the steward in a surly tone—wehave nothing of the kind on board—no such article or packet is come; andI tell you what, I don’t half like these fellows; I believe them to becustom-house spies: it was the custom-house barge they came in, so tellthem in Moors to get about their business. ’ ‘The man is a barbarian, sir, ’ said we to the cavalier; ‘but what you expected is certainly notcome. ’ A deep shade of melancholy came over the countenance of thecavalier: he looked us wistfully in the face, and sighed; then, turningto his companions, he said, ‘We are disappointed, but there is noremedy—Vamos, amigos. ’ Then, making us a low bow, he left the cabin, followed by his friends. The boat was ready, and the cavalier was aboutto descend the side of the vessel—we had also come on deck—suddenly oureyes met. ‘Pardon a stranger, cavalier, if he takes the liberty ofasking your illustrious name. ’ ‘General Cordova, ’ said the cavalier inan under voice. We made our lowest bow, pressed our hand to our heart—hedid the same, and in another minute was on his way to the shore. ‘Do youknow who that was?’ said we to the steward—‘that was the great GeneralCordova. ’ ‘Cordova, Cordova, ’ said the steward. ‘Well, I really believeI have something for that name. A general do you say? What a fool Ihave been—I suppose you couldn’t call him back?’ The next moment we wereat the ship’s side shouting. The boat had by this time nearly reachedthe Caesodrea, though, had it reached Cintra—but stay, Cintra is sixleagues from Lisbon—and, moreover, no boat unless carried can reachCintra. Twice did we lift up our voice. At the second shout the boatrested on its oars; and when we added ‘Caballeros, vengan ustedes atras, ’its head was turned round in a jiffy, and back it came bounding over thewaters with twice its former rapidity. We are again in the cabin; thethree Spaniards, the domestic, ourselves, and the steward; the latterstands with his back against the door, for the purpose of keeping outintruders. There is a small chest on the table, on which all eyes arefixed; and now, at a sign from Cordova, the domestic advances, in hishand a chisel, which he inserts beneath the lid of the chest, exertingall the strength of his wrist—the lid flies open, and discloses somehundreds of genuine Havannah cigars. ‘What obligations am I not under toyou!’ said Cordova, again taking us by the hand, ‘the very sight of themgives me new life; long have I been expecting them. A trusty friend atGibraltar promised to send them, but they have tarried many weeks: butnow to dispose of this treasure. ’ In a moment he and his friends werebusily employed in filling their pockets. Yes Cordova, the renownedgeneral, and the two secretaries of a certain legation at Lisbon—for suchwere his two friends—are stowing away the Havannah cigars with all theeagerness of contrabandistas. ‘Rascal, ’ said Cordova, suddenly turningto his domestic with a furious air and regular Spanish grimace, ‘you aredoing nothing; why don’t you take more?’ ‘I can’t hold any more, yourworship, ’ replied the latter in a piteous tone. ‘My pockets are alreadyfull; and see how full I am here, ’ he continued, pointing to his bosom. ‘Peace, bribon, ’ said his master; ‘if your bosom is full, fill your hat, and put it on your head. We owe you more than we can express, ’ said he, turning round and addressing us in the blandest tones. ‘But why all thismystery?’ we demanded. ‘O, tobacco is a royal monopoly here, you know, so we are obliged to be cautious. ’ ‘But you came in the custom-housebarge?’ ‘Yes, the superintendent of the customs lent it to us in orderthat we might be put to as little inconvenience as possible. Betweenourselves, he knows all about it; he is only solicitous to avoid anyscandal. Really these Portuguese have some slight tincture of gentilityin them, though they are neither Castilian nor English, ’ he continued, making us another low bow. On taking his departure the general gave thesteward an ounce of gold, and having embraced us and kissed us on thecheek, said, ‘In a few weeks I shall be in England, pray come and see methere. ’ This we promised faithfully to do, but never had theopportunity; he went on shore with his cigars, gave a champagne supper tohis friends, and the next morning was a corpse. What a puff of smoke isthe breath of man! But here before us is a Hand-book for Spain. From what we have writtenabove it will have been seen that we are not altogether unacquainted withthe country; indeed we plead guilty to having performed the grand tour ofSpain more than once; but why do we say guilty—it is scarcely a thing tobe ashamed of; the country is a magnificent one, and the people are ahighly curious people, and we are by no means sorry that we have made theacquaintance of either. Detestation of the public policy of Spain, and ahearty abhorrence of its state creed, we consider by no meansincompatible with a warm admiration for the natural beauties of thecountry, and even a zest for Spanish life and manners. We love a ride inSpain, and the company to be found in a Spanish venta; but the Lordpreserve us from the politics of Spain, and from having anything to dowith the Spaniards in any graver matters than interchanging cigars andcompliments, meetings upon the road (peaceable ones of course), kissingand embracing (see above). Whosoever wishes to enjoy Spain or theSpaniards, let him go as a private individual, the humbler in appearancethe better: let him call every beggar Cavalier, every Don a Señor Conde;praise the water of the place in which he happens to be as the best ofall water; and wherever he goes he will meet with attention and sympathy. ‘The strange Cavalier is evidently the child of honourable fathers, although, poor man, he appears to be, like myself, unfortunate’—will bethe ejaculation of many a proud _tatterdemalion_ who has been refusedcharity with formal politeness—whereas should the stranger chuck himcontemptuously an ounce of gold, he may be pretty sure that he has boughthis undying hatred both in this world and the next. Here we have a Hand-book for Spain—we mean for travellers in Spain—and ofcourse for English travellers. The various hand-books which our friendMr. Murray has published at different times are very well known, andtheir merit generally recognized. We cannot say that we have made use ofany of them ourselves, yet in the course of our peregrinations we havefrequently heard travellers speak in terms of high encomium of theirgeneral truth and exactness, and of the immense mass of information whichthey contain. There is one class of people, however, who are by no meansdisposed to look upon these publications with a favourable eye—we meancertain gentry generally known by the name of _valets de place_, for whomwe confess we entertain no particular affection, believing them upon thewhole to be about the most worthless, heartless, and greedy set ofmiscreants to be found upon the whole wide continent of Europe. Thesegentry, we have reason to know, look with a by no means favourable eyeupon these far-famed publications of Albemarle-street. ‘They steal awayour honest bread, ’ said one of them to us the other day at Venice, ‘_ISignori forestieri_ find no farther necessity for us since they haveappeared; we are thinking of petitioning the government in order thatthey may be prohibited as heretical and republican. Were it not forthese accursed books I should now have the advantage of waiting uponthose _forestieri_’—and he pointed to a fat English squire, who with ablooming daughter under each arm, was proceeding across the piazza to St. Marco with no other guide than a ‘Murray, ’ which he held in his hand. High, however, as was the opinion which we had formed of these Hand-booksfrom what we had heard concerning them, we were utterly unprepared forsuch a treat as has been afforded us by the perusal of the one which nowlies before us—the Hand-book for Spain. It is evidently the production of a highly-gifted and accomplished man ofinfinite cleverness, considerable learning, and who is moreoverthoroughly acquainted with the subject of which he treats. That he knowsSpain as completely as he knows the lines upon the palm of his hand, is afact which cannot fail of forcing itself upon the conviction of anyperson who shall merely glance over the pages; yet this is a book not tobe glanced over, for we defy any one to take it up without being seizedwith an irresistible inclination to peruse it from the beginning to theend—so flowing and captivating is the style, and so singular and variousare the objects and events here treated of. We have here a perfectpanorama of Spain, to accomplish which we believe to have been the aimand intention of the author; and gigantic as the conception was, it isbut doing him justice to say that in our opinion he has fully worked itout. But what iron application was required for the task—what years ofenormous labour must have been spent in carrying it into effect evenafter the necessary materials had been collected—and then the collectingof the materials themselves—what strange ideas of difficulty and dangerarise in our minds at the sole mention of that most important point! Buthere is the work before us; the splendid result of the toil, travel, genius, and learning of one man, and that man an Englishman. The aboveis no overstrained panegyric; we refer our readers to the work itself, and then fearlessly abandon the matter to their decision. We have hereall Spain before us; mountain, plain, and river, _poblado ydesploblado_—the well known and the mysterious—Barcelona and Batuecas. Amidst all the delight and wonder which we have felt, we confess that wehave been troubled by an impertinent thought of which we could not divestourselves. We could not help thinking that the author, generous enoughas he has been to the public, has been rather unjust to himself—bypublishing the result of his labours under the present title. AHand-book is a Hand-book after all, a very useful thing, but still—Thefact is that we live in an age of humbug, in which every thing to obtainmuch note and reputation must depend less upon its own intrinsic meritsthan on the name it bears. The present work is about one of the bestbooks ever written upon Spain; but we are afraid that it will never beestimated at its proper value; for after all a Hand-book is a Hand-book. Permit us, your Ladyship, to introduce to you the learned, talented, andimaginative author of the—shocking! Her Ladyship would faint, and wouldnever again admit ourselves and our friends to her _soirées_. What apity that this delightful book does not bear a more romantic soundingtitle—’Wanderings in Spain, ’ for example; or yet better, ‘The Wonders ofthe Peninsula. ’ But are we not ourselves doing our author injustice? Aye surely; the manwho could write a book of the character of the one which we have atpresent under notice, is above all such paltry considerations, so we maykeep our pity for ourselves. If it please him to cast his book upon thewaters in the present shape, what have we to do but to be grateful?—weforgot for a moment with what description of man we have to do. This isno vain empty coxcomb; he cannot but be aware that he has accomplished agreat task; but such paltry considerations as those to which we havealluded above are not for him but for writers of a widely different stampwith whom we have nothing to do. WHAT TO OBSERVE IN SPAIN. Before we proceed to point out the objects best worth seeing in thePeninsula, many of which are to be seen there only, it may be as well tomention what is _not_ to be seen: there is no such loss of time asfinding this out oneself, after weary chace and wasted hour. Those whoexpect to find well-garnished arsenals, libraries, restaurants, charitable or literary institutions, canals, railroads, tunnels, suspension-bridges, steam-engines, omnibuses, manufactories, polytechnicgalleries, pale-ale breweries, and similar appliances and appurtenancesof a high state of political, social, and commercial civilisation, hadbetter stay at home. In Spain there are no turnpike-trust meetings, noquarter-sessions, no courts of _justice_, according to the real meaningof that word, no treadmills, no boards of guardians, no chairmen, directors, masters-extraordinary of the court of chancery, no assistantpoor-law commissioners. There are no anti-tobacco-teetotal-temperancemeetings, no auxiliary missionary propagating societies, nothing in theblanket and lying-in asylum line, nothing, in short, worth a revisingbarrister of three years’ standing’s notice. Spain is no country for thepolitical economist, beyond affording an example of the decline of thewealth of nations, and offering a wide topic on errors to be avoided, aswell as for experimental theories, plans of reform and amelioration. InSpain, Nature reigns; she has there lavished her utmost prodigality ofsoil and climate which a bad government has for the last three centuriesbeen endeavouring to counteract. _El cielo y suelo es bueno_, _elentresuelo malo_, and man, the occupier of the Peninsula _entresol_, uses, or rather abuses, with incurious apathy the goods with which thegods have provided him. Spain is a _terra incognita_ to naturalists, geologists, and every branch of ists and ologists. The material is assuperabundant as native labourers and operatives are deficient. Allthese interesting branches of inquiry, healthful and agreeable, as beingout-of-door pursuits, and bringing the amateur in close contact withnature, offer to embryo authors, who are ambitious to _book somethingnew_, a more worthy subject than the _decies repetita_ descriptions ofbull-fights and the natural history of ollas and ventas. Those whoaspire to the romantic, the poetical, the sentimental, the artistical, the antiquarian, the classical, in short, to any of the sublime andbeautiful lines, will find both in the past and present state of Spainsubjects enough, in wandering with lead-pencil and note-book through thissingular country, which hovers between Europe and Africa, betweencivilisation and barbarism; this is the land of the green valley andbarren mountain, of the boundless plain and the broken sierra, now ofElysian gardens of the vine, the olive, the orange, and the aloe, then oftrackless, vast, silent, uncultivated wastes, the heritage of the wildbee. Here we fly from the dull uniformity, the polished monotony ofEurope, to the racy freshness of an original, unchanged country, whereantiquity treads on the heels of to-day, where Paganism disputes the veryaltar with Christianity, where indulgence and luxury contend withprivation and poverty, where a want of all that is generous or mercifulis blended with the most devoted heroic virtues, where the mostcold-blooded cruelty is linked with the fiery passions of Africa, whereignorance and erudition stand in violent and striking contrast. Here let the antiquarian pore over the stirring memorials of manythousand years, the vestiges of Phœnician enterprise, of Romanmagnificence, of Moorish elegance, in that storehouse of ancient customs, that repository of all elsewhere long forgotten and passed by; here lethim gaze upon those classical monuments, unequalled almost in Greece orItaly, and on those fairy Aladdin palaces, the creatures of Orientalgorgeousness and imagination, with which Spain alone can enchant the dullEuropean; here let the man of feeling dwell on the poetry of herenvy-disarming decay, fallen from her high estate, the dignity of adethroned monarch, borne with unrepining self-respect, the lastconsolation of the innately noble, which no adversity can take away; herelet the lover of art feed his eyes with the mighty masterpieces ofItalian art, when Raphael and Titian strove to decorate the palaces ofCharles, the great emperor of the age of Leo X. , or with the livingnature of Velazquez and Murillo, whose paintings are truly to be seen inSpain alone; here let the artist sketch the lowly mosque of the Moor, thelofty cathedral of the Christian, in which God is worshipped in a manneras nearly befitting His glory as the power and wealth of finite man canreach; art and nature here offer subjects, from the feudal castle, thevasty Escorial, the rock-built alcazar of imperial Toledo, the sunnytowers of stately Seville, to the eternal snows and lovely vega ofGranada: let the geologist clamber over mountains of marble, andmetal-pregnant sierras, let the botanist cull from the wild hothouse ofnature plants unknown, unnumbered, matchless in colour, and breathing thearoma of the sweet south; let all, learned or unlearned, listen to thesong, the guitar, the Castanet; let all mingle with the gay, good-humoured, temperate peasantry, the finest in the world, free, manly, and independent, yet courteous and respectful; let all live with thenoble, dignified, high-bred, self-respecting Spaniard; let all share intheir easy, courteous society; let all admire their dark-eyed women, sofrank and natural, to whom the voice of all ages and nations has concededthe palm of attraction, to whom Venus has bequeathed her magic girdle ofgrace and fascination; let all—_sed ohe_! _jam satis_—enough for startingon this expedition, where, as Don Quixote said, there are opportunitiesfor what are called adventures elbow deep. The following account of the rivers of Spain would do credit to the penof Robertson:— ‘There are six great rivers in Spain, —the arteries which run between the seven mountain chains, the vertebras of the geological skeleton. These six watersheds are each intersected in their extent by others on a minor scale, by valleys and indentations, in each of which runs its own stream. Thus the rains and melted snows are all collected in an infinity of ramifications, and carried by these tributary conduits into one of the six main trunks, or great rivers: all these, with the exception of the Ebro, empty themselves into the Atlantic. The Duero and Tagus, unfortunately for Spain, disembogue in Portugal, thus becoming a portion of a foreign dominion exactly where their commercial importance is the greatest. Philip II. Saw the true value of the possession of Portugal, which rounded and consolidated Spain, and insured to her the possession of these valuable outlets of internal produce, and inlets for external commerce. Portugal annexed to Spain gave more real power to his throne than the dominion of entire continents across the Atlantic. The _Miño_, which is the shortest of these rivers, runs through a bosom of fertility. The _Tajo_, Tagus, which the fancy of poets has sanded with gold and embanked with roses, tracks much of its dreary way through rocks and comparative barrenness. The _Guadiana_ creeps through lonely Estremadura, infecting the low plains with miasma. The _Guadalquivir_ eats out its deep banks amid the sunny olive-clad regions of Andalucia, as the Ebro divides the levels of Arragon. Spain abounds with brackish streams, _Salados_, and with salt-mines, or saline deposits, after the evaporation of the sea-waters. The central soil is strongly impregnated with saltpetre: always arid, it every day is becoming more so, from the singular antipathy which the inhabitants of the interior have against trees. There is nothing to check the power of evaporation, no shelter to protect or preserve moisture. The soil becomes more and more baked and calcined; in some parts it has almost ceased to be available for cultivation: another serious evil, which arises from want of plantations, is, that the slopes of hills are everywhere liable to constant denudation of soil after heavy rain. There is nothing to break the descent of the water; hence the naked, barren stone summits of many of the sierras, which have been pared and peeled of every particle capable of nourishing vegetation; they are skeletons where life is extinct. Not only is the soil thus lost, but the detritus washed down either forms bars at the mouths of rivers, or chokes up and raises their beds; they are thus rendered liable to overflow their banks, and convert the adjoining plains into pestilential swamps. The supply of water, which is afforded by periodical rains, and which ought to support the reservoirs of rivers, is carried off at once in violent floods, rather than in a gentle gradual disembocation. The volume in the principal rivers of Spain has diminished, and is diminishing. Rivers which were navigable are so no longer; the artificial canals which were to have been substituted remain unfinished: the progress of deterioration advances, while little is done to counteract or amend what every year must render more difficult and expensive, while the means of repair and correction will diminish in equal proportion, from the poverty occasioned by the evil, and by the fearful extent which it will be allowed to attain. The rivers which are really adapted to navigation are, however, only those which are perpetually fed by those tributary streams that flow down from mountains which are covered with snow all the year, and these are not many. The majority of Spanish rivers are very scanty of water during the summer time, and very rapid in their flow when filled by rains or melting snow: during these periods they are impracticable for boats. They are, moreover, much exhausted by being drained off, bled, for the purposes of artificial irrigation. The scarcity of rain in the central table-lands is much against a regular supply of water to the springs of the rivers: the water is soon sucked up by a parched, dusty, and thirsty soil, or evaporated by the dryness of the atmosphere. Many of the _sierras_ are indeed covered with snow, but to no great depth, and the coating soon melts under the summer suns, and passes rapidly away. ’ Here we have a sunny little sketch of a certain locality at Seville; itis too life-like not to have been taken on the spot:— ‘The sunny flats under the old Moorish walls, which extend between the gates of _Carmona_ and _La Carne_, are the haunts of idlers and of gamesters. The lower classes of Spaniards are constantly gambling at cards: groups are to be seen playing all day long for wine, love, or coppers, in the sun, or under their vine-trellises. There is generally some well-known cock of the walk, a bully, or _guapo_, who will come up and lay his hands on the cards, and say, ‘No one shall play here but with mine’—_aquí no se juega sino con mis barajas_. If the gamblers are cowed, they give him _dos cuartos_, a halfpenny each. If, however, one of the challenged be a spirited fellow, he defies him. _Aquí no se cobra el barato sino con un punal de Albacete_—‘You get no change here except out of an Albacete knife. ’ If the defiance be accepted, _vamos alla_ is the answer—‘Let’s go to it. ’ There’s an end then of the cards, all flock to the more interesting _écarté_; instances have occurred, where Greek meets Greek, of their tying the two advanced feet together, and yet remaining fencing with knife and cloak for a quarter of an hour before the blow be dealt. The knife is held firmly, the thumb is pressed straight on the blade, and calculated either for the cut or thrust, to chip bread and kill men. ’ Apropos of Seville. It is sometimes called we believe La Capital deMajeza; the proper translation of which we conceive to be the HeadQuarters of Foolery, for nothing more absurd and contemptible than thisMajeza ever came within the sphere of our contemplation. Nevertheless itconstitutes the chief glory of the Sevillians. Every Sevillian, male orfemale, rich or poor, handsome or ugly, aspires at a certain period oflife to the character of the majo or maja. We are not going to wasteeither space or time by entering into any lengthened detail of thisridiculous nonsense: indeed, it is quite unnecessary; almost every one ofthe books published on Spain, and their name at present is legion, beingcrammed with details of this same Majeza—a happy combination ofinsolence, ignorance, frippery, and folly. The majo or Tomfool strutsabout the streets dressed something like a merry Andrew with jerkin andtight hose, a faja or girdle of crimson silk round his waist, in which issometimes stuck a dagger, his neck exposed, and a queer kind ofhalf-peaked hat on his head. He smokes continually, thinks there is noplace like Seville, and that he is the prettiest fellow in Seville. Hisfavourite word is ‘Carajo!’ The maja or she-simpleton, wears a fan andmantilla, exhibits a swimming and affected gait, thinks that there’s noplace like Seville, that she is the flower of Seville—Carai! is herfavourite exclamation. But enough of these poor ridiculous creatures. Yet, ridiculous in every respect as they are, these majos and majas findimitators and admirers in people who might be expected to look down withcontempt upon them and their follies; we have seen, and we tell it withshame, we have seen Englishmen dressed in Tomfool’s livery lounging aboutSeville breathing out smoke and affecting the airs of hijos de Sevilla;and what was yet worse, fair blooming Englishwomen, forgetful of theirrank as daughters of England, appearing à la maja on the banks of theGuadalquivir, with fan and mantilla, carai and caramba. We wishsincerely that our countrymen and women whilst travelling abroad wouldalways bear in mind that they can only be respected or respectable solong as they maintain their proper character—that of Englishmen andEnglishwomen;—but in attempting to appear French, Italians, andSpaniards, they only make themselves supremely ridiculous. As the treefalls, so must it lie. They are children of England; they cannot alterthat fact, therefore let them make the most of it, and after all it is nobad thing to be a child of England. But what a poor feeble mind must behis who would deny his country under any circumstances! Therefore, gentle English travellers, when you go to Seville, amongst other places, appear there as English, though not obtrusively, and do not disgrace yourcountry by imitating the airs and graces of creatures whom the otherSpaniards, namely, Castilians, Manchegans, Aragonese, &c. , pronounce tobe fools. THE NORMANS IN SPAIN. ‘In the ninth century, the Normans or Northmen made piratical excursions on the W. Coast of Spain. They passed, in 843, from Lisbon up to the straits and everywhere, as in France, overcame the unprepared natives, plundering, burning, and destroying. They captured even Seville itself, September 30, 844, but were met by the Cordovese Kalif, beaten, and expelled. They were called by the Moors _Majus_, _Madjous_, _Magioges_ (Conde, i. 282), and by the early Spanish annalists _Almajuzes_. The root has been erroneously derived from Μιyος, Magus, magicians or supernatural beings, as they were almost held to be. The term _Madjous_ was, strictly speaking, applied by the Moors to those Berbers and Africans who were Pagans or Muwallads, _i. E. _ not believers in the Khoran. The true etymology is that of the Gog and Magog so frequently mentioned by Ezekiel (xxxviii. And xxxix. ) and in the Revelations (xx. 8) as ravagers of the earth and nations, May-Gogg, “he that dissolveth, ”—the fierce Normans appeared, coming no one knew from whence, just when the minds of men were trembling at the approach of the millennium, and thus were held to be the forerunners of the destroyers of the world. This name of indefinite gigantic power survived in the _Mogigangas_, or terrific images, which the Spaniards used to parade in their religious festivals, like the Gogs and Magogs of our civic wise men of the East. Thus Andalucia being the half-way point between the N. And S. E. , became the meeting-place of the two great ravaging swarms which have desolated Europe: here the stalwart children of frozen Norway, the worshippers of Odin, clashed against the Saracens from torrid Arabia, the followers of Mahomet. Nor can a greater proof be adduced of the power and relative superiority of the Cordovese Moors over the other nations of Europe, than this, their successful resistance to those fierce invaders, who overran without difficulty the coasts of England, France, Apulia, and Sicily: conquerors everywhere else, here they were driven back in disgrace. Hence the bitter hatred of the Normans against the Spanish Moors, hence their alliances with the Catalans, where a Norman impression yet remains in architecture; but, as in Sicily, these barbarians, unrecruited from the North, soon died away, or were assimilated as usual with the more polished people, whom they had subdued by mere superiority of brute force. ’ If the Moors called the Norsemen Al Madjus, which according to our authorsignifies Gog and Magog, the Norsemen retorted by a far more definite andexpressive nickname; this was Blue-skins or Bluemen, doubtless inallusion to the livid countenances of the Moors. The battles between theMoors and the Northmen are frequently mentioned in the Sagas, none ofwhich, however, are of higher antiquity than the eleventh century. Innone of these chronicles do we find any account of this raid upon Sevillein 844; it was probably a very inconsiderable affair magnified by theMoors and their historians. Snorre speaks of the terrible attack ofSigurd, surnamed the Jorsal wanderer, or Jerusalem pilgrim, upon Lisbonand Cintra, both of which places he took, destroying the Moors byhundreds. He subsequently ‘harried’ the southern coasts of Spain on hisvoyage to Constantinople. But this occurred some two hundred years afterthe affair of Seville mentioned in the Handbook. It does not appear thatthe Norse ever made any serious attempt to establish their power inSpain; had they done so we have no doubt that they would have succeeded. We entertain all due respect for the courage and chivalry of the Moors, especially those of Cordova, but we would have backed the Norse, especially the pagan Norse, against the best of them. The Biarkemalwould soon have drowned the Moorish ‘Lelhies. ’ ‘Thou Har, who grip’st thy foeman Right hard, and Rolf the bowman, And many, many others, The forky lightning’s brothers, Wake—not for banquet table, Wake—not with maids to gabble, But wake for rougher sporting, For Hildur’s bloody courting. ’ Under the head of La Mancha our author has much to say on the subject ofDon Quixote; and to the greater part of what he says we yield ourrespectful assent. His observations upon the two principal characters inthat remarkable work display much sound as well as original criticism. We cannot however agree with him in preferring the second part, which wethink a considerable falling off from the first. We should scarcelybelieve the two parts were written by the same hand. We have readthrough both various times, but we have always sighed on coming to theconclusion of the first. It was formerly our custom to read the Don‘pervasively’ once every three years; we still keep up that custom _inpart_, and hope to do so whilst life remains. We say _in part_, becausewe now conclude with the first part going no farther. We have littlesympathy with the pranks played off upon Sancho and his master by theDuke and Duchess, to the description of which so much space is devoted;and as for the affair of Sancho’s government at Barataria, it appears tous full of inconsistency and absurdity. Barataria, we are told, was aplace upon the Duke’s estate, consisting of two or three thousandinhabitants; and of such a place it was very possible for a nobleman tohave made the poor squire governor; but we no sooner get to Baratariathan we find ourselves not in a townlet, but in a _capital_ in Madrid. The governor at night makes his rounds, attended by ‘an immense watch;’he wanders from one street to another for hours; he encounters all kindsof adventures, not mock but real adventures, and all kinds of characters, not mock but real characters; there is talk of bull-circuses, theatres, gambling-houses, and such like; and all this in a place of two or threethousand inhabitants, in which, by the way, nothing but a cat is everheard stirring after eight o’clock; this we consider to be carrying thejoke rather too far; and it is not Sancho but the reader who is jokedwith. But the first part is a widely different affair: all the scenesare admirable. Should we live a thousand years, we should never forgetthe impression made upon us by the adventure of the corpse, where the Donfalls upon the priests who are escorting the bier by torch light, and bythe sequel thereto, his midnight adventures in the Brown Mountain. Wecan only speak of these scenes as astonishing—they have never beenequalled in their line. There is another wonderful book which describeswhat we may call the city life of Spain, as the other describes the vidadel campo—we allude of course to Le Sage’s novel, which as a whole weprefer to Don Quixote, the characters introduced being certainly moretrue to nature than those which appear in the other great work. Shame toSpain that she has not long since erected a statue to Le Sage, who hasdone so much to illustrate her; but miserable envy and jealousy have beenat the bottom of the feeling ever manifested in Spain towards thatillustrious name. There are some few stains in the grand work of LeSage. He has imitated without acknowledgment three or four passagescontained in the life of Obregon, a curious work, of which we havealready spoken, and to which on some future occasion we may perhapsrevert. But the Hand-book? We take leave of it with the highest respect andadmiration for the author; and recommend it not only to travellers inSpain, but to the public in general, as a work of a very high order, written _con amore_ by a man who has devoted his whole time, talents, andall the various treasures of an extensive learning to its execution. Werepeat that we were totally unprepared for such a literary treat as hehas here placed before us. It is our sincere wish that at his fullconvenience he will favour us with something which may claimconsanguinity with the present work. It hardly becomes us to point outto an author subjects on which to exercise his powers. We shall, however, take the liberty of hinting that a good history of Spain doesnot exist, at least in English—and that not even Shelton produced asatisfactory translation of the great gem of Spanish literature, ‘TheLife and Adventures of Don Quixote. ’ * * * * * LONDON: Printed for THOMAS J. WISE, Hampstead, N. W. _Edition limited to Thirty Copies_ Footnote: {13} Relaciones de la vida del Escudero Marcos de Obregon.