The pillars of Hercules

by David Urquhart

The church of St. Philippo Negri deserves a visit. It is a lofty oval hall. The altar is in a deep recess, and two narrow galleries run round it at a considerable height. In this church, in a back street of an out-post almost cut off from Spain, some unknown and self-designated politicians wove, in 1812, out of the threads of the philosophy of France, a tissue which was to clothe the nakedness of Spain, and to regenerate her. At that moment she was engaged in a desperate war with France. By those very doctrines her despot trampled on the liberties of France, and then converted her into the slavish instrument of his evil passions and lawless purposes against Spain. Up to the time when this constitution was proclaimed, faction, which had divided and distracted, for a century and a half, the other countries of Europe, had still in Spain been unknown.

St. Philippo is thus a spot associated with greatness—but greatness of an easy kind. It is easier to kill a camel than—sometimes—to catch a flea.

Cadiz, Oct. 26th.

I made an excursion yesterday, in a Calesa, to the mainland, or rather, to the Isla St. Leon, which adjoins it. After travelling about four miles along the narrow ridge of sand that joins Cadiz to the main, you turn to the left, round the bottom of the bay, and enter on the salt pans, which extend throughout the Isla. There were ditches, tanks, and reservoirs, cut out in all shapes and dimensions. Heaps of salt were scattered about like pyramids; some, twenty feet high. I expected to obtain data respecting the evaporation of the Mediterranean, but was disappointed: neither is the water allowed to deposit in one place, nor are there successive fillings of water into the same basin before the salt is made. In either case, the rate of evaporation would have been furnished exactly; but the water passes through successive pans, becoming more and more charged as it advances to the inner tanks, where the crystallization is ultimately effected,—a process even then attended with difficulty.[74] There are, in the Isla, twelve government and seventy-two private works; the produce of the first is 12,000, of the other, 40,000 lasts. The cost is six quarts the Fanega; it is sold at fifty-two reals. The salt made at the private works is for exportation, and is taken off by the English, Americans, and French.

These and the other salt-works of Galicia, the Asturias, &c., are farmed for 12,000,000 reals, by a singular adventurer of the court and the exchange,—M. Salamanca.

The observatory at St. Fernando is, of course, like all observatories; and, being built to look at the heavens, affords a good view of the earth. From the top of it I inspected this labyrinth. There was, in front, Cadiz, hanging by its narrow isthmus. The Isla de Leon is a low marsh, which forms the bottom of the bay. In the island is St. Fernando, situated on broken ground. I could trace the salt river from its source, or mouth, in the sea, to its other source, or mouth, in the bay. At the sea-entrance, I could distinguish the small island or knoll of St. Petri. Here stood the Altars of Hercules. It was to visit this spot that I had started from Cadiz; and finding it impracticable, from the time of day and the roughness of the weather, I had, with great reluctance, given up the project. It was some compensation to see, at least, the spot. An antique bridge joins the Isla to the mainland: it stands about half-way between the bay and the sea. It was rather a causeway, with arches, than a bridge, and was said to be Phœnician.

At Cadiz, one is in the midst of a town, and the very type and essence of towns. The eye has no scope, and the mind no sight, for anything but itself. It is impossible to think of it as Gades, or to recall Circe’s smile, or Cerberus’ growl; but here I recovered myself, and yielded to the intoxication which, on certain spots, the mists of past things produce. Cadiz did again become Gades. Behind appeared, on the side of a hill, or rather, close to its summit, Medina Sidonia, recalling, in one name, the Phœnician and the Moor. The salt marshes could be transmuted to the ancient groves and gardens, by the aid of some palm-trees scattered over the broken ground.

But that islet, now shrouded by the spray from an easterly storm, with its temple, where Hannibal offered sacrifice before departing to live on Italy for fourteen years—where Cæsar was fired with the love of the purple, by the sight of the statue of the victor of Darius—was the magnet of the scene. Who built this temple? What was it? The temple of Phœnicians,—of idolaters? yet idols were excluded. There was a sacrifice, but not to idols; there was an altar, but no groves or high places. Wines were forbidden, which were not forbidden in Phœnicia or Egypt. Women were excluded from the sacrifices; the sacred flame was kept burning; the priests served barefoot. When they entered, their faces were veiled, and their heads covered with white linen. This, then, was a temple of the Hebrews, and not of idolaters.[75] Amongst the dwellers in Canaan, there were those who had preserved primeval light, and are called in scripture “worshippers of the true God.” Balaam was a prophet, and the book of the Arab Job is one of the books of Scripture.

From St. Fernando I could command the field where Tarik triumphed, and where Roderick fell. The sudden extinction of the Gothic empire has led to the inference that it was rotten: the valour with which that field was contested forbids that conclusion. The factions, and the contests for the crown amongst the Goths, differed little from those amongst the Saracens; the people were not divided, and had lost nothing of their valour and their warlike spirit.[76] The Arabs triumphed in Spain in like manner as Islamism did in Africa. The Goths were not the only inhabitants; the original population was still in existence, and identified with that of Hispania Transfretana. To these the Saracens were deliverers, not invaders. They were invited over by the Jews, a numerous, and then a warlike people, preserving many ties with the Arab population of both countries, and forming the link between them and the old Iberians. It is not extraordinary that there should have been native Spaniards in the armies of the Goths, without the fact being recorded. So uncertain are all our data, that it is disputed whether Count Julian was a Mussulman or a Christian; whether Tarik was a Breber, a Persian, or an Arab. In periods nearer to our own, when European literature flourished, omissions and mistakes of a similar kind are not uncommon. For instance, at the battle of Angora the contest, as it is supposed, was between the Turks and the Tartars; but the body of the troops of Bajazet were neither Turks nor Mussulmans, but Servians.

The association of the people of Spain with those of Mauritania, while both were Christians, is further established by the use of Arabic in the old Spanish church. It is recorded with wonder that their works on theology were in that tongue, and that a large proportion of its priesthood knew no other. This Arabic literature dates from a time anterior to the Arab conquest. It was from Africa that Spain received Christianity. But modern Spanish writers would be careful to conceal or disguise the early association of Spain with the people and the system against which raged their fanaticism. It is the suppression of all this that has made the conquest of the Arabs appear like a fable.