1868 Spanish Revolution

This series has five easy 5 minute installments. This first installment: O’Donnell Saves Monarchy.

Introduction
Under the regency of her mother, Maria Christina, Isabella succeeded her father, Ferdinand VII, in 1833, the child – Queen being then but three years old. Ten years afterward she assumed personal control of the Government, but by marrying her cousin, Francisco de Assisi (1846), and especially by permitting her sister to marry the Duke of Montpensier, son of Louis Philippe, King of France, she weakened her position in Spain, where it was the object of the French monarch to secure a lasting influence for his house. The reign of Isabella was troubled by the frequent rise and fall of ministries, by rebellion in Cuba, complicated with filibustering movements from the United States, by war with Peru, and by many other disturbances at home and abroad. From 1864 to 1868 the annals of Spain record an uninterrupted series of popular conspiracies and military insurrections. But more than anything else the personal vices and misgovernment of Isabella operated against her and at last precipitated the revolution that drove her from her throne and her country. The events of this upheaval are recounted here with dramatic and picturesque effect by Knapp, an enthusiastic yet judicial historian.

This selection is from his article in Great Events by Famous Historians, Volume 18 by William I Knapp published in 1905. For works benefiting from the latest research see the “More information” section at the bottom of these pages.

William I Knapp (1835-1908) was Professor of Spanish Language and Literature at the University of Chicago

Time: 1868

In 1864 the well-known orator Don Emilio Castelar published a strong article in a Madrid journal satirizing a recent gift. Queen Isabella had presented to the Premier, Narvaez, three fourths of her income for one year for his eminent services to the dynasty. There was no doubt as to the service, but the cause was not popular. So Castelar headed his article El Rasgo (“the stroke of generosity”), and Narvaez expelled him from his chair of history in the university. The students, joined by the masses, made a demonstration in the Central Plaza — the Puerta del Sol. The troops were ordered to fire on the defenseless people. Hundreds were killed, and the Queen was compelled by public indignation to dismiss Narvaez. The alternate, Leopoldo O’Donnell, was called, and the incident ended.

In January, 1866, Don Juan Prim made his unlucky coup at Aranjuez. O’Donnell was on the alert, for both men were veterans in conspiracy. Suspecting that Prim might be meditating another station in the long via crucis of retribution, he had sent the suburban garrisons travelling about by rail, as they do in Spain when it is convenient to occupy idle elements of danger. So Prim rose with his troops at Aranjuez, but his confederates at Alcala made no sign. As usual, he called it a betrayal and fled over the neighboring border. A few shots early in the dawn against a dead wall in Madrid, a thousand exiles for France, and the dupes of Prim had paid the debt of their temerity.

But Prim was no common conspirator. From the frontier of Portugal he addressed a word to the nation: “Because I tread foreign soil, is the work thus to end? No, a thousand times, no! The external obstacles that keep me at bay for a moment will soon be removed. The forces of revolution are the same as before, the necessity the same. Even though I should not share its glories, the revolution will come. But I shall be at my post. Courage, Spaniards, the day of retribution draws nigh. We have opened the campaign for the people, and the people never die. Our foes, of themselves, can do nothing ; their hope lies in our despair. They cannot afford to risk an encounter ; a single blow will achieve our triumph.”

This attempt of Prim in January was but one of a series that fill up the remaining months. Isabella II was encircled by the ever-narrowing bond of fate; by a hedge of bristling steel. The notes of that swan-song of 1856 echoed in the corridors of the palace; the “Dance of Death” clattered on the marble floor of her alcove. On June 22nd it sounded again ; this time close by her mansion, in the barracks she had reared to protect her.

San Gil, or St. Giles, is a large caserne, or military depot, like those buildings that Napoleon III set up over Paris. The garrison rose in San Gil on that day and slaughtered their chiefs in cold blood. The populace, forewarned and forearmed, poured into the streets and there were a rush and roar and barricade. An insurrection in Madrid is a sight to see, but not to be forgotten. At the first note of alarm, there are shrieks and running, the ponderous siege-doors of shop, hotel, and cafe are shut with an ominous crash, and the street exits of private houses are secured by mediaeval bolts and bars. An affair like this is put down — if put down at all -— by occupying the plazas and corners with artillery. Then the cavalry parade the streets, and the warfare of small arms begins.

More than eight hundred bodies lay dead in the streets on that day; but the Government triumphed. Both Narvaez and Serrano fought well, and for the nonce aided the Premier. But it was that kind of support which is soon coined to profit. When order was restored, the country was placed in a state of siege and the work of vengeance began. More than threescore and ten were led to the wall beyond the perimeter of the town and there shot. The most eminent statesmen and writers fell under the ban, and thousands followed their comrades to exile. But it was the final blow; at the next, the nation and the world will assist.

O’Donnell had again saved the Bourbon monarchy, and as a consequence Isabella, always short – sighted, always acting under the impulse of a personal bias for the Moderados, dismissed him on July 10th. “She has sent me off,” said he, “like the meanest of her servants; but I will never again be a minister under that woman.” The same day Narvaez, the champion of despotism, was installed in the presidency, and O’Donnell took the way to Biarritz to die.

One bright afternoon in the autumn of 1867 I first saw Isabella in the presence of her people. I was standing on the edge of the grand square of the town. A picturesque throng of strangely dressed humanity was slowly moving along in the direction of the gossiping Prado. Of the women, some had black veils on their heads, some silk kerchiefs; none wore the bonnet of Europe. The men walked mincingly beside their women, their arms hidden beneath the folds of the graceful capa. thought how little Romanic they seemed who had suffered six centuries of Rome. Their gait, the wary eye, the solemn, eager manner, savored more of Judea than of Latium. The political captivity in which they then groaned added a still deeper shade to their traditional gloom. Since those terrible days in June of the previous year there was nothing more to be done but to watch and wait. The walls of the public buildings were riddled and scarred by the missiles of recent combat. The point of most desperate resistance, the course of attack and defense, could be read on the walls and traced from St. Giles to Atocha, the opposite extremes of the city.

O’Donnell had but just died in France as we crossed the frontier. When Isabella heard of this she coldly remarked, “Well, he said in July he would never serve ‘that woman’ again; he has kept his word.”

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