And we were in Spain. On the northern frontier, and in instant contact with the people of France, is a race that is Spanish only in name, and hardly that; a race that has, through all the mutations of government in this unstable country, maintained a sort of independence, with rights and privileges, manners and customs so peculiar to themselves, that they may be said to be in Spain, but not of Spain.
On the anniversary of the death of one of their number, the friends gather at the grave, and offer to the departed gifts of bread and fruit, as if they required supplies of food for the endless journey in another world. On the holidays, which are many in a year, they are wild in the dance, with the tambourine and bagpipe and castanet, being far more demonstrative in the height of their excitement than the more southern inhabitants of Spain. They are a proud race, and more proud of their ancestry than any thing else, the poorest peasant among the hills displaying on the door of his hut a coat of arms, and claiming descent from some ancient and illustrious house. As a race they have no trouble in reckoning their pedigree back to Tubal and Noah, and unless your tree of genealogy has branches springing out of a trunk that bears the name of Adam, these people are far ahead of you in the line of their ancestry.
They occupy the Basque Provinces, three divisions, small in extent, lying among the Pyrenees and on the Bay of Biscay. They are probably lineal descendants of the first settlers of Spain, and may be correct in their boast that they are not tainted with Roman or Moorish or Gothic-German blood. They still speak a language so strange and so formidable to a foreigner that it is said no one has been able to master it. There is a tradition among them that the devil himself spent five years in studying it, and was able to learn three words only. But after much inquiry I could not trace this tradition to any reliable source. In fact, it is said that one or two bold and persevering scholars have actually made some inroads into the language, but the discoveries made were a very poor reward for the time and labor spent.
Into this new yet ancient country we enter at once, for it is the northern gateway of Spain. At the outset of our journey we must “change cars,” for the Spanish government, in granting license for a railroad to enter its domains, refused to allow it to be made of the same width with that of France, as it would in that case afford to the French facilities for invasion in case of war! The idea is very characteristic of Spain. And the same stupidity that dictates such an impediment to travel forgets that every train of passengers coming in from the north is an invasion that is just as fatal to the regime of Spain as would be another incursion of Goths or Gauls. Ideas, rather than arms, work revolutions now-a-days.
The mountains have stretched themselves across this frontier to the verge of the ocean, and on our right as we go south is a narrow pass between two precipitous hills, and thus a safe and easily defended path for ships is made. Within is a snug harbor, where the largest fleet may lie unseen, and unreached by the storms at sea. Out of this little port once sailed a man whose name is dear to the American heart; for in the days that tried the souls of our fathers La Fayette came here into Spain and took passage to the Western world, to give his sword and his fortune and his life to the cause of liberty. A little farther on, a high castle-crowned hill defends the city of St. Sebastian. It is the first place of any importance after entering Spain. Being so near to France, and so easy of access by rail, it is common for Englishmen and others to take a trip to St. Sebastian, from Biarritz, which is only two or three hours distant, and then they can say they have been to Spain. There is nothing of interest here to attract the traveller. The Duke of Wellington, after losing 5,000 men in storming it, drove out the French, and when his army got possession of the town, they sacked it, set it on fire, and enacted such scenes of wild debauchery as are not remembered without a blush of shame after the lapse of more than half a century. To please visitors from the north, and to make their town a fashionable resort in the season, the people of St. Sebastian have a bull-ring, and exhibit on a small scale the national entertainment of a weekly bull-fight. For it must not be supposed that Spanish blood only is delighted with this savage sport. The French love to see blood; and the English, whose highest national sport is the prize-fight; and Americans, who have been known to allow a prize-fighter to be sent to their national Congress,—all take great pleasure in seeing horses, bulls, and men, in one grand mêlée, wounded, bleeding, dying; and the fairest of some of the most delicate little women of these Christian countries clap their hands when the bull gets the advantage and tosses his bleeding victim into the air.
We are now in the midst of the mountains. The road gradually rises as we advance, and frequently makes its way through the heart of the hills. The valleys lie sweetly far below. If the road followed the line of the valleys it might be exposed to frequent injury by floods. And as this range must be crossed, it is better to make the ascent as easy as possible. We might be in Switzerland, so like it are these farms on the hill-sides and in the valleys; the sounds that break on the ear are the same: the houses scattered in cosy nooks, or clustered in little villages which the church crowns with a blessing as of heaven. The oxen have their head and necks covered with a sheepskin or a woollen blanket to protect them from the rain. They drag a cart of which the wheels are a solid block of wood secured with a tire. There has been a fair to-day in some one of the villages, and men and women are going home, leading cattle they have purchased. The men are well formed, athletic, straight, and good-looking. The women are a superior race, and even when leading a calf the peasant woman steps proudly along as if she were entering her drawing-room. Their hair is their glory, worn pendant on their backs. Of their moral and mental culture little is known, as they have slight intercourse with the outer world. From the beginning they have had a government of their own, sometimes being cut up into republics, and managing the most of matters in their own way. Even when they have claimed their own congress, and tariff, and army, the Spanish government has thought it the part of discretion to humor them. When emerging from these provinces into Castile, our luggage was searched to find any tobacco we might be smuggling: for this is one of the privileges of the Basque Provinces, that they may import tobacco free of duty, but it is under a tariff the moment we pass beyond. In this region the Indian corn of our own country is the principal production. Peaches, apples, and cherries are abundant. Iron mines are worked, and furnaces are frequently seen in full blast. Cloth and paper mills are in operation. The inhabitants have an energy and enterprise far superior to that of the people farther south. Many of them become seamen. Some have made discoveries in distant seas. One of the most peculiar of their ideas, and one that may account for the lofty bearing of their women, is, that the right of primogeniture exists among them, but it applies to the first-born child, whether son or daughter! This often places the woman at the head of the house, so that she can say, as few women elsewhere can say, “What’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is my own.”
Property is very widely diffused among the people; farms seldom comprise more than ten acres, so that there can be no great practical distinctions among them on account of wealth. They divide their farms with hedges instead of fences or walls, while in the more southern parts of Spain they put up no fences of any sort, but merely mark the bounds of land with a stone, which cannot be moved without incurring a curse.
In a charming valley, among hills clothed with chestnut-trees, and the meadows with orchards of apples and pears, lies the village of Tolosa, and farther on we rested at Vitoria, a famous city, the capital of the Province of Alava, and celebrated as the scene of a great battle between the English and the French in 1813. The Duke of Wellington led the British and beat the French under Joseph Buonaparte, who fled in such disorder and haste that all the pictures he had stolen in Spain, and five millions of dollars, fell into the hands of the Duke.
We are now leaving the Basque Provinces: Miranda is the first town in Castile at which we stop. An immense railroad station is in progress of erection, showing the expectation at least of a great amount of business. We hope the hope may be realized. Crossing the river Zadorra, and now the Ebro, and along the Oroncillo, we are again in the midst of the wildest and grandest mountain scenery, as we take our iron way through the frightful gorges of Pancorbo. And even here the legends of Spain begin to invest the crags and ruined castles with the interest of romance. For on these heights are the remnants of the castle where Roderick, the last king of the Goths, brought the beautiful Florinda, whom he saw as David saw Bathsheba, and seeing loved, not wisely but too well, and loving, lost his crown, his honor, his kingdom, and his life.