In the old days, when one entered Spain by diligence from Bayonne to Pampeluna over the Pyrenees, one learned something of the beauty of the scenery and the healthy, hardy characteristics of the people, as one whirled along through the chestnut groves, over the leaping streams, always at full gallop, up hill and down dale, with a precipice on one side of the road and the overhanging mountains on the other.  Below lay a fertile country with comfortable little homesteads and villages clustering round their church, and the like dotted the hillsides and the valleys wherever there seemed a foothold.  As the diligence, with its team of ten or twelve mules, dashed through these villages or past the isolated farms, the people stood at their doors and shouted; it was evidently the event of the day.  The mules were changed every hour, or rather more, according to the road, and as the ascent became steeper more were added to their number; sometimes six or eight starting from Bayonne where twelve or fourteen were needed for the top of the Pass.  At least half the journey was always made at night, and if there were a moon the scenery became magically beautiful; but, in any case, the stars, in that clear atmosphere, made it almost as bright as day, while a ruddy light streamed from the lamp over the driver’s seat, far above the coupe, along the string of hurrying mules, as they dashed round precipitous corners, dangerous enough in broad daylight.  If one of the animals chanced to fall, it was dragged by its companions to the bottom of the gorge, where it would get up, shake itself, and prepare to tear up the next ascent as if nothing had happened.

A good idea could be formed of these hardy mountaineers in passing through their village homes.  They are tall and good-looking, and seem to be simply overflowing with animal spirits.  If it chanced to be on a Sunday afternoon, the priest, with his sotana tucked up round his waist, would be found playing the national game of pelota with his flock, using the blank wall of the church as a court.

One is apt to forget that Old Castile is one of the provinces having a northern seaboard.  The inhabitants of this borderland are, to judge by appearance, superior to the people of the plains, who certainly strike the casual observer as being dirty and somewhat dull.  The Castilian and Aragonese, however, may be said to constitute the heart of the nation.  Leon and Estremadura form a part of the same raised plateau, but their people are very different.  In speaking of the national characteristics, one must be taken to mean, not by any means the Madrileno, but the countrymen, whose homes are not to be judged by the posadas, or inns, which exist mainly for the muleteer and his animals, and are neither clean nor savoury.

“All the forces of Europe would not be sufficient to subdue the Castiles—­with the people against it,” was Peterborough’s remark, and our Iron Duke never despaired “while the country was with him.”  He bore with the generals and the Juntas of the upper classes, in spite of his indignation against them, and, “cheered by the people’s support,” as Napier says, carried out his campaign of victory.