E X C U R S I O N S
IN THE
MOUNTAINS
OF
RONDA AND GRANADA,
WITH CHARACTERISTIC SKETCHES
OF THE INHABITANTS OF THE SOUTH OF SPAIN.

BY
CAPTAIN C. ROCHFORT SCOTT,
AUTHOR OF “TRAVELS IN EGYPT AND CANDIA.”

“Aqui hermano Sancho, podemos meter las manos
hasta los codos, en esto que llaman aventuras.”
Don Quijote.

IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER,
GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
—
1838.
LONDON:
F. SHOBERL, JUN. 51, RUPERT STREET, HAYMARKET.

D E D I C A T I O N.

To the Valued Friends who witnessed, and whom a congeniality of taste led to enjoy with me, the scenes herein described—whose wearied limbs have sought repose upon the same hard floor—whose spoons have been dipped in the same Gazpacho, I dedicate these pages.

In the course of our perigrinations we have often observed to each other,

“Hæc olim meminisse juvabit.”

C. ROCHFORT SCOTT.

Woolwich, 26th October.

CONTENTS
OF
T H E F I R S T V O L U M E.

———

———

ILLUSTRATIONS.

ERRATA.

———

E X C U R S I O N S
IN THE
MOUNTAINS
OF
RONDA AND GRANADA.

——————

PREFATORY CHAPTER.

CONTAINING LITTLE MORE THAN AN INVOCATION—A DISSERTATION—A CHOICE OF MISERIES—A BILL OF FARE—AND A RECEIPT FOR MAKING A FAVOURITE SPANISH DISH.

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 Bœtica! 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 Phœnicians, 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, Bœtica, 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, phœnix-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

“Quien no ha visto à Granada
No ha visto nada.”[9]

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.

CHAPTER I.

GIBRALTAR—FORBIDDEN GROUND—DERIVATION OF THE NAME—CURIOUS PROVISIONS OF THE TREATY OF UTRECHT—EXTRACTION OF SAINTS WITHOUT A MIRACLE—DEMONIACAL POSSESSIONS—BEAUTY OF THE SCENERY—AGREMENS OF THE GARRISON—ITS IMPORTANCE TO GREAT BRITAIN, BUT IMPOLICY OF MAKING IT A FREE PORT TO ALL NATIONS—LAMENTABLE CHANGES—SKETCH OF THE CHARACTER OF THE MOUNTAINEERS OF RONDA—ENGLISH QUIXOTISM—POLITICAL OPINIONS OF THE DIFFERENT CLASSES IN SPAIN.

BEFORE mounting my impatient steed—not Pegasus, but my faithful Barb “Almanzor,”—the companion of most of my wanderings; the partaker of many of my fastings and perils; and whom—such is the mutability of horse dealing affairs—I saw for the last time curvetting under a monstrous weight of whisker and mustaches in Hyde Park;—I will detain my readers a brief space, to cast a glance at the celebrated place on which we are about to turn our backs.

Let him not take fright, however, at this announcement. It is not my purpose to lead him the round of all the sights contained within the walls of this remarkable fortress; albeit they are well worthy of his notice. Nor shall I, with professional prolixity, point out to his wondering eyes its crested batteries where 700 cannon bid defiance to the enemies of Great Britain; still less expose the arcana of its famed excavated citadel, its interminable galleries, spacious chambers, &c. which must be as cautiously approached by the pen and ink of the discreet traveller, as by the pickaxe and shovel of the wary sapper: a mysterious veil being drawn over them, which it would ill become any of her Majesty’s loyal subjects to remove.

The attempt at concealment is, to be sure, rather absurd; and, as the late Earl of Chatham drily observed, (on being informed that the plans of the Fortress could only be sent to him from the Engineer’s Office, under an escort,) reminded him of the delusion of the ostrich, which, concealing his head in a bush, fancies his whole body is hid from the sight of his pursuers—since, though we carefully lock up our plans of the works in a strong box, others, equally good, may be procured for a shilling any where.

To return to my premised glance at the famed rock, I will say a few words of the unde derivatur of the name it now bears—Gibraltar—which is generally supposed to be a compound of the Arabic words Gibel (Mountain) and Tarik, the name of the Moslem general, who first landed in Spain, and with whom originated the idea of making it a place of arms. For though the mount, under the name of Calpe, held a distinguished place in ancient history, as one of the pillars of Hercules, yet it is difficult to imagine that it was ever thought of as a site for a town; otherwise, the city of Carteia would hardly have been built in its immediate vicinity.

With respect, however, to the origin of its Moorish name, it is but natural to suppose that this remarkable promontory had some distinguishing appellation in the Arabic dialect, before it was seized upon and fortified by Tarik ben Zaide; and if therefore it was called after him, it could only have been as indicative of the spot he had fixed upon for effecting his descent upon the Spanish shore. But this can hardly be the case, since he did not land there, but near where the town of Tarifa now stands (which place he founded and gave his name to); and the rocky peninsula of Gibraltar was only seized upon by Tarik on his subsequently becoming aware of its great natural strength, and the advantages its possession consequently held out, for keeping up the communication with Barbary, and furthering his ulterior projects against Spain.

It seems, on the other hand, much more probable, that the victorious Saracens, arriving at the northern extremity of Africa, and finding how small a space there separated them from Europe, would, whilst eagerly examining the whole line of coast presented to their longing eyes, have naturally given names of their own to the most prominent landmarks observable along it. Now the remarkable head-land that stretched into the sea towards them, its bold outline rendering, to all appearance, the limited space that divided them from their prey yet narrower than it really is,—could not fail to attract their attention; and it may reasonably enough be supposed that its singular form and apparent isolation led to its being designated Gibel-thar—(Gibel—mountain, and thar, or tar—Sp. tajar—Eng. to cut or sever[18])—the severed mountain,—in allusion to its actual separation from the mountainous country behind.

The Spanish historian, Lopez de Ayala, notices this derivation of the name Gibraltar, but prefers the more improbable one of Gibel Tarik—or even Gibel Phatah—Phatah signifying both key and victory; whereas, the key by which Spain was laid open to the Moors was Tarifa; the victory that made them masters of the country was gained at Xeres de la Frontera.

The castle of Gibraltar (or Calahorra) was not built until thirty years (A.D. 742) after the mountain had been occupied by Tarik; and the fortress remained in the undisturbed possession of the Moors for upwards of five centuries and a half, when it was captured by Don Alonzo Perez de Guzman; though it was afterwards recovered by the Moslems, and again remained in their possession upwards of a century.[19]

By the treaty of Utrecht, which confirmed this valuable possession to Great Britain, it was particularly stipulated that no Turkish vessels should be allowed to anchor under the protection of the fortress;—so great even at that late period was the dread the Spaniards entertained of Mohammedan invasion. It was also stipulated that no Jews should be permitted to domiciliate themselves within the garrison;—an article of the treaty which has been most glaringly infringed upon.

The archives, &c. were transported to San Roque, whither also most of the Spanish inhabitants removed with their goods and chattels. The church property does not, however, appear to have been suffered to be carried off; and an old Spanish historian gives with pious exultation a very amusing account of the contraband extraction of the saints from the different churches, after the fortress had been finally ceded to heretical England.

The passage cannot but lose in the translation; as indeed every thing in the Spanish language must. But, even in an English garb, its ludicrous seriousness may excite a smile.

“A statue of St. Joseph, which, from its extreme corpulence, could not be secretly transported, was carried away by a good Catholic—by name Joseph Martin of Medina—placed on the back of a horse as if he were a person riding. The Saint having been well balanced, enveloped in a cloak, and his head covered with a montera,[20] a person mounted en croupe to aid in supporting him, and accompanied by some friends to create confusion and distract attention, they issued forth by the main street without being discovered.”[21]

The fat Saint was lodged with other valuables at San Roque, where he may be seen to this day. A thinner Saint Joseph supplies his place in the “Spanish Church” at Gibraltar, and I dare say Joseph Martin has been canonized, and may be heard further of at Medina Sidonia.

I entirely forget what Saint in particular—or if any—is now charged with the protection of the “town and territory” of Gibraltar; but the intervention of one seems highly necessary, for the devil has obtained a great footing in the place, claiming as his own a Tower—a Bowling-green—a Bellows—a Gap, and—last, not least—a tremendous tongue of fire. Perhaps these offerings have been made to the black gentleman by some good Catholics,—like Joseph Martin,—on the same principle that the old Italian lady presented him with a costly pair of horns,—observing—“Sta bene far’ amicizia, anche col’ Signor Santo Diavolo.”

Most persons who have not visited Gibraltar entertain very curious notions respecting it; picturing to themselves a mere rock, bristling with cannon, and crowded with Barracks, Furnaces for Red-hot shot, and Powder-magazines. But, in reality, there are few places of the same limited extent that can lay claim to greater and more varied natural beauties.

The Road which leads from the picturesque old Moorish castle to the southern extremity of the rocky peninsula (a distance of upwards of two miles) presents a complete change of objects at every turn,—of hanging gardens, impending rocks, and distant vistas of the Spanish and African coasts. On gaining the flats at Europa Point, few views, finer than that which opens upon you, are any where to be met with; none more grand than, as inclining to the eastward, the back of the singular mountain bursts upon your sight, its peaked summits rising precipitously near 1400 feet above the Mediterranean, which, lashing in impotent rage its rocky base, ofttimes dashes a shower of spray over the cottage of the Governor, situated under the lofty cliff, but at least 200 feet above the angry ocean.

Again, ascending to the northernmost peak of the rocky ridge, what can exceed the beauty of the panoramic view?—a wide expanse of sea, studded with countless vessels of all kinds and nations, but so penned in by distant mountains as to assume the appearance of a vast lake, is spread out beneath you:—its glassy surface reflecting the richly wooded or vine-clad hills of Spain, on one side, the savage and sterile mountains of Barbary on the other. Casting the eye beyond the sandy isthmus which to the north separates the isolated rock from the mountains of Spain, it rests upon successive ranges of sierras, (marked by a most pleasing variety of tints,) that seem to convey you into the very heart of the country; and indeed the view is closed only by the Alpujarra range, which is upwards of a hundred miles distant from the point of view.

Within the Fortress, the hand of man has not neglected to deck out nature, where art could effect improvement. The Red Sands, formerly an unsightly burying ground, have been converted—without disturbing the dust of the tenants of the soil—into public walks and gardens. The rugged tracks, which not long since were dangerous for a horse to travel, have been rendered practicable for carriages, and sheltered from the sun by avenues of trees. The western side of the Rock, which formerly presented a bare and rugged limestone surface, is now clothed with a variety of trees and shrubs, that afford cover to numerous partridges and rabbits, as well as to the aboriginal apes, which have obtained, and not undeservedly, no small share of celebrity; and this belt of verdure, besides being refreshing to the sight, tends probably to lessen the heat of the place and increase its salubrity.

As a place of residence, I know of no town—being a garrison—that possesses so many agrémens. The society is composed of persons of all nations and pursuits, and is varied by the passing visits of numerous strangers, who willingly devote a few days to the examination of the wonders of the celebrated “rock,” and of the beauties of the neighbourhood. The resident English merchants were, in my day, a most hospitable body, whose society afforded a grateful variation to the but too prevalent “our’s” and “your’s” conversation of a mess table. The table, by the way, possesses great attractions to the Bon vivant; offering him the enjoyment of most of the gastronomic luxuries of the world at a very cheap rate, and champagne and claret well iced and free of duty. Finally, to the Sportsman, the neighbourhood affords the pleasures of hunting, fishing, shooting, and horse-racing; and to the studious is presented the resource of an excellent library.

I regret to say, however, that I remained at Gibraltar long enough to witness lamentable changes in many things;—to see the commerce of the place gradually decline, first from the jealousy of the Spanish government at its being made a rendezvous for a worthless and ungrateful gang of refugees; secondly, from various impolitic acts emanating from the Colonial office; and lastly, from an awful visitation of the yellow fever, which swept off a third of its dense population, and, for a time, (Cadiz having about this epoch been also declared a Free port) directed the smuggling trade into another channel.

The value of Gibraltar to Great Britain has been questioned by a recent writer on Spain,[22] who doubts whether it be worth preserving at the cost of a garrison of 4,000 (3,000 at most) troops, and the stones and mortar required for keeping its defences in repair.

“The command of the Mediterranean,” he observes, “belongs to the strongest fleet.” This—albeit a debateable proposition—I will not stop to dispute; since what Gibraltar claims is simply the command of the entrance to the Mediterranean; and that clearly belongs to the power which can most readily keep a force near at hand to prevent all ingress and egress. Now, Gibraltar is so situated as to enable Great Britain to do this, with very small naval means; whereas it would require a fleet of any other nation to watch the Straits, because that power would have also to blockade the port of Gibraltar. This any one at all acquainted with the localities,—the prevailing winds, &c.—will readily admit to be at times an impossibility; and on every occasion that the blockading squadron might be driven from its cruising ground, the command of the Straits would again be possessed by Gibraltar, should its batteries shelter but a few gunboats.

The importance of Gibraltar will increase tenfold in the event of a steam war, as every thing will then depend upon the vicinity of the contending parties to their coal depôts.

But, besides the advantage Gibraltar gives Great Britain, by the command of the entrance of the Mediterranean, it affords a secure port at which her ships can refit, reprovision, &c. without incurring the expense and loss of time attendant on a long voyage to England. And, with respect to the expense of its maintenance, the benefit accruing to the nation at large by the disposal of her manufactured and other produce to an immense amount, far more than counterbalances the cost of the few thousand troops required for its defence, and which troops may also be looked upon as a kind of support to our advanced posts, Malta, Corfu, &c.

To furnish a proof of the value of Gibraltar to Great Britain, as a market, it will be only necessary to state, that of British manufactured cotton goods alone the “barren little rock” takes annually to the value of nearly half a million sterling;—an amount very nearly equal to that which is exported from the mother country to all her North American colonies—whilst the kingdom of Portugal (favouring us in return for benefits conferred) takes of the same articles to the amount only of £800,000; and all the other ports of Spain together, but to the value of £13,000.

Now though the government gains but a trifling increase of revenue by the vast amount of goods exported to Gibraltar, yet the good that is effected by thus keeping our manufacturers at work may certainly be put down as benefiting the country at a cheap rate, when the cost is but of a few thousand troops;—the civil servants, &c., being paid out of the crown revenues of the place itself.

On one point, I admit our government appears to be in error; namely, in making Gibraltar “a free port to every flag;” by which “other nations enjoy the benefit of the establishment, without paying any portion of the expense:”[23] and it is more particularly to be blamed, for opening it to the produce of the United States of America, which, unlike France, Tuscany, Sardinia, and Austria, give our commerce no reciprocating advantage, and whose tobacco, imported in immense quantities, pays as aforesaid no portion of the expense of the establishment, but is the article of all others that occasions Spain to watch the transit trade of Gibraltar with such excessive jealousy.

The Spanish government knows full well, that salt fish, manufactured goods of all sorts, and indeed most of the productions of Great Britain, must be introduced into the country, and would take but little trouble to check the contraband trade of Gibraltar, if it were confined to such articles; but the introduction of Tobacco, Cocoa, Sugar, Spices, and other productions of Spain’s own colonies, which the British Free port affords other nations the means of pouring into the country, to the detriment of her transatlantic possessions, naturally occasions a greater degree of watchfulness to be adopted, and excites much jealousy and ill will.

At one time, indeed, the combination of untoward circumstances before alluded to, added to the loss of our extensive trade with Oran and Algiers—(occasioned by the imposition of prohibitory duties since the North of Africa became a French Colony)—and the vigilance of the farmer who rented the preventive cordon—himself an old smuggler—threatened annihilation to the trade of Gibraltar. But, at the present day, it once more “looks up:” smuggling, thanks to the lawless state of Spain, having again furnished occupation to the hardy mountaineers of Ronda and Granada, who, careless what may be the form of Government at Madrid provided its authority does not extend to Andalusia, so as to prevent their having free access to the Calicoes and Tobacco of “La Plaza”,[24]—have been alternately crying Viva la Constitucion and Viva el Rey absoluto, for the last eighteen years.

Having now, for the present, concluded my remarks upon Gibraltar, I will embrace the opportunity,—though “Almanzor” has already been kept an unconscionable time ready saddled—of saying a few words of these rude Serranos,[25] ere I take my reader amongst them.

Smugglers by birth, education, and inclination, it could hardly be expected that they should be distinguished by the possession of any very resplendent virtues. Nevertheless, they are characterized by temperance, honesty, (apart their profession) hospitality, and noble-mindedness. Hardy and enduring, though generally averse to the occupation of husbandry, they can scarcely be termed indolent, since their favourite pursuit is one which exposes them to great fatigue. Proverbially vain, and supremely ignorant, they look upon their country as the first in the world, themselves as its bravest inhabitants: in the latter supposition, being perhaps nearly as far from the truth as in the former; their courage, such as it is, being rather of the tiger kind. Superstitious beyond all belief, and priest-ridden to the last degree, still their naturally caustic and witty temperament cannot be so bridled as to deter them from indulging in jokes and pleasantries, even at the expense of the ceremonies of their church, or the peccadilloes of their ghostly fathers.

As I have stated before, they concern themselves but little with politics; but, having a most radical distaste for every species of taxation, the government that troubles them least in this particular—that is, which has the least power of levying its dues—is naturally the most popular.

In the eventful period in Spanish History, during which I mixed constantly with the natives of all classes, I found the Serranos by turns Realistas,—Constitucionalistas,—Serviles,—Liberales,—Moderados,—and Exaltados: their opinions invariably changing for or against the existing [dis]order of things, according to the strength of the preventive cordon drawn round Gibraltar, and the support given to the local authorities in exacting the payment of taxes.

The only change that I ever perceived Liberalism to work in their habits was, that it induced a freer circulation of the pig-skin; thus leading to inebriety and its concomitants, brawling, insubordination, and depravity; and though this departure from the sober dignity that characterizes the Spaniard was most observable in the troops, yet the pernicious example set by these lawless bands could not but be of bad omen.

Of the Serranos I may in conclusion say, that, considering their ignorance and superstition, and above all the demoralizing nature of their occupation; considering also the wild impracticable country they inhabit; the distracted state of the kingdom; the lamentably ill-enforced condition of the laws, and the sad venality of all Spanish Authorities; they are a wonderfully moral and well-behaved race. Assassinations,—when the country is not, as at present, disturbed by political dissensions—are of very rare occurrence; and the same unhappy state of things has naturally led to the perpetration of numerous personal outrages and increased the number of highway robberies: but larceny and housebreaking are even now rarely heard of; and Incendiarism, Infanticide, and some other heinous crimes that disgrace more civilized communities, are unknown.

The condition of this singular race presents, therefore, the anomalous spectacle of the co-existence of rare moral qualities with ignorance, lawlessness, and superstition; and, by instituting a comparison between the condition of the inhabitants of Spain and those of better governed and more enlightened nations, the Philanthropist cannot but entertain a doubt whether a very high degree of education is, in all cases, conducive to the happiness of Mankind.

The experiment now in progress of sending Liberty, armed Cap-a-pee, to take Spain by storm, ere Truth and Wisdom have battered Bigotry and Ignorance in breach, is one that cannot fail to entail the utmost misery upon that unhappy country for a long space of years.

No class of Spaniards is, at the present moment, prepared for the great organic changes in the government and institutions of their country that we are pressing upon them. There are doubtless some enlightened men in the upper ranks, who, with the welfare of their country at heart, wish for a change; but their previous life has unfitted them from taking the lead in effecting it. There are also many learned men with heads full of metaphysicks and moral and political theories, who fancy they have but to lecture on forms of government to have their views adopted; and in the mass of the people there is a great deal of intelligence sparkling through a dense cloud of ignorance and bigotry; but vanity is the besetting sin of all Spaniards; they cannot bring themselves to think they are behind the rest of Europe; and consequently they do not see that the more liberal institutions of other countries have followed, and not preceded, the “march of intellect.”

The various Constitution builders, who, set after set, have succeeded to the direction of affairs, in this luckless country, have invariably found themselves in the situation of a man who, having pulled down his old house to erect another on the spot, after the model of one he had read of, discovered, that though slate, bricks, and mortar, were all at hand, he could not meet with workmen who understood his plan, so as to put his projected structure together; and thus he was driven to seek shelter in an outhouse.

But, besides the absolute want of knowledge of the world that all the ministers of Spain have evinced, from Manuel Godoy to the present day, there is yet another want that has been almost equally conspicuous during the same period—namely, the want of honesty. One of the best patriots that the country has produced, since the light of liberalism first broke upon it, declared that this want was the source of all Spain’s misfortunes.—“Somos todos corrompidos”[26] was his painful confession; and without going to the full extent of that assertion, it seems more than probable this rottenness at the core will not be cured, until Spain produces some great tyrant like Napoleon.

A Despot, though not over-scrupulous himself, generally makes his subordinates honest;[27] but I doubt the possibility of any set of men, who have been brought up on plunder, divesting themselves of the habit of self-appropriation when possessed of the distribution of the loaves and fishes.

I must no longer, however, delay taking my departure from Gibraltar, or the gates of the fortress will be closed upon me for the night, and frustrate my intention of sleeping at San Roque.

CHAPTER II.

SAN ROQUE—SINGULAR TITLE OF “THE CITY AUTHORITIES”—SITUATION—CLIMATE—THE LATE SIR GEORGE DON, LIEUTENANT GOVERNOR OF GIBRALTAR—ANECDOTE ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE CHARACTER OF THE SPANISH GOVERNMENT—SOCIETY OF SPAIN—THE TERTULIA—THE VARIOUS CIRCLES OF SPANISH SOCIETY TESTED BY SMOKING—ERRONEOUS NOTIONS OF ENGLISH LIBERTY AND RELIGION—STARTLING LENTAL CEREMONIES.

SAN ROQUE is the nearest town to the British fortress, and distant from it about six English miles. A mere village at the period of the last siege of Gibraltar, it has gradually increased, so as at the present day to cover a considerable extent of ground, and to contain a population of upwards of six thousand souls. The title of City has even been vicariously bestowed upon it; all public acts, &c., emanating from its different authorities, being headed in the following singular manner,—“The President and Individuals of the Board of health of the City of Gibraltar, which, from the material loss of that place, is established in this of San Roque within its territory, &c.”[28]

The Corregidor, Alcalde, and other authorities, are also designated as of Gibraltar, and not of San Roque.

The town is pleasantly situated on an isolated knoll, the houses entirely covering its summit, and extending some way down its Northern and Western slopes; but towards Gibraltar and to the East, the ground falls very abruptly, so as to form a natural boundary to the town.

Though quite unsheltered by trees, and consequently exposed to the full power of the sun, San Roque possesses great advantages over Gibraltar in point of climate; for, whilst its elevation above all the ground in the immediate vicinity secures to it a freer circulation of air than is enjoyed by the pent-up fortress, it is sheltered from the damp and blighting levant wind that blows down the Mediterranean, by a low mountain range, known as the Sierra Carbonera, or Queen of Spain’s Chair, which is distant about a mile from the town, and stretches in a North and South direction, between it and the sea.

The baneful Khamseen of the desert is not more dreaded by the nomad Arab, than is this pestiferous wind by the desk-bound inhabitant of the Fortress. No sooner does it set in, than a dense cloud gathers round the isolated mountain, and, clinging with mischievous pertinacity to its rugged peaks, involves the Town in a damp, unwholesome atmosphere during the whole period of its continuance. At the same time, the breeze, repelled by the precipitous cliff that bounds the rock to the Eastward, sweeps in furious blasts round both its flanks, driving clouds of sand, flies, and blue devils into every dwelling, and Rheumatism, Asthma, and Lumbago, into the bones, chests, and backs, of their inmates.

San Roque, being free from this intolerable nuisance, is looked upon as a sort of Montpelier by the Gibraltarians, and, at the period of which I write, was very much resorted to by the mercantile classes, who fitted up comfortable “boxes” there, that afforded them an agreeable retreat after their daily labours at the desk were concluded.

The late Sir George Don, whilst Lieut. Governor of the Fortress, invariably passed several months of the year at San Roque; and his noble hospitality, his ever open purse, and constant employment of the poor in works of utility, secured to him the love and respect of all classes of its inhabitants. Indeed, such was the gallant Veteran’s influence in the place, that I may literally say, not a stone could be turned nor a tree planted without “His Excellency’s” being first consulted as to the propriety of the measure.

My duty requiring me to be in frequent attendance upon the Lieut. Governor, I generally made one of Sir George’s party, whenever he fixed his Head-quarters at San Roque; and on one of these occasions a circumstance occurred that throws such a light upon the extraordinary character of the Spanish Government, that I am tempted to relate it before proceeding further.

I was seated one morning tête-à-tête with the General, waiting the arrival of the Messenger with letters, &c. from the Fortress, when we observed a guard of Spanish soldiers pass by the window, headed by an officer on horseback, and having a prisoner in charge; and to our astonishment they stopped at the General’s door. We were waiting with some little curiosity to learn the cause of this extraordinary visit, and were lost in conjectures as to whom the delinquent could be, when the door of the apartment was thrown open, and in rushed the prisoner himself, exclaiming with great excitement and the volubility of his nation—“General, you doubtless know me—I am Prince Napoleon Lucien Murat—I throw myself upon and claim your protection—I have been entrapped by the vile Spanish government” (this was soon after the restoration of the “inclito” Ferdinand). “Invited by the Commandant of San Roque to pay him a visit, I was seduced to leave Gibraltar, and on arriving at the Spanish lines was seized upon and hurried off under an escort, to be imprisoned at Algeciras, where I should have been murdered, but that fortunately I succeeded in persuading the officer charged with my safeguard to pass through San Roque on his way and allow me to speak to you. He unwittingly acceded to my request, and I now place myself under the protection of the British flag.”

“Monsieur,” replied the General, with no slight astonishment, “this is indeed a very extraordinary, and apparently most unjustifiable proceeding; but I am sorry to inform you that I can afford you no protection. The British flag does not fly at San Roque; and I myself reside here only by permission of the Spanish government. My good offices,—as far as they can be of service in liberating you,—shall not be wanting; but, in the mean time, pray let me hear further particulars of this plot against your liberty; and Scott,”—turning to me—“have the goodness to go to the Spanish Commandant, and request he will favour me with a few minutes’ conversation.”

I proceeded as directed to the quarters of the Colonel of the Regiment of Granada, which at that time formed the garrison of San Roque, and was ushered in to the Commandant, whom I found at his toilet, and not a little surprised at my early visit.

Now Don Alonzo del Pulgar Apugal—for such were the Colonel’s patronymics—was the least likely man in the world to be employed in a case of abduction. He was a soft, open-hearted, honeycomb-headed, fat, good-natured man, of about five and forty, without two military ideas, and not half a dozen on any other subject. What little knowledge he did possess, was of dogs, guns, charges, and wadding. But, at the same time, I knew the Don to be a gentleman, and incapable of acting the part with which he was charged. When, therefore, I explained the circumstances that had led to my waiting upon him, ere his unnameables were yet finally braced round his portly person, he was most excessively astonished, and repelled with indignant warmth the vile accusation of being the abbettor—indeed, the principal mover—in the infamous plot that had placed Prince Lucien’s body at the tender mercies of six Spanish bayonets, and his neck in jeopardy of the garrote[29]—“Valgame Dios!” he at length exclaimed, “surely the poor young man cannot have deceived himself by taking al pié de la letra, our usual Spanish compliment;—for now I recollect, when he was introduced to me at the dog-meeting” (he meant at the fox-hunt) “some time back, we had some conversation about shooting, and I said my dogs and guns were at his disposition[30] whenever he wished for a day’s sport.—Pobrecito!—it is possible I may thus unconsciously have been the cause of this unfortunate affair.”

Such, however, did not turn out to be the case, for the Prince had presented himself at the Spanish lines, provided with both dogs and gun, and accompanied by a sportsman to show him the country.

The kind-hearted Colonel hurried down to Sir George, buckling his sword on as he went, and was immediately on his arrival taken into a private room to consult as to what could be done in the business, as well as to hear the officer of the escort’s edition of the story. Mons. Murat meanwhile remained in the study with one of the general’s Aides de Camp (my friend Budgen of the Royal Engineers) and myself, and to us, who were yet unacquainted with the heinous nature of the crime of which he was accused by the Spanish government, appeared to be most unnecessarily alarmed, and to rely but little on the friendly interference of Sir George; on which indeed he had as little claim as upon the protection of the British flag, beyond the jurisdiction of which he had voluntarily placed himself:—for, considering perhaps that such a step would have been beneath his dignity as an ex-prince of the Two Sicilies, he had neglected to pay the customary compliment of calling upon the Governor on arriving at the Fortress, and was consequently unknown.

After sundry exclamations of regret at having suffered himself to be made a prisoner without a struggle, he asked if there was a door of communication with the street running at the back of the house; and, on my replying in the affirmative, he proposed that I should lend him my military frock coat, and ask an English officer who had accompanied him and remained outside to meet him there with his horse—“alors”—said he—the reckless valour of the father showing itself—“avec le sabre de Tupper[31] je m’en—de ces laches d’Espagnols.” This of course was out of the question; as however unfairly he might have been kidnapped—and of which we had yet to be convinced—it was clear that Sir George’s honour, on the faith of which he had been permitted to enter and remain in the house, would have been compromised by our connivance at his escape from it.

We did all we could to quiet his apprehensions until the return of Sir George, who informed him that it appeared from the statement of the officer of the escort, that orders had been received from the general officer commanding at Algeciras to arrest him, should he, on any pretence, again pass the limits of the British garrison.

The kind-hearted old General expressed the utmost regret at his having been so imprudent as to trust himself a second time in Spain (for only a month before he had been conducted to Gibraltar under an escort from Malaga)—and hoping that his own consciousness of innocence would relieve him from any fear as to the result of the affair, gave him a letter to General José O’Donnell, who commanded in the Campo de Gibraltar; in which letter he requested, as a favour to himself, that every respect and attention might be paid to the young Frenchman:—a favour he had every right to ask, from one who had received so many more important ones at his hands.—

General O’Donnell, in his reply, stated that he had but acted in conformity with instructions received from Madrid—that Monsieur Murat had some months previously landed at Malaga from a vessel which, when on its passage with him to America, had been obliged to put into that port to repair some slight damage experienced in a gale of wind—that, during his stay there, he had publicly expressed his hostility to the king’s government, and, instead of proceeding to his destination when the vessel again put to sea, he had appeared rather disposed to establish himself in that (not over-loyal) city.—The Spanish government viewed these circumstances with a very suspicious eye; particularly as his elder brother had, but a few years before, been one of the aspirans to the constitutional crown of Spain;—and he had consequently been sent with a guard of honour to Gibraltar, from whence opportunities for America are more frequent than from Malaga.

In compliance with Sir George Don’s request, General O’Donnell promised that every attention should be paid to the youth’s comfort, consistent with his safe custody, until instructions as to his disposal should be received from the capital.

The cause of the violent proceedings adopted by the Spanish government turned out eventually to be, that this scion of Despotism had sung Riego’s hymn all the way from Malaga to Gibraltar; some of his guard of honour even joining in chorus! and that at Estepona he had, through the influence of a colonato,[32] persuaded an old barber who had shaved him—he being the ex-trumpeter of the Nacionales—to play the forbidden tune to the astonished fishermen of the place!

The sequel of this state affair was, that Monsieur Murat remained in durance at Algeciras, until a vessel bound to the United States offered him the means of crossing the Atlantic.

I used to find that an occasional visit to San Roque made a very agreeable break in the monotony of a garrison life; for what place, let its attractions be ever so great, does not become dull when one is per forza obliged to make it a residence? Even London, Paris, or Vienna, would not stand the test.

The society of San Roque was not of a very exclusive kind; for but little of the sangre azul[33] of Spain flowed in the veins of its inhabitants. Nevertheless, there, as elsewhere, some families were to be met with who looked upon themselves as of a superior order to the rest of the community; condescending, however, to mix with them on the most friendly footing at their nightly Tertulia. This is a kind of “at home,” announced to be held sometimes once or twice a week, sometimes nightly, at the houses of the leading families of a town; the reunion taking place after the theatre—should there be one.[34]

In large towns it frequently happens that several houses are open to receive company on the same night. But, although it is considered rather a slight to neglect showing yourself at those to which you have the entrée, it is by no means necessary to do more than that; it being optional with you to pass the evening at whichever house you find most attractive, after going the round of all. Even the ladies who open their houses for Tertulias consider it necessary to send some of the members of their family to the rival assemblies; always with a message of regret at not being able to go themselves, their own party being so very crowded that they could not possibly absent themselves from it, without giving offence to their numerous guests.

It must be confessed that the Tertulia is a very agreeable mode of associating; that it offers great variety, without being attended with the least formality, and entails but slight expense on the entertainers; iced water and sospiros[35] being, excepting on gala nights, the only refreshment offered to the company.

There is very little difference observable in the various grades of Spanish society. The same incessant loud talking amongst the females distinguishes the whole; dancing, singing, cards, and games of forfeits, are the amusements of all. Even dress, until of late years, did not furnish a distinction, excepting, in a slight degree, by the costliness of the materials.

But French taste, with its monstrous and ever-varying eccentricities, has corrupted that of the upper ranks of Spain, and occasioned the graceful and becoming national costume to be in a great measure laid aside.

The great distinction that marks the various grades of Spanish society, is the latitude given to smoking. In the first circles, it is altogether prohibited. In the second, it is confined to a back room, or suffered in the patio.[36] In all others it is freely permitted.

It is a positive libel on the ladies of Spain to say that they smoke under any circumstances; though the disgusting habit prevails amongst the females of Mexico and other transatlantic states that formerly were included in the empire of both worlds.

A good letter of introduction insures a foreigner admission into the best Spanish society. He is taken the round of all the tertulias, and, on receiving from the lady of any house the assurance that it is at his disposition, may present himself there as often as he pleases. Should this form be withheld, he may take it for granted—despite the whisperings of self-love—that his future attendance is not wished for.

The need of some little acquaintance with the Spanish language caused but few English officers to enter into the society of San Roque; but living there as much as I did, and being often placed in communication with the authorities, I derived from it a source of great amusement. Indeed, to Lady Viale[37] and her amiable family I am indebted for many agreeable evenings; her house uniting the pleasing informality of Spanish with the solid hospitality (I use the term in our eating and drinking sense of it) of English society.

It would be an error to depict the manners and customs of the inhabitants of San Roque, as those of the natives of Andalusia generally; since, in their various pursuits, the former are so frequently thrown in contact with Englishmen and other foreigners settled at Gibraltar, that they cannot but have acquired some of their habits, and imbibed some of their ideas. Nevertheless, there is a self-conceit about all Spaniards, that makes them particularly slow in throwing off their nationality; and the difference is consequently not so great as might naturally be expected. A proof of this is afforded by the circumstance of the English language not being spoken, nor even understood, by fifty of the inhabitants of San Roque; although it is evidently so much their interest to acquire it.

Their intercourse, on the other hand, (and this is observable in all the sea-port towns of Spain) has given them strangely ill defined notions of English liberty, and equally extraordinary opinions of our religious tenets; and has filled their minds with highly constitutional ideas of the iniquity of taxation, and most conscientious scruples as to the propriety of supporting a national church. I fear, indeed, that deistical, nay I believe I should say Atheistical, opinions prevail to a great extent amongst the upper orders of Spaniards, though they still continue to observe—if not the penances—all the superstitious ceremonies and absurd fooleries of the Romish church.

One of their extraordinary lental ceremonies I became acquainted with under very alarming circumstances. I was awaked one fine April morning, during one of my earliest visits to San Roque, by a most furious fusillade, which, considering the unsettled state of Spain at that particular juncture, I naturally enough concluded was occasioned by some popular commotion. The appearance of my servant in answer to a hasty summons of the bell immediately quieted my apprehensions on that score, however; the broad grin that distended his round Kentish countenance plainly bespeaking the absence of all danger;—though what occasioned his unwonted merriment puzzled me to divine. In reply to my inquiries touching the firing, the only answer I could obtain was, “They’re a shooting of Hoodah.”—“And who the deuce is Hoodah?” said I, “and what has he been about?”—But on these points he was quite as ignorant as myself; so dressing with all possible despatch—the astounding rolls of musketry, and as it appeared to me of field artillery also, continuing the whole time I was so occupied, seeming indeed to spread to all parts of the town—I issued forth, armed up to the teeth, and on turning the corner of the street saw, to my horror, a human figure suspended in the air, and reduced almost to a bundle of rags by the incessant firing of—as I supposed—a party of soldiers posted in a cross street.

This surely is “making assurance doubly sure,” thought I. Why the poor devil can’t have an inch of sound flesh in his body after all this peppering. The bang, bang continued incessantly, however, accompanied by roars of laughter, until at length the ill-fated Hoodah was in a blaze. A crowd of men and boys, armed with guns, pistols, and blunderbusses, now rushed from the cross street, (where they had been concealed from my view) rending the air with vivas. At this same moment a loud peal of music burst upon me from a neighbouring church, and from its portal issued a long train of priests preceded by the Host. With these came the recollections of its being Easter Sunday, and of the guttural pronunciation of the Spanish J; and quite ashamed of my war-like demonstration, I retreated to my house yet quicker than I had issued from it.

The distant firing continued some time longer; and I afterwards learnt that the effigies of no less than seven Judases had that morning been severally hanged, shot, and burnt, to satisfy the holy rage of the devout inhabitants of San Roque.

CHAPTER III.

COUNTRY IN THE VICINITY OF SAN ROQUE—RUINS OF THE ANCIENT CITY OF CARTEIA—FIELD OF BATTLE OF ALPHONSO THE ELEVENTH—JOURNEY TO RONDA—FOREST OF ALMORAIMA—MOUTH OF THE LIONS—FINE SCENERY—TOWN OF GAUCIN—A SPANISH INN—OLD CASTLE AT GAUCIN—INTERIOR OF AN ANDALUSIAN POSADA—SPANISH HUMOUR—MOUNTAIN WINE.

THE country in the immediate vicinity of San Roque is tame and uninteresting; but, within the distance of an hour’s ride, in whatever direction you may turn your horse’s head, it becomes agreeably varied,—presenting wide, cultivated valleys, shady forests of cork, oak, and pine, and wild and cragged mountains.

In the neighbourhood are many objects well deserving the attention of the antiquary; amongst others, the ruins of the ancient city of Carteia, situated on the sea-shore, within the bay of Gibraltar, and near the mouth of the River Guadaranque. The walls may be traced very distinctly; they enclose an amphitheatre, in a tolerable state of preservation, reliques of baths and other edifices, and the remains of a small temple of Corinthian architecture and most exquisite and elaborate workmanship.

This last has only recently been discovered. It was built of beautiful white marble, and its columns, though lying prostrate, appeared to have suffered little by their fall; but such is the want of antiquarian taste in the Spaniards of the present day, that it is to be feared this fine specimen of the arts has already disappeared, and is now only to be met with in detached blocks, scattered throughout the neighbouring farm-houses and walls.

The learned Mr. Francis Carter, whose interesting “Journey from Gibraltar to Malaga” has, it is much to be regretted, been long out of print, states, that Carteia was built on the ruins of a “most antique” city called Tartessus, or Tarsis, from whence, “once in three years,” the fleets of King Solomon “brought gold and silver, ivory and apes and peacocks.”[38] The Greeks afterwards called this city Heraclea,[39] and in yet more recent times it received the name of Carteia.

The Carthagenians (on the authority of Justin) made themselves masters of this place, about 280 years B.C., and retained possession of it until they were finally expelled from Spain by Scipio Africanus, B.C. 203. It was one of the cities most devoted to the cause of the Pompeys, and that to which Cneus fled for refuge after his defeat at Munda. On the margin of the River Guadaranque, at a short distance from the walls of the city, may be seen some remnants of its ancient quays, and about a mile higher up the stream, other vestiges of antiquity present themselves, which are supposed to be the remains of a Dock or Arsenal. They consist of several moles constructed of stone and brick intermixed, and held together by a very durable cement.

The Guadaranque (River of Mares) discharges itself into the bay of Gibraltar, three miles N.W. of the fortress; and some distance further to the westward, the Palmones, another mountain stream, also empties itself into the bay. In the bed of this latter river may be seen the piers of a ruined bridge, said to be a work of the Romans. It is evident from these remains, that a great change has taken place in the character of the two rivers: since the first can now be entered only by boats of the very lightest draught, and the other is fordable immediately above the ruins of the Roman bridge.

The plain between the two rivers is not devoid of interest, being celebrated as one of the battle fields of the heroic Alphonso XI. (A.D. 1333) whose exploits, independent of his having been the most chivalric monarch of the Castillian race, are particularly interesting to Englishmen, from the circumstance of many of our countrymen having fought under his banner against the Moslems, and particularly at the siege of Algeciras: which place, notwithstanding the destructive weapons[40] there for the first time employed against the Christian army, was captured after a twenty months’ siege, and in spite of the repeated attempts of the allied kings of Granada and Gibraltar to relieve it, A.D. 1344. In these various endeavours to raise the siege, the plain extending between the Guadaranque and Palmones again became the scene of fierce contention; of which a most interesting account will be found in Villasan’s Chronicles of Alphonso XI.

Numerous other points in the neighbourhood of San Roque are equally worthy of observation; but these I shall not detain my reader longer to particularise, as other opportunities will present themselves for doing so more conveniently, in the course of our travels; it being my purpose to make San Roque a kind of “base of operations,” upon which I shall from time to time retire, for a fresh supply of notes and sketches. I shall now therefore direct my steps due north, through the lonely and almost boundless forest of Almoraima, towards Ximena.

The forest consists principally of cork, oak, and ilex; but, in the marshy parts of it, (called sotos,) ash, willow, and other trees to which such localities are favourable, grow very luxuriantly.

The owner of this vast domain is the Marquis of Moscoso,—who derives from it a revenue totally disproportioned to its value and extent; and what little he does get, he squanders nightly at the gaming-table. The principal source of revenue arises from the numerous herds of swine and other cattle, that are driven from all parts of the country to feed upon the acorns, herbage, and underwood, scattered throughout the forest; the fine, well grown trees with which it abounds being turned to no better account than to furnish bark and charcoal.

This is entirely owing to the want of means of conveying the timber to a market; for not even to Gibraltar—in which direction the country is level—is there a road capable of bearing the draught of heavy weights. Of course the ruinous passion that swallows up all the proprietor’s resources prevents any attempt at improvement in the management of the estate; and thus, whilst huge trees, stript of their bark, lie rotting in some parts of the forest, in others, the underwood is set on fire by the peasantry—to the great detriment of the larger trees—to improve the pasture for their cattle.

The ride through the forest is delightful, even in the most sultry season, the wide-spreading branches of the gnarled cork-trees screening the narrow paths most effectually from the sun’s rays. The gurgle of the tortuous Guadaranque,—which, escaped from the mountain ravines that encircle its sources, here wends its way more leisurely to the sea,—may be heard distinctly on the left, and now and then a glimpse may even be caught of its dark blue stream, winding under a perfect arbour of woodbine, clematis, and other creepers, and spanned here and there by a rustic bridge. The single stem of a tree of which these bridges usually consist is readily enough crossed by the practised feet and heads of the swineherds and foresters; but to strangers unskilled in the art of slack rope dancing, the passage of the stream, like that of the bridge leading to the Mohammedan’s paradise, is a feat of no very easy achievement.

Occasionally, wide, open glades, carpeted with a rich greensward, present themselves in the very heart of the forest, to diversify the scenery—giving it quite the character of an English park; and from these breaks in the wood a view may generally be obtained of the far-distant towers of Castellar; the mountain fortress of the master of this princely domain, now inhabited by his Administrador, or Agent, his gamekeepers, and other dependents.

The forest abounds in deer, wild boars, and wolves; but, excepting the first named, these animals seldom venture to descend into the level parts of the forest in open day, but confine themselves to the thickly wooded glens, that furrow the mountain range bordering the right bank of the Guadaranque.

Permission to shoot in the forest is never refused to the British officers and inhabitants of Gibraltar. Indeed, excepting for the caza mayor,[41] the ceremony of asking leave is not considered necessary; and in the winter season the sotos afford good sport, woodcocks, ducks, and snipes, being very plentiful.

Turning now away from the Guadaranque, and leaving a spacious convent that gives its name to the forest, about half a mile on the left, the road inclines to the eastward, and soon reaches a large solitary building, the Venta del Aqua del Quejigo, but known more commonly amongst the English by the name of the Long Stables, and distinguished as the scene of many a festive meeting, and many a bacchanalian orgie, being a favourite place of rendezvous for a Batida.[42] My head aches at the very recollection of the nights passed within its walls. We will therefore pass on, and again plunge into the forest.

After proceeding about a mile, the road divides into two branches. That on the right hand is the most direct way to Gaucin, whither I am bending my steps; but the other, though little known, is the best, and offers more attractions to the lover of the picturesque. I will therefore take it, in the present instance, and advise all who may follow in my wake to do the like.

Continuing two miles further through the impervious forest, the road at length arrives at the brink of a deep ravine on the right, when a lovely view breaks upon the traveller, looking over a rich valley watered by the river Sogarganta, and towards the mountain fortress of Casares and lofty Sierra Bermeja. The road, hemmed in by steep banks, and still overshadowed by the forest, descends rather rapidly towards the before named river; and this narrow pass, being the only outlet from the forest in this direction, has, from its celebrity in days past as a place of danger, received the name of the Boca de Leones—mouth of the lions.

On emerging from the pass, a wide and carefully cultivated valley presents itself. The river which fertilizes it, here makes a considerable elbow; the chain of hills clothed by the Almoraima forest checking its southerly course, and directing it nearly due east towards the Mediterranean. To the north, the valley extends nearly ten miles, appearing to be closed by a conical mound that is crowned by the old castle of Ximena; the town itself being piled up on its eastern side.

The road to that place (eight miles) keeps along the right bank of the Sogarganta, which winds gracefully through the wide, flat-bottomed valley; but the track to Gaucin crosses by a ford to the opposite side of the stream, and, after advancing about four miles, inclines to the right, traverses a low range of hills, and comes down upon the river Guadiaro. This is crossed by means of a ferryboat, and leaving its bank, and proceeding in a northerly direction, the road passes over a gently undulated country for several miles, and then begins to ascend a high wooded ridge on the right hand.

The ascent is long and tortuous, but tolerably easy, and the view, looking towards Ximena (distant about five miles) is very grand and imposing. The castellated crag, so proudly conspicuous an hour before, is now, however, shorn of all its importance; the superior elevation of the point from whence it is viewed, as well as the magnificence of the mountains that rise to the westward of Ximena—which now first burst upon the sight—making it appear but a pebble at their feet.

But scenery of a more varied and yet more magnificent kind awaits the traveller, at the pass by which the road traverses the ridge that he has now been nearly an hour ascending.

The lovely valley of the Genal[43] is there spread out to his enraptured gaze. On the left, embosomed in groves of orange, citron, and pomegranate trees, and shadowed with clustering vines, stands the picturesque town of Gaucin,—its boldly outlined castle perched on the crest of a rough ledge of rock that rises abruptly behind.

Stretching some way down the eastern side of the cragged mound, the advanced battlements of the Moorish stronghold terminate at the brink of a frightful precipice, which not only forbids all approach to the town in that direction, but threatens even some day to close up the narrow valley it overhangs.

Of the little stream that flows in the deep and thickly wooded ravine, an occasional glimpse only can be caught, as it turns coquettishly from side to side; but its general direction is marked by a succession of water-mills, as well as by a belt of orange and lemon groves, whose dark green foliage is easily distinguished from, and offers a pleasing variety to, the more brilliant tints of the surrounding forest. Beyond, however, where the valley becomes wider and more open, the stream may be distinctly traced lingering over its pebbly bed, and finally forming its junction with the Guadiaro.

The steep but graceful slopes of the mountain ridge that bounds the valley to the east are thickly clothed with cork, oak, chesnut, and ilex; whilst the rugged peaks of the Sierra Cristellina, in which it terminates towards Gibraltar, rise so precipitously as seemingly to defy even a goat to find footing. Over this chain may be seen the distant Sierra Bermeja, celebrated in Spanish history as the last refuge of the persecuted Moslems, and the eastern roots of which are washed by the Mediterranean.

Half an hour’s ride brings the traveller from the pass to Gaucin,—the descent being but short, and very gradual. Gaucin is a long straggling town, of semi-circular form, and is built partly under the rocky eminence occupied by the castle, partly on the southern slope of a narrow gorge that connects this stronghold with the more elevated Sierra del Hacho. The principal street, which traverses the place from west to east, is wider than most one is accustomed to see in old Moorish towns, and cleaner than any I have met with in modern Spanish cities. But nature has all the merit of endowing it with the latter virtue; having supplied it with copious springs, which, in their downward course, carry off all the usual impurities of Andalusian streets. The houses, though not good, are clean, and are decorated with a profusion of flowers of all sorts, that give out a delicious perfume; and in various parts of the town, a vine-clung trelliswork of canes is carried quite across the street, affording at the same time an agreeable shade and a pleasing vista. The first impression made by the town is therefore decidedly favourable.

We—(I ought by the way to have stated before now, that the party with which I travelled on this occasion consisted of four)—we therefore, I repeat, had to traverse the town from one end to the other, to arrive at the posada; which was indicated only by the short, inorthographical, but otherwise satisfactory and invigorating announcement, painted in large black letters on the whitewashed wall of the building—“Aqui se bende vuen bino.”[44]

A cockney could not have managed to make more mistakes between his v’s and w’s, than our Andaluz Posadero[45] had succeeded in compressing into this pithy advertisement;—hoping, however, that he held his plighted word in greater respect than the rules of Castillian grammar,[46] we spurred our horses through the half-opened porte cochère, and, à l’Espagnole, rode at once into the principal apartment of the hostelry.

The interior was far from giving the same cheering assurance that good entertainment was to be had for money, as was announced externally of the sale of good wine. I was as yet (I speak of my first visit to Gaucin) but a novice in Spanish travelling, and thought I had never seen a more wretched, uncomfortable, and in every way unpromising, place. But the day was already far spent, and the chance of our finding better accommodation by proceeding further on our journey was against us;—moreover, we had been assured (which by experience I afterwards learnt to be the case) that this was the only Parador fit for Caballeros between San Roque and Ronda.

It consisted of one long, windowless apartment, that from the number and variety of its inmates gave no bad idea of Noah’s ark. Three fourths of the dark smoky space served as a stable, wherein four rows of quadrupeds were compactly tethered; and, impatient for their evening meal, were neighing, braying, and bleating, with all the powers of their respective lungs. Amidst the filth and litter that covered the pavement, lay numberless pigs of all sizes, and every condition of life; some squeaking for mere squeaking’s sake, others grunting in all the discomfort of repletion. On the rafters overhead some scores of gallinaceous animals had congregated for the night; adding, nevertheless, their quota of noise to that of the lower region, whenever one of their number was abducted from the roost, to be hurried out of its peaceful existence, into a greasy olla. The remaining portion of the apartment served both as a refectory and a dormitory for the arrieros,—owners of the tethered quadrupeds—and also as a kitchen, where their various odoriferous suppers were preparing.

The mistress of the mansion—as wrinkle-visaged an old harridan as ever tossed off a bumper of aguadiente—assisted by her two daughters, was busily employed, plucking, drawing, dissecting, and otherwise preparing, divers rabbits, chickens, and other animals, to satisfy the craving appetites of her numerous guests; and cats innumerable were in close attendance, clawing and squabbling for the offal, which, to save all further trouble, was thrown to them on the floor.

The prospect was any thing but inviting; but, as I have said before, there was no alternative;—so, begging the Posadera to draw near, we requested she would inform us whether we could be accommodated with a lodging for the night. Having deliberately scanned the party, and ascertained to her satisfaction that it consisted entirely of Englishmen,—whose pockets Spaniards are apt to consider as inexhaustible as the mines of Mexico and Peru,—the old beldame, oiling her iron features into a species of smile, assured us we could be lodged con toda comodidad;[47] and screeching to her daughter Mariquita, she desired her to hand over the rabbit she was skinning to her hermanita[48] Frasquita, and show the Caballeros[49] to the Sala.[50]

Mariquita led us forthwith up a narrow rickety staircase, which, situated in a dark corner of the room, had escaped our observation; and into a small room, or rather loft, where she assured us we should be very quiet and comfortable; adding that it was always reserved for gente de pelo[51] like ourselves.

The only comfort apparent was the undisturbed possession of a space twelve feet square, enclosed by four bare walls: for of bedding or furniture of any sort it was quite destitute. We submitted with as good a grace as possible, but, after some persuasion, succeeded in procuring four mattresses to spread on the clay floor; as many pairs of clean sheets and pillows; and some pie-dishes to serve as wash-hand basins. We then descended, to have some further conversation with our hostess concerning supper.

The landlady’s reply to our first question, “what can we have?” was gratifying in the extreme—viz. “lo que ustedes gusten”—“just what you please.” But, discovering by our next, more explicit demand, “what can you give us?” that we depended upon the resources of the posada for our evening meal, her astonishment knew no bounds, and her doubts of the Potosi state of our purses became very evident. Leaving, therefore, the delicate affair to be explained and settled by one of our servants, who, being an old traveller, understood how to negociate these matters, we proceeded to examine the ruined castle, ere the sun had sunk below the horizon.

A rugged zig-zag pathway—along which, at stated intervals, are represented the various sufferings and indignities endured by our Saviour on his way to Mount Calvary—leads to the summit of the rocky ledge. The fortress that crowns it must, in the days of the Moors, have possessed great military importance, as it completely commands the valley, and consequently all the roads leading through it, towards the coast. It is now merely a picturesque ruin; its Artillery being dismounted, its wells choked up, and its battlements overgrown with ivy. A chapel dedicated to the Niño Dios[52] is apparently the only thing within its precincts deemed worthy of preservation.

The view from this spot is very extensive and beautiful, but hardly so fine as one (which will be hereafter noticed) that presents itself some miles higher up the valley, when the castle itself becomes one of the principal features of the landscape, whilst the distant scenery remains the same.

Returning to the Posada, we lighted our cigars; and, feeling sensibly the change in the temperature of this elevated region, we joined the natives assembled round the fireplace, who, with the courtesy natural to all Spaniards, immediately rose and offered us the seats of honour.

The portion of the apartment allotted to the human kind had now become crowded with persons of all sorts and conditions; for the animals being peacefully engaged at their evening repast, their owners thought it time to be looking after their’s. Some, indeed, had already satisfied the cravings of nature from their own wallets and pig-skins, and, taking time by the forelock, were stretched full length on the floor; their Mantas and Capas serving them for mattresses and coverlets, their saddles and alforjas for bolsters and pillows. Others, seated on low stools composed of junks of cork, had resolved themselves into committees, to discuss the merits of a Gazpacho caliente,[53] or direct their inquiries into the hidden treasures of a savoury olla. Some were assisting the hostess and her somewhat pretty daughters, in their culinary operations; and many were assembled round the wide chimney piece, drinking, smoking, manufacturing papelitos for the morrow’s consumption, and relating their adventures.

Here also were seated several of the village magnates, who repair nightly to this convenient rendezvous, as well to indulge a natural propensity to gossip, as to hear the news from La Plaza, and negotiate with the arrieros for their contraband cottons and tobacco.

The whole presented an interior quite suited to the pencil of a Teniers. A bright wood fire sparkled on the wide hearth, shedding a brilliant red light upon the group of animated figures assembled in its immediate vicinity, and here and there also picking out some conspicuous figure from the more distant parties. The back ground was in deep Murillo shade, excepting on one side; where the flickering flame of a solitary lamp, contrasting its pale light with that of the fire, cast a yellow tinge on the squalid features of the hostess and her helpmates, round whom the eyes of some dozen of cats danced like monster fireflies. A well polished batterie de cuisine; sides of bacon; ropes of onions; platters; goblets and tobacco smoke, were not wanting to fill up the picture. But it was perfect without the aid of such accessories; the spirit and expression of each actor in the Spanish scene, and the diversity of costume, giving it a decided superiority over a picture of the “Flemish School;” in which foaming pots of beer, and a melting frau, must needs be introduced, to extract animation from the stolid features of the assembled boors.

The lower order of Spaniards have a great deal of racy humour which renders them admirable raconteurs. The arrieros assembled round the fire on the present occasion were relating some story of the barbarous treatment received by a good Capuchin friar, at the hands of some wicked ladrones,[54] who, finding he possessed nothing worth being plundered of, had bastinadoed his feet until he could not walk, tied his hands together, enveloped him in a goat skin, fastened a pair of ram’s horns on his head, a bell to his rosary, and suspending that from his neck, had left him to crawl as he best could, to the nearest village.

This tale, though not addressed to him, was evidently intended for the ears of a monk of the same mendicant order, who, pale and trembling, sat in one corner of the chimney place, listening, with open-mouthed attention, to every word the arrieros said; at the same time counting his beads without intermission, and crossing himself devoutly at the relation of each fresh act of barbarity practised on his unfortunate brother.

From the significant glances that from time to time passed between the narrators,—for several of the assembled group came forward to vouch for the truth of the story,—and latterly between them and ourselves, when they saw we were aware of the drift of their joke; it was evidently all fiction; but the tale was told with such minute details, and its veracity maintained by so many asseverations, that any one, not seeing the by-play, might easily, like the unhappy monk, have been made the victim of the hoax.

“Caramba!” at length exclaimed the Alcalde mayor[55] of Gaucin, who occupied one corner of the fireplace—“Caramba! this is a strange story! and it is most extraordinary, that in my official capacity”—this was said with a certain magisterial air—“I should not have been made acquainted with it. Pray tell me; when did this happen? and what became of the pious man?”—“With respect to the time,” said another muleteer, taking up the story, “I cannot precisely inform you; but that matters little; be satisfied that, in the narration of the story, no se salga un punto de la verdad.[56] As for the friar, he crawled to the nearest village, driving before him all the cattle he encountered on the road, like mad things—asses braying—dogs barking; and cows with their tails in the air as erect as palm trees. The inhabitants took the alarm; and, snatching up their niños and rosarios, scampered off without listening to what the Padre was crying:—indeed the louder he hallooed to them to stop, the faster they ran; for they all thought it was the devil that was at their heels.”—“And I believe think so to this day,” joined in another arriero, taking his cigar from his mouth, and rolling forth a long cloud of smoke—“for at last, the village priest, seizing upon a crucifix in one hand, and an escopeta[57] in the other, and repeating a heap of Ave Marias, Pater nostres, and credos, went out to meet the beast. On getting within gunshot, he presented the escopeta (for I saw it myself, though he said afterwards it was the crucifix,) upon which the figure fell prostrate on the ground. So then the Cura went up to it, and, after a few minutes, beckoned the people forward, and told them how he had cast a devil out of a good Capuchin, and showed the skin and horns he had kept as trophies. The skin was cut up and sold to the bystanders for charms against the evil one; and the friar was placed on an ass, and conveyed to the Cura’s dwelling, where he remained until his feet were healed. He then returned to his convent, telling every body that he had been assailed by devils in the form of contrabandistas, and that a miracle had been wrought in his favour.”

Here all crossed themselves—arrieros inclusive.

Others of the muleteers were bandying compliments with the crabbed old landlady; one swearing that her wine was as sweet as her face; another that her breath was more savoury than a chorizo;[58] a third that his chocolate was less clear than her complexion: all which jokes she bore with stoical indifference, returning generally, however, a Rowland for an Oliver.

At length our supper was announced, and we betook ourselves to the loft, where we found four chairs and a low table had been added to the furniture. Our meal consisted of a stewed fowl, that had been pulled down from the roost before our eyes, not an hour before; an omelet abounding in onion and garlic; and, what we found far more palatable, ham and bread and butter, which we had taken care to come provided with.

I must not, however, omit to do justice to the Gaucin wine, which is excellent, and has much the flavour of a sound Niersteiner. The best is grown on the side of the Hacho, or peaked mountain above the town.

All the wine of the Serrania is good, when not flavoured with aniseed; but it must be “drunk on the premises;” for the vile habit of carrying it in pig-skins is sure to give it some bad taste—either of the skin itself, if new, or of its preceding contents, (probably aniseed brandy) if old. I tried in vain to get some pure Guacin wine conveyed to Gibraltar, but it had always a “smack” of the unclean animal’s skin.

CHAPTER IV.

JOURNEY TO RONDA CONTINUED—A WORD ON THE PASSPORT AND BILL OF HEALTH NUISANCES, AND SPANISH CUSTOM-HOUSE OFFICERS—ROMANTIC SCENERY—SPLENDID VIEW—BENADALID—ATAJATE—FIRST VIEW OF THE VALE OF RONDA—A DISSERTATION ON ADVENTURES, TO MAKE UP FOR THEIR ABSENCE—LUDICROUS INSTANCE OF THE EFFECTS OF PUTTING THE CART BEFORE THE HORSE.

“A quien madruga, Dios le ayuda,”[59] is a common Spanish saying; and though our hard beds took off much from the merit of our early rising, it nevertheless brought its reward, by enabling us to witness a sunrise scene of most surpassing beauty.

Partaking of a cup of chocolate,—a breakfast that every Arriero indulges in,—a slice of bread fried in hog’s lard—which is a much better thing, and quite as wholesome, as breakfast bacon—we lit our cigars, paid our bill—a little fortune to the lady of the hostel—and bestrode our horses without more delay.

In this part of Spain passports are not included amongst the drags upon travelling. You should be provided with one, in case of getting into trouble of any kind; but, excepting during the prevalence of the cholera, I never, in any of my numerous peregrinations, was even asked to produce it. I happened at that particular period (1833) to have undertaken the journey from Gibraltar to Madrid. The disease was raging with fatal violence on the banks of the lower Guadalquivir, and, spreading Eastward, had appeared in various towns and villages at the foot of the Serranía de Ronda. At the same time, reports were rife of its existence at Malaga, Estepona, and other places situated on the shores of the Mediterranean. I had therefore to thread my way to Cordoba, (where I hoped to fall in with the diligence from Seville to the capital) through the heart of the Serranía, and was obliged in some cases to avoid particular towns lying in the direct route, because—though no suspicion existed of their being infected with the dreadful disease—they chanced to be within the limits of the kingdom of Seville, which was placed, in toto, under the ban of quarantine.

My passport, or, more properly speaking, my bill of health—for the political importance of the former yielded to the sanatory consequence of its more humble-looking adjunct—was then in great request; the entrance to every little village being interdicted, until the constituted authority had come forward to see that all was right. On one of these occasions, I found a beggar officiating as inspector of health and passports, and I must do him the justice to say, that he performed his duty in the most honourable manner, not asking for “una limosnita par el amor de Dios”[60] until he had carefully examined every part of the lengthy document, and pronounced it to be corriente.[61]

On another occasion, a swineherd was decorated with the yellow cockade and sword of office. In this instance, I thought the bill of the inn at San Roque (which I happened to have in my pocket-book) would answer every purpose, and save time. He examined it most gravely; turned it over and over—for it was rather a long and a very illegible MS.—said it was perfectly correct, (a point on which we differed most materially) and dismissed me with a vaya usted con Dios.[62]

On my present tour, however, we experienced no obstructions of any sort; for custom-house barriers, though now and then met with at the large towns, occasion no longer delay than a turnpike in England, and are as regularly paid; the Aduanero[63] holding out his hand as openly and confidently for the bribe, as the gatekeeper does for his toll.

It is scarcely possible to imagine more romantic and, at the same time, more varied scenery than that which presents itself between Gaucin and Ronda. For the greater part of the first three leagues[64] (full fourteen English miles) to Atajate, the road winds along the summit of a low mountain chain, (I speak only as compared with the height of the neighbouring Sierras) the western side of which slopes gracefully to the clear and tortuous Guadiaro, whilst the eastern falls abruptly to the dark and rapid Genal.

In some places, the width of the mountain ridge exceeds but little that of the road itself; enabling the traveller to embrace the two valleys at one glance, and compare their respective beauties. The difference between them is very remarkable; for whilst the sides of both are clothed with the richest vegetation, yet the more gentle character of the one has encouraged the husbandman to devote his labour principally to the culture of corn, hemp, and the vine; whereas, the steep and broken banks of the other, being less accessible to the plough, are mostly planted with groves of fig, olive, chesnut, and almond trees; though vineyards are also pretty abundant. For the same reason, though both valleys are studded with villages, yet those along the sloping banks of the Guadiaro are large, and distant from each other; whilst, in the more contracted valley of the Genal, almost every isolated crag is occupied by a group of houses, or a dilapidated fortilage, mementoes of the Saracenic occupation; as the names, Benarrabá, Benastépar, Algatocin, Genalguacil, Benalhauría, Benadalid, &c. sufficiently attest. Beyond the valleys on either side, rise chains of rugged mountains; some covered to their very peaks with dark forests of pine and ilex; others rearing their pointed summits beyond the bounds of vegetation.

The eastern chain is that which borders the Mediterranean shore between Estepona and Marbella; the western is the yet more lofty Sierra that divides the waters of the Guadiaro and Guadalete; directing the former to the Mediterranean, the latter to the Atlantic; and terminating in the ever-memorable headland of Trafalgar.

Through the passes between the huge peaks that break the summit of this bold range, an occasional glimpse may be caught of the low and far distant ground about Cadiz and Chiclana; but the view that most excites the traveller’s admiration is obtained from a knoll on the road side, about three miles from Gaucin, looking back on that place, and down the verdant valley of the Genal.

The ruins of the old Moorish fortress occupy the right of the picture, the cragged ridge on which it is perched jutting boldly into the valley, and (uncheered by the sun’s rays) standing out in fine relief from the bright, vine-clad slope of the impending Sierra del Hacho, and yet more distant mountains. To the left, the view is bounded by the rugged peaks of the Sierra Cristellina, from the foot of which a dense but variegated forest spreads entirely across the valley, wherein may here and there be traced the snake-like course of the impatient Genal.

Further on, the valley presents a wider opening; but the little stream still has to struggle for a passage amongst the wide spreading roots of the retiring mountains, which, overlapping each other in rapid succession, present, for many miles, a most singularly furrowed country.

Calpe’s fantastic peaks rear themselves above all these intermediate ridges, marking the boundary of Europe: whilst, to the left of the celebrated promontory, Ceuta may be seen, stretching far into the glassy Mediterranean, and to the right, the huge Sierra Bullones, (Apes hill) falling perpendicularly to the Straits of Gibraltar. In the extreme distance, the African mountains rise in successive ranges, until closed by the chain of the lower Atlas, the faint blue outline of which may be distinctly traced in this transparent atmosphere, although at a distance of at least one hundred miles.

It is a scene that amply repays the traveller for all the désagrémens of his night’s lodging, and one which, numerous as were my visits to Gaucin, I always turned my back upon with regret. I do so even now, and proceed on to Ronda, leaving the villages of Algatocin and Benalhauría, situated on the side of the mountain, to the right of the road, and about pistol-shot from it; and in a few miles more, descending by a rough zig-zag track (something worse than a decayed staircase) towards the little town of Benidalid; which, with its picturesque castle, stands also somewhat off the road, and immediately under a lofty tor of decomposed rock, distinguished by the name of the Peñon de los Frailes,[65] and seems doomed, some day or other, to have the holy mound upon its shoulders.

The next and last village on the road is Atajate, distant about ten miles from Ronda. It is nestled in a narrow pass, overhung on one side by the mountain chain along which the road has hitherto been conducted, (and which here begins to rise considerably above it) and on the other, by a conical crag, whose summit is occupied by the picturesque ruins of a Moorish fortress.

In former ages, the houses of the hardy mountaineers, clustered round the base of the little fastness, must have been secure from all attack; and even now the pass, which here cuts the direct communication between Gibraltar and Ronda, (and consequently Madrid) might be held against a very superior force.

Immediately after passing Atajate, the character of the scenery undergoes a complete change. The mountains become more rugged and arid, rising in huge masses some thousand feet above the road, and are tossed about in curious confusion. Patches of corn and flax are yet here and there to be seen, and the valley beneath is still clothed with cork and ilex; but the vineyards, olive grounds, and chesnut groves, have altogether disappeared, and the villages are far apart, and distant from the road.

On advancing some little way further, all traces of cultivation cease. The road,—if a collection of jagged blocks of granite can be so called,—traverses a succession of perilous ascents and descents; sometimes being conducted along the brink of an awful precipice, at others carried under huge masses of crumbling rock. Here and there may, nevertheless, be traced the remains of a paved road, that, in the days of Spain’s pride, was made for the express purpose of transporting artillery and stores to the siege of Gibraltar. It is now—so sadly is Spain fallen!—purposely suffered to go to decay, lest it should offer facilities for making irruptions from that same fortress!

On drawing near the head of the valley, several narrow cut-throat passes present themselves, bringing forcibly to mind Don Quijote’s speech to his faithful squire, on reaching the Puerto Lapice, “Aqui, hermano Sancho, podemos meter las manos hasta los codos en esto que llaman aventuras.”[66] But, on gaining the summit of the chain, the country becomes more open, and the traveller again breathes freely. A few meagre crops of corn are scattered here and there between the rocks, and the bells of the fathers of a herd of goats are heard tinkling amongst the gorse and palmeta that fringe the feet of the impending tors, bespeaking the vicinity of fellow man, and giving the traveller a pleasing consciousness of security, whilst he checks his horse to gaze on the splendid scene before him: for here the lovely basin of Ronda first bursts upon his view, rich as Ceres and Pomona can make it.

In the centre of the verdant plain, but crowning the summit of an isolated rocky eminence, stands the shining city,—its patched and crumbling walls telling of many a protracted siege and desperate assault. Beyond, the view is bounded by a range of wooded mountains, that forms the western barrier of the secluded basin, and up the rough sides of which, the roads to Cadiz, Seville, and Xeres, may be traced, winding their tedious way.

The descent to Ronda is long, and, from the badness of the road, extremely wearying. The whole distance from Gaucin (about 25 miles) occupied us seven hours.

I regret much that my reader should have had to accompany me over this savage and romantic country—the reputed head-quarters of banditti—without encountering a single adventure; but the truth is, they are by no means so plentiful as people have generally been led to believe. I may speak with some confidence on this point; since, independently of my long residence in the immediate vicinity of this wild tract—during which every well authenticated case of outrage and robbery came to my knowledge—I have by personal experience been able to form a pretty correct estimate of the amount of danger incurred by the traveller. I have traversed the country, however, in all directions, and at all seasons; in all characters, and in all dresses. I have gone on foot, on horseback, en calesa, (where the roads admitted of my so doing) alone, attended by a single servant, in parties of four, six, and eight:—as a sportsman, en militaire, as a peasant, as a Majo: and yet I never “met with an adventure.”

It is true, I have had many very narrow escapes—that is to say, judging from the information I invariably received—for never did I leave a venta, that I was not mysteriously told the road I was about to take was the most dangerous in the whole Serranía; that I should be sure to encounter mala gente; and that it was but a few days before, a robbery—perhaps murder—had taken place, on that very road, attended with most heart-rending and appalling circumstances! But a little cross-questioning soon convinced me that my informant knew nothing of the who, the when, and the where, to which his tale referred; and the story was always reduced to a shrug of the shoulders and a se dice.[67]

The plain truth is, that almost every one the traveller comes in contact with is, in some way or other, interested in spreading these reports to create alarm. The Ventero[68] has a natural disinclination to part with a good customer, and hopes either to persuade his guest to hire additional horses and guides, or to detain him whilst he seeks for further information. The guide finds it his interest to alarm his employer, if only pour faire valoir ses services in piloting him clear of these reported Scyllas and Charybdises. The Contrabandista tries to frighten the stranger, that he may learn which road he is travelling and what is his business; the Arriero simply for his amusement.

The peasant alone has no purpose to serve in deceiving the traveller, neither has he any intention of so doing; for he himself implicitly believes all the stories he hears, and repeats them with the usual notes and addenda of a second edition. He never stirs out of a circle of a league and a half from his dwelling—that is, beyond the range of his herd of goats, or the nearest market town—and he hears these tales repeated night after night, at the venta chimney-piece—each arriero trying to outdo his brother in the marvellous and horrible—until he becomes convinced of their veracity, and repeats them as well authenticated facts.

The state of the country is also such, that when a robbery actually is committed—and such crimes will be perpetrated in the best regulated countries—the traveller hears of it from so many different people, but related with such various attendant circumstances, and stated to have occurred in so many different places, that he naturally multiplies it into a dozen at least. It is in this way that foreigners, who in general know but little of the language, and still less of the topography, of the country, become dupes to this system of deception, and adopt in consequence a most unfavourable opinion of Spanish honesty; regarding every fierce-looking fellow, with piercing black eyes, a three days’ beard, and a long knife stuck in his sash, as a robber; and every Cross on the road side as the memento mori of some waylaid traveller. Whereas, in point of fact, if this mountainous and intricate tract were peopled by our own more highly educated and civilized countrymen, I fear—in spite of our vigilant and, it must be confessed, admirable police—we should be liable to have our pockets picked in a much less delicate and unobtrusive manner, than is now practised in the streets of London.

That robberies and murders have taken place in this part of Spain, and sometimes been attended with most revolting cruelty, is most true; but they have almost always been perpetrated at a time that some unusual political excitement agitated the country, unnerving the arm of power, and even—as has often been the case—placing the civil authorities at the mercy of a ruffian band of undisciplined soldiers.

I regret, however, as before said, that though I courted adventure in every possible way, (as I think must be admitted) yet my suit was always unsuccessful; and since I cannot interest my reader with any account of my own personal risks, I will endeavour to amuse him, with the imaginary dangers of some of my countrymen, which at the same time will serve to show how easily a few simple words may, through ignorance of the language of the country, be made to tell a tale of direful import.

The occurrence to which I allude took place not many years since, when the country round Gibraltar was infested by a band of robbers, headed by a notorious miscreant named José Maria. Moving about from place to place with extraordinary rapidity, these scoundrels completely baffled all pursuit, but of course gave a wide berth to the garrisons of San Roque and Algeciras; so that the English officers were not deterred from sallying forth from Gibraltar with their fox-hounds, and pursuing the favourite national sport.

On one occasion, however, Renard had led them close upon the border of the Almoraima forest, and some of the party—perhaps a little “thrown out”—were making a short cut across a field of young barley, when, the owner of the thriving crop, perceiving the mischief the horses’ hoofs were doing, and unconscious of the value of the words “’ware corn,” cried lustily out to the red-coated gentry, in his own vernacular—“Fuera!—Jesús! María! Josef! mi cibada! mi cañamo! todo, se echarà à perder!”[69]

The wave of the arm that accompanied this exclamatory “Fuera!” clearly implied, be off; and the sportsmen, full of the exploits of the dread bandit, translating the words “Jesus, Maria José,” “By the Lord, here’s José Maria;” naturally concluded that the remainder of the sentence, (pronounced with much gesticulation) could mean nothing but save yourselves, or you’ll be hanged, drawn, and quartered. Not waiting, therefore, to lose time in questions, they set spurs to their horses, and rode ventre à terre into the English garrison.

Now the wonderful echo of Killarney is a joke compared to the reverberation that a story is sent back with, from the “four corners” in the High Street of Gibraltar. Accordingly, a report was soon spread, that José Maria had come down close to the Spanish lines, and made a capture of the “whole field,”—hounds, huntsmen, and whipper-in inclusive!

A statement of the case was instantly forwarded by an express boat to the Spanish General commanding at Algeciras; who, rejoicing at the opportunity of capturing the miscreant band which had so long eluded his vigilance, forthwith despatched “horse, foot, and dragoons,” to scour the country in all directions.

Of course their search was fruitless; but the laughable mistake that had occurred, from simply making José and Maria change places, was discovered only on the return of the other sportsmen, who, after “a capital run,” had secured Master Renard’s services for another occasion.

CHAPTER V.

THE BASIN OF RONDA—SOURCES OF THE RIVER GUADIARO—REMARKABLE CHASM THROUGH WHICH IT FLOWS—CITY OF RONDA—DATE OF ITS FOUNDATION—FORMER NAMES—GENERAL DESCRIPTION—CASTLE—BRIDGES—SPLENDID SCENERY—PUBLIC BUILDINGS—AMPHITHEATRE—POPULATION—TRADE—SMUGGLING—WRETCHED STATE OF THE COMMERCE, MANUFACTURES, AND INTERNAL COMMUNICATIONS OF SPAIN, AND EVILS AND INCONVENIENCE RESULTING THEREFROM—RARE PRODUCTIONS OF THE BASIN OF RONDA—AMENITY OF ITS CLIMATE—AGREMENS OF THE CITY—EXCELLENT SOCIETY—CHARACTER OF ITS INHABITANTS.

THE basin of Ronda is situated in the very heart of a labyrinth of rough and arid sierras, which, distinguished, par excellence, by the name of the Serranía de Ronda, may be described as the gnarled and wide-spreading roots of the great mountain ridge, that, traversing Spain diagonally, divides the affluents to the Mediterranean from those to the Atlantic, and finally unites with, and becomes a branch of, the Pyrenean chain.

This singularly secluded and romantic valley is about eight miles in length and five wide, and, though sunk deep below the mountain ridges that girt it in on every side, is at least 1500 feet above the level of the Mediterranean. Its soil is rich, and is rendered peculiarly fertile by the numerous sources of the Guadiaro, which traverse it in all directions. The name of this river—composed of the Arabic words, Guada al diar—signifies, water of the houses; an appellation it probably obtained, from the number of habitations that are said to have lined its productive banks in former days.

The principal branch of this mountain stream takes its rise to the eastward of Ronda, amongst some curiously jagged and fantastic peaks, on which have most appropriately been bestowed the name of the “Old Woman’s Teeth,” (Dientes de la Vieja.) Escaped from their fangs, the gurgling rivulet, increased by numerous tributary streams, directs its course more leisurely through the vale, winding its way amongst luxuriant vineyards, orchards, olive grounds, and corn-fields, until it reaches the foot of the crag, on which, as has before been stated, stands the city of Ronda. Here it would appear that nature had, in early ages, presented a barrier to the further progress of the stream; as a rocky ledge stretches quite across the bed of this portion of the valley, and, most probably, by damming up the waters poured down from the mountain ravines, formed a lake on its eastern side. But, gathering strength from resistance, the little mountain torrent eventually worked itself an outlet, and now rushes foaming through a deep, narrow chasm, leaping from precipice to precipice, until, the rocky barrier forced, it once more reaches a level country.

On either side of the fearful chasm—or Tajo, as it is called in the language of the country—which the persevering torrent has thus worked in the rocky ledge, stands the city of Ronda; one portion of which, encircled by an old embattled wall, that overhangs the southern cliff of the fissure, is distinguished as the Old Town, and as the site of a Roman city; whilst the more widely spread buildings on the opposite bank bear the name of El Mercadillo,[70] or New Town.

The present walls of the old town were evidently raised by the Saracens, and no traces are perceptible of any others having occupied their place. Nevertheless, it can hardly be supposed that so eligible a site for a station would have been overlooked by the Romans; and the Spanish antiquaries have accordingly determined it to be the position of Arunda (one of the cities mentioned by Pliny as situated in that part of Bœtica inhabited by the Celtici)—a conclusion which both its present name and the discovery of many ancient Roman inscriptions and statues in its vicinity tend to confirm. Some, however, maintain that Ronda is the site of the Munda, under whose walls was sealed the fate of the sons of Pompey. But the adjacent country ill agrees with the description of it handed down to us; and the little town of Monda, situated near the Mediterranean shore, is more generally admitted to have been the scene of Julius Cæsar’s victory[71].

However the case may be, this city, under the domination of the Moors, became one of their principal strongholds; for having, with various other cities, been ceded by Ishmael King of Granada to the Emperor of Fez—whose aid against the storm gathering in Castille (A.D. 1318) he deemed essential for the preservation of his newly-acquired throne—it was some few years afterwards, with Algeciras, Ximena, Marbella, and Gibraltar,[72] formed into a kingdom for that emperor’s son, Abou Melic; and this prince, passing over into Spain, (A.D. 1331) established his court at Ronda; building a splendid palace there, and, according to the usual custom of the Moors, erecting a formidable castle on the highest pinnacle of the rocky mound. The natural defences of the city were also strengthened by a triple circuit of walls, rendering it almost impregnable.

The Moorish name given to the place was Hisnorrendi, the laurelled castle; but, on returning to the hands of the Spaniards, (A.D. 1485) it assumed its present mongrel appellation; in which its etymological claims upon the Celtic and Arabic languages are pretty equally balanced, as the following old couplet partly illustrates;—

Y con el tiempo se ha desbaratado
El Hisna Randa, y Ronda se ha llamado.[73]

The existing circumvallation is very irregular, and embraces little more than the mere summit of the rocky ledge on which the city stands; confining it consequently within very narrow limits. Its length, however, is considerable; and at its southern extremity, where the ground slopes more gradually to the narrow gorge that connects it with the neighbouring mountains, a triple line of outworks continues yet to supply the want of the natural walls which elsewhere render the place so difficult of access.

On the crest of the ridge overlooking these advanced works, stands the shell of the capacious castle; or Royal Palace, as it is called. Its solid walls and vaulted chambers denote it to have been a work of great strength. It is now, however, but a vast heap of ruins; the French, on finally evacuating Ronda in 1812, having destroyed the principal part of it.

The only entrance to the city, from the country, is through a succession of gates, in the before-mentioned outworks, the last of which is immediately under the walls of the old palace. From this gate, a long and narrow, but tolerably straight street, traverses the city from south to north, terminating at the upper or new bridge, and being nearly three quarters of a mile in length. This street is lined with handsome shops, and from it, numerous alleys (for they deserve no better name) lead off right and left, winding and turning in all directions, and communicating with numberless little courts, crooked passages, and culs de sac; quite in the style of an eastern city.

In wandering through this labyrinth, the perplexed topographer is astonished to find a number of remarkably handsome houses. In fact, it is the Mayfair of Ronda—the aristocratic location of all the Hidalguía[74] of the province;—who, proud of the little patch of land their forefathers’ swords conquered from the accursed Moslems, would as soon think of denying the infallibility of the Pope, as of taking up their abode amongst the mercantile inhabitants of the mushroom suburb.

The New Town, however, I must needs confess,—despite all aristocratic predilections,—is by far the most agreeable place of residence.

The principal streets are wide, and tolerably straight; it contains some fine open plazas or squares; and although the houses are thus more exposed to the influence of the sun, yet, from the same cause, they enjoy a freer circulation of air. The absence of an enclosing wall tends also, in point of coolness, to give the Mercadillo an advantage over the city; leaving it open to receive the full benefit of the refreshing breezes that sweep down from the neighbouring mountains.

But, though destitute of battlements, the New Town is nearly as difficult of approach, and as incapable of expansion, as the walled city itself; for, bounded on its south side by the deep Tajo, and to the west, by an almost equally formidable cliff that branches off from it, its eastern limits are determined by a rocky ledge that extends diagonally towards the Guadiaro; thus leaving the access free only on its north side.

The ground in all directions falls more or less rapidly inwards; and the town, thus spread over it, assumes the form of an amphitheatre, looking into the rocky bed of the Guadiaro.

There are three bridges across the river, communicating between the two towns: the first—a work of the Moors—connects the suburb of San Miguel, situated at the lowest part of the New Town, with some tanneries and other buildings standing outside the walls of the ancient city. It is very narrow, and being thrown over the stream just before it enters the dark fissure, does not exceed forty feet in height. The second crosses the chasm at a single span, where its banks have already attained a considerable elevation, and affords an entrance to the Old Town by a gateway in the N.E. corner of its present walls. The last and principal bridge is a noble, though somewhat heavy structure of much more recent date than the others, and furnishes an excellent specimen of the bold conception and peculiar taste of the Spaniards of the last century. It is thrown across the chasm where its precipitous banks have attained their greatest elevation, and its parapet is 280 feet above the stream that flows beneath, and nearly 600 above the level of the plain to which it is hastening.

A bridge was erected at this same spot a hundred years back,[75] which spanned the frightful fissure in one arch, and must have been one of the boldest works of the kind, ever (up to that time) undertaken; since its diameter could not have been less than 150 feet. Unfortunately, the workmanship was in some way defective, (or more probably the foundation,) and it fell down but a few years after its completion. The present structure was then commenced, which, if not so airy and picturesque as the former must have been, possesses the more solid qualities of safety and durability.

This bridge also spans the lower portion of the fissure in one arch, springing from solid buttresses that rest on the rocky bed of the torrent. But, as the chasm widens rapidly, this first arch is merely carried sufficiently high to admit of the free passage of the stream at all seasons, and is then surmounted by a second, of the same span but much greater elevation; and the massive buttresses on either side are lightened in appearance by being pierced with arches to correspond—thus making the bridge consist of three arches above and one below.

The view from the parapet of this bridge is quite enchanting. The sensation of giddiness that seizes the spectator on first leaning over the yawning abyss, leaves a feeling of pleasureable excitement, similar to that produced by a slight shock of a galvanic battery. The distant roar of the foaming torrent also warns him of his perilous height; but the solid nature of the bounding wall quickly removes all feeling of insecurity, and allows him, whilst he rests against it, to enjoy at his leisure the noble view before him, in which are combined the rich and varied tints of a southern clime, with the bold outlines and wild beauties of an Alpine region. The view looking over the Eastern parapet of the bridge is of a more gloomy character than that from the opposite side, but is equally grand and imposing. In the bottom of the dark fissure—which here the sun’s rays seldom reach—the transparent rivulet may be tracked, winding its way leisurely through the tortuous channel; here and there interrupted in its course by masses of fallen rock, and partially overshadowed by trees and creepers; whilst its precipitous banks, from whose rugged surface it might be supposed no vegetation could possibly spring, are thickly covered with the higo chumbo,[76] (prickly pear) amongst whose thorny boughs numerous ragged urchins may be seen—almost suspended in air—intent on obtaining their favourite fruit. Beyond the dark tajo, the sun shines on the green fields and vineyards of the fertile plain; and yet further behind are the low wooded sierras that bound the vale of Ronda to the north.

The City can boast of few public buildings to excite the interest of a stranger. The churches are numerous, and gaudily fitted up; but they contain neither paintings nor statuary of any merit. In the New Town, on the other hand, are the Theatre—a small but conveniently fitted up edifice—the Stables of the Real Maestranza;[77] and the Plaza de los Toros; which latter, though not so large as those of the principal cities of the Province, is certainly one of the handsomest in Spain. It is built of stone, and nearly of a circular form, and is capable of containing 10,000 persons. The roof is continued all round; which is not the case in most amphitheatres; and it is supported by a colonnade of 64 pillars of the Tuscan order. The greatest diameter of the Arena is 190 feet, which is precisely the width of that of the Flavian Amphitheatre at Rome. The internal economy of the bull-fighting establishment is well worthy the observation of those who are curious in such matters; being very complete and well ordered, though not now kept up in the style of by-gone days.

The two towns together contain about 16,000 inhabitants, who are principally employed in agricultural and horticultural pursuits; though there are several manufactories of hats, two or three tanneries, and numerous water-mills.

Ronda is a place of considerable commerce; its secluded and at the same time central situation adapting it peculiarly for an emporium for smuggled goods; in which, it may be said, the present trade of Spain entirely consists. The vicinity of Gibraltar and Cadiz; the impracticable nature of the country between those ports and along the Mediterranean shore; the difficult and intricate mountain paths that traverse it (known only to the smugglers); and the wretched state of the national army and Navy; all tend to favour the contraband trade; and more especially that of Ronda, where the same facilities present themselves for getting smuggled goods away from the place, as of bringing them from the coast to it.

It is lamentable blindness on the part of the Spanish government,—considering the deplorable state of the manufactures of the country; of the “shipping interest;” of the roads and other means of inland communication; and, to crown all, I may add, of the finances,—not to see the advantage that would accrue from lowering the duties on foreign produce; on tobacco, cocoa, and manufactured goods in particular, which may be considered as absolute necessaries to all classes of Spaniards. By so doing, not only would the present demoralising system of smuggling be put an end to,—since it would then be no longer a profitable business,—but the money which now clings to the fingers of certain venal authorities of the Customs, or finds its way into the pockets of the Troops[78] and Sailors employed on the preventive service, in the way of bribes, would then stand some chance of reaching the public treasury.

The sums thus iniquitously received (and willingly paid by the smugglers) amounts to a charge of 15 per cent. on the value of the prohibited articles; a duty to that amount, or even something beyond, would therefore readily be paid, to enable the purchaser to take his goods openly into the market. The trade would thus fall into more respectable hands; competition would increase; and the sellers would be satisfied with smaller profits. This would naturally lead to an increased demand, and the revenue would be proportionably benefited.

The obsolete notions that wed the Spaniards to their present faulty system are, first, that, by opening the trade to foreign powers, their own country would be drained of its specie, in which they seem to think the riches of a nation consist; and secondly, that the national manufactures would be ruined, if not protected by the imposition of high duties on those of other countries.

The fallacy of these ideas is evident; for it would not be possible to devise any plan by which money could be kept in a country, when the articles that country stands in need of are to be bought cheaper elsewhere; and it is futile to suppose—as, however, is fondly imagined—that Spain’s doubloons go only to her colonies, to be brought back in taxation, or for the purchase of the produce of the mother country. As well might we imagine that Zante alone could furnish England with her Christmas consumption of Currants, as that Cuba and the Philippine Islands (all the Colonies worth enumerating that Spain now possesses) could supply her with tobacco, cocoa, and cinnamon. And, as the above-mentioned articles are as much necessaries of life in Spain, as tea and sugar—not to say the aforesaid currants—are in England, the deficiency, coute qui coute, must be made good somewhere; and consequently Spanish money will have to be expended in procuring what is wanting.

A much greater evil than this, however, is occasioned by the enormously high duty placed by the Mother Country on these very articles, the produce of her dependencies; so that even her own colonial produce is smuggled to her through the hands of foreigners!

With respect to the favour shown and encouragement given to her own manufactures, by the prohibitory duties imposed on those of other nations, it must be evident to any one at all acquainted with the state of the inland communications of Spain, that the country is not in a sufficiently advanced state of civilization to warrant its engaging in such undertakings with any prospect of success. The Factories that are already in existence cannot supply clothing for one fourth part of the population of the country; to which circumstance alone are they indebted for being able to continue at work; for if the number were increased, all would inevitably fail. The same cause, therefore, here also exists, to encourage smuggling, as in the case of the consumable articles, tobacco, spices, &c.—viz. the necessity of finding a supply to meet the demand.

It is quite surprising that, for such a length of time, and under so many different administrations, Spain should have continued thus blind to her own interest. But, without going the length I have suggested, much good might be effected, by merely giving up the farming out the taxes and various monopolies, and by putting a stop to sundry other abuses, such as the sale of places, by which the Crown revenues are principally raised.

If the present faulty system were abandoned,—by which a few individuals only are enriched to the prejudice of the rest of the community,—numerous speculators would be found ready to embark their capitals in mining operations, in the construction of railroads, canals, &c. which would be productive of incalculable benefit to the country; for, by such means, the produce of the fertile plains in the interior of Spain would be able to come with advantage into the foreign market; whilst the varied productions of this fruitful country, by being distributed throughout its provinces with a more equal hand, would be within the reach, and add to the comforts of all classes of its inhabitants.

At the present day, such is the want of these means of communication, that it frequently happens an article which is plentifully produced in one province is absolutely difficult to procure in another. One province, for instance, has wine, but wants bread; another has corn, but not any wood; a third abounds in pasture, but has no market for its cheese, butter, &c., thus rendering the cattle it possesses of comparatively little value.

From the same cause, large tracts of land lie waste in many parts of Spain, because the crops they would yield, if cultivated, would not pay the cost of transport, even to the adjoining province; and a prodigious quantity of wine is annually destroyed, (a cruel fate from which even the divine Val de Peñas is not exempt!) because the casks and pig-skins containing it are of more value, on the spot where the wine is grown, than is the wine itself. What remains unsold, therefore, at the end of the year, is frequently poured into the street, in order that the casks may be available for the new wine.—Such would also be the fate of all the light wines grown on the banks of the Guadalete, but that the vicinity of Port St. Mary and Cadiz makes it worth the grower’s while to prepare them with brandy and stronger bodied wines, to bear the rolling over the Bay of Biscay.

In an article of produce so readily transported as barley, I have known the price of a fanega[79] vary no less than four reales vellon[80] on the opposite sides of the same chain of mountains; and I have seen Barbary wheat selling at Gibraltar, for one third less than corn of Spanish growth could be purchased at San Roque. This certainly would not be the case, if the riches of Spain could be distributed more easily over the whole face of the country; and since the demand for exportation would thereby be greatly increased, more industrious habits would be engendered, and an important step would thus be made towards civilization.

I must not, however, enlarge on this subject; otherwise, (besides peradventure wearying my reader) I shall certainly incur the displeasure of my quondam acquaintances of the Serrania; since any thing that may be suggested to induce the Spanish government to place the commerce of the country on a more liberal footing, would be most unfavourably viewed by the rude inhabitants of the Ronda mountains; who—their present profitable occupation ceasing—would be obliged to take to their spades and pruning-knives, and labour for a livelihood in their fields and olive groves. The inhabitants, however, of the favoured basin of Ronda, would rather benefit by the change; the produce of their orchards being so rare, as to be in great request all over the country. It is also worthy of remark, that, whilst the sugar-cane succeeds on the plains about Malaga, this elevated mountain valley, situated under the same parallel of latitude, enjoys a climate that enables it to produce apples, cherries, plums, peaches, and other stone fruits, that are more properly natives of central Europe, but which can hardly be excelled either in England or France.

The climate is also considered so favourable to longevity, that it has become a common saying in the country—

En Ronda los hombres
de ochenta años son pollones.[81]

But although, even on such tempting terms, one would hardly consent to pass one’s entire life at Ronda, yet I scarcely know a place where a few weeks may be more agreeably spent. The Inns are not good; though that bearing the name of the Holy Trinity—to which in my various visits I always bent my steps, until I could find a suitable lodging—is clean, and its keepers are honest and obliging. Lodgings are abundant, and, for Spain, very good; the great influx of strangers during the period of the fair having induced the inhabitants to fit up their houses purposely for their accommodation, and given them also some notion of what English travellers require, besides four bare walls, a roof overhead, and a mattress on the floor; the usual sum total of accommodation furnished at Spanish inns and lodging-houses.

The society of this place is particularly good; a number of the most ancient families of Andalusia having congregated here; who, with all the polish of the first circle of Spanish society, are exempt from the demoralizing vices which distinguish that of Madrid and other large cities.

It was only on the occasion of my second visit to the little Capital of the Serranía, that I was so fortunate as to be the bearer of letters of introduction to the principal families; and nothing could possibly exceed the kind attentions they pressed upon me. Their friendly hospitality was even extended, on my account, to all the English officers who, like myself, had been attracted to Ronda by the fame of its cattle fair and bull fights, and whom I was requested to invite to the balls, &c., which at that festive period were given nightly at their different houses. Nor did their kindness cease there; for I afterwards received pressing invitations to visit them, as well at Ronda as at the neighbouring watering-places, to which they are in the habit of resorting during the summer months; for the Spanish fashionables—like those of other climes—deem it essential to their well being to migrate periodically to these rendezvous for dancing and dosing.

One of the most remarkable as well as most delightful families of Ronda, is that of Holgado y Montezuma. It is lineally descended from the last Cacique of Mexico, whose name it bears, and whose character and features I almost fancied were to be recognized in the somewhat haughty eye, and occidental cast of countenance, of the present head of the family.

The lower orders of inhabitants have, amongst travellers, the credit of being a fierce, intractable race; but this character is by no means merited, and belongs altogether to the savage mountaineers of the Serranía. Indeed, these latter hold the industrious artizans, and the peasants of the city and plain, in great contempt, and it is a common maledictory expression amongst them—

En Ronda mueras
acarreando zaques.[82]

This saying originated in the occupation of bringing up skins of water from the bed of the river,—to which labour the christian captives were condemned, when the city was possessed by the Moslems—and still continues to be made use of, in allusion to the ignoble life of labour led by the peaceful inhabitants.

CHAPTER VI.

RONDA FAIR—SPANISH PEASANTRY—VARIOUS COSTUMES—JOCKEYS AND HORSES—LOVELY VIEW FROM THE NEW ALAMEDA—BULL FIGHTS—DEFENCE OF THE SPANISH LADIES—MANNER OF DRIVING THE BULLS INTO THE TOWN—FIRST ENTRANCE OF THE BULL—THE FRIGHTENED WATERSELLER—THE MINA, OR EXCAVATED STAIRCASE—RUINS OF ACINIPPO—THE CUEVA DEL GATO—THE BRIDGE OF THE FAIRY.

THE fair which is held annually at Ronda, in the month of May, collects an astonishing concourse of people from all parts of the country, and offers an excellent opportunity for seeing the peculiar costumes of the different provinces, as well as for observing the various shades of character of their respective inhabitants. The national costume, (speaking generally of it) is, without dispute, extremely becoming; for, not only does it set off to advantage such as are naturally well formed, but it conceals the defects of those to whom Dame Nature has been less kind; making them appear stout, well built fellows—in their own expressive words, “bien, plantado”[83]—when, in point of fact, it ofttimes happens that their slender legs have enough to do to bear the weight of the spare and ill-formed bodies placed upon them.

This is very perceptible when, deprived of their broad-brimmed Sombreros and stout leather botines, the peasantry come to be capped and trousered in a military garb. To a stranger, indeed, it must appear that the Spanish troops are collected from the very refuse of the population of the country; so miserable is their look. But the truth is, the conscription (by which the Army is raised) is levied with great fairness; and to the change of dress alone, therefore, must the falling off in their appearance be attributed.

The Spanish peasant, moreover, is the only one in Europe,[84] whose tenue is not improved by the drill serjeant; which may be accounted for by his not, like those of other countries, having been accustomed in his youth to carry burthens upon his shoulders. He consequently bends under the new weight of a musket and knapsack, which, so placed, he cannot but find particularly irksome.

To return, however, to the crowded city; whilst Ronda fair thus periodically furnishes the occasion for a general muster of the natives of all classes, the Fair of Ronda may claim the merit of holding out to them the inducement to display their figures and wardrobes to the best advantage; and strange are the ways, and various the means, by which the Andaluz Majo[85] seeks to win the sweet smiles or dazzle the bright eyes of his tinsel-loving countrywomen.

Amongst the numerous varieties of the genus Majo, that claiming the first rank may be readily known, by the seeming wish to avoid rather than to court admiration. Thus, the rich waistcoat of bright silk or costly velvet, studded with buttons innumerable of the most exquisite gold or silver filigree, is partially concealed, though rendered more brilliant, by the jacket of dark cloth simply ornamented with black braid and tags, which is worn over it; whilst the plain white kerchief that protrudes from either side-pocket requires to be closely examined, to make the extreme delicacy of its texture apparent.

Others, of more gaudy and questionable taste, hold peagreens and lavenders to be more becoming; and here and there an ultra dandy may be seen, aping the bull-fighter, and bedizened with gold and silver lace; but he is of an inferior caste, and may generally be set down as a Chevalier d’Industrie.

Another class of the genus is distinguished by the glossy jacket of black goat-skin. The wearers of this singular costume are the Ganaderos, or cattle owners; whilst those satisfied with the more humble dresses, of brown or white sheep-skin—by no means the least picturesque of the motley crowd—belong to the shepherd tribe.

The breeches and gaiters undergo as many varieties as those above specified of the upper garments; but almost all who thus appear in the national costume wear the sombrero, or broad-brimmed hat with a high conical crown; the Montera—a low flat cap, made of black velvet, and ornamented with silk tassels—being now used only by the bull-fighters, and some elderly sticklers for old hats as well as old habits.

Many scowling fellows, enveloped in capacious cloaks, seemed to have no object in view but to examine with searching eyes the persons of the assembled multitude, and to conceal as much as possible their own from counter observation; and some of the savage mountaineers,—whom nothing but a bull fight, or perhaps the hope of plunder, could draw from their mountain fastnesses,—gave evident signs of never before having seen the British uniform.

I may observe here, en passant, that a few robberies are generally heard of, at the breaking up of the fair; the temptation of well filled pockets and bales of merchandize drawing all the ladrones of the surrounding mountains down to the high roads.

The cattle fair is held on a rocky plain beyond the northern limits of the New Town. It is not so celebrated as some others held on the banks of the Guadalquivir; the narrow stony tracts across the mountains being both inconvenient for driving cattle, and injurious to their feet. Nevertheless, it offers a good opportunity for swapping “a Haca,”[86] though Spanish jockeys—like all others—must be dealt with according to their own proverb—à picaro, picaro y medio.[87] The horses of the South of Spain are small, hardy animals, well suited to the mountain roads of the country, but possessing no claims to beauty, beyond a lively head and a sleek coat. The Spaniards, by the way, have a strange prejudice in favour of Roman-nosed horses. They not only admire the Cabeza de Carnero, (sheep’s head) as they call it, but maintain that it is a certain indication of the animal being a “good one.” I presume, therefore, the protuberance must be the organ of ambulativeness.

I was much mortified to find that “Almanzor,” whose finely finished head, straight forehead, sparkling eye, and dilated nostril, I certainly thought entitled him to be considered the handsomest of his kind in the fair, was looked upon as a very ordinary animal.

No ai vasija que mida los gustos, ni balanza que los iguale,[88] as Guzman de Alfarache says; and my taste will certainly be disputed in other matters besides horseflesh by all Spaniards, when I confess to having frequently retired from the busy throng of the fair, or abstained from witnessing the yet more exciting bull fight, to enjoy, without fear of interruption, the lovely view obtained from the shady walks of the new Alameda.[89] This delightful promenade is situated at the further extremity of the modern town, overhanging the precipice which has been mentioned as bounding it to the west. The view is similar to that obtained from the parapet of the bridge; but here, the eye ranges over a greater extent of country, commanding the whole of the southern portion of the fertile valley, and taking in the principal part of the mountain chain that encompasses it.

For hours together have I sat on the edge of the precipice, receiving the refreshing westerly breeze, and feasting my eyes on the beauteous scene beneath; tracing the windings of the serpent streamlet, and watching the ever-changing tints and shadows, cast by the sun on the deeply-furrowed sides of the mountains, as he rolled on in his diurnal course. All nature seemed to be at rest; not a human being could be seen throughout the wide vale; not a sound came up from it, save now and then the bay of some vigilant watch dog, or the call of the parent partridge to her infant brood. Its carefully irrigated gardens, its neatly trimmed vineyards, and, here and there, a low white cottage peeping through blossoming groves of orange and lemon trees, bore evidence of its being fertilized by the hand of man: but where are its inhabitants? nay, where are those of the city itself, whose boisterous mirth but lately rent the air! All is now silent as the grave: the cries of showmen have ceased. The tramp of horses and the lowing of cattle are heard no longer; the Thebaic St. Anthony himself could not have been more solitary than I found myself.—But, hark. What sound is that? a buz of distant vivas is borne through the air!—It proceeds from the crowded circus—the Matador has made a successful thrust—his brave antagonist bites the dust, and he is rewarded with a shower of pesetas,[90] and those cries of triumph!—I regret not having missed witnessing his prowess! but the declining sun tells me that my retreat is about to be invaded; the glorious luminary sinks below the horizon, and the walk is crowded with the late spectators of the poor bull’s last agonies.

“Jesus![91] Don Carlos”—would exclaim many of my bright-eyed acquaintances—“why were you not at the Bull fight?”—“I could not withdraw myself from this lovely spot.”—“Well, no ai vasija que mida los gustos.... You might see this at any other time.” There was no replying to such an indisputable fact, but by another equally incontrovertible—viz.—“The sun sets but once a day.”

The Bull-fights of Ronda are amongst the best of Spain; the animals being selected from the most pugnacious breeds of Utrera and Tarifa; the Picadores from the most expert horsemen of Xeres and Cordoba; the Matadores from the most skilful operators of Cadiz and Seville; and the whole arrangement of the sports being under the superintendence of the Royal Maestranza. During the fair there are usually three Corridas,[92] at each of which, eight bulls are slaughtered.

A Bull-fight has been so often described that I will content myself with offering but very few remarks upon the disgusting, barbarous, exciting, interesting sport,—for such it successively becomes, to those who can be persuaded to witness it a second, third, and fourth time.

In the first place, I cannot admit, that it is a bit more cruel than an English bull-bait (I speak only from hearsay of the latter), or more disgusting than a pugilistic contest; which latter, whatever pity it may occasion to see human nature so debased, can certainly possess little to interest the spectator, beyond the effect its termination will have upon his betting-book.