Such is, in gigantic strides, the history of Spain.
The volcanic eruption in the fifteenth century has left, it is true, indelible traces in the country's soil. Nevertheless, on the very day when the treaty of Paris was signed and the last of the Spanish colonies de ultramar were lost for ever, that day a Spanish nation was born again on the disturbed foundations of the old.
There is no denying it: when Ferdinand and Isabel united their kingdoms a nation was born; it fell to pieces (though apparently not until a later date) when Columbus landed in America.
Anarchy, misrule, and oppression, ignorance and poverty, now frivolity and now austerity at court, fill the succeeding centuries until the coronation of Alfonso XII. During all those years, but once did Spain—no longer a nation—shine forth in history[{33}] with an even greater brilliancy than when she claimed to be mistress of the world. But, on this occasion, when she opposed, in brave but disbanded groups, the invasion of the French legions, she gave another proof of the individualistic instincts of the race, as opposed to all social and compact organization of the masses.
The Carlist wars need but a passing remark. They were not national; they were caused by the ambitions of rulers and noblemen, and fought out by the inhabitants of Navarra and the Basque Provinces who upheld their fueros, by paid soldiery, and by aldeanos whose houses and families were threatened.
New Spain was born a few years ago, but so far she has given no proof of vitality. As it is, she is cumbered by traditions and harassed by memories. She must fight a sharp battle with existing evil institutions handed down to her as a questionable legacy from the past.
If she emerge victorious from the struggle, universal history will hear her name again, for the country is not gastado or degenerate, as many would have us believe.[{34}]
If she fail to throw overboard the worthless and superfluous ballast, it is possible that the ship of state will founder—and then, who knows?
In the meantime, let us not misjudge the Spaniard nor throw stones at his broken glass mansion. To help us in this, let us remember that unexpected vicissitudes, entirely foreign to his country, were the cause of his illusory grandeur in the sixteenth century. Besides, no more ardent a lover of individual (not social) freedom than the Spaniard breathes in this wide world of ours—excepting it be the Moor.
Under the circumstances he is to be admired—even pitied.[{35}]