KING FERDINAND VII. AND HIS HOME LIFE

1814–1829

So Spaniards once more had a King of their own blood. The pity of the matter was that the man himself was so unworthy of the people’s trust. Brought up in a Court honeycombed with intrigue, truth and sincerity seemed unknown to Ferdinand, and although he constantly said, “I hate and abhor despotism,” there never was a Sovereign more despotic than this son of Charles IV.

Being untrustworthy himself, he thought everybody was unreliable, and so he set spies on his entourage, and stooped to listen to stories from his servants.

Thus, no Minister or officer was safe from being sent off to prison, and with the duplicity which had been perfected by constant practice in his youth sentence of condemnation would be given by Ferdinand with an air of friendliness, with a wave of his cigar or the offer of his caramels, followed by thrumming on the table, or the pulling of his ear, or the slapping of his forehead, with which his courtiers were familiar as signs of bad temper.

The Duke of Alagon was the King’s most constant attendant in any gallant adventure, and, indeed, his departures in that respect were those of a man who seemed to atone for his want of personal attractions by a surplus of gallantry to the fair sex. It was whilst pursuing one of these intrigues with a charming widow at the royal resort of San Lorenzo that General Trinidad Balboa, in his anxiety to show his zeal for the King in his position as commander of the police at Aranjuez, wrote to headquarters saying:

“There is nothing fresh to report beyond the anxiety felt by the King’s faithful servants at His Majesty so constantly risking his precious health by being out in the cold night air of the gardens.”

But the official’s zeal was untimed, and he was politely informed that any further reports of this nature would end in a visit to Ceuta, which is the severest Spanish prison.

As there was but one Government in the reign of Ferdinand VII. and but one army, and that was the Government and the army of the King, the effect of the influence of the women who surrounded the monarch was immense, and this was especially seen in the royal country resorts, where the King’s Court numbered many coquettish sirens who courted him for favours of all descriptions.

The greed and corruption of men in authority at Court became an open secret.[11] Don Pedro Macanáz, the Minister of Grace and Justice, sold offices at high prices, and large sums of money thus passed into the hands of a certain Luisa Robinet, who had followed the diplomat from France. This fact came to the ears of the King, and he determined to stop the matter in his own way; so on November 8, 1814, Ferdinand rose early and sallied quietly forth from the palace, only accompanied by his confidential friend, the Duke of Alagon.

When they had gone some way, they were joined by a company of the Guard, and with this escort they arrived at the house of the suspected Minister. The unhappy man was in bed, but the King mounted to his room, demanded his keys, and went to his desk, and there he found a letter in which a certain person offered him 12,000 reals for a post which he solicited. Armed with this and many other incriminating papers, Ferdinand returned home to his courtiers, who applauded his action, and Macanáz was condemned to imprisonment for an indefinite time in the Castle of San Antonio in Corunna.

The corruption of the Ministers and the despotism of the King naturally led to secret societies in Spain.

Alagon was the King’s constant companion, and at night the King used to sally forth with him in search of adventure. Don Ramon de Mesoneros Romanos relates that one night a small boy met two imposing-looking figures dressed as ordinary citizens with wide-collared cloaks, and, as there was not room on the side-walk for him to pass them without going into the road, he made as if he would push by them, with the discourtesy of youth. But, as the man on the inside of the pathway removed his handkerchief from his face, the boy gazed at him with such open-mouthed astonishment that the imposing-looking gentleman quietly put forth his hand, and the boy found himself removed to the middle of the road. The next day the boy’s schoolfellows were regaled with an account of his encounter with the Sovereign.

“Yes,” said the boy, with glee, “it was King Ferdinand VII. himself—his very self.”

During the public audiences at Court, Alagon used to stand by the King with his hand in the breast of his coat, and by a secret language he acquainted the King with the political opinions of the persons who were soliciting his favour, and it was by the same dumb language that the monarch learnt particulars about any beauties who appeared at the Alcazar.

It was soon found that to pander to the King’s love of the table was a sure way to favour, so not only would an impecunious noble give him a magnificent banquet in return for exemption from paying his debts, but the religious houses, the barracks, and the prisons, regaled the royal monarch with great feasts, which were always followed by a request for his patronage on behalf of some relation or connection of those in authority at the institution.

On February 3, 1815, Ferdinand suddenly appeared with the Captain of his Guard in the Council of the Supreme Inquisition. He told the assembly to resume their seats and to continue their work, and this work of persecuting humanity appeared so attractive to the royal visitor that he decorated the Inquisitor-General with the Grand Cross of Charles III. The superior officer a few days afterwards gave a magnificent lunch to the monarch on the understanding that he would favour the work of condemning heretics; so on March 17 we find Ferdinand creating an Order of Knighthood for the Ministers of the Holy Office.

Ferdinand’s marriage, when he was thirty-two years of age, to Isabel de Braganza, opened a new era for Spain. As we know, Isabel’s sister, Doña Maria Francisca de Asis, had married the King’s brother, Don Carlos, the future claimant to the throne.

The King’s bride was soon beloved by all her subjects for her sweetness and intelligence. Indeed, so true was her judgment in matters of policy that, when her husband occasionally consulted with her about affairs, he never regretted accepting her opinion.

The young Queen was, moreover, very artistic, and it was her love of the fine arts and her skill in painting that led to the foundation of the Academy of San Fernando, intended especially for the exhibition of foreign pictures.

But, clever as the young Queen was, she was woman enough to wish to win her husband’s admiration, and in this aim she resorted to all sorts of girlish artifices.

Once, when the King was passing through the royal apartments with his pompous step, he was accosted by a charming maiden in Andalusian attire. With her fine features shaded by a rich white mantilla, her beautiful blue eyes bubbling over with fun, and her lovely hands holding up the castanets, she gracefully took a few steps of a Sevillian dance before curtseying to His Majesty. When the King saw that the charming girl was the Queen, he was surprised into admiration for his beautiful wife, and every time that she astonished him by such successful artifice she increased his love for her.

But, unfortunately for Isabel’s happiness, Ferdinand was constantly on his guard against falling, like his father, too much under the influence of his wife, and, as a weak nature like his was bound to be under some domination, it was subjugated by such men as the dissolute Duke of Alagon and his servitor Chamorro, and the Queen’s influence was shunned.

However, the bright, buoyant, loving way in which Isabel sought to gain her rightful place in Ferdinand’s affections would have succeeded in any Court less corrupt than that of Madrid. But the stream of a sweet, pure influence was checked by the stagnating effect of flattery and lies, and the King shut himself out of the joys of a happy home life by the barricades of self-interested friendship, and he strove to satisfy his young wife by showering such public marks of favour upon her as having the Buen Retiro made into a perfect garden of Paradise for her use. But, even as the beautiful Queen trod the lovely glades and gazed at the gorgeous flowers, she sighed for more frequent signs of her husband’s love and confidence, which would have filled her heart with a joy unobtainable by any outward pomp and prettiness.

Alagon and Chamorro indeed formed an insurmountable barrier between the royal couple, and all Isabel’s efforts seemed powerless to break it down.

The King’s charming compliments to his wife sometimes soothed her chafed spirits, and consoled her with the hope that, if not supreme in his confidence, she had at least no rival in his heart. But this consolation was not long left her, for the day came when she found that the man who had been treacherous to his father and his mother, his family, and his friends, was also false to his wife.

The Queen was sitting one evening in the royal palace. If her pretty forehead puckered sometimes in thought, it was probably because she was planning some fresh fantastic surprise for the husband who was enthroned in her heart, or perhaps she was forming some plan for an exhibition in the Art Institution she had founded, when her brother-in-law, Don Carlos, came into the room and informed her that the King had gone out into the city in his mysterious way with his confidants Alagon and Chamorro, and expeditions conducted in this secret form signified to the Prince an affaire de cœur. Isabel at first declined to believe the Infante’s statement, as Ferdinand had told her that he was only going on business to the Mayordomo’s office. So the Prince accompanied his sister-in-law to the office in question, and when the King was not to be found there, and his companions also proved to be missing, the Queen determined to wait for her husband in a room near the door by which he would re-enter the palace. The hours of waiting were long, and when Ferdinand finally returned it was to find the gentle Queen too overwrought to be able to restrain her rage.

“You have deceived me!” she cried. “You come from the house of your dear one! I congratulate you!”

The King replied in terms which showed how great was his anger with the tale-bearer, and the dialogue between the royal brothers might have led to fatal results had not Doña Francisca intervened; and, as the influence which the Princess exerted over her brother-in-law was always of great weight, the painful scene ended with the wound to poor Isabel’s heart which never was healed.

Deceived in her husband, the young Queen devoted herself assiduously to her baby daughter, and was never so happy as when she was doing everything herself for it; and when the little Infanta succumbed to an illness, Isabel’s grief was intense, and the King also was much affected at the death of his baby daughter.

It was about this time that the serious discontent in the realm led to a plot which was to compass the assassination of the King. Don Vicente Richard was the chief conspirator, and as each participator in the plot knew of only two others concerned in it, and the triangular sections were all quite separate from each other, the names were never disclosed. When it was time to put the match to the train, some thought that it would be well to surprise the King in the house of a certain beautiful Andalusian lady called Pepa, so that the whole country should know that the perfidy of the King extended to his domestic life as well as to matters of public concern.

But Richard’s two co-operators betrayed the plot to the palace, and although the conspirators met the fate which such actions invite, and the King spared neither time nor money in trying to find out their co-operators, no further information was discoverable.

The Freemasons were at this time a great object of persecution on the part of the Inquisition. In a curious old book called “Narration of Don Juan Van Halem, Field-Marshal of the National Troops,” we have an account of a secret audience he had with Ferdinand for the purpose of making certain revelations to His Majesty on the subject.

According to the account written by Halem himself, a certain Don Ramirez Arellano came into his cell at seven o’clock in the evening, when he was suffering imprisonment at the hand of the Inquisition, and told him that the King was graciously pleased to receive him, but warned him solemnly against any indiscretion. Halem wished to put on his uniform, with the stripes and decorations accorded to those who had followed Ferdinand to Valençay. But Arellano forbade it. “Nothing in the way of uniform,” he said—“nothing, nothing that may attract attention;” and he made him don his plain cap and jacket, and, accompanied by the alcalde and another man, they repaired to the palace.

“We reached the gallery,” writes Van Halem, “by unfrequented stairways, and, opening a coloured window, which was a secret door, came to the King’s private room, commonly called the camarilla.

“There Ramirez Arellano left us for a while, and I found that the other incognito was Villar Frontin, the King’s secretary. At the end of half an hour a fine-figured lady passed through the room, followed by Arellano. He nervously made a sign to the secretary and me to follow him, whilst the alcalde was to remain behind. When we all three arrived at the door of the salon, Arellano called out in a loud tone:

“‘Señor.’

“‘What is it?’ cried a voice from within.

“‘Here is Van Halem.’

“‘Enter.’

“So we entered, leaving Villar Frontin near the door outside.

“The King was quite alone; he was seated in the only chair in the room, but as we advanced he rose to his feet. The King’s dress is so familiar to his people, down to the cut of his trousers and the stud of his shirt-front, that there is no need to describe it.

“At a little distance from the chair was a large table, at which the King despatched business with his Ministers, and upon which were several papers, an inkstand, a writing-case, and a box of cigars.

“By the side of the table was a case, which was doubtless the same in which Irriberry said the King kept the papers sent from Murcia for him.

“The King rested one hand on the table, whilst I bowed to his feet according to Spanish etiquette, and giving me the other to kiss, he raised me, saying: ‘And what do you want? Why do you wish to see me?’

“‘Because I am perfectly sure that, if Your Majesty will listen to me quietly, all the suspicions with which Your Majesty has been inspired, and which have led to my treatment, will be allayed!’

“‘But you are taking part in a conspiracy, and you ought to divulge it to me. I know all. Don’t be frightened. Who are your accomplices?’

“‘The desire for good is not conspiracy. If Your Majesty knows all, there will be nothing new in what I can say, and any explanation you may deign to authorize me to make will disarm your anger, and show you that the only reason anybody hides from your august personage is to escape from the scourge with which people seek to make your illustrious name odious.’

“‘Who are those who have seduced you with these errors? Tell me who they are. Do not hesitate.’

“‘Señor, if Your Majesty knows all, you know—you must know—that nobody has seduced me, and that I speak from an impulse of conviction from within; and that the order of things and the distrust nowadays is such that I cannot say I know anybody personally.’

“‘You must know the means of discovering them; you are bound in honour to obey me. Choose, then, between grace and disgrace.’

“‘Put yourself, Your Majesty, at the head of the society, and you will know all....’

“Then Ramirez Arellano advanced like a fury towards the King, and cried to me in a loud voice, most unfitting for the presence of a King: ‘Here, here, we want no more preambles and sophisms! On this table are pens and paper, and here you must put down the names of all the conspirators. No circumlocution or subterfuges. The King is at the head of his kingdoms, and nothing under the sun ought to be hidden from him. I have read Barruel, Señor; I have been in France, and I know what these Freemasonry secrets are. Where, where are the solemn oaths made to your religion and your King?’

“During all this storm I kept my eyes on the monarch’s face, which seemed turned to stone from the moment Arellano joined in the conversation. Disregarding the miserable man as much as I could, I turned to the King, and said:

“‘Señor, I know nobody.’

“Then Ramirez said: ‘Señor, the tribunal, the tribunal will make him vomit.’

“Then the King, turning away from Ramirez, said in a tone of vexation:

“‘It is impossible that you know nothing about it; your silence is criminal.’

“‘Señor,’ I returned, ‘if I were hiding a crime I should shun your royal presence, and if I had committed a sin I should profit by the opportunity of being in the royal presence, to ask pardon.’

“The King stood looking at me thoughtfully for some time, and then said:

“‘Put down in writing all that you have to tell me.’

“After a slight pause he took one of the cigars from the table, lighted it, and began smoking.

“‘Do you smoke?’ he said.

“And when my answer was in the affirmative, he said to Arellano: ‘Give him some cigars.’

“This act was followed by a sign for me to leave, and when I kissed His Majesty’s hand he pressed mine with a certain touch of feeling, but, on turning to make my bow at the door, I heard him say to Arellano: ‘What a pity—such young man!’”

Thus, the attempt to give the King some idea of the matter did not succeed, as the Freemason was not allowed to make any verbal explanation, and to have followed the royal suggestion of putting in writing any information about the society would have been to put one’s neck into the noose.

According to Van Halem’s own story, he subsequently escaped from prison through the help of a maid-servant.

It was on the evening of December 26, 1818, that sweet Isabel died, and Ferdinand again found himself a widower.

The news was a great shock to the whole country. Mesoneros Romanos relates that he was at a large municipal evening party, when the Mayor entered in his official garb, and said in a solemn voice: “Señores, this festivity must cease. The Queen our lady” (and he reverently doffed his hat) “has just expired after being delivered of an infant, which has also died.” Dismay filled the assembly, and it was with sad hearts that the company repaired to their homes, for not only had they lost their lovable young Queen, but the death of her infant had also destroyed their hopes of an heir to the throne.[12]

It is said that Ferdinand showed more grief at this bereavement than ever he had before, and, robbed of the one person whose advice was always good and disinterested, he was soon utterly ruled by his favourites of the camarilla, who wove intrigues to the ruin of the country.

Obedient to the wishes of the State, that there should be a direct heir to the crown, the King soon wedded Maria Josefa Amalia, Princess of Saxony, a young girl of sixteen, just out of the convent where she was educated; and it was soon seen that she had little or no influence on the character and actions of her husband, for, although the verses from her pen show that she was very intelligent, she was never known, during the eight years of her married life, to express any opinion on public affairs, and she occupied herself entirely in making garments for the poor. With the extreme piety of her disposition, which had been fostered in the convent, Maria Amalia never frequented balls or theatres, and her drive in the Pardo was the only pleasure she allowed herself. Studious by nature, the Queen soon mastered the language of her new country, but study was not the accomplishment by which she could gain ascendancy over a man like Ferdinand.

The change from the society of the eager, intelligent Isabel to that of the cold, formal Maria Amalia was great, and, as the phlegmatic Queen never sought her husband’s confidence, it was now entirely monopolized by his self-interested camarilla, who flattered and fawned upon the King, and encouraged him in courses which gradually robbed him of all the respect of his subjects. The King’s promises to support the Constitution were recklessly broken, and despair at the decay of all hopes of a good monarchical government led, in 1820, to such a systematic proclamation of the Constitution in Corunna, Vigo, and many garrisons of Spain, that the country became in a state of revolt. Then the courtiers became alarmed, and the King himself could not hide his anxiety at seeing the affection of his subjects slipping from him. The day came when the palace was surrounded by a discontented mob. The Queen sat silently in a corner of her room engaged in prayer, whilst Chamorro tried to drown his master’s fears in ribald laughter.

Ferdinand paced the apartment deep in thought, and the silence which met his companion’s ill-placed mirth showed it was unwelcome to the monarch. At last the King’s good genius conquered, and, putting aside the courtiers who sought to stifle every good impulse, he sent for better councillors, and by their advice he strove to avert the threatened blow by signing a document in which he promised to act in conformity with his brother Don Carlos and the Junta, of which he was President.

But the expressions in this manifesto were vague and obscure instead of being open and frank, and Ferdinand found that the realm which had been outraged by six years of autocratic tyranny was as difficult to get back to subjection as an unbridled horse left to its own course.

Discontented with the lack of any binding promise in the King’s manifesto that he would protect their constitutional rights, the people returned in crowds to the palace, and the air echoed with their loud cries for justice. The Royal Guard itself was lax in checking this public ebullition of feeling, and the people began to press up the royal staircase, when the King sent his emissaries to check their progress and calm the sedition with promises to give attention to their petitions. But these promises did not satisfy the people, and the Marquis of Miraflores returned to the King to say that the citizens demanded His Majesty to take his solemn oath of the Constitution of the country in presence of the Corporation and the Commissioners of the people.

Despotic as he was when in safety, Ferdinand was weak and cowardly in danger, so he concealed his annoyance at the demand of the Commission, and, with well-assumed benignity, took the desired oath in the Ambassadors’ Salon at the palace. But afterwards, when alone with his favourites, Ferdinand gave vent to the rage which he felt at having been thus forced to do what was contrary to his love of despotism.

Indeed, this despotism was inherent in Ferdinand both by instinct and education, and Queen Amalia’s sphere of usefulness was limited to her never-ending self-imposed task of making garments for the poor. Spain saw the sad hearts of those whose parents, husbands, sons, or friends, were condemned to exile or poverty for no better cause than for having been friendly with the French, whom their King himself had flattered with every expression of obedience and service.

The promises for the restitution of the property which had been thus confiscated came too late to check the surging insurrectionary state of the people, and on the night of July 8, 1820, the insurrection in the barracks of the King’s own Guard, in favour of those who were proclaiming Liberty throughout the country, struck terror into the pusillanimous heart of the King, and it was only the death of the standard-bearer which prevented the revolution becoming very serious.

Moreover, the palace itself was the seat of a plot headed by Baso, the King’s secretary, and Erroz, his private chaplain.

The object of this plot was to get possession of the King’s person on the road from Burgos, and to proclaim a republic.

But Baso, who was attached to the Infante Don Francisco, warned him so that he could repair to Old Castile, and the matter thus got wind, and reached the ears of Echevarri, the Chief of the Police. This official promptly ordered the bells to be set ringing in every place on the King’s route, and the crowds of people thus brought to the road from Burgos prevented the King being taken captive.

It was on the day following the frustration of the plot that Ferdinand opened the Senate in state. The King went with stately step to the royal apartments of Queen Amalia, and, accompanied by the Infantas, grandees, gentlemen-in-waiting, and all the pomp of the occasion, Their Majesties proceeded to the Senate in the magnificent state coach drawn by sixteen cream horses with nodding plumes. Seated on the throne, with the Ministers, Deputies, and Bishops, on the benches, and a brilliant assembly of courtiers and ladies in the boxes, the King read his opening speech; and, as he promised to maintain the rights of the people, it seemed as if King and State were once more in union.

But the seeds of discontent were not so easily uprooted, and a Commission of the Patriotic Society of the Café of Lorencini went at twelve o’clock one night to the palace to request the removal of the Marquis of las Amarillas, the Secretary of War. This request angered the monarch, the bad feeling between Ferdinand and his Ministers increased daily, and in the meetings the King did not hesitate to exhibit his bad temper in spiteful and satirical allusions accompanied by a malignant smile.

It was at this time that Riego was made Captain-General of Galicia. He was a pleasant, valorous young fellow who suddenly became a favourite of the populace through the bold way in which he stood up for the constitutional rights of the nation. But after his triumphal entry into Madrid he quite lost his head, and, instead of being the Rienzi the people had hoped for, he had not sufficient eloquence with which to harangue the people when they shouted for him to come and speak for them, and the populace had to be contented with the sight of his face in the light of their torches. Riego was indeed wanting in the intellectual force required to lead a nation, and, though he had thought to be its idol, he soon found he was only its plaything, but his vanity spurred him on in the campaign for the assertion of its rights.

Ferdinand, meanwhile, had been told by one of his secret agents of the weak side of the leader of the insurgents; and having sent for Riego, he flattered him by showing him how advantageous it would be to schemes of constitutional liberty if he were to join the Ministry.

Riego then boldly declared his hope that the Ministry would be changed, and Ferdinand, who was at that moment anxious to get rid of his Cabinet, entered into the plan of replacing the Ministers by friends of Riego.

It was on September 3 that Riego’s party proceeded to the theatre after a great banquet, and there broke into a couplet composed in Cadiz—the “Trágala” (“Swallow It,” meaning the Constitution).

Ferdinand strove to counteract this public anti-monarchical exhibition by secret agents following him with cries of “Viva el Rey” as he passed to and from the palace.

Fresh friction arose between the monarch and the Ministry when the law which had been approved by the Cortes for the reform of the convents was brought to the King for his sanction. For, supported by the wish of the Pope, conveyed by the Nuncio, Ferdinand determined to take no step to check the fanaticism which he himself so strongly favoured.

The people were furious at this blow to their hopes for progress, and when all was prepared for the departure of the King and Queen to the Escorial on October 25, his secretaries told him that a plan was laid by his enemies to prevent his departure till he had passed the decree to check the power of the friars and prevent their inquisitorial courses. The King was enraged at this announcement, and he hastily decided to leave Madrid that very minute. So he left with the Queen and the Infantas at eleven o’clock in the morning, and brilliant illuminations and rejoicings marked the evening of Their Majesties’ return to the Palace of San Lorenzo. Shut up in the Escorial, Ferdinand devoured his rage in secret, and when the day came for closing the Congress, he excused himself from attendance on the plea of a severe cold.

It was on November 21 that the Court returned to Madrid. But at some distance from the capital crowds of people met Their Majesties singing the “Trágala”; and when Ferdinand, as usual, went to the window of the palace to see the march past of the regiments in the city, he was met by a storm of frantic cries and threatening gesticulations from the crowds of people assembled in the Plaza del Oriente. The King was about to turn away with an imprecation from such a scene, when he caught sight of a child being held up above the sea of angry faces, and a look of horror came over his face as the populace pointed to the little boy, crying, “Lacy! Lacy!” For by this name he knew that the child was that of the unhappy General Lacy, the leader of the victory over the French in the Mancha, but he had met a secret and violent death at Majorca after the failure of his pronunciamento in favour of the Constitution had led to his plot in Catalonia in 1817.

The King stood horror-struck when the cries of “Viva Lacy’s son!” and “Viva his father’s avenger!” filled the air, but he kept his place till the defile of the regiment was over. Then the King turned back into the salon with a face which showed that he realized the portentous nature of the movement he had witnessed.

The Queen was sitting weeping bitterly at these signs of discord, and the Infantas looked distressed at the dangers which were threatening the dynasty through their brother’s want of keeping faith with his subjects.

The sense of danger became more pronounced when it was found that within the very precincts of the palace a plot was brewing.

It was the honorary chaplain, Don Matios Vinuesa, and a gentleman-in-waiting, who formed the idea of sending for the city authorities one night and making them prisoners of the King in the royal domain, whilst the Infante Don Carlos was to take command of the troops of the garrison in virtue of the Absolutist party. This plot was discovered by the betrayal of the secret printing of the proclamations, and Vinuesa was hurried off to prison on January 21, 1821.

On May 4, Vinuesa, the Canon of Tarazona, was sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment in Africa. But this punishment did not satisfy the fury of the people at the discovery of the plot favoured by the King. A meeting was held in the Puerta del Sol, and from thence the outraged people proceeded to the prison, to which their admission was only opposed by one locked door. All the rest were open, and, penetrating the cell of the unhappy cleric, they gave him two blows on the head with an iron hammer. The murdered man had tried to avert his death by falling on his knees and begging for mercy; but it was useless, and the bloodthirsty mob followed the mortal blows dealt on the head with several more with other weapons.

An assassination which had been connived at by those in power filled the King with fear, for he felt that a people who could thus take justice into their own hands might resort to the same course any day with him.

In this state of alarm, he ordered the Guard to assemble in the wide colonnaded square of the palace. The Guard was composed of soldiers who had fought bravely in the Battles of Bailen, Talavera, and Albuera, and the King did wisely to appeal to the chivalrous feeling of such men.

“Soldiers!” he cried, with a voice which became penetrating in the speaker’s desire to make it ring in the hearts of his hearers—“Soldiers!” he cried, “the deed committed this afternoon against the person of the priest may to-morrow be committed against me or against yourselves. Soldiers! I trust in you, and I come before your ranks now to ask if you are disposed to defend your constitutional King.”

To this appeal the Guard cried: “Viva the absolute King!” and, satisfied with this demonstration, Ferdinand returned to the royal apartments, somewhat reassured after the fright he had suffered.

After this episode the King seemed to avoid Madrid, with its discontented Ministers and the insulting cries of the “Trágala” revolutionary song, which so often fell upon his ears by the Manzanares, and, after going with the Queen to take the baths at Sacedon, he spent some time in the Palace of San Ildefonso at Aranjuez. There the unstable King could be oblivious of his duties as a constitutional monarch; and in frivolous games and boating-parties, picnics and dances, he passed the hours away. With the gallantry with which Ferdinand sought to compensate for his want of personal good looks, he made himself conspicuous with many of the frivolous, pretentious ladies who sought for his favours.

However, the King’s health began to fail visibly, and he became a martyr to gout, which finally shortened his life.

Ferdinand’s constant struggle of his ambition against the natural weakness of his character, and his propensity for the pleasures of the table and gallantry, undermined his constitution, and at an age when many men are in their prime he was broken with suffering.

When the revolution at last broke out under the Generals Alava, Copons, and Riego, the King was in a great state of mind, and horses were saddled and kept ready for flight at a minute’s notice.

When Ballesteros, who had been victorious with the militia in the Puerta del Sol, arrived at the gates of the palace, the Royal Family was horror-struck. The two battalions of the Guard were idle at the royal domain, because the King would not let them go to the assistance of the four battalions fighting in the town, and he had passed the night endorsing the lists of proscription which his alarmed councillors had presented to him. The King had, moreover, signed the warrant for the committal to prison of Riego, Ballesteros, Palarea, etc., who captained the militia, and the sentence was to have been executed that very night.

But for such a task a strong Guard was needed, as despots can only condemn citizens to death when protected by a strong line of bayonets. The cannon thundered in the Puerta del Sol, and the militia with Ballesteros having appeared right at the gates of the palace, a bullet entered one of the windows.

Then the King forgot all his plans for revenge, and the dignity of the Castilian crown was dragged in the dust, for he sent a messenger to Ballesteros beseeching him to desist from firing, as his life would be in imminent danger.

The General replied: “Tell the King to command the attendants about him to lay down their arms immediately, or, if not, the bayonets of free men will penetrate to his royal chamber.”

However, Ballesteros did order a truce to the hostilities, and sent back the messenger to Morillo with his own Aide-de-Camp.

The permanent deputation of the Cortes, which, in virtue of Article 187, was entitled to form a regency in the case of the physical or moral deficiency of the King, thought it was time to do so, and it assembled in the house called the Panaderia.

Word was sent to the militia that His Majesty desired the cessation of bloodshed, and it did not seem befitting the splendour of the sceptre for the King’s Guard to be obliged to lay down their arms. After an animated discussion it was decided that the four battalions which had attacked the town should lay down their arms, and that the other two should go out armed and take up their positions in Vicalvaro and Leganes.

But late in the afternoon, when this arrangement was going to take place, the four aggressive battalions, having made another attack on the militia, fled away by the stone steps which lead from the square of the royal palace to the Campo de Moro. Morillo brought more artillery into play, and Ballesteros, after attacking with his cavalry the groups of peasants who were proclaiming absolutism, also started in pursuit of the Guards. It spoke well for the democrats that, when the palace was momentarily left without any guard, until the Count of Carthagena arrived with the regiment of the Infante Don Carlos, it was perfectly respected, and no attempt was made to invade it.

But when Morillo arrived with his troops at the royal gates, Ferdinand rushed to the window and incited his General to attack the people, crying out: “After them! after them!” Such cowardice and treachery seemed incredible.

Instigated by his love of double-dealing and intrigue, Ferdinand sent again for Riego, the revolutionary leader, and deceived him by his conciliatory assertions that he only wished his welfare and that of all Spaniards, and that he did not believe his heart was capable of nourishing the counsels of perfidious men.

Riego, unacquainted with the dissimulation of the Court, was quite enthusiastic at the sudden conversion of the King, and in this spirit he would not have the “Trágala” sung any more, and declared he would have those who did so arrested.

The astuteness and deception of the King gave rise to inextricable confusion in affairs. On one side he promised the French Minister that he would establish the two Chambers, and on the other side he was telling Mataflorida to take the reins of a Regency and proclaim Absolutism. When the three Generals met the King as he crossed the bridge at Cadiz connecting the island with the mainland, and represented to him that it would be well for him to place the Regency in their hands, he exclaimed, “Hola! But I am not mad! That is good!” and continued his way to Cadiz.

As this is not a political book, we need not enter more fully into the long struggle of Ferdinand’s Absolutism against the Constitutional party, and how he was obliged to leave Madrid.

The country again saw the French called to interfere in the affairs of the nation, and it was indeed, as we know, only due to Angoulême that Ferdinand, after his time of humiliation in Andalusia, returned to the capital.

Once more the people went mad with delight at the sight of the King. Riego the revolutionist was dragged in a basket at an ass’s tail, to be hanged and quartered as a felon, and the people who hailed the return of the absolute monarch were indeed bidding welcome to the return of the chains which had shackled them.