Letters from Spain. White Joseph Blanco
White
Letters from Spain
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION
That a work like the present should appear in a Second Edition, implies such a reception from the Public as demands the most sincere gratitude on my part. I am anxious, therefore, to make the only return I have in my power, by adding, as I conceive, some value to the work itself; not, indeed, from any material corrections, but by stamping the facts and descriptions which it contains, with the character of complete authenticity. The readers of Doblado’s Letters may be sure that in them they have the real Memoirs of the person whose name is subscribed to this address. Even the disguise of that name was so contrived, as to be a mark of identity. Leucadio being derived from a Greek root which means white, the word Doblado was added, in allusion to the repetition of my family name, translated into Spanish, which my countrymen have forced upon us, to avoid the difficulty of an orthography and sound, perfectly at variance with their language. In short, Doblado and his inseparable friend, the Spanish clergyman, are but one and the same person; whose origin, education, feelings, and early turn of thinking, have been made an introduction to the personal observations on his country, which, with a deep sense of their kindness, he again lays before the British Public.
Chelsea, June 1st, 1825.
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION
Some of the following Letters have been printed in the New Monthly Magazine.
The Author would, indeed, be inclined to commit the whole collection to the candour of his readers without a prefatory address, were it not that the plan of his Work absolutely requires some explanation.
The slight mixture of fiction which these Letters contain, might raise a doubt whether the sketches of Spanish manners, customs, and opinions, by means of which the Author has endeavoured to pourtray the moral state of his country at a period immediately preceding, and in part coincident with the French invasion, may not be exaggerated by fancy, and coloured with a view to mere effect.
It is chiefly on this account that the Author deems it necessary to assure the Public of the reality of every circumstance mentioned in his book, except the name of Leucadio Doblado. These Letters are in effect the faithful memoirs of a real Spanish clergyman, as far as his character and the events of his life can illustrate the state of the country which gave him birth.
Doblado’s Letters are dated from Spain, and, to preserve consistency, the Author is supposed to have returned thither after a residence of some years in England. This is another fictitious circumstance. Since the moment when the person disguised under the above name left that beloved country, whose religious intolerance has embittered his life—that country which, boasting, at this moment, of a free constitution, still continues to deprive her children of the right to worship God according to their own conscience—he has not for a day quitted England, the land of his ancestors, and now the country of his choice and adoption.
It is not, however, from pique or resentment that the Author has dwelt so long and so warmly upon the painful and disgusting picture of Spanish bigotry. Spain, “with all her faults,” is still and shall ever be the object of his love. But since no man, within the limits of her territory, can venture to lay open the canker which, fostered by religion, feeds on the root of her political improvements; be it allowed a self-banished Spaniard to describe the sources of such a strange anomaly in the New Constitution of Spain, and thus to explain to such as may not be unacquainted with his name as a Spanish writer, the true cause of an absence which might otherwise be construed into a dereliction of duty, and a desertion of that post which both nature and affection marked so decidedly for the exertion of his humble talents.
Chelsea, June 1822.
LETTER I
I am inclined to think with you, that a Spaniard, who, like myself, has resided many years in England, is, perhaps, the fittest person to write an account of life, manners and opinions as they exist in this country, and to shew them in the light which is most likely to interest an Englishman. The most acute and diligent travellers are subject to constant mistakes; and perhaps the more so, for what is generally thought a circumstance in their favour—a moderate knowledge of foreign languages. A traveller who uses only his eyes, will confine himself to the description of external objects; and though his narrative may be deficient in many topics of interest, it will certainly be exempt from great and ludicrous blunders. The difficulty, which a person, with a smattering of the language of the country he is visiting, experiences every moment in the endeavour to communicate his own, and catch other men’s thoughts, often urges him into a sort of mental rashness, which leads him to settle many a doubtful point for himself, and to forget the unlimited power, I should have said tyranny, of usage, in whatever relates to language.
I still recollect the unlucky hit I made on my arrival in London, when, anxious beyond measure to catch every idiomatic expression, and reading the huge inscription of the Cannon Brewery at Knightsbridge, as the building had some resemblance to the great cannon-foundry in this town, I settled it in my mind that the genuine English idiom, for what I should now call casting, was no other than brewing cannon. This, however, was a mere verbal mistake. Not so that which I made when the word nursery stared me in the face every five minutes, as in a fine afternoon I approached your great metropolis, on the western road. Luxury and wealth, said I to myself, in a strain approaching to philosophic indignation, have at last blunted the best feelings of nature among the English. Surely, if I am to judge from this endless string of nurseries, the English ladies have gone a step beyond the unnatural practice of devolving their first maternal duties upon domestic hirelings. Here, it seems, the poor helpless infants are sent to be kept and suckled in crowds, in a decent kind of Foundling-Hospitals. You may easily guess that I knew but one signification of the words nursing and nursery. Fortunately I was not collecting materials for a book of travels during a summer excursion, otherwise I should now be enjoying all the honour of the originality of my remarks on the customs and manners of Old England.
From similar mistakes I think myself safe enough in speaking of my native country; but I wish I could feel equal confidence as to the execution of the sketches you desire to obtain from me. I know you too well to doubt that my letters will, by some chance or other, find their way to some of the London Magazines, before they have been long in your hands. And only think, I intreat you, how I shall fret and fidget under the apprehension that some of your pert newspaper writers may raise a laugh against me in some of those Suns or Stars, which, in spite of intervening seas and mountains, can dart a baneful influence, and blast the character of infallibility, as an English scholar, which I have acquired since my return to Spain. I have so strongly rivetted the admiration of the Irish merchants in this place, that, in spite of their objection to my not calling tea ta, they submit to my decision every intricate question about your provoking shall and will: and surely it would be no small disparagement, in this land of proud Dons, to be posted up in a London paper as a murderer of the King’s English. How fortunate was our famous Spanish traveller, my relative, Espriella1 (for you know that there exists a family connexion between us by my mother’s side) to find one of the best writers in England, willing to translate his letters. But since you will not allow me to write in my own language, and since, to say the truth, I feel a pleasure in using that which reminds me of the dear land which has been my second home—the land where I drew my first breath of liberty—the land which taught me how to retrieve, though imperfectly and with pain, the time which, under the influence of ignorance and superstition, I had lost in early youth—I will not delay a task which, should circumstances allow me to complete it, I intend as a token of friendship to you, and of gratitude and love to your country.
Few travellers are equal to your countryman, Mr. Townsend, in the truth and liveliness of his descriptions, as well as in the mass of useful information and depth of remark with which he has presented the public2. It would be impossible for any but a native Spaniard to add to the collection of traits descriptive of the national character, which animates his narrative; and I must confess
See Espriella’s “Letters from England.”
He visited Spain in the years 1786 and 1787.