FROM the wild gorges and noble crags of the Pyrenees, and the treeless and apparently uninhabited sierras of the North—vast, solitary, and impressive—to the snow-capped hills of the mid-interior, “the palms and temples of the South,” and the unrivalled beauty of the country from Seville to Granada—Spain is a land to entrance the traveller. Its great and terribly chequered history is writ large upon the face of the country. Its people have undergone as great, if not greater, vicissitudes than any other people upon the earth, and to-day there does not exist a race more courtly, more sincere, and with more confidence in their country and themselves than the Spanish. As Iberia, Spain was known to the Greeks; the Phoenicians and the Carthaginians have left their traces there: as Hispania, it came beneath the sway of Imperial Rome; it was ravaged by the Franks. For three centuries it was misruled by West Gothic kings: it was conquered, pillaged, and tyrannised over by the Arabs and Moors for nearly 800 years.

Then came the period of Spain’s greatness. When Philip II. ascended the throne in 1556, he became ruler of an immense empire—the first empire on which the sun never set. Portugal was then a portion of Spain by right of conquest; Sicily, a great part of Italy, Holland, and Belgium, practically the whole of the North and the entire Continent of South America, besides the Philippines and other islands in the East, and parts of Africa, were all under Spanish rule. Before he died, in 1598, the power of Spain was at its zenith. At this period the fame and dread of her army was heard and felt through the world; her scientific and artistic eminence was unchallenged. No valour could withstand the charge of the Spanish pikemen; it was the Spanish galleys, under the command of a Spanish prince, that broke the Turks at Lepanto; the palaces of the king were adorned by the glorious genius of Velasquez and Murillo; and all Europe joined in delight over that first great novel of Cervantes.

At the beginning of the 17th century, as the Rev. Wentworth Webster concisely and luminously writes, “the Spanish armies were the first in the world, her navy was the largest: at its close the latter was annihilated, her army was unable, without assistance from Louis XIV., to establish the sovereign of her choice; population had declined from eight to less than six millions, the revenue from 280 to thirty millions; not a single soldier of talent, not a statesman remained to recall the glories of the age of Charles V. and Philip II.; the whole country grovelled in discontent at the foot of unworthy favourites raised to power by court intrigues, and dependent on a foreign prince. A period of resuscitation, under Charles III., was followed by a signal relapse. The influence of the unscrupulous Godoy led to the internal complications which lost Spain her remaining Colonial prestige, and gave the crown of Spain to Joseph Bonaparte. The Peninsular War, the loss of the whole of Spanish Continental America, and the two Carlist wars followed. The war with the United States in 1898 was the preface to the abolition in 1899 of the Spanish Colonial Office as being ‘no longer necessary.’”

In my opinion, the deprivation of her Colonial possessions has been a blessing in disguise to Spain, inasmuch as it will afford her the opportunity of embarking on much-needed schemes of domestic reform. As long as her Colonies imposed an almost intolerable drain on the national exchequer, it was impossible for Spain to attend to matters of urgent importance at home. I regret, however, that this was not accomplished in a different way. When the Spanish Government realised that America had determined to acquire Cuba, it was a great pity that they did not entertain the proposals made for the purchase of that island, instead of rendering it necessary for the Cabinet at Washington to find some excuse for the war of conquest upon which they subsequently embarked.

But in spite of the dramatic epoch-making vicissitudes, and the strongly-contrasted periods of greatness and disruption that Spain has experienced by turns, she has altered as little as any European country. The Spaniard is conservative in the best, as well as the worst sense of the word. His pride is at once his curse and his salvation; his lofty but gentle resignation is immensely attractive; his courtliness never fails him. His confidence in himself is, as has been said, unbounded. In the course of a conversation I had with a Castilian recently, he remarked: “We have been referred to as a decaying nation, a country to be plundered and divided up among the European powers. Before Spain is conquered there will be several million corpses between Madrid and the sea.”

Nobody who has any acquaintance with the Peninsula and its people can listen without impatience to the jeremiads of the superior politicians who predict the decay of Spain. For in spite of the accumulated trials, the disasters, and the strife of centuries, there has lived in the hearts and imaginations of the Spanish people a tradition too great to die. They have preserved under the stress of widely-varying fortune a fortitude and dignity which have prevented the nations, who have passed them in prosperity and power, from regarding them except with respect and admiration. Still, as in the days of Cervantes and Velasquez, the true order of nobility has not been that of formal rank so much as that of the whole nation and the characteristic Spaniard, whether the grandee of the court, or the beggar of the highway, has always known how to wrap his cloak about him with an air that seemed to make misfortunes honourable, and all the material success of the commercial ages a form of vulgarity. Notwithstanding the losses which have stripped them from generation to generation of their conquests, down even to the final blows of the war with America, they have dormant reserves of vitality and vigour only awaiting the touch of genuine leadership, and the inspiration of some hopeful national movement, to make a country containing eighteen millions of inhabitants capable of resuming its place as one of the foremost European nations.

In the past few years there has been a growing instinct in Spain that when things have reached their worst they must begin to mend, and that the disappearance of the last vestiges of external empire will assuredly mark the real beginning of national regeneration. That Spain has been mis-governed, her Governments have been incompetent, and her official parasites insatiable is only too true, and it is scarcely to be wondered at if her people have grown dispirited, pessimistic, and distrustful of everybody except their individual selves. After himself, the Spaniard’s first pride is in his native province. Northern Spain has little interest or confidence in the South, nor the East in the West; and North, East, South, and West were, until recently, supremely indifferent to the course of events in any other quarter of the globe. But this self-concentration is gradually disappearing, the Spaniard is learning to regard himself with an “outside eye,” and the outside world with a broader sympathy. Moreover, he has come to view the resources of his country in a more practical and business-like light, catching, it may be, the reflection of the awakened interest that they are attracting among the neighbouring nations.

For many years now, Spain has formed a great and interesting problem. In a book, published in 1884, we read as follows: “English and German papers are continually proclaiming the fact, and usually painting the situation in rosy hues; statesmen are cherishing ideas of commercial treaties, and relations of closer friendship and wider import; merchants are turning eager and inquiring eyes upon the comparatively untried ground: and speculators are fondly hoping that they have at last discovered, after many lean years, an El Dorado in Spain that shall not prove barren or unfruitful.”

That the reaction was imminent at the time the foregoing was penned cannot be doubted, but the hoped-for movement was checked by the declaration of war by the United States in 1899. The consequences of that terrible and futile struggle fell with paralysing severity upon the whole country, but the story of the war cannot be regarded as a fair test of the military prestige of her people. Nothing was wanting in the warlike impact to throw into relief the condition of the country as contrasted with the temper of her sons. All the chivalry of ancient Spain was fully displayed. Individual courage and bravery were splendidly in evidence. But they availed nothing against the nation that had made haste to take the fullest advantage of modern methods and appliances. The weakness of her fleet, the mismanagement of her military system, and the inefficiency of officialdom in every branch of the Government were laid bare, and it was from this combination of causes, and not from any degeneracy in her soldiers or lack of valour, that Spain owed her defeat.

But by this revelation the Spanish people were awakened to the fact that they were behind the times; that their forms of government were antiquated and inefficient; that all their national institutions cried aloud for re-organisation and reform. Slowly at first, but increasing in momentum as the blessings of peace made themselves felt, the forward movement has proceeded along the entire line of politics, commerce, and public affairs. But if the great work is to progress, as lovers of Spain would desire to see it, the difference that at present exists between the Spaniard, in his individual, his collective, and his official capacity must disappear. This distinction has been emphasised before, but it is so remarkable as to require a note in passing. Self-interest, which is an integral part of human nature, is, or rather was, the most highly-developed, in fact, the abnormal trait of the Spanish official. He was irregular in his methods, and grasping—irregular, because irregularity was connived at; greedy, because he was forced by the paucity of his pay to live by the perquisites of his office. In his collective capacity the Spaniard is mistrustful, strong-headed, and apt to prove unreliable. Yet, individually, the Spaniard is remarkable for the excellence of his personal and moral qualities. Truth and valour are his by heredity, his personal honour is unassailable, his graceful courtesy and air of high breeding make him a delightful companion and a valued friend. He is quick to take offence, but he never, through ignorance or tactlessness, proffers one; he is slow to bestow his confidence, but he never, without cause, withdraws it. You may trust him with your purse, your life, and your reputation. And this wonderful combination of qualities is common alike to the nobles, the townsmen, and the country people. All appear to have inherited the same dignity and grace of manner, and the same sterling moral qualities.

Borrow, who had an intimate knowledge of and admiration for the Spanish people, has declared that, in their social intercourse, no people in the world exhibit a juster feeling of what is due to the dignity of human nature than the Spaniards. Spain still retains all those old world, social, and personal graces with which poetry, painting, and romance have made the untravelled familiar. Grace is not necessarily a virtue, but it is a flower often found on the path that leads to it. And these flowers spring as naturally from racial instincts as do the more prominent traits exhibited in etiquette and statecraft. Spanish character is touched; nay, it is entirely imbued with the “grace of a day that is dead.” The very beggars, whom you encounter in every bye-way, do not lack this native grace which no mere acquirement could exhibit. The receiver of a dole regards it as a tacit acknowledgment that he is worthy of it on principle. But there is a certain charm in Spanish indolence, even in its indigence, which is as much a production of the country as are the soft skies and natural beauties that form its fitting background. The politeness of the peasantry is proverbial, but they are keenly alive to the point of an equal return of civility. Even the brigand was wont to regard himself as a great caballero: and he was often disarmed by a frank and confident air which tacitly acknowledged him on that footing. The idler pursues his vocation as if imbued with a full sense of its sufficiency, and supplements it with a grace beyond the reach of art. Truly this is a nation of nobles, and here is a foundation of national character which has in the past, and will again make the Spanish race one of the greatest powers of the world.

Will Spain revive? The problem is exercising the thoughts of all Europe—by those who do not know better the question is assumed to be also exercising the thoughts of all good Spaniards. As a matter of fact, the Spaniard is above such speculation. He knows his high destiny, and he will fulfil himself. His confidence is supreme, and it is justified. He has driven back every invader, and remains in full possession of one of the noblest countries in the world, nearly the size of France, with a climate which, if he were permitted to re-forest his plateaux, would be as good, though warmer, with the same power, if industry were set free, of producing wine, and oil, and wheat: and with deposits below the soil incomparably greater than those of his successful neighbour; and, perhaps, as rich as any country in the world. Spain, as we were recently reminded by a well-informed writer in the Spectator, is a “treasure house of minerals never yet rifled, though from the days of the Phoenicians to those of the Rio Tinto, countless speculators have been breaking into little corners and going away enriched.”

And what is her position to-day? She has 18,000,000 of people, who, if they are not as industrious as either Germans or Englishmen, will, when properly rewarded, work as energetically as any Southern race, and will save their wages. Her children are as brave as any in the world: able, if fairly led, to face any other troops, and with a special faculty at once of endurance and abstinence which scarcely any other troops possess. Seated on the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, with a nearly impenetrable frontier to the North, and only Africa to the South, she occupies, perhaps, the best position both for war and trade possessed by any European State: and will, with a decent administration and a new revenue, become once more as great a maritime Power as she was till Admiral Jervis defeated her fleet off Cape Vincent. She could not, perhaps, rule the Mediterranean; but she could, by alliances, render it impossible for any other Power to rule. Above all, she could suddenly add to her strength, not by conquest, but by wisely-applied pressure and support, the whole force of Portugal—Prim nearly achieved this. Spain might thus assume, with an increasing population, fairly rich and entirely contented, that position of a great Power, which she has never entirely lost. The potentialities of Spain justify Spanish pride.