THE BASQUES.
We are all Basques. Nay, reader, be not startled at having your supposed nationality thus suddenly set aside. An author of far more learning than we can lay claim to—Señor Erro, a Spanish Basque—gravely asserts that all the inhabitants of Europe and Asia, if not of America also, sprang from the Basques. In short, they—that is, we—are the primitive race. And this fearless writer, with a due sense of national superiority, goes boldly on to prove that Adam and Eve spoke the Basque language in the terrestrial Paradise, of which he gives a detailed description according to the Biscayan interpretation of the Biblical account.
We remember how, in search of Adam—great progenitor!—whose said-to-be-fine statue is among the army of saints on the glorious roof of Milan cathedral, we got bewildered on that celestial height, so that we do not to this day feel sure of having discovered the true Adam, and might never have found our way down to earth again had it not been for the kind offices of one of Victor Emanuel’s soldiers. So it is with many a savant in tracing the origin of the human species. Lost in threading the way back to our first parents, they need some rough, uncultured soul to lead them out of the bewildering maze—back to the point whence they started.
But let us hope in this instance filial instinct has not mistaken the genuine Adam—the first speaker, it is possible, of Basque. Señor Erro finds in this language the origin of all civilization and science. It must be confessed we have wofully forgotten our mother-tongue; for it is said to be impossible to learn to speak it unless one goes very young among the Basques. It is a common saying of theirs that the devil once came into their country to learn the language, but gave it up in despair after three hundred years’ application! It may be inferred he had lost the knowledge he had made such successful use of a few thousand years before in the Garden of Eden.
M. Astarloa, likewise a Biscayan, maintains that the extraordinary perfection of this language is a proof it is the only one that could have been conferred on the first man by his Creator, but in another place says it was formed by God himself at the confusion of tongues in the tower of Babel—which assertions rather lack harmony.
Max Müller, the eminent philologist, pretends a serious discussion took place about two hundred years ago in the metropolitan chapter of Pampeluna as to the following knotty points:
First. Was Basque the primitive language of mankind? The learned members confessed that, however strong might be their private convictions, they did not dare give an affirmative reply.
Secondly. Was Basque the only language spoken by Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden?
As to this, the whole chapter declared there could be no doubt whatever that it was “impossible to bring a reasonable objection against such an opinion.”
This is extremely amusing; but, of course, too absurd to be true. Besides, the archives of Pampeluna do not afford the slightest hint of so singular a record.
Southwestern France, however, has many traditions of the Oriental origin of its inhabitants. Tarbes and Lourdes are said to have been founded by Abyssinian princesses. Belleforest, in his Cosmography, says Japhet himself came into Gaul and built the city of Périgueux, which for several ages bore his name. Père Bajole, of Condom, a Jesuit of the XVIIth century, is less precise in his suppositions, but thinks the country was peopled soon after the Deluge, and therefore by those who had correct notions of the true God. Moreover as Noah, of course, would not have allowed his descendants to depart without suitable advice as to the way of salvation, especially to the head of the colony, he concludes that many of the ancient Aquitanians were saved. The Sire Dupleix cites the epistle of S. Martial to show they had retained some proper notions of theology, which accounts for the rapid success of the first Christian apostles of the country.
But to return to the Basques in particular: In the Leyenda Pendadola—an old book of the XIth century—we read that “the first settlement in Spain was made by the patriarch Tubal, whose people spoke the language still used in the provinces of Biscay”—that is, the Basque. William von Humboldt likewise attributed to the Basques an Asiatic origin, and was decidedly of the school of MM. Erro and Astarloa, though he rejected their exaggerations. The Basque language, so rich, harmonious, and expressive, is now generally believed to be one of the Turanian tongues. Prince Lucian Bonaparte shows the analogy between it and the Hungarian, Georgian, etc.
The word Basque is derived from the Latin Vasco; for in Southwestern France it is quite common to pronounce the letter v like b—a habit which made Scaliger wittily say: Felices populi, quibus Vivere est Bibere.
The Basque country consists of several provinces on both sides of the Pyrenees bordering on the Bay of Biscay. Labourd, Soule, and Lower Navarre are now in the department of the Basses-Pyrenees, on the French side. The two provinces of Biscay and Guipuzcoa—a part of Alava and of Upper Navarre—belong to Spain. The whole Basque population cannot be more than 500,000. The people, as we have had a proof of, are proud of their ancient nationality; and though there is a difference of manners, physiognomy, and even of idiom in these sections, they all recognize each other as brethren. They are a noble race, and have accomplished great deeds in their day. Entrenched behind their mountains, they long kept the Romans at bay, drove back the Moors, and crushed the rear-guard of Charlemagne.
The Basques have always been famous navigators. The first suggestion that led to the discovery of America is said to have been given Christopher Columbus by Sanchez de Huelva, a Basque pilot. The Basques of Labourd certainly discovered Cape Breton. They were the first to go on whale-fisheries, which, in 1412, extended as far as Iceland. And Newfoundland seems to have been known to them in the middle of the XVth century. The first name of Cape Breton—isle des Bacaloas or Bacaloac—is a Basque name.
In the middle ages the Basques maintained a certain independence by means of their fueros, or special privileges, which had been handed down from time immemorial and confirmed by several of the kings of France. The wood of Haïtze is still pointed out as the place where the assemblies of the elders, or bilçars, were formerly held in the district of Labourd. Here came together the proprietors of the different communes to regulate their administrative affairs. The most of the assembly leaned on their staves or against the venerable oaks of the forest. But the presiding member sat on a huge stone, the secretary on another, while a third was used for recording the decrees of the assembly, to which the kings of France and Navarre were often forced to yield by virtue of their fueros.
And this country was never over-ruled by oppressive lords who held it in subjection by means of their fortified castles. The device of Bayonne—Nunquam polluta—seems to express the unstained independence that had never been subjected to feudal dominion. It doubtless had great families who distinguished themselves by their bravery and military services, and were noted for their wealth, like the casas de parientes majores—the twenty-four families of great antiquity—in Guypuzcoa, among which was the family of Loyola of Aspeïtia, to which the immortal founder of the Jesuits belonged, as well as that of Balda, his mother’s family; but they never pretended to the feudal authority of the great nobles of France and Spain. It was only in the XVth century that several Basque families, who had become wealthy, ventured to erect some inoffensive towers like those of Uturbi near St. Jean de Luz, occupied by Louis XI. while on the frontier arranging the treaty between the kings of Castile and Arragon.
It is said of the Basques of Spain: As many Basques, as many nobles. Many of their villages have coats of arms on all the houses, which contrast with the decayed lattices and crumbling roofs. The owners point to their emblazonry with the air of a Montmorency. When the Moors invaded the North of Spain, thousands of mountaineers rose to drive them out. As they made war at their own expense, those who returned alive to their cottages received the reward of gentlemen—the right of assuming some heraldic sign and graving it on their walls as a perpetual memorial of their deeds. In the valley of Roncal the inhabitants were all ennobled for having distinguished themselves at the battle of Olaso, in the reign of Fortunio Garcia. In the village of Santa Lucia, not far from Toledo, an old house of the XIIIth century is still to be seen with double lancet windows, which has its record over the door proving the part a former owner had taken at the bridge of Olaso—an azure field traversed by a river, which is spanned by a bridge with three golden arches surmounted by the bleeding head of a Moor.
In a faubourg of Tolosa is a modest house stating that Juan Perez having borne arms for more than fifty years in Italy, Spain, Portugal, Flanders, etc., and taken part in the great naval victory over the Turks at Lepanto under Don Juan of Austria, the emperor created him knight and gave him for his arms the imperial eagle.
But most of these armorial bearings have reference to the chase, to which the people were so addicted. The trophies they brought home, instead of being nailed up over the door, were now graven there in stone—sometimes a wolf, or a hare, or even a favorite hound. Two dogs are on the arms inherited by the Prince of Viana, the donor of the fine bells to the basilica of Notre Dame de Lourdes.
In the commune of Bardos is a château which bears the name of Salla from the founder of the family. It was he who, fighting under Alphonse the Chaste, King of Navarre, had his legs broken by the explosion of a rock, from which time the house of Salla has had for its arms three chevrons brisés, d’or, sur un champ d’azur. The most illustrious member of this family is Jean Baptiste de la Salle, who founded the admirable order of the Brothers of the Christian Schools, with a special mission for instructing the poor.
Mgr. de Belsunce, the celebrated bishop of Marseilles, was also of Basque origin. The Château de Belsunce is still to be seen—an old manor-house with Gothic turrets bespeaking the antiquity of the family. The name is associated with the legends of the country. Tradition relates that a winged monster having terrified the whole region, a knight of this house armed himself with a lance and went forth to attack the monster in his den. The dragon, having received a mortal wound, sprang with a dying effort upon his enemy, seized him, and rolled with him into the Nive. From that time the family of Belsunce bore on its shield a dragon sable on a field gules.
The arms of Fontarabia is a siren on the waves bearing a mirror and a comb—symbol of this enchanting region. This historic place, once the rival of St. Jean de Luz, now wears a touching aspect of desolation and mourning which only adds to its attractions. Its ruins have a hue of antiquity that must delight a painter’s eye. The long street that leads to the principal square carries one back three hundred years, most of the houses being in the Spanish style of the XVIth century. There are coats of arms over every door, and balconies projecting from every story, with complicated trellises or lattices that must almost madden the moon-struck serenader. Nothing could be more picturesque than this truly Spanish place. Many of the houses bear the imposing name of palacios, which testify to the ancient splendor of this ciudad muy noble, muy leal, y muy valerosa. Overlooking the whole place is the château of Jeanne la Folle, massive, heavy, its walls three yards thick, its towers round—a genuine fortress founded in the Xth century, but mostly rebuilt by Charles V. Its chronicles are full of historic interest. Here took place the interview between Louis XI. and Henri IV. of Castille, whose arrogant favorite, Beltram de la Cueva, in his mantle broidered with gold and pearls and diamonds, and his boat with its awning of cloth of gold, must have offered a striking contrast to the extreme simplicity of the King of France.
The fine, imposing church of Fontarabia, in the transition style, is a marked exception to the Basque churches generally, which are of simple primitive architecture, with but few ornaments; and these, at least on the French side of the frontier, mostly confined to the sanctuary, which is rich in color and gilding. Perhaps over the main altar is a painting, but by no means by Murillo or Velasquez. If on the Spanish side, it may be a S. Iago on a white steed, sword in hand, with a red mantle over his pilgrim’s dress, looking like a genuine matamore, breathing destruction against the Moors. The Madonna, too, is always there, perhaps with a wheel of silver swords, as if in her bosom were centred all the sorrows of the human race.
The galleries around the nave in the Basque churches gives them the appearance of a salle de spectacle; but the clergy think the separation of the sexes promotes the respect due in the sanctuary, and the people themselves cling to the practice. The men occupy the galleries. They all have rosaries in their hands. From time to time you can see them kiss their thumbs, placed in the form of a cross, perhaps to set a seal on their vows to God, as people in the middle ages used to seal their letters with their thumbs to give them a sacred inviolability. Licking the thumb was, we know, an ancient form of giving a solemn pledge; and, till a recent period, the legal form of completing a bargain in Scotland was to join the thumbs and lick them. “What say ye, man? There’s my thumb; I’ll ne’er beguile ye,” said Rob Roy to Bailie Nicol Jarvie.
When Mass is over, every man in the galleries respectfully salutes his next neighbor. This is considered obligatory. Were it even his deadliest enemy, he must bow his head before him. Mass heard with devotion brings the Truce of God to the heart.
The women occupy the nave, sitting or kneeling on the black, funereal-looking carpet that covers the stone above the tomb of their beloved dead. For every family has a slab of wood or marble with an inscription in large characters, which covers the family vault below, and their notions of pious respect oblige the living to kneel on the stone that covers the bones of their forefathers. Or this was the case; for of late years burial in churches has been forbidden, and these slabs now only serve to designate the inalienable right of the families to occupy them during the divine service. It is curious and interesting to examine these sepulchral slabs; for they are like the archives of a town inscribed with the names of the principal inhabitants, with their rank and occupation. In some places the women, by turns, bring every morning an offering for their pastor, which they deposit on these stones like an expiatory libation. Several of them are daily garnished with fruit, wine, eggs, beeswax, yarn, and linen thread, and the curé, accompanied by his servant or the sacristan, goes around after Mass to collect this tribute of rural piety in a basket, and give his blessing to the families. These offerings of the first-fruits of the earth are still continued, though the dead are buried elsewhere.
The seat of that mighty potentate, the village mayor, is in the choir, as befits his dignity, which he fully sustains by his majestic deportment in sight of the whole congregation. Sometimes he chants at the lectern, like Charlemagne. The square peristyle of the church is often divided between him and the village school-master for their respective functions, as if to invest them with a kind of sanctity.
In Soule the belfry is formed by extending upwards the western wall of the church in the form of three gables, looking like three obelisks. The bell is hung in the central one. The origin of this custom is thus explained by M. Cénac Montaut:
“In former times, when the Basques had some difficulty about accepting all the truths of the Gospel, the clergy were unable to make them comprehend the doctrine of the Holy Trinity. One of the priests, like S. Patrick with the shamrock, saw he must appeal to the senses in order to reach the mind and heart. Entering his rude pulpit one day, he addressed his flock something after the following manner: ‘Some of you, my dear brethren, recently objected that the God of the Old Testament, in the tables of the law, wished to be worshipped as one God, and that to add now the Son and Holy Spirit to the Deity is to overthrow the law of Sinai and affect the divine Essence itself.… My dear brethren, hitherto we have had but one gable on our belfry, directing towards heaven the innermost prayer of the heart, and bearing the bell by which God seems to speak to us in return. If, now, two other gables were added to this, would not this triple tower, standing on one base, and pointing to the same heaven, still constitute one belfry?’”
This appeal was effective. Those who had been unable to accept the abstract doctrine of the Trinity perfectly comprehended this material unity. The other priests of Soule hastened to make use of so happy an oratorical figure, and all through the valley of the Gave rose the three-gabled, dogmatic belfries, such as we see at the present day.
Near the church is often a modest white house with a small garden containing a few trees and flowers, where the Daughters of the Cross devote themselves to the instruction of children, planting the seeds of piety in their youthful hearts.
The Basque houses, with their triangular, tile-covered roofs, often project like a châlet, and are painted white, green, and even pink. The casements are made in the form of a cross, and stained red. The doorway is arched like a church-portal, and has over it a Virgin, or crucifix, or some pious inscription. There is no bolt on the door; for a Basque roof is too inviolable to need a fastening. At the entrance is a bénitier (for holy water), as if the house were to the owner a kind of sanctuary to be entered with purification and a holy thought. You enter a large hall that divides the house into two parts, and contains all the farming utensils. It is here the husbandman husks his corn and thrashes his wheat. The uncolored walls of the rooms are hung with a few rude pictures, as of the Last Judgment, the Wandering Jew, or Napoleon. There are some large presses, a few wooden chairs, a shelf in the corner with a lace-edged covering for the statue of the Virgin, who wears a crown of immortelles on her head and a rosary around her neck. At one end of the room is a bed large enough for a whole family, and so high as almost to need a ladder to ascend it. The open pink curtains show the holy-water font, the crucifix, and faded palm branch annually renewed. There is no house without some religious symbol. The Basque has great faith in prayer. He stops his plough or wild native dance to say the Angelus. He never forgets to arm himself with the sign of the cross in a moment of danger. He makes it over the loaf of bread before he divides it among the family. The mother makes it on the foreheads of her children at night. At Candlemas a blessed candle burns under every roof in honor of the true Light which lighteth every man that cometh into the world. It is the boast of the country that Protestantism never found entrance therein, even during its prevalence in Béarn at the time of Joan of Navarre, though that princess took pains to have the Huguenot version of the New Testament translated into Basque and published at La Rochelle in 1591 for their benefit. The whole Bible is now translated, M. Duvoisin having devoted six years to the work, and Prince Lucian Bonaparte a still longer time in settling the orthography and superintending the edition.
It must not be supposed, however, that the Basques are an austere race. They are very fond of their national dances, and excel in the jeu de paume. Among their other amusements is the pastorale, acted in the open air with a chirula (a kind of flute) and a tambourine for the orchestra. The subject is borrowed from the Bible, the legend of Roland, the wars with the Moors, etc. They are composed by native poets, and have a certain antique simplicity not without its charm. The people flock to these representations, as to their Cantabrian dances, in their gayest attire. The old man wears a béret drawn over his forehead, while his long hair floats behind in token of the nobility of his ancient race. He wears short breeches, long woollen stockings, and leather shoes with handsome silver buckles.
The young Basque, straight, well formed, and proud in his bearing, wears his blue béret jauntily perched on one side of his head. His jacket is short. Silver clasps fasten his collar and wristbands. He wears sandals on his feet, with red bars across the instep. A bright red sash girdles his waist—as of all mountaineers, enabling them to endure fatigue the better, like the surcingle of a horse. “Beware of that young man with the loose girdle,” said Sulla, speaking of Cæsar. For among the Romans the word discinctus was applied to the indolent, cowardly soldier, as alte cinctus (high-girdled) meant a prompt, courageous man.
The girls, slender in form, with regular, expressive features, are veiled in a black mantilla, or else carry it on their arms. A gay kerchief is wound around the back of their heads like a turban, leaving visible the shining bands of their beautiful black hair.
The old women wear white muslin kerchiefs on their heads, with one corner falling on the shoulder. On the breast is suspended a golden heart or Saint-Esprit. Sometimes they are enveloped from head to foot in a great black cloak, which is absolutely requisite when they attend a funeral. This mantle forms part of the trousseau of every bride of any substance, and she wears it on her wedding-day, as if to show herself prepared to pay due honor to all the friends who should depart this life before her. It must be a great comfort for them to see this mourning garment prepared in advance, and the sight of the bride veiled in her long black capuchin must diffuse a rather subdued gayety over the wedding party.
The Basques pay great respect to the dead. When a man dies, his next neighbor on the right carries the crucifix before his bier in the funeral procession, and his nearest neighbor on the left walks at its side. And the whole neighborhood assembles around it in church, with lighted candles in their hands, to hear the Mass for the Dead. They adorn their graveyards with shrubs and flowers. And they never omit the month’s-mind, or anniversary service.
Of course no one goes to the Basque country without visiting the famous Pas de Roland. The whole region is singularly wild and picturesque. We pass through a deep gorge encumbered with rocks, over which the Nive plunges and foams in the maddest possible way. Twin mountains of granite rise to the very heavens, their sides covered with the golden broom, or furrowed with deep gullies that tell of mountain torrents. The overhanging cliffs, and the dizzy, winding road along the edge of the abyss, create a feeling of awe; and by the time we arrive, breathless and fatigued, at the Pas de Roland, we are quite prepared to believe anything marvellous.
“I lie reclined
Against some trunk the husbandman has felled;
Old legendary poems fill my mind,
And Parables of Eld:
I wander with Orlando through the wood,
Or muse with Jaques in his solitude.”
This archway was produced by a mere blow from the heel of the great Paladin, who did not consider the mountain worthy the use of his mighty sword. Everything is bathed in the golden light of the wondrous legend, which harmonizes with the spot. We even fancy we can hear the powerful horn of Orlando—the greatest trumpeter on record. We can see Carloman, with his black plumes and red mantle—opera-like—as he is described in the Chant d’Altabisçar! The natives, pur sang, do not call this pass by the name of Roland, but Utheca gaiz—a bad, dangerous passage, as in truth it is. It is the only means of communication with the opposite side of the mountain. After going through it, the mountains recede, the horizon expands, a country full of bucolic delights is revealed to the eye, the exaltation of the soul subsides, and the mind settles down to its normal state of incredulity.
Just below the Pas de Roland, on the French side, are the thermal springs of Cambo, in a lovely little valley watered by the Nive. The air here is pure, the climate mild, the meadows fresh and sprinkled with flowers, the encircling hills are crowned with verdure. Never did Nature put on an aspect of more grace and beauty than in this delicious spot. One of the springs is sulphurous, the other ferruginous. They became popular among the Spanish and Basques during the last century when patronized by Queen Marie Anne de Neuberg, the second wife of Don Carlos II. of Spain. Some of her royal gifts to the church of Cambo are still shown with pride. These springs were visited as early as 1585, among others, by François de Nouailles, Bishop of Dax, who is often referred to in proof of their efficacy; but as that eminent diplomatist died a few weeks after he tried the waters, the less said of his cure the better for their reputation. Napoleon I., however, had faith in their virtues. He visited Cambo, and was only prevented by his downfall from building a military hospital here.
Not two miles from Cambo is the busy town of Hasparren. The way thither is through a delightful country, with some fresh beauty bursting on the eye at every step. On all sides are to be seen the neat white cottages of the laborers in the midst of orchards, meadows, and vineyards; sometimes in the hollows of a valley like a nest among the green leaves; sometimes on the hills commanding the most delicious of landscapes. Hasparren has about six thousand inhabitants, mostly farmers, but who try to increase their income by some trade. Twelve hundred of them are shoemakers; seven or eight hundred are weavers, curriers, or chocolate-makers. The spacious church is hardly able to contain the crowd of worshippers on festivals. A curious history is connected with the belfry.
The government having imposed a tax on salt in 1784, the people around Hasparren, who had hitherto been exempted, resolved to resist so heavy an impost. They rang the bell with violence to call together the inhabitants. Even the women assembled in bands with spits, pitchforks, and sickles, to the sound of a drum, which one of their number beat before them. The mob, amounting to two thousand, entrenched themselves in the public cemetery, where they received with howls of rage the five brigades the governor of Bayonne was obliged to send for the enforcement of the law. Bloodshed was prevented by the venerable curé, who rose from his sick-bed and appeared in their midst. By his mild, persuasive words he calmed the excited crowd, induced the troops to retire and the mob to disperse. The leaders being afterwards arrested, he also effected their pardon—on humiliating conditions, however, to the town. The hardest was, perhaps, the destruction of the belfry, from which they had rung the alarm; and it was not till some time in the present century they were allowed to rebuild it.
It is remarkable that the ancient Basques left no poems, no war-songs to celebrate their valorous deeds, no epic in which some adventurous mariner recites his wanderings; for the language is flexible and easily bends to rhythm. But the people seem better musicians than poets. There are, to be sure, some rude plaints of love, a few smugglers’ or fishermen’s songs, sung to bold airs full of wild harmony that perhaps used to animate their forefathers to fight against the Moors; but these songs have no literary merit. Only two poems in the language have acquired a certain celebrity, because published by prominent men who ascribed to them a great antiquity. One of these is the Chant des Cantabres, published by Wilhelm von Humboldt in 1817 in connection with an essay on the Basque language. Ushered into the world by so distinguished a linguist, it was eagerly welcomed by German savants, and regarded as a precious memorial of past ages. M. von Humboldt took it from the MSS. of a Spaniard employed in 1590 to explore the archives of Simancas and Biscay. He pretended to have found it written on an old, worm-eaten parchment, as well it might be if done soon after the invasion of the country by the Romans. We wonder he did not also find the history of the conquest of Cantabria in five books composed by the Emperor Augustus himself, said to have been in existence in the XVIIth century!
The Chant d’Altabisçar is said to have been discovered by M. La Tour d’Auvergne in an old convent at St. Sebastian, in 1821, written on parchment in characters of the XIIIth or XIVth century. It is unfortunate so valuable a MS., like the original poems of Ossian, should have been lost! The contents, however, were preserved and published in 1835, and, though now considered spurious, merit a certain attention because formerly regarded as genuine by such men as Victor Hugo, who, in his Légende des Siècles, speaks of Charlemagne as “plein de douleur” to think
“Qu’on fera des chansons dans toutes ces montagnes
Sur ses guerriers tombés devant des paysans,
Et qu’on en parlera plus que quatre cents ans!”
M. Olivier, in his Dictionnaire de la Conversation, enthusiastically exclaims: “What shall I say of the Basque chants, and where did this people, on their inaccessible heights, obtain such boldness of rhythm and intonation? Every Basque air I know is grand and decided in tone, but none more strikingly so than the national chant of the Escualdunacs, as they call themselves in their language. And yet this fine poem has for some of its lines only the cardinal numbers up to twenty, and then repeated in reverse order. Often, while listening to the pure, fresh melody of this air, I have wondered what meaning was concealed beneath these singular lines. From one hypothesis to another I have gone back to the time when the Vascon race, hedged in at the foot of the Pyrenees by the Celtic invaders, sought refuge among the inaccessible mountains. Then, it seemed to me, this Chant was composed as a war-song in which, after recounting, one by one, their years of exile, they numbered with the same regularity, but in a contrary direction, their deeds of vengeance!”
Such is the power of imagination. It is the
“Père Tournamine
Qui croit tout ce qu’il s’imagine.”
Let us give the literal translation of the lines in which M. Olivier finds such an expression of sublime vengeance:
“They come! they come! What a forest of lances!
With many-colored banners floating in the midst.
How the lightning flashes from their arms!
How many are there? Boy, count them well!
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve,
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.
…
They fly! they fly! Where, then, is the forest of lances?
Where the many-colored banners floating in the midst?
The lightning no longer flashes from their blood-stained arms.
How many left? Boy, count them well!
Twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, fifteen, fourteen, thirteen,
Twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.”
The first book in the Basque language was printed in the XVIth century, in the same year Rabelais published his Pantagruel, in which he makes Panurge ask in the Basque language for an erremedio against poverty, that he might escape the penalty of Adam which brought sweat to his brow—a question many are still asking in far more intelligible language.
The most ancient specimens of genuine Basque literature show what changes the language has undergone within four or five centuries, which is a proof against the authenticity of these Chants. M. Bladé, a French critic, says his butter-man readily translated every word of the Chant des Cantabres, so admired by the Baron von Humboldt. Fortunately, it is not needed to prove the valor of the Cantabrians when their country was invaded by the Romans, nor that of Altabisçar to show the part they took in Roncesvalles’ fearful fight.