SPAIN! region of romance! of snow-capped mountains, dark forests, and crystal streams!—Land of the olive and the vine—the perfumed orange and bright pomegranate!—Country of portly priests, fierce bandits, and dark-eyed donzellas—the lively castaÑet and gay Fandango! And thou, fair Boetica! favoured province of a favoured clime, whose purple grape tempted Hercules to arrest his course—whose waving corn-fields and embowelled treasures have ever since excited the cupidity of the various ambitious nations that have in turn disputed the empire of the world! Is it indeed true that ye are “now chiefly interesting to the traveller for the monuments which a foreign and odious race of conquerors have left behind them?”[1] Yes, you might proudly answer, we admit such is the case. Spain is chiefly interesting to the stranger on account of the monuments left by her turbaned conquerors; but she is so simply, because, in no other country, are they to be seen in so perfect a state; because, in no other part of the world subjected to Moslem sway, did the arts ever reach to such perfection.

But, whilst Spain lays especial claim to the attention of the stranger on account of the relics of the Moors that are strewed over her surface, she possesses, in common with other countries of Southern Europe, the usual attractions that excite the interest of travellers. Can she not boast of owning monuments of the demi-god Hercules,[2] and other conquerors of the most remote antiquity? Are not her shores studded with ruins of the Phoenicians, Carthagenians, and Romans? Has she not noble works of art of yet more recent times than her Moorish palaces to boast of? May she not proudly point to the splendid gothic edifices raised since her release from the Mussulman yoke? to the incomparable paintings of the divine Murillo? to the statuary of a Cano? Is not the Spanish peninsula one of the most beautiful as well as richest countries in the world?

Such is the answer that Spain and her beauteous daughter, Boetica, might make to the accusation which the words of the accomplished Author I have quoted may be construed to bear. I will venture to add further, that Spain, in her present fallen state, excites, perhaps, yet more intensely, the curiosity and interest of the Traveller, than she could have done even in the days of her greatest glory: for, the contemplation of the wreck of such an Empire—an Empire “on whose wide dominions the sun never set;” whose resources were deemed inexhaustible—cannot but be highly interesting and instructive.

At every step the stranger takes whilst wandering over Spain’s neglected though still fertile plains, some trace is observable of her former wealth and power, some proof is manifest of her present poverty and impotence. Let him cast a glance at the ruins of the magnificent arsenals of Cadiz, Vigo, and Barcelona[3]—let him mark the closed door of the Tower of Gold,[4] at Seville—let him observe the use to which the sumptuous Lonja[5] has been converted—the dilapidated condition of the gorgeous palace of Charles the Fifth. Let him notice the crumbling state of all the public buildings throughout the kingdom, even to the actual residences of its monarch—track the remains of once magnificent roads—explore the deep recesses of abandoned mines. Let him, in fine, observe the commerce of the country destroyed, its manufactures ruined, its Army disorganized, and its Treasury penniless; and, whilst he learns what Spain has been, he will see to what a lamentable state she is reduced.

Nor to the Traveller alone is the contemplation of Spain, in her fallen greatness, a source of interest and instruction. The Philosopher, the Statesman, the Philanthropist, and the Patriot, may all draw from it serious matter for reflection. Who amongst them could have foreseen, but half a century back, that Spain would, in the course of a few years, be reduced to her present abject condition? Who can now foresee the day that, phoenix-like, she may arise from her ashes? Who can fully answer the yet more simple questions—What led to the downfall of Spain? What keeps her—gifted as she is by nature with all the germs of prosperity—in her present state of degradation? Did the extraordinary influx of the precious ores, consequent on the discovery of America, occasion her gradual downfall? Did the impolitic expulsion of the Jews and Moors from her territory lead to it? Does the blighting influence of Popery reply to the two-fold query? Does the vacillating rule of Despotism solve the problem?

All, probably, have had a share in effecting this lamentable change. The great influx of money led to the neglect of the resources of Spain herself, and induced habits of indolence in all classes of society. The expulsion of the Jews deprived the country of its principal capitalists—that of the Moors, of its most industrious inhabitants. The bigotry and intolerance of its Church have kept its population in ignorance, whilst most other nations of Europe have become enlightened. The numerous religious houses, endowed with the richest lands in the country, and swarming with unprofitable inmates, have preyed upon its resources. The rule of a weak and bigoted race of sovereigns—themselves governed in turn by profligate favourites and ambitious priests—has sapped the monarchy to its foundation; finally, the crude and hasty innovations of wild theorists are undermining its remaining strength, and preparing to effect its utter downfall.

But, whilst many of these causes still operate most fatally in keeping the country in its present state of degradation, the last named is that which is likely to inflict upon it the greatest amount of misery. Catholicism—such as it is in Spain at least—is incompatible with free institutions; and Catholicism has too firm a hold of the mass of the Spanish people to be easily eradicated.

Atheism, it is true, has made great progress in some quarters; and between it and Popery lies the contest now carrying on.

Many persons are apt to think that the struggle is between Superstition and “liberal Catholicism”—between a Despotism and a limited Monarchy. But those who know Spain intimately, are aware that such is far from being the case; they know, on the contrary, that the contest must end (when it would be difficult to say) either in the restoration of an absolute throne, or the establishment of a Democratic Republic.

The limited Monarchy Party—or Moderados—though the most respectable in talents, consists but of a few educated Nobles, and a small portion of the Mercantile and learned Professions—some few even of the clergy; but amongst the mass of the people it has no supporters whatever; for amongst the lower orders the term is not understood.

The leaders of this party—like the Gironde in France—were carried away by the breakers of reform, as they swept onwards with increasing volume; and the unprincipled men who have since usurped the direction of affairs,—with all the vanity of a Mirabeau, but without one spark of his talents,—imagine they shall be listened to, when they bid the flowing tide to advance no further:—but, though they would not object to, nay, though they desire, the establishment of a Republic, yet they too will find Spanish Robespierres and Talliens to dispute their power.

To others, however, I abandon the wide field of inquiry these questions open; the following pages, whatever glimmerings of light they may throw upon the subject, being devoted to the description of but a small portion of this ill used, ill governed, but most interesting country.

The part I have selected—namely, Andalusia—whilst it differs very materially from the rest of the Spanish peninsula, claims in many respects the first place in the estimation of the traveller, whatever may be his taste or the direction of his inquiries.

If the Moorish monuments be the object of his research, he will find they have been scattered with a more profuse hand throughout Andalusia than in any other part of the peninsula; the lofty mountain chain which forms the northern boundary of the province[6] having for some considerable time arrested the Christian arms, after the rest of Spain had been recovered from the Mohammedans; whilst the yet more rugged belt that encircles Granada presented an obstacle which retarded the entire reconquest of the kingdom, for upwards of two centuries and a half. During that long period, therefore, the Moslems, driven within the limits of so diminished a circle, were necessarily obliged to enlarge and multiply their towns, to cultivate with greater care their fields and orchards, and to strengthen, in every possible way, the natural defences of their territory; and thus, their remains, besides being more numerous there than in other parts of Spain, furnish specimens, of the latest as well as of the earliest date, of their peculiar style of architecture.

Should matters of more general interest have drawn the Traveller to Spain, he will still find Andalusia laying especial claim to his attention; History ascribing to each mountain pass and every crumbling ruin the fame of having been the scene of some desperate conflict between the various ambitious nations that, before the Saracenic invasion, successively sought the possession of this fertile region.

The peculiar manners and character of its dark inhabitants afford yet another source of interest to the Stranger; although the swarthy race may almost claim to be classed amongst its Arabic remains; for so deep-rooted was the attachment of the Moors of Granada to the country of their adoption, that neither the oppressive tyranny of their masters, nor the sacrifice of their religion, nay, not even the establishment of the “holy” inquisition, (which extirpated them by thousands) could induce them to abandon it. Broken in spirit, replunged in ignorance, their industry unavailing, their language corrupted, they bent the knee to the blood-stained cross presented to them, and assumed the name of Spaniards: but as a Spanish nobleman once observed to me in speaking of these wild mountaineers, his dependants, “They are to this day but Moors who go to Mass.”

Again, should the beauties of nature have attracted the Traveller’s footsteps to Spain, he will find the scenery of Andalusia of the most magnificent and varied kind; presenting alternately ranges of lofty mountains and broad fertile plains—boundless tracts of forest and richly cultivated valleys—picturesque towns and mountain fortresses—winding rivers and impetuous torrents. It may indeed be said to combine the wild beauties of the Tyrol with the luxuriant vegetation and delightful climate of Southern Italy.

Well might the last of the Alhamares[7] weep, on taking his final leave of the lovely Vega,[8] over which it had been his fortune to be born the ruler, whence it was his “luckless” fate to be driven forth, a wanderer! Even to this day, the Moors of Barbary preserve the title-deeds and charters by which their ancestors held their estates in Spain, and offer up daily prayers to Allah, to restore to them their lost Granada; and one might almost suppose, from the nomadic life still led by many of their tribes, and the unsettled habits which distinguish them all, that they consider their actual country as but a temporary abode, and live in the hope and expectation that their oft-repeated prayer will eventually be heard.

Nor is the present inhabitant of this fair region less sensible than his Moorish ancestor of the value of his inheritance. It is not in his nature to express himself in the passionate language of the Neapolitan,—whose well known exclamation, Vedi Napoli e poi mori! might be applied with better reason to a hundred other places;—but, with an equal degree of hyperbole though a somewhat less suicidical feeling, the Granadino declares with calm dignity, that

But, apart from all other considerations, there is a charm in travelling in Spain, which renders it peculiarly attractive to most persons possessing the locomotive mania, namely, the charm of novelty. Every thing in that country is different from what is met with in any other; every thing is proverbially uncertain;[10] and the traveller is thus kept in a constant state of excitement, from his fancy being ever busy guessing what is to come next.

There can be little doubt but that the uncertainty attendant on all mundane affairs greatly enhances our enjoyment of life. Take the duration of our existence itself as an instance: did we know the precise moment at which it was to terminate, we should be miserable during the whole period of its continuance. So, in like manner, does the uncertainty attendant on such trifling matters as getting a bed or a supper give a peculiar zest to touring in Spain. You have there no “Itineraire des Voyageurs,” to mark the spot to a millimetre, where a relay of post-horses is to be found; no “Hand-book for Travellers,” with a list of the best inns on the road, to spoil your appetite by anticipation; no dear pains-taking Mrs. Starke,[11] to beat up quarters and sights for you, and determine beforehand the sum you have (or rather ought) to pay for bed and “pasto.” No—you travel with a bad map of the country in your pocket over a stony track that is not marked upon it—and which you are at times disposed to believe is rather the bed of a torrent than a road. Before you is the prospect of passing the night on this villanous king’s highway; or, should you be fortunate enough to reach the shelter of a roof, the doubt, whether a comfortable bed, a truss of straw, or a hard floor, will receive your wearied limbs; and whether you will have to go supperless to bed, or find a savoury olla, perfuming the whole establishment.

It must, I think, be admitted, that there is a certain charm in this independent mode of travelling—this precarious manner of existence. It carries the wanderer back to the days of chivalry and romance—of the Cid Campeador and Bernardo del Carpio; dropping him at least half a dozen centuries behind the Liverpool and Manchester Railroad.

Nevertheless,—as the Spaniards say—Hay gustos que merecen palos;[12] and many will perchance think that mine is in that predicament, a settled order of things being more to their fancy:—par exemple, the five mile an hour clattering en poste over a French pavÉ—all conversation drowned in the horrible noise made by the heavy horses’ heavy tramp, or the yet more abominable clacking of their monkey jacketed driver’s whips.—Then the certain comforts of a grand Hotel meublÉ!—the spacious whitewashed room, adorned with prints of Arcola, Jena, and Friedland! (which I have always thought would look much better if worked in the pattern of a carpet): the classically canopied bed!—that certainly would not be less comfortable, if a foot or two longer.—Others again may be found who would give up the charm of uncertainty, for the fixed pleasure of sitting behind the pipes and “sacraments” of German postboys, listening to the discordant notes of their bugles, and looking forward to the sudorific enjoyments (stoves and duvets) of the Gasthof, and the dyspeptic delights (grease and sauerkraut) of its Speisesaal!—Some even—but these I trust are few—may like to listen to the melodiously rounded oaths of an Italian vetturino, addressed to his attenuated horses in all the purity of the Lingua Toscana; by dint of which, and an unceasing accompaniment of merciless sferzatone, he provokes the wretched animals into a jog-trot, that, with rinfresco and rinforzo, kills the whole day and them by inches, to get over a distance of forty or fifty miles.

For my own part, I freely confess, that not even our English modes of “getting over the ground” have such charms for me, as the tripping and stumbling of one’s horse over a Spanish trocha[13]—I take no delight in being dragged through the country at the rate of a mile a minute, powdered with soot, (pardon the bull) suffocated with steam, and sickened with grease. Neither does our steady ten mile an hour stage-coach travelling find much favour in mine eyes; though I grant it is now most admirably conducted, the comforts of the old “slow coaches” being so happily blended with the accelerated speed called for in this progressive age, that a change of horses is effected in less than one minute, and a feed of passengers in something under ten!—But I always pity the victims of this unwholesome alliance of comfort and celerity.—Observe that fidgety old gentleman, muzzled in a red worsted comforter, and crowned with a Welsh wig. Having started without breakfast, or at most with but half of one, he counts impatiently the minutes and milestones that intervene between him and the dining-place; arrived there, if five minutes before the appointed time, every thing is underdone; if five minutes after, a deduction of equal amount is made in the time allowed for despatching the viands. Swallowing, therefore, in all haste the indigestible roast pork and parboiled potatoes that are placed before him, he resumes his seat in or upon the vehicle, declaring—whilst the unwholesome food sticking in his throat nearly chokes him—that he “feels all the better” for his dinner! soon after which, with a flushed face and quickened pulse, he drops into a feverish slumber, dreaming of mad bulls and carniverous swine, sloe juice and patent brandy.

Towards midnight, the announcement of “a quarter of an hour, gentlemen” (meaning something less than half that time), relieves him from these painful reminiscences, affording an opportunity of washing them down with some scalding liquid, which, though bearing the name of tea or coffee, is a decoction of some deleterious plant or berry, that certainly never basked under the sun of China or Arabia Felix.

At last, however, he arrives at the end of his long journey—he has got over a distance of a hundred and ninety-five miles in nineteen hours and thirty-five minutes! The hour of arrival is inconveniently early it is true, but, even at 3 o’clock A.M., he finds a comfortable hotel open to receive him; an officious “boots” sufficiently master of his drowsy senses to present the well or rather the ill-used slippers—a smirking chambermaid sufficiently awake to make him believe that the warming-pan, with which she precedes him up three pair of stairs, contains hot coals; and impudent enough, whilst presenting him with a damp, once white, cotton nightcap, to ask at what o’clock he would like to be awakened—she well knowing, all the time, that the stir of passengers about to depart by an early coach will to a certainty effect that object for him in the course of an hour, whether he likes it or not.

These rapid proceedings have, as I before confessed, no charms for me, and such as cannot dispense with the comforts I have slightly sketched, must abstain from travelling in Spain, for very different is the entertainment they are likely to meet with at an Andalusian posada.[14] There, in the matters of “Boots,” Hostler, and Chambermaid, no uncertainty whatever exists, and the traveller must therefore be prepared to divide with his attendant the several duties of those useful personages. Nor should he, amidst his multifarious occupations, neglect the cooking department; for, if he have not an arriero[15] power of consuming oil and garlic, he must watch with vigilant eye, and restrain with persuasive words, the too bountiful hand of Our Lady of the Olla.[16]

It is to be understood that I speak here of the South of Spain only, and more especially of the mountainous country encircling the fortress of Gibraltar,—from whence, in due time, I purpose taking my departure.

I ought here perhaps to give notice, that it is not my intention, in the following pages, to conduct my reader, town by town, kingdom by kingdom, through every part of Andalusia; giving him a detailed account of its statistics, productions, resources, &c.; in fact, spreading before him a regular three course banquet of travels; but rather to present him with a light and simple dish of the country, seasoning it with such tales and anecdotes as were picked up in the course of many excursions, made during a period of many years; a Gazpacho, as it may be called, whereof the country furnishes the principal part, or bread and water; and to which the tales—so at least I hope it may be found—give the gusto, imparted to this favourite Andalusian dish, by the addition of oil, vinegar, and pepper.

I may as well premise, also, that I do not intend to mark with precise date the time at which any of the incidents about to be narrated occurred, excepting when the correctness due to matters of history renders such specification necessary, but to transcribe the notes of my various rambles as they come most conveniently to hand; stating generally, however, that they were written during the period comprised between the years 1822 and 1830, (the greater portion of which I belonged to the Garrison of Gibraltar) and have been “revised and corrected, with additions and improvements” from the journal of an extended tour made several years subsequently.

Considering the small number of my countrymen to whom the Spanish language is familiar, I may possibly be accused of having unnecessarily retained many of the proverbs and idioms of the country in their original garb, referring my readers to an English version of them at the foot of each page. But as the caustic, and, in general, quaintly rhymed sayings for which the Andaluz is celebrated cannot but lose much of their BÆtic salt on being translated, I am led to hope that such of my readers as do not understand Spanish will pardon the trouble I have thus imposed on them, for the sake of those who do.

In conclusion, I have but to express a hope that the Spanish dish I now offer to the public may not be displeasing to the English taste, though I can hardly expect it should be devoured with the relish of the unsophisticated Sancho; who assigned as one of his principal reasons for resigning his government of Barateria, that he preferred to “hartarse de Gazpachos”[17] than be subjected to a regimen more befitting his exalted situation.