This little ballad has its origin in the following pathetic story, which I heard from the only surviving relative of the unfortunate muleteer—his mother. It was in the town, or rather village of Ernani, on the high road from Tolosa to France, that the old widow beguiled a winter's night with the recital of it, at her poor but hospitable hearth, when I was on the march to Fontarabia, in the last of our peninsular campaigns. The poor woman supported herself by selling cider, butter, cheese, &c. to the passing armies of both French and English, and her house, as well as others, served as a quarter for the soldiers. She was one of the few who remained in the village; or rather who returned to it, after it was first sacked by the French; for she had lost all, and had nothing more to fear. About four years had elapsed since her son's death; and her grief had changed to a settled melancholy. Still the recital of her calamities drew tears from her.

Her son was a muleteer, who traded between Pampalona and Passages—a young man of about twenty-three years of age: he was employed by others, as well as on his mother's account, who was a widow left in a considerable business, to manage for herself and infant son, whom she bred up to industrious habits; and she had succeeded in laying by a small provision for the future, when Napoleon's ambition, which, in 1808, sent a French army into Spain, extended its baneful effects even to her humble dwelling.

The house in which this widow dwelt, was situated at the extremity of the village. It must have once been a most enchanting little home to an unambitious mind; for even at the time I saw it, ruin as it was, its garden trodden down, its trees broken and torn up, its fences destroyed, and its walks disfigured—a charm lingered over it that caught every passenger's attention. The scenery around gave it a peculiar beauty: the blue mountains, the dark valleys, the luxuriance of foliage, the deep green dell, the falling water, and the clear sky still remained;—these the soldiers of France could not destroy, and from such scenery did the wreck of the widow's cottage derive its rural halo. It reminded me of the fair Ophelia in her ruin,—so beautiful, so scathed and sorrowful! If a picture of the spot were painted by a Salvator Rosa, it would afford a melancholy pleasure to every beholder; but the reality—the poor widow and her breaking heart, gave too much pain to render a visit to her cheerless home at all enviable.

To have seen her sitting in the only tenantable apartment of her once comfortable cottage, thinly but cleanly clad—a white apron and kerchief covering the half worn out black stuff gown; two broken chairs, a crazy table, a straw pallet, and a few earthen panella's,9 forming all her furniture; to have contemplated the fixed melancholy of her thin, worn, but once handsome countenance, her gentle manners, and her patient submission to the will of Heaven, under the deepest affliction—and yet to have been unable to alleviate her distress, could give no pleasure to the heart, unless to those who love to sympathise with grief and drop a tear with the unfortunate. Yet even such would have involuntarily said, on quitting the melancholy scene, “I wish I had not heard the poor old widow's story.”

Her son Diego the muleteer, when the French first entered Spain, under the orders of Buonaparte, was about twenty-two years of age, and had the reputation of being an exemplary young man, obedient, and affectionate to his mother—his only relation, except an uncle, who also resided in Ernani, and whose farm the young muleteer no doubt would have inherited, after his death, had he survived him.

Under the uncle's auspices, Diego had courted a young girl, nearly related to a respectable family, at the head of which was a clergyman residing in the convent of St. Ignatio de Loyola, but a few leagues from Ernani. The girl's father lived within a hundred yards of Diego and his mother, and from infancy the young couple became attached to each other.

Although the employment of a muleteer is, in general, considered beneath the class to which Diego's sweetheart belonged, yet there was no objection to her marriage, on account of the excellent character the young man bore, and the expectations which he had of future success in life. The marriage would have taken place as soon as a house, which the muleteer's uncle was building, might be completed. In this house the young couple were to have resided, and to it was attached an excellent farm, to be managed by him for the uncle. These happy arrangements, alas! were broken by the columns of the French army. Like mountain torrents they poured over the Pyrenees, sweeping the rustic comforts of the peaceful Spaniards before them. Requisitions for cattle and carriages were enforced, and Diego, amongst many, was obliged to march with his mules along with the invading army, wherever his directors thought fit.

Short was the time allowed for the sad yet endearing farewell of the lovers, and the interchange of blessings between the mother and the son. The uncle and the widow accompanied him a league beyond the village; but the poor girl, who now for the first time felt the bitterness of life, remained weeping at home, almost dead with grief; which was not alleviated by the return of Diego's mother and uncle, whose first care, after parting with the youth, was to go to her he loved so well. The house—the whole village was a place of mourning; for every family, in some way or other, had but too much cause for sorrow.

Poor old woman! when she told me of the last moment she passed with her lost son, she sobbed as if her heart would have burst. “Oh!” said she, “I was giving my dear child a prayer-book and a silk handkerchief, for the sake of remembrance, when one of the dragoons struck him with the flat of his sword, and ordered him to go on; he could only say, ‘God bless you, mother!’... I never saw him again.”

For six months after this separation, the family of Diego heard no tidings of him; for, no doubt, his letters, as well as theirs, were opened and destroyed by the invaders; however, at the end of that time, a muleteer, who had been pressed along with Diego, returned, by permission, to die from ill health, and he brought letters from him to the almost despairing friends. It appeared by these, that he was along with the army in the south of Spain, and had but little hopes of being able to return to his beloved Joanna, his relatives, and his projected farm-house, for at least another half-year; but he did not even at that period return—nor for upwards of a year after.

During this absence Mina and his intrepid Guerillas were incessant in their annoyance of the French, throughout the province in which the widow lived; frequently surprising strong parties of the enemy, even in the town of Ernani. So desperate were these warriors, that they would often appear on the high and broken hill, close under which the city of Tolase stands; and when the French regiments were on parade beneath them in the square, would open an unexpected volley of musketry on them, which never failed in taking good effect; and before they could be subject to retaliation they were generally off. It was an attack of this description, headed by Mina, which afforded a pretence for the destruction of Ernani.

The Guerillas had halted there for half a day, and furnished themselves with provisions. A French regiment, hot from Bayonne, and eager for plunder, marched in, as Mina's men marched out; and at an ambuscade upon the road, received a most annoying fire from the Guerillas, without being able to pursue them. The regiment immediately commenced the work of destruction in the village:—the houses were sacked and set on fire; the inhabitants murdered; and, amongst the general ruin, was the widow's cottage. Diego's uncle was sabred in his own house, and the innocent girl, who was all to the absent muleteer, still more cruelly treated. Her poor father, in protecting her from the brutal violence of the soldiers, was shot through the head, and the unhappy girl herself died in three weeks after at Escotia, a village in the Basque mountains, whither she and the mother of Diego fled. Her eyes were closed by the widow's hand, and her last words were her “dear, dear Diego!”

Shortly after the sacking of the village the Muleteer returned. He had deserted with great difficulty from the southern army, taking with him his favourite mule; and was pacing in the highest possible spirits, singing along the road from Tolosa, when the tops of the houses, amongst which his early and happy days were passed, met his eye. It was in the evening. The sight of his own Joanna's home, and of his beloved mother's cottage, made him urge on his mule. Light was his heart and light his song; he was then about to enjoy, as he thought, the happiest hours of his existence. It was quite dark when he arrived;—he rode up to the house of his Joanna; there was no light—no sound: he entered trembling, for there was no door, and his brain reeled as he beheld in the twilight the ruins of the house. He ran to his mother's cottage, this was no better; distracted then he entered the village;—all was desolate,—no living creature but a wild dog crossed his way. He entered his uncle's house, and there upon the floor lay the murdered body, naked and bruised; he lifted it up, and by the grey light from a sashless window recognized the features of his uncle. The truth now flashed on him: this scene of horror was only one of those which he was forced to witness while with the army from which he had deserted. For a few moments he was senseless, but this only preceded the tempest of his mind;—he ran back to his mule, mounted, and galloped to Rinteria, about a league distant. Here the first persons he met outside the town were two French soldiers; in a moment he was off his mule, and before time for a thought had passed, they both lay bleeding at his feet: he killed them with his cochilio; there was but little noise, for they never spoke. Breathless and raging, he remounted, and rode on to the house of one he had known—a former companion; there he learned the fate of his Joanna,—that both she and his mother were dead. Diego's hands were covered with blood; and as he cursed the authors of Ernani's destruction, he exultingly showed to his friend the red drops of retribution, and told him that he had already struck down two of the invaders to the earth. The young man, to whom he confessed this circumstance, was the person who afterwards informed his mother of it. He declared that such was the state of Diego's mind, when he came to him at Renteria, that he would have destroyed himself, but for the satisfaction he felt in having killed the Frenchmen. I conversed with this young man at Renteria afterwards, for he returned to his home when the British arrived at Passages.

The alarm was now beginning to spread. Diego's friend was not less the enemy of the French than himself. Mina was in the mountains. Two excellent horses were in the stable of Diego's friend, belonging to a French colonel: these, with a brace of pistols and two swords, they seized during the absence of the servants; and, together with Diego's mule, forded the river, and took a by-way across the hill, towards the Tolosa road; the favourite mule was turned loose in a fertile valley, and the next day both the travellers came up with Mina's party, which they joined with a shout of “Viva Espagna!”

Many a Frenchman fell by the hand of Diego—he had lost all; he only lived to avenge the destruction of his home and his happiness. No Guerilla was before him in the attack,—he was the first in, and the last out of the battle: and if gratified revenge could compensate for the ruin of tender affections, Diego was amply satisfied. But no, nothing could appease him,—the thought of his misery burned like Ætna's fires within his breast,—no blood could extinguish it. With only seven or eight others, he has been known to have surprised a party of French soldiers three times that number. Often has he watched their movements dressed as a simple muleteer, and when any favourable opportunity has occurred, he would hasten back to his companions, buckle on his sword, and return, thus reinforced, to attack any straggling band of the enemy drinking in a wine house, perhaps, or otherwise off their guard. To set fire to the house, and then dash in upon their victims and slaughter them, before they were aware of their danger, was a very usual mode of proceeding with Diego and his associates; after which exploits the Guerillas would disappear as rapidly as they had come.

At one of these attacks the Muleteer met his death. His friend was beside him when he fell, and from him I heard the fight described. The Guerillas consisted of between fifty and sixty prisoners, and had received information that some mules loaded with valuables, and escorted by a company of French infantry, were on their way from Bilboa to Bayonne, and had not yet passed a defile in the mountains about two leagues and a half from the former city. Through this defile runs a narrow river close to the high road. On one side of this road and river rises a rugged mountain, whose steep sides are abruptly broken in several parts, and at others hang out over the depth below. In various shelves of the height are to be seen full-grown trees, the roots of which stretch out from the broken earth, and serve for the support of creeping and climbing underwood. This bold mountain continues unintersected for at least half a mile; and as the opposite side of the road beneath is equally flanked by rocks, the invaders, in forcing this passage, were wholly at the mercy of the enemy above: and before they took the precaution of securing the heights, whole divisions were often cut off by a handful of men, who would deliberately march on with the French column, firing upon it as often as they could load, doing the greatest execution.

To this pass, then, hastened the Guerilla party, and arrived about an hour before the mules and escort appeared in sight. As soon as the French had advanced well into the defile, the Guerillas appeared above on the heights, dismounted, and opened fifteen muskets upon them. The fire was returned, but with no effect; for one step backwards brought the Guerillas under cover of the craggy verge of the height. The French increased their speed to double quick time, but the Guerillas kept up such a fire upon them, that twenty men out of about seventy, were strewed along the road, dead or wounded. The Guerillas now laid down their muskets, mounted, and fell in with the remainder of their own men, in order to get before the French, and thus finish the business by a charge. They trotted on, and headed the escort very soon. They now descended to the road, and lay in ambush about a quarter of a mile from the enemy. A projecting arm of a rock, covered with trees, concealed them from the French, whose column was now passing, and in a moment, a most desperate charge from the Guerillas broke them up. The mules took fright and increased the confusion, while the sabres of the Spaniards finished in a very short time the bloody affair. Diego's horse was in the midst of the French, and there fell with him, wounded. He fought on foot with both dagger and sabre, and had just brought to his feet a French sergeant, when one of the men who lay near him, wounded from his sabre, levelled his piece at Diego, and shot him through the breast. He was the only one his brave party lost, while every single Frenchman was either killed by them or the peasants, who gladly finished what the Guerillas began.

This was the fate of the unhappy Diego. He did not die for an hour after he fell. His comrades carried him into the mountains, and there he breathed his last. But before he died, he took from his pocket the prayer-book and the silk handkerchief which his mother gave him the day he parted from her, and consigned them, as his last gift of friendship, to his companion, with a request that he would offer a mass for his poor mother's soul, and never cease to pursue the French with vengeance while they had a foot in Spain. Then kissing the lock of hair, which he held, he said “Do not take this out of my hand when I am dead, but bury it with me: it is the hair of my own dear Joanna.”

His wish was obeyed, and he was buried just as he lay, under a wild chestnut-tree, where a Frenchman had never trod. Peaceful be the bed of the Guerilla for ever! May the invader never disturb the grass that waves over his dust!

When the poor widow had told me the short history of her hapless son, she went to a little box, and with the tears streaming down her pale cheeks, brought me the handkerchief and the prayer-book;—“There,” says she, “is all I have left of my poor son!” She staggered with grief and debility as she walked across the room with the treasure of her heart. I took them with reverence, and concealed my tears by examining them; for I will not deny it, I could not help weeping. The poor woman sat down, and rocked herself to and fro in silent grief, while I turned over the leaves of the prayer-book without knowing why I did so. At this moment my servant entered the room to prepare supper, and I left the house to indulge in my thoughts for half an hour alone amongst the ruins of Ernani.