Skip to main content

Full text of "Historical view of the literature of the south of Europe"

See other formats 


imi,.V('i" 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


JfDANTTE     AIL,  ECU  HE  IB  lit  II. 


HISTORICAL    VIEW 


OF  THE 


LITERATURE 


OF  THE 


SOUTH    OF    EUROPE; 


BY 


J.  C.  L.  SIMONDE  DE  SISMONDI: 

OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  SOCIETY  OF  ARTS  OF  GENEVA, 
HONORARY    MEMBER    OF   THE    UNIVERSITY   OP  WILNA,    OF   THE    ITALIAN    ACADEMY. 

ETC.    ETC. 


TRANSLATED     FKOM     THE    ORIGINAL, 

WITH    NOTES,    AND    A    LIFE    OF    THE    AUTHOR, 
BY  THOMAS  ROSCOE. 


.^cconlr  iSttittott, 

INCLUDING  ALL  THE  NOTES  FROM  THE  LAST  PARIS  EDITION. 


VOL.  IL 

LO'NDON  : 
HENRY  G.  BOHN,  YORK  STREET,  CO  VENT  GARDEN. 

1846. 


LONDON : 

n.ri.AY,  PRINTEH,  DKi; AD  STIIEET  Hll  L. 


CONTENTS 


OP 


THE   SECOND   VOLUME. 


Chapter  XXI.  Page 

Alfieri  and  his  School,  continued 25 

Chapter  XXII. 

On  the  Prose  Writers  and  Epic  and  Lyric  Poets  of  Italy,  during 
the  Eighteenth  Century       .         - 55 

^^  Chapter  XXIII. 

Origin  of  the  Spanish  Language  and  Poetry. — Poem  of  the  Cid      .     86 

Chapter  XXIV. 
Spanish  Poeti^  of  the  Thirteenth  Centuiy. — Romances  of  the  Cid  120 

Chapter  XXV. 
On   Spanish   Literature,   during  the   Fourteenth    and    Fifteenth 
Centuries 140 

Chapter  XXVI. 
Age  of  Charles  V. — The  Classics  of  Spain  :   Boscan  ;   Garcilaso  ; 
Mendoza ;  Miranda;  Montemayor 175 

Chapter  XXVII. 
Spanish  Literature  of  the  Sixteenth  Century,  continued. — Herrera  ; 
Ponce  de  Leon;  Cervantes;  his  Don  Quixote      ....  20-i 

Chapter  XXVIII. 
On  the  Dramas  of  Cervantes 229 

Chapter  XXIX. 
Novels  and  Eomances  of  Cervantes  ;  the  Araucana  of  Don  Alonzo 
de  Ercilla    .         .  254 


1328877 


4  CONTENTS. 

Chapter  XXX.  Page 

On  the  Romantic  Drama. — Lope  Felix  de  Vega  Carpio  ,        .        .  283 

Chapter  XXXI. 
Continuation  of  Lope  de  Vega        .        .        .        .        .        .        .313 

Chapter  XXXIL 
Lyric  Poetry  of  Spain,  at  the  close  of  the  Sixteenth  and  commence- 
ment of  the  Seventeenth  Centurj'. — Gongora  and  his  followers, 
Quevedo,  Villegas,  &c. 341 

Chapter  XXXIIL 
Don  Pedro  Calderon  de  la  Barca 367 

Chapter  XXXIV. 
Conclusion  of  Calderon 395 

Chapter  XXXV. 
Conclusion  of  the  Spanish  Drama. — State  of  Letters  during  the 
reign  of  the  house  of  Bourbon. — Conclusion  of  the  History  of 
Spanish  Literature 418 

Chapter  XXXVI. 

State  of  Portuguese  Literature  until  the  middle  of  the  Sixteenth 
Century       ...........  446 

Chapter  XXXVII. 
Luis  de  Camoens  :  Lusiadas 475 

Chapter  XXXVIII. 
Sequel  of  the  Lusiad 502 

Chapter  XXXIX. 
Miscellaneous  Poems  of  Camoens:  Gil  Vicente;  Rodriguez  Lobo  ; 
Cortereal ;  Portuguese  Historians  of  the  Sixteenth  Century         .  628 

Chapter  XL. 
Continuation  of  the  Literature  of  Portugal. — Conclusion        .        .  569 


VIEW  OF  THE 
LITERATURE  OF  THE  SOUTH  OF  EUROPE. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

ALFIERI    AJJD    HIS   SCHOOL   CONTINUED. 

The  publication  of  Alfieri's  first  four  tragedies  was, 
perhaps,  the  greatest  epoch  in  the  literary  history  of  Italy, 
during  the  eighteenth  century.  Up  to  that  period  the  nation, 
contented  with  their  languid  love-plots  and  effeminate  dramas, 
considered  the  rules  of  dramatic  composition  to  be  firmly 
established,  and  the  boundaries  of  the  art  for  ever  stationary 
at  the  point  at  which  their  tragic  writers  had  fixed  them  ; 
attributing  the  fatigue  wliich  they  felt  during  the  represent- 
ation of  pieces,  which  had  no  attractions  to  rivet  their  atten- 
tion, to  the  want  of  poetical  talents  in  the  authors,  and  not 
to  the  false  idea  which  they  themselves  had  formed  of  their 
art.  The  sudden  appearance  of  four  compositions  so  novel, 
elevated,  and  austere,  immediately  led  to  an  inquiry  into  the 
essence  of  the  dramatic  art.  Alfieri  attempted  to  throw  off 
the  disgraceful  yoke,  under  which,  in  Italy,-  the  human  intel- 
lect laboured,  and  every  high-minded  Italian,  who  lamented 
over  the  humiliation  of  his  country,  was  united  to  him  by  the 
bonds  of  mutual  sympathy.  Thus  was  the  taste  for  the 
noblest  species  of  tragedy  mingled  with  the  love  of  glory  and 
of  liberty.  The  theatre,  which  had  been  so  long  considered 
the  school  of  intrigue,  of  languor,  of  effeminacy,  and  of  ser- 
vility, was  now  regarded  by  the  first  Italians  as  the  only  nurse 
of  mental  vigour,  of  honour,  and  of  public  virtue.  Their 
critics  at  last  dared,  with  noble  pride,  to  turn  their  eyes  to  the 

VOL.  II.  B 


26  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

dramatic  Avriters  of  other  nations,  Avhose  superiority  had  long 
been  a  humiliating  reflection.  Though  divided  in  opinion 
upon  the  laws  and  the  essence  of  the  drama,  they  all  united 
in  applauding  the  elevation,  the  nobleness,  and  the  energy  of 
Alfieri's  sentiments  ;  and  opinions,  which,  till  that  time,  had 
been  banished  from  Italy,  burst  forth  at  once,  like  the  long 
suppressed  voice  of  public  feeling.  Even  within  the  narrower 
boundaries  of  the  critical  art,  we  are  astonished  at  the  pro- 
fundity and  variety  of  knowledge  which  were  at  this  period 
displayed  by  men  whose  talents  had  been  hitherto  unknown, 
and  who  would  never  have  exercised  any  influence  over  the 
national  spirit,  unless  some  great  genius  like  Alfieri  had  pre- 
pared the  way  for  them.  Thus  we  find  in  a  letter  from  Renier 
de  Calsabigi  to  Alfieri,  an  acquaintance  with  the  ancient 
drama,  with  that  of  France  and  England,  and  with  the  defects 
peculiar  to  each,  which  we  could  scarcely  have  expected  from 
a  Neapolitan. 

The  labours  of  these  critics  produced  nn  effect  on  the  mind 
of  Alfieri  which  is  manifested  in  his  subsequent  works.  The 
four  tragedies  which  he  first  published  were  only  a  small 
portion  of  the  number  Avhich  remained  in  his  desk.  At  three 
different  periods  he  successively  submitted  these  tragedies  to 
the  judgment  of  the  public.  In  the  interval  between  these 
publications  he  observed  the  general  impression  which  they 
produced,  and  with  the  assistance  of  some  of  his  friends  per- 
formed the  dramas  himself,  ext)osing  them,  by  every  means  in 
his  power,  to  the  test  of  theatrical  representation,  which  could 
scarcely  be  done  in  Italy  in  a  satisfactory  manner.  He 
gradually  reformed  his  style,  and  adapted  his  compositions, 
by  new  corrections,  to  the  general  taste.  His  dramas  were 
thus  distributed  into  three  classes,  distinguished  by  the  period 
of  their  i)ublication,  as  well  as  by  the  various  alterations 
which  they  had  undergone  in  consequence  of  the  successive 
changes  in  the  author's  system. 

At  the  same  time  with  the  Phil//),  which  was  published  in 
1783,  appeared  Puljjnice.s,  Antigone,  which  is  a  sequel  to  the 
latter,  and  Virginia.  The  three  latter  dramas,  which  dis- 
play beauties  of  the  first  order,  have,  in  common  with  the 
Philip,  a  certain  hardness  of  style,  and  exhibit  traces  of 
the  author's  original  acerbity,  notwithstanding  all  the  pains 
which  he  took  to  correct  that  fault  in  the  latter  editions.    They 


OF    THE    ITALIANS.  27 

resemble  each  other  still  more  in  the  author's  obstinate 
attachment  to  his  system  ;  in  the  stitfne»s  of  the  action,  in  the 
bitterness  of  the  sentiments,  and  in  the  baldness  both  of  the 
action  and  the  poetry.  In  the  last  of  these  dramas  the  attach- 
ment of  Alfieri  to  the  laws  of  unity  has  led  him  into  a  strange 
error.  The  murder  of  Virginia  by  her  father  arouses  the 
people,  and  at  the  same  time  enrages  Appius  Claudius.  The 
people  cry  to  arms,  and  exclaim  :  "Appius  is  a  tyrant — let 
him  perish!"  Alfieri,  thinking  that  his  tragedy,  being 
entitled  Virginia,  necessarily  terminated  with  the  death  of 
his  heroine,  lets  the  curtain  drop  upon  the  people  and  the 
lictors  in  the  midst  of  the  conflict,  so  tliat  the  audience  is 
ignorant  of  the  result,  and  whether  Appius  or  the  people 
triumph.  To  leave  any  action  unfinished  at  the  conclusion 
of  a  drama  is  a  gross  violation  of  the  unity;  for  it  induces 
every  one  to  believe  that  such  action  was  totally  independent 
of  the  unity.  Tlie  rigorous  notions  which  compelled  the 
author  to  let  the  curtain  fall  exactly  ten  lines  alter  the  death 
of  Virgina  are  still  more  out  of  place,  when  we  consider  that 
Appius  is  almost  as  important  a  personage  as  she,  and  that 
his  danger  and  destruction,  by  which  Virginia  is  avenged, 
and  her  death  is  justified,  complete  the  essential  action  of  the 
poem. 

Amongst  the  tragedies  of  Alfieri,  of  the  second  period,  we 
shall  select  the  Aqamemnon,  in  order  to  give  some  idea  of  a 
Greek  drama  of  four  characters,  the  interest  of  which  does 
not  arise  from  political  events.  The  scene,  which  is  laid  in 
the  palace  of  Argos,  opens  with  a  very  beautiful  soliloquy  of 
-ZEgisthus,  who  imagines  himself  pursued  by  the  shade  of 
Thyestes,  demanding  vengeance.  This  he  promises.  Born 
in  shame,  the  offspring  of  infamy  and  incest,  he  believes 
himself  called  upon  b}'  destiny  to  commit  the  crime.  Hour 
after  hour  he  awaits  the  return  of  the  conqueror  of  Troy, 
and  he  promises  the  shade  of  his  fiither  to  immolate  him  and 
his  family.  Clytemnestra  seeks  him,  wishing  to  divert  those 
painful  thoughts  which  are  so  plainly  depicted  on  his  coun- 
tenance, ^gisthus  only  speaks  to  her  of  his  approaching 
departure,  and  of  the  necessity  of  avoidingthe  sight  of  the  son 
of  Atreus,  tiie  enemy  of  his  race.  He  can  bear  neither  his 
anger  nor  his  contempt,  and  to  the  one  or  the  other  he  is 
sensible  that  he  must  be  exposed.     He  thus  wounds  the  pride 

b2 


28  ox    THE    LITERATURE 

which  Clytemnestra  feels  in  the  object  of  her  love,  and  excites 
and  directs  a"rainst  Ajrameninon  the  irritation  of  his  delirious 
spouse.  Clytemnestra  at  last  beholds  in  Agamemnon  only  the 
murderer  of  Ipliigenia.  Slie  calls  to  mind  with  bitterness 
thit  horrible  sacrifice,  and  trembles  at  the  name  of  such  a 
father.  All  her  affections  are  concentrated  in  vEgisthus  and 
her  children,  and  she  loves  to  think  that  ^gisthus  will  be  a 
raore  tender  father  than  Agamemnon  toElectra  and  to  Orestes. 
Electra  approaches,  and  Clytemnestra,  in  order  to  speak 
with  her,  prevails  upon  ^gisthus  to  leave  them. 

Electra  relates  the  various  re[)orts  which  have  spread 
through  Argos,  respecting  the  Grecian  fleet.  Some  assert 
that  contrary  winds  have  driven  it  back  to  the  mouth  of  the 
Bosphorus  ;  others,  that  it  has  been  shipwrecked  on  the 
rocks  ;  while  others  again  believe  that  they  see  the  sails  near 
the  shores.  Clytemnestra  demands,  with  sarcastic  bitterness, 
whether  the  gods  wish  that  another  of  her  children  should  be 
sacrificed  for  the  return  of  Agamemnon,  even  as  one  perished 
on  his  departure.  The  character  of  Electra  is  admirable 
throughout.  All  her  speeches  are  full  of  tenderness,  respect, 
and  devotion  to  her  fatlier,  and  of  affection  and  deep  pity  i'or 
her  mother's  aberration.  She  hints  to  her  cautiously  and 
sorrowfully  that  she  is  aware  of  her  fresh  dislike  to  Agamem- 
non, and  that  the  Court  and  the  public,  as  well  as  herself,  are 
acquainted  with  the  cause  of  it. 

Beloved  mother, 
What  art  thou  doing  1     I  do  not  believe 
That  a  flagitious  passion  fires  thy  breast. 
Involuntary  fondness,  sprung  from  pity, 
Which  youth,  especially  wlicn  'tis  unhappy, 
Is  apt  to  inspire,  these,  mother,  are  the  baits 
By  which,  without  thyself  suspecting  it. 
Thru  hast  been  caught.     Thou  hast  not  hitherto 
Each  secret  impulse  rigorously  examined  :  * 


*  0  amata  madre, 
Che  fax  ?     Non  credo  io,  no,  che  ardente  liamma 
11  cor  ti  avvampi ;  involontario  affetto 
Misto  a  pieta,  che  giovinezza  inspira 
Quando  iufelice  ell'  i>,  son  questi  gli  ami, 
A  cui,  sen/a  avvedcrtcne,  sei  prcsa. 
T)i  te,  fiiior,  chiesto  non  hai  scvera 
Kigione  a  tc  ;  di  sua  viitii  non  cade 
Sospetto  in  cor  conscio  a  sc  stesso  ;  e  forse 

Loco 


OF    THE    ITALIAN'S.  29 

A  bosom  conscious  of  its  rectitude 
Hardly  admits  suspicion  of  itself; 
And  here,  perchance,  there  is  no  ground  for  it : 
Perchance  thy  fame  thou  yet  hast  scarcely  sullied, 
Much  less  thy  virtue,  and  there  still  is  time 
To  make  atonement  with  one  easy  step. — 
Ah  !  by  the  sacred  shade,  so  dear  to  thee. 
Of  thy  devoted  daughter ;  by  tliat  love 
AVhich  thou  hast  ever  shewn  and  felt  for  me — 
That  love  of  which  to  day  I  am  not  unworthy ; 
How  can  I  more  persuasively  adjure  thee] 
By  thy  son's  life,  Orestes'  life,  I  pray  thee 
Pause  on  the  brink  of  this  tremendous  gulf ; 
Beloved  mother,  pause.     Afar  from  Argos 
Banish  ^Eglsthus:  stop  malignant  tongues 
By  thy  deportment :  with  thy  children  weep 
The  hardships  of  Atrides,  and  frequent 
With  them  the  sacred  temples  of  the  Gods 
To  implore  his  swift  return. — 

Clytemnestra  is  moved;  she  weep;;,  she  accuses  herself, 
and  she  likewise  accuses  the  blood  of  Leda  which  runs 
through  her  veins  ;  and  tlie  momentary  flash  of  truth  which 
passes  across  her  mind,  whilst  it  fails  to  convince  her,  fills 
her  with  terror. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  second  act  iEgisthus  and  Clytem- 
nestra dispute  upon  the  steps  most  expedient  to  be  taken. 
The  ships  of  Agamemnon  now  enter  the  port.  He  lands 
and  advances  towards  the  palace,  upon  which  iEgisthus  pro- 
poses to  make  his  escape;  but  Clytemnestra,  mad  with  love, 
will  listen  to  no  advice,  nor  see  any  danger.  If  prudence 
bids  her  hasten  tlie  flight  of  her  lover,  it  is  her  part,  she 
says,  to  fly  witii  him,  like  Helen.  iEgisthus,  who  beseeches 
her  to  suffer  him  to  depart,  endeavours,  by  the  apprehension 

Loco  non  ha  :  forse  ofFendesti  a  pena 
Non  il  tuo  onor,  ma,  del  tuo  onor  la  fama. 
E  in  tempo  sei,  ch'  ogni  tuo  lieve  cenno 
Sublime  ammenda  esser  ne  puo.     Per  I'ombra 
Sacra,  a  te  cara,  della  uccisa  figlia  ; 
Per  quell"  amor  chc  a  me  portasti,  end'  io 
Oggi  indegna  non  son  :  che  piii "?     Ten  priego 
Per  la  vita  d'Oreste  ;  0  madre,  arretra, 
Arretra  il  pie  dal  precipizio  orrendo. 
Lunge  da  noi  codesto  Egisto  vada  : 
Fa  che  di  t^  si  taccia :  in  un  con  noi 
Piangi  d'Atride  i  casi  :  ai  templi  vieni 
Jl  suo  ritorno  ad  implorar  dai  numi. 


30  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

of  his  absence,  to  add  fuel  to  her  love  and  jealousy.  He,  ia 
fact,  wishes  to  be  prevented  from  going,  and  Clyteninestra 
begs  him  to  remain  a  single  dav,  exactin<T  an  oath  from  him 
that  he  will  not  quit  the  walls  of  Argos  before  the  ensuing 
dawn.  lie  consents,  and  Electra  a[)pearing,  begs  her 
mother  to  fly  to  the  king.  Clytenmestra,  instead  of  answer- 
ing her  daughter,  solemnly  requests  iEgisthus  to  repeat  his 
oath  ;  and  this  appeal,  which  she  again  makes  at  the  end  of 
the  scene,  after  Electra  has  manifested  her  aversion  for 
iEgisthus,  and  the  dread  with  which  his  stay  inspires  her, 
fully  displays  all  Clytemnestra's  passion,  and  makes  the 
spectators  sluiddnr.  ^'Egisthus,  being  left  alone,  rejoices 
that  his  victims  have  at  length  fallen  into  his  snares,  and 
again  promises  the  shade  of  Thyestes  to  avenge  upon  Aga- 
memnon and  his  children  the  execrable  repast  of  Atreus. 
He  at  length  retires  on  beholding  the  approach  of  Agamem- 
non, accompanied  by  Electra  and  Clytemnestra,  and  sur- 
rounded by  the  soldiers  and  the  people. 

Aliieri  has  skilfully  delineated  in  Agamemnon  the  tender 
feelings  of  a  good  king  returning  to  his  people,  of  a  patriot 
restored  to  his  country,  and  of  a  kind  father  again  embracing 
his  family : 

At  last  I  see  the  wished-for  walls  of  Argos : 
This  ground  which  now  I  tread  is  the  loved  sjjot 
Where  once  I  wandered  with  my  infant  feet. 
All  that  I  sec  around  me  are  my  friends ; — 
My  w-ife,  my  daughter,  and  my  faithful  people. 
And  you,  yc  household  gods,  whom  I  at  last 
Return  to  worship.     What  have  I  to  wish] 
What  docs  there  now  remain  for  me  to  hope  1 
How  long  and  tedious  do  ten  years  appear 
Spent  in  a  foreign  couutrj',  far  from  all 
The  heart  holds  dear  !     AVith  what  profound  delight,* 

*  lliveggio  al  fin  le  sospirate  mura 

D'Argo  mia  :  quel  ch'io  prcmo,  e  il  suolo  amato, 

Che  nascndo  calcai  ;  (juanti  al  mio  fiunco 

Veggo,  amiei  mi  son  ;  fii^lia,  consortc, 

Popol  mio  fido,  e  voi,  Penati  Dei, 

Cui  fmalmcnte  ad  adorar  pur  torno. 

Che  pill  bramar,  che  diil  sperare  omai 

Mi  rcsta,  o  lice  ^     Oh  come  lunghi,  e  gravi 

Son  due  lustri  vissuti  in  strania  terra 

Lungi  da  quanto  s'  ama  !     Oil  (|uanto  ii  dolce 

Kipatriar,  dopo  gii  atfanui  tauti 


OF    THE    ITALIANS. 


31 


After  the  labours  of  a  bloody  war. 

Shall  I  repose  1     Oh  home,  beloved  asylum, 

Where  peace  alone  awaits  us,  with  what  joy 

Thee  I  revisit  !     But  am  I,  alas  ! 

The  only  one  that  tastes  of  comfort  here  1 

My  wife,  my  daughter  !  silently  ye  stand 

Fixing  upon  the  ground  unquietly 

Your  conscious  eyes.     0  heaven,  do  ye  not  feel 

A  joy  that  equals  mine  in  being  thus 

Eestored  to  my  embrace  ? 

Clytemnestra  is  agitated,  and  Electra  is  in  fear  for  her; 
but,  lier  presence  of  mind  is  restored  by  the  very  sound  of 
her  own  voice  ;  and  as  she  proceeds  her  answers  become 
more  intelHgible.  Agamemnon  himself  alludes  to  the  mis- 
fortune which  has  deprived  him  of  his  other  daughter,  and 
which  he  regards  as  a  divine  ordinance  to  which  his  paternal 
heart  is  yet  unable  to  bow. 

Oft  in  my  helmet  bonneted  I  wept 

In  silence  :  but,  except  the  father,  none 

Were  conscious  of  these  tears.* 

He  enquires  for  Orestes,  and  longs  to  embrace  him.  He 
asks  whether  he  has  yet  entered  upon  the  paths  of  virtue ; 
and  whether,  when  he  hears  of  glorious  achievements,  or 
beholds  a  brandished  sword,  his  eyes  do  not  sparlde  with 
ardour. 

Agamemnon  and  Electra  appear  at  the  commencement  of 
the  third  act  ;  and  the  king  enquires  from  his  daughter  what 
is  the  cause  of  the  singular  change  which  he  has  remarked 
in  Clytemnestra.  He  is  less  surprised  at  her  first  silence 
than  at  the  studied  and  constrained  manner  in  which  she 
afterwards  addressed  him.  Electra,  compelled  to  give  some 
reason  for  this  change,  attributes  it  to  the  sacrifice  of 
Iphigenia,   and  thus  gives    Agamemnon    an  opportunity  of 

Di  sanguinosa  guerra  !     Oh  vero  porto 
Di  tutta  pace,  esser  tra  suoi  ! — Ma,  il  solo 
Son  io,  che  goda  qui  1    Consorte,  figlia, 
Vol  taciturne  state,  a  terra  incerto 
Fissando  il  guardo  irrequieto  1    Oh  cielo  ! 
Pari  alia  gioia  mia  non  e  la  vostra, 
Ncl  ritornar  fra  le  mie  braccia  1 

*  Io  spesso 
Chiuso  neir  elmo,  in  silenzio  piangeva, 
Ma,  nol  sapea,  che  il  padre. 


32  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

exculpating  liimself  to  the  audience  from  all  the  odium  which 
that  sacTifice  had  cast  upon  him.  He  then  asks  how  it  hap- 
pens that  the  son  ol"  Thyestes  is  in  Argos.  He  is  astonished 
at  learning  that  fact  for  the  first  time  on  his  arrival,  and  he 
perceives  that  every  one  mentions  liis  name  with  repugnance. 
Electra  re[)lies  that  -iEgisthus  is  unfortunate,  hut  that  Aga- 
memnon will  judge  better  than  she  can  whether  he  is  worthy 
of  pity.  vEgisthus  is  afterwards  brougiit  before  him,  and 
informs  him  that  the  hatred  and  Jealousy  of  his  brothers  liave 
driven  him  from  liis  country.  He  represents  himself  as  a 
proscribed  suppliant ;  he  flatters  Agamemnon  to  obtain  his 
favour  ;  lie  is  liumble  without  debasing  himself,  and  treach- 
erous witiiout  creating  disgust.  Agamemnon  reminds  him 
of  the  family  enmities,  which  should  have  induced  him  to 
look  for  an  asylum  in  any  otlier  place  than  in  the  palace  of 
Atreus : 

Ilitlierto,  ^gisthus, 

Thou  wert,  and  still  thou  art,  to  me  unknown  ; 

I  neither  hate  nor  love  thee ;  3'et,  though  willing 

To  lay  aside  hereditary  discord, 

I  cannot,  without  feeling  in  my  breast, 

I  know  not  what  of  strange  and  pcrplex'd  feeling, 

Behold  the  countenance,  nor  hear  the  voice 

Of  one  that  is  the  offspring  of  Thyestes.* 

As  ^gisthus,  however,  implores  his  protection,  he  pro- 
mises to  employ  his  influence  amongst  the  Greeks  in  his 
iavour,  but  he  commands  him  to  leave  Argos  before  the 
morrow.  As  ^gisthus  leaves  the  king,  Clytemnestra  enters. 
She  is  much  agitated,  and  fears  lest  her  husband  has  dis- 
covered her  inconstancy.  Slie  rejects  the  consolatory  atten- 
tions of  her  daughter,  and  tlie  hope  which  she  had 
endeavoured  to  excite  in  her  breast,  that  it  was  still  possible 
for  her  to  return  to  the  paths  of  duty.  At  length  she  retires 
to  indulge  lier  melancholy  reflections  in  solitude. 

The    fourth    act    opens    with    a    conversation    between 


*  Egisto,  a  me  tu  fosti 
E  8ei  finora  ignoto,  jier  te  stcsso : 
lo  non  t'  odio,  ne  t'  amo  ;  eppur,  bench'  io 
Voglia  in  disjiarte  por  gli  odi  nefandi, 
Scnwi  provar  non  so  qual  moto  in  petto. 
No,  mirar  non  possio,  nh  udir  la  voce, 
La  voce  pur,  del  figlio  di  TicsLc. 


OF    THE    ITALIANS.  33 

Clytemnestra  and  ^gisthus.  ^Egisthus  takes  leave  of  the 
queen,  who  abandons  herself  to  the  impetuosity  of  her 
passion.  This  scene,  which  leads  to  such  fatal  consequences, 
is  managed  with  infinite  art.  ^gisthus,  while  he  appears 
submissive,  tender,  and  despairing,  aims  only  at  instilling 
poison  into  the  heart  of  his  victim.  She  despises  infamy 
and  danger.  She  v/ishes  to  follow  him,  to  fly  with  him. 
He,  however,  shews  her  the  folly  of  her  projects,  and  the 
impossibility  of  executing  any  of  them.  He  represents 
himself  as  surrounded  with  dangers,  and  her  as  lost  ;  and 
for  a  long  time  he  refuses  to  mention  any  means  of  avoiding 
the  evil.  At  last  he  tells  her  that  one  resource  remains, 
though  an  unworthy  one. 

Mgis.  Another  step,  perhaps,  e'en  now  remains, 

But  unbecoming — 
Clt.  Anditis?— 

yEais.  Too  cruel 

ChY.     But  certain — 

Mgis.  Certain  !  ah,  too  much  so  ! 

Cly.  How 

Canst  thou  then  hide  it  from  me  1 
Mgis.  How  canst  thou 

Of  me  demand  it?* 

Clytemnestra  still  hesitates  ;  she  wavers  ;  she  considers 
all  the  pretended  causes  of  hatred  towards  Agamemnon  ;  all 
her  own  and  her  lover's  dangers  ;  and  she  then  asks  what 
other  step  she  can  take  ;  to  whicli  ^gisthus  answers — None. 
But  as  he  utters  this  word,  the  dark  glaring  of  his  eyes  at 
once  informs  the  queen  that  he  thirsts  for  the  blood  of 
Agamemnon.  Clytemnestra  tremblingly  strengtliens  herself 
tocommit  the  crime,  and  iEgisthus  chooses  that  mo-nent  to 
tell  her  that  the  king  has  brought  Cassandra  with  him,  that 
she  is  his  mistress,  and  that  he  intends  speedily  to  sacrifice 
his  wife  to  her.     The  approach  of  Electra  compels  the  guilty 

*  Egist Altro  partito,  forse,  or  ne  rimane 

Ma  iudegno 

Clit.  Ed  h  ? 

Egist.  Crudo. 

Cut.  Ma  certo. 

Egist.  Ah  !  certo 

Pur  troppo  ! 

CtiT.  E  a  mc  tu  11  cell  1 

Egist.  E  a  me  tu  11  chlcdi. 


34  ox    THE    LITERATUUE 

pair  to  separate.  She  perceives  with  terror  the  aj^itation  of 
her  mother,  and  forebodes  the  crimes  of  vEgisthus.  She 
beseeches  the  king  to  dismi.-;s  him  immediately.  Agamemnon 
attributes  her  terror  to  t'le  hereditary  enmity  between  the 
blood  of  Atreus  and  of  Tliyestes,  and  feels  that  lu;  would  be 
wanting  in  hospitality,  if  he  should  hasten  the  banishment  of 
an  unfortunate  stranger.  He  then  consults  Clytemnestra, 
who,  at  the  ver}'-  nameof  ^l^gisthus,  betrays  the  most  extreme 
emotion.  Demanding  the  cause  of  her  disturbance,  he 
laments  wdth  her  the  death  of  Iphigenia,  and  attempts,  but  in 
vain,  to  dissipate  her  suspicions  respecting  Cassandra. 

At  the  commencement  of  the  fifth  act  Clytemnestra  appears 
alone  with  a  poniard  in  her  hand.  She  has  bound  herself  by 
an  oath  to  shed  the  blood  of  her  husband,  and  she  prepares 
to  perpetrate  the  crime  ;  but,  in  the  absence  of  iEgisthus, 
remorse  attacks  her.  She  is  shocked  at  the  enterprise,  and 
casts  away  the  dagger  ;  when  -ZEgisthus  again  making  his 
appearance,  rekindles  her  fury.  He  informs  her  that 
Agamemnon  is  acquainted  with  their  love,  and  that  on  the 
morrow  thc}^  must  appear  before  that  stern  judge,  when  death 
and  infamy  will  be  their  portion  if  Atrides  is  suffered  to  live. 
Persuading  her  to  persevere,  he  arms  her  with  a  more  deadly 
dagger  ;  w^th  that  which  sacrificed  the  sons  of  Thyestes. 
He  hurries  her  into  the  apartment  <jf  her  husband,  and  in- 
vokes the  shade  of  Thyestes  to  enjoy  the  infernal  revenge 
which  is  to  be  accomplished  by  the  wife  of  the  son  of  Atreus. 
During  this  terrible  invocation  the  cries  of  Agamennion  are 
heard,  who  recognizes  his  wife  as  he  dies.  Of  Clytemnestra, 
■who  returns  to  the  stage  distracted,  7lLgisthus  takes  no  notice, 
whilst  tlie  palace  resounds  with  terrilic  (;ries.  ^Egisthus 
perceives  that  the  time  is  now  come  when  it  is  necessary  to 
shew  himself  in  his  true  colours,  and  to  gath(^r  the  fruit  of 
his  protracted  hypocrisy.  He  determines  to  murder  Orestes 
and  to  mount  the  throne  of  Atreus,  Electra,  rushing  in, 
accuses  il'2gisthus  of  the  crime  ;  but  seeing  her  mother 
armed  with  a  bloody  poniard,  she  recognizes  with  horror  the 
true  assassin.  She  seizes  the  dagger,  in  order  to  preserve  it 
for  Orestes,  whom  she  has  placed  in  a  safe  retreat.  The 
horrid  truth  now  flashes  upon  Clytemnestra's  mind  ;  she 
sees  that  ^Tigisthus  has  been  gratifying  his  hatred  and  not 
his  love,  and  she  flies  after  him  to  preserve  the  life  of  her  son. 


OF    THE    ITALIANS.  6ii 

Acjamemnon  was  publislied  by  Alfieri  at  the  end  of  the 
year  1783,  with  five  other  tragedies,  Oreste.t,  Mo.vnwul:;, 
Oc'tavia,  Tlmoleon,  and  3Ierope.  The  Oresfe.-i  is  a  continua- 
tion of  Afjameumon,  with  an  interval  of  ten  years,  and  th'j 
drama  opens  on  the  anniversary  of  the  murder  of  the  king. 
The  action  from  the  commencement  of  the  piece  is  more  vio- 
lent ;  the  hate  nourished  by  the  virtuous  characters  is  moi'e 
atrocious  ;  and  Altieri  thought  that  he  had  adopted  a  subject 
more  conformable  to  his  talents.  The  result,  however,  was 
in  contradiction  to  that  idea.  In  order  to  affect  the  feelings,  it 
was  quite  necessary  for  him  to  mingle  at  least  some  portion  of 
tenderness  with  the  natural  acerbity  of  his  genius  ;  but,  by  a 
total  abandonment  of  it,  he  iatigues  the  spectators  with  a  re- 
presentation of  uninterrupted  rage.  Electra,  JEgisthus,  Cly- 
temnestra,  and  Orestes,  seem  to  be  always  prepared  to  tear 
one  another  to  pieces.  The  fury  of  the  latter  is  so  unceasing 
and  approaches  so  nearly  to  madness,  that  we  can  easily  com- 
prehend how  it  was  possible  for  him  in  the  last  act  to  murder 
his  mother  without  knowing  her.  This  fury  is  too  monotonous 
to  excite  any  interest.  Rosmunda,  a  Queen  of  the  Lombards, 
who  put  her  husband,  Alboino,  to  death,  in  order  to  revenge 
the  mm-der  of  her  father  Cunimond,  has  furnished  Alfieri 
with  the  subject  of  another  of  his  tragedies.  This  drama, 
which  was  in  the  highest  favour  with  the  author,  has  enjoyed 
very  little  success  with  the  public.  The  two  female 
characters,  Rosmunda,  and  Romilda,  the  daughter  of  Alboino 
by  a  former  wife,  both  of  them  driven  on  by  the  most  furious 
spirit  of  revenge,  are  engaged  from  the  opening  of  the  drama 
in  a  war  of  hatred  and  outrage,  which  disgusts  the  spectator. 
All  the  characters  share  in  this  tedious  combat.  Almachilda 
and  Ildovaldo  emulously  vituperate  each  other  and  Rosmunda, 
who,  in  her  turn,  attacks  them  and  Romilda.  Nature,  the 
true  gradation  of  the  passions,  and  theatrical  effect,  are  alike 
sacrificed  to  this  universal  fury.  The  subject  of  the  drama 
is  not  Rosmunda's  first  crime,  but  is  entirely  the  author's  own 
invention,  in  which  he  has  been  by  no  means  happy  ;  for  the 
plot  is  not  natural,  and  the  developement  resembles  that  of  a 
romance.  The  two  tragedies  of  Octavia  and  Timoleon  botli 
appear  to  me  to  be  open  to  the  objection  of  exaggeration. 
In  the  first,  the  vices  of  the  characters,  and  in  the  second, 
their  virtues,  are  on  too  gigantic  a  scale.     Neither  the  mad- 


36  ON    TUE    I-ITEKATURE 

ness  of  Nero,  nor  the  fratricide  of  Timoleon,  altliough  it 
restored  liberty  to  Corinth,  is,  in  my  opinion,  a  lit  subject 
for  the  drama.  Jlerujie  is  tlie  last  piece  of  the  second  class, 
and,  perhaps,  the  best.  It  is  at  once  interesting  and  correct 
in  feeling.  It  is  remarkable  as  being  a  completely  new  con- 
ception, notwithstanding  the  Merope  of  Math.'i  and  of  Vol- 
taire. The  coincidence  in  the  subject  may  render  an  analysis 
of  it  uninteresting,  and  they  who  wish  to  comjiare  the  three 
dramas  should  read  tliem  entire. 

Amongst  the  tragedies  which  made  their  first  appearance 
in  the  third  edition,  I  shall  select  Saul  as  affording  the  best 
extracts.  This  play,  wliich  was  a  favourite  with  the  author, 
lias  likewise  maintained  its  place  upon  the  stage.  The  naked 
and  austere  style  of  Alfieri  suited  well  with  the  patriarchal 
times  which  are  there  represented.  We  do  not  require  the 
first  King  of  Israel  to  be  surrounded  by  a  numerous  court,  or 
to  act  solely  by  the  intervention  of  his  ministers.  We  can- 
not Ibrget  that  he  was  a  shepherd-king.  On  the  other  hand, 
in  this  drama,  Alrieri  occasionally  indulges  in  an  oriental 
richness  of  expression,  and  indeed  it  is  the  first  of  his  trage- 
dies in  which  the  language  is  habitually  poetical. 

At  the  first  dawn  of  day,  David,  (;lotlied  in  the  habit  of  a 
common  soldier,  appears  alone  at  Gilboa,  between  the  camp 
of  the  Hebrews  and  that  of  the  Philistines.  It  is  God  who 
Las  led  him  thither  ;  God,  who  has  protected  him  from  tlie 
pursuit  and  the  frenzy  of  Saul  ;  God,  who  has  conducted  him 
to  his  camp,  in  order  to  give  fresh  proofs  of  his  obedience  and 
his  valour.  Jonathan,  coming  forth  from  the  tents  of  the 
king  to  pray,  finds  his  friend,  and  recognizes  him  by  his 
hardihood,  lie  tells  liim  liow  iiis  father  Saul  is  tormented  by 
an  evil  spirit,  and  how  Abner,  his  lieutenant,  takes  advantage 
of  this  circumstance  to  sacrifice  all  whose  merit  has  given  him 
offence.  He  then  informs  him  tliat  Michal,  the  sister  of 
Jonathan  and  the  wife  of  David,  is  in  the  camp  with  Saul, 
her  father,  whom  she  is  comiorting  and  consoling  in  his 
afflictions,  and  from  whom  she  has  begged,  in  return,  that  he 
will  restore  David  to  her.  lie  addresses  Dsvid  witli  a  mix- 
ture of  respect  and  love  ;  regarding  him  both  as  the  friend  of 
his  heart  and  as  the  messenger  and  favourite  of  God.  The 
tender,  faithful,  and  constant  nature  of  David,  is  painted  in 
the  finest  manner.    The  Lord  triumphs  over  all  his  aflections  ; 


OP    THE    ITALIANS.  37 

but  his  enthusiasm,  however  exalted,  does  not  extinguish  the 
natural  sentiments  of  his  heart.  Jonathan  informs  him  that 
Michal  will  soon  leave  the  tents,  and  join  him  in  his  morn- 
ing prayers  ;  and,  as  she  approaclies,  he  persuades  David  to 
conceal  himself,  in  order  that  he  may  guard  her  against  the 
surprise.  Michal  is  a  tender  and  sutl'ering  woman  ;  she  has 
no  other  thoughts  but  of  David  ;  all  her  fears  and  all  her 
desires  centre  in  him.  As  soon  as  Jonathan  has  prepared  her 
to  expect  the  return  of  her  husband,  David  throws  himself 
into  her  arms.  They  are  all  of  opinion  that  David  ought  to 
present  himself  before  Saul,  previous  to  the  battle  which  the 
latter  is  about  to  fight  witli  the  Philistines  ;  and  that  Michal 
and  Jonathan  shall  prepare  the  way  for  his  reception,  while 
David  himself  awaits  their  instructions  in  a  neighbouring 
cavern. 

The  second  act  opens  with  a  scene  between  Saul  and 
Abner.  Saul  is  lamenting  over  his  old  age,  the  succour  of 
the  Almighty  withheld  from  him,  and  the  power  of  his 
enemies,  with  which  he  is  deeply  aflfected.  His  language  is 
that  of  a  noble  but  dejected  soul.  Abner  attributes  all  the 
misfortunes  of  the  king  to  David  : 

Thou  "rt  deceived — 
All  my  calamities  may  be  referred 
To  a  more  terrible  cause. — And  what  1  wouldst  thou 
Conceal  from  me  the  horror  of  my  state  ? 
Ah  !  were  1  not  a  father  as  I  am, 
Alas  !  too  certainly  of  much  loved  children 
Would  I  now  wish  Ufe,  victory,  or  the  throne  1 
I  should  already,  and  a  long  time  since, 
Headlong  have  cast  myself  'mid  hostile  swords  : 
1  should  already,  thus  at  least,  at  once 
Have  closed  the  horrible  life  that  1  drag  on. 
How  many  years  have  now  pass'd  since  a  smile 
Was  seen  "to  play  upon  my  lips  ]     My  children,* 

*  Ah  !  no  ;  deriva  ogni  sventura  mia 
Da  pill  terribil  fonte  ! — E  che ']  Celarmi 
L'orror  vorresti  del  mio  stato  1  Ah,  s'  io 
Padre  non  fossi,  come  il  son,  pur  troppo  ! 
Di  cari  figli — or  la  vittoria  e  il  regno, 
E  la  vita  vorrei  ]  Precipitoso 
Gia  mi  sarci  fra  gl'inimici  ferri 
Scagliato  io,  da  gran  tempo  ;  avrei  gia  tronca 
Cosi  la  vita  orribile  ch'  io  vivo. 
Quanti  anui  or  son,  che  sul  mio  labro  il  rlso 
Non  fu  visto  spuntare  ?    I  figli  miei 

Ch' 


38  ox    THE  LITERATURE 

AVhom  still  I  love  so  much,  if  they  caress  me, 

For  the  most  part  inflame  my  heart  to  lage  : 

Impatient,  fierce,  incensed,  and  turbulent, 

I  am  a  burthen  to  myself  and  others. 

In  peace  I  wish  for  war.  in  war  for  peace  : 

Poison  conceal'd  I  drink  in  every  cup  — 

In  every  friend  I  sec  an  enemy  : 

The  softest  carpets  of  Assyria  seem 

Planted  with  thorns  to  my  unsolaced  limbs  : 

My  transient  sleep  is  agonized  with  fear — 

Each  dream,  with  imaged  tcrroi-s  that  distract  me. 

Why  should  I  add  to  this  dark  catalogue — 

"Who  would  believe  it] — The  sonorous  trumpet 

Speaks  to  my  ears  in  an  appalling  voice, 

And  fills  the  heart  of  Saul  M^ith  deep  dismay. 

Thon  seest  clearly  that  Saul's  tottering  house 

Is  desolate,  bereft  of  all  its  splendour  ; 

Thou  seest  that  God  hath  cast  me  off  for  ever. 

The  character  of  Saul  throughout  the  whole  drama  is  con- 
sistent with  the  representation  of  it  in  this  scene.  He 
impetuously  abandons  himself  to  the  most  contrary  passions, 
and  the  latest  word  whicli  he  hears  awakens  a  new  storm  in 
his  soul.  He  easily  believes  his  glory  tarnished  and  his 
power  departing  ;  he  menaces  ;  he  punishes  ;  and  his  own 
fury  appears  to  him  a  fi-esh  instance  of  that  divine  vengeance 
under  which  he  is  perishing.  Abner  attributes  his  violence 
and  his  aberration  of  mind  to  the  superstitious  terrors  which 
Samuel  and  the  prophets  of  Rama  have  excited,  and  which 
the  enthusiasm  of  David  lias  nourished.  Jonatlian  and  Michal, 
who  enter  at  this  moment,  entreat  him,  on  the  contrary,  to 
believe  that  his  power  and  glory  are  connected  with  the 
return  of  David,  whom  they  announce  as  the  messenger  of 

Ch'amo  pur  tanto,  le  piii  volte  all'  ira 
Jluovonnii  il  cor,  se  mi  accarezzan— Fcro, 
Impaziente.  torbido,  adiralo 
Sempre  ;  a  me  stesso  incresco  ognora  e  altrui ; 
IJramo  in  pace  far  guerra,  in  guerra  pace  : 
Entro  ogni  nappo  ascoso  tosco  io  bevo  ; 
Scorgo  un  uemico  in  ogni  amico  ;  i  molli 
Tappeti  Assiri,  ispidi  dumi  al  f  anco 
Mi  sono  ;  angoscia  il  breve  sonno  :  i  sogni 
Terror.    Che  pii'i  1   Chi  rcrederia!   Spavento 
M'  ii  la  troniba  di  guerra ;  alto  spavento 
E  la  tromba  a  Saul  !  vedi  se  ii  fatta 
Yedova  oniai  di  suo  splendor  la  casa 
Di  Saul ;  vedi,  se  omai  Dio  sta  meco. 


OF    THE    ITALIANS.  39 

God,  and  the  pledge  of  divine  protection.  When  the  mind  of 
Saul  is  thus  warmed,  David  enters  and  throws  himself  at  his 
feet.  He  calms  by  his  submissive  deportment  the  first  burst 
of  an<Ter  which  his  appearance  has  excited  ;  he  repels  the 
accusations  of  Abner,  and  proves  that,  far  from  laying  snares 
for  the  king,  he  had  his  life  in  his  power  in  the  cave  of  En- 
jedi,  where,  while  Saul  was  sleeping,  he  cut  off  a  portion  of 
his  garment,  which  he  now  presents  to  him.  Saul  is  convinced  ; 
he  calls  David  his  son,  and  commends  him  to  the  love  of 
Michal  as  a  recompense  for  his  sufferings.  He  then  commits 
to  him  the  command  of  the  army,  and  begs  him  to  arrange  the 
order  of  the  approaching  battle. 

At  the  commencement  of  the  third  act,  Abner  gives  an 
account  to  David  of  the  order  of  battle  which  he  had  proposed 
when  he  conceived  himself  to  be  sole  general.  He  mingles 
some  bitter  irony  with  his  report,  which  David  treats  with 
noble  coldness.  The  latter  approves  of  the  military  disposi- 
tions, and  confides  the  execution  of  them  to  Abner,  mingling 
praises  of  his  valour  with  the  counsels  which  he  gives  him. 
Scarcely  has  Abner  departed,  Avhen  Michal  appears,  to 
inform  her  husband  that  the  general,  having  seen  Saul,  has 
awakened  with  a  single  word  all  his  former  fury.  She  fears 
that  David  will  again  be  forced  to  fly,  and  she  swears  to 
accompany  him  in  his  exile.  Saul  now  appears  with  Jonathan, 
and  displays  symptoms  of  strong  insanity  : 

Who,  who  are  ye  ?     Who  speaks  of  pure  air  here  ? 
This]  'tis  a  thick  impenetrable  gloom, 
A  land  of  darkness,  and  the  shades  of  death. 
Ah,  see  !  more  nearly  it  approaches  me — 
A  fatal  wreath  of  blood  surrounds  the  sun — 
Heard'st  thou  the  death-notes  of  ill-omen"d  birds  1 
With  loud  laments  the  vocal  air  resounds 
That  smite  my  ears,  compelling  me  to  weep  ; 
But  what,  do  ye  weep  also  ']* 


*  Chi  sete  voi  1 — Chi  d'  aura  aperta  e  pura. 
Qui  favella  1 — Questa  1  h  caligin  dcnsa, 
Tenebre  sono ;  ombra  di  morte — Oh  mira  ; 
Pill  mi  t'  accosta ;  il  vedi  1    II  sol  d'intorno 
Cinto  ha  di  sangue  ghirlanda  funesta — 
Odi  tu  canto  di  sinistri  augelli  * 
Lugiibre  un  pianto  suU'  aere  si  spande, 
Che  me  percuote,  e  a  lagrimar  mi  sforza — 
Ma  che  ]     Voi  pur,  voi  pur  piangete  1 — 


40  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

lie  tlien  asks  for  David,  and  reproaches  him  in  turn  for 
his  pridt;  (for  deep  jealousy  is  the  true  madness  of  Saul),  and 
for  the  enthusiastic  tone  in  which  he  speaks  of  God  ;  since 
the  divinity  is  his  enemy,  and  his  praises  are  insults  to  Saul. 
He  is  astonished  at  beholdinj^  the  sword  which  David  had 
taken  from  Goliath,  and  whicli  had  been  afterwards  dedicated 
to  God  in  the  tabernacle  of  Nob,  and  he  becomes  furious 
when  he  learns  that  Abimeleeh  has  restored  this  sword  to 
David.  But  even  this  fury  exhausts  it-elf.  lie  relents  ;  he 
melts  into  tears ;  and  Jonathan  invites  David  to  seize  upon 
this  moment  to  calm  the  frenzy  of  the  king  by  his  songs  and 
his  harp.  David  sings  or  recites  some  lyrical  effusions,  of 
which  lie  changes  the  metre  according  to  the  subject,  to  suit 
the  temper  of  Saul's  mind.  He  first  implores  the  protection 
of  God;  then  he  sings  of  martial  glory  in  the  stanza  of  the 
canzoni  ;  but,  upon  Saul  exclaiming  that  these  are  the  songs 
of  his  youth,  and  that  henceforward  relaxation,  oblivion,  and 
peace  must  be  the  portion  of  his  old  age,  David  sings  the 
hymn  of  peace  in  harmonious  and  tender  strains.  Saul  is 
angry  with  himself  that  he  can  be  moved  by  such  effeminate 
compositions,  and  David  again  commences  his  war  song.  In 
aninuited  dithyrambic  verse  he  ])aints  the  glory  of  Saul  in 
his  battles,  and  represents  liimseif  as  marching  in  his  foot- 
steps. This  allusion  to  another  warrior  exasperates  Saul ; 
in  his  fury  he  attempts  to  transfix  the  minstrel  who  has  dared 
to  introduce  the  mention  of  another's  exploits,  and  David 
escapes  with  difficulty,  while  Jonathan  and  Michal  restrain 
the  anger  of  the  king. 

At  the  commencement  of  the  fourth  act,  Michal  enquires 
from  Jonathan,  whether  David  may  yet  return  to  her  father's 
tent,  but  she  is  told  that  although  the  frenzy  of  the  king  has 
passed  away,  his  anger  still  remains.  Saul  then  enters,  and 
orders  Miclial  to  go  in  search  of  David.  Abner  accuses  the 
latter,  the  general  of  the  king's  choice,  with  being  absent  in 
the  hour  of  battle,  and  brings  Abimeleeh,  the  high  priest, 
whom  he  had  discovered  in  the  camp,  before  the  monarch. 
At  the  sight  of  him,  all  Saul's  fury  against  the  Levites  is 
again  awakenjd,  and  on  learning  his  name,  he  charges  him 
with  having  dared  to  grant  i)roteeti()n  to  David,  and  with  hav- 
ing restored  to  him  the  sword  of  Goliath.  Abimeleeh  answers 
him  with  all  the  haughtiness  of  an  enthusiast;  menaces  him 


OF    THE    ITALIANS.  41 

with  the  vengeance  of  God,  which  is  suspended  above  his 
head ;  and  irritates,  instead  of  intimidating  him.  Saul  re- 
calls the  cruelty  of  the  priests,  and  the  death  of  the  king  of 
the  Amalekites,  who,  after  having  been  made  prisoner,  was 
put  to  deatli  by  Samuel ;  and  he  gives  back  menace  for  me- 
nace. He  orders  Abimelech  to  be  led  to  death,  and  com- 
mands a  detachment  of  his  troops  to  proceed  to  Nob,  to  destroy 
the  race  of  priests  and  propliets,  to  burn  their  abodes,  and  to 
put  to  the  sword  their  mothers,  their  wives,  and  their  chil- 
dren, their  slaves,  and  their  flocks.  He  changes  the  whole 
order  of  battle,  which  had  been  determined  upon  in  concert 
with  David,  and  he  resolves  to  commence  the  engagement  on 
the  ensuing  dawn.  He  repulses  Jonathan,  who  entreats  him 
not  to  incur  the  sin  of  this  sacrilegious  act ;  he  repulses  Mi- 
chal,  who  returns  vi'ithout  David ;  and  he  declares  that  if 
David  is  seen  in  the  battle,  all  the  swords  of  Israel  shall  be 
turned  against  him.     Shunning  every  one,  he  exclaims, 

I  to  myself  am  left — myself  alone, 
Unhappy  king  !  myself  alone  I  dread  not. 

The  fifth  act  commences  with  Michal  leading  David  from 
his  retreat.  She  informs  him  that  dangers  are  closing  round 
him,  and  entreats  him  to  fly  and  bear  her  along  with  him. 
David  wishes  to  remain  to  fight  with  his  countrymen,  and  to 
perish  in  battle  ;  but  as  soon  as  he  hears  that  the  blood  of  the 
priests  has  been  shed,  that  the  camp  is  polluted,  and  the 
ground  stained  with  it,  he  acknowledges  that  he  can  never 
combat  in  this  place,  and  resolves  to  fly.  He  is,  however, 
unwilling  to  carry  away  with  him  a  daughter  who  is  her 
father's  sole  consolation,  or  to  impede  his  course  through  the 
deserts,  as  he  necessarily  must  if  she  accompanies  him.  He 
therefore  supplicates  and  commands  her  to  remain.  Their 
separation  is  tender  and  touching,  and  David  takes  his  lonely 
way  through  the  craggy  passes  of  the  mountains.  Scarcely 
has  he  departed,  when  Michal  hears  the  sounds  of  conflict  at 
the  extremity  of  the  camp,  and  groans  proceeding  from  the 
tent  of  her  father.  Saul  is  again  furious  ;  the  excess  of  his 
delirium  is  redoubled  by  the  remorse  which  oppresses  him. 
He  sees  the  shade  of  Samuel  menacing  him,  of  Abimelecii, 
and  of  the  victims  slain  at  Nob.  His  way  is  on  every  side 
obstructed  by  the  bodies  of  the  dead  and  by  carnage.     He 

VOL.  II.  C 


42  ON   THE    LITERATUKE 

ofiFers  up  his  supplications  and  intreats  that  at  least  the  anger 
of  God  may  pass  away  from  the  heads  of  his  children.  His 
delirium  is  truly  sublime,  and  tlie  apparitions  which  torment 
him  fill  the  imagination  of  the  spectator.  Suddenly  the 
shadows  disappear ;  he  only  hears  the  cry  of  battle  which 
approaches  nearer  and  nearer.  He  had  resolved  to  engage 
the  ensuing  morning  ;  but  it  is  yet  night,  and  the  Philistines 
are  within  his  camp.  Abner  arrives  with  a  handful  of  soldiers, 
and  wishes  to  carry  the  king  to  the  mountains  to  a  place  of 
safety.  The  Philistines  surprise  the  Israelites,  and  Jonathan 
perishes  with  all  his  brothers.  The  army  is  completely  routed, 
and  only  a  few  moments'  space  remains  for  flight.  Of  this, 
Saul  obstinately  refuses  to  take  advantage  ;  he  orders  Abner 
to  bear  ]\Iichal  to  a  place  of  safety,  and  ibrces  her  to  leave 
him,  and  he  then  remains  alone  on  the  stage  : 

Oh  my  children, 
I  was  a  father — See  thyself  alone, 
0  King  !     Of  thy  so  many  friends  and  servants, 
Not  one  remains. — Inexorahle  God  ! 
Is  thy  retributory  wrath  appeased  ? 
But  thou  remain'st  to  me.  0  sword  !     Xow  come, 
My  faithful  servant  in  extremity. 
Hark  !  hark  !  the  howlings  of  the  insolent  victors  ! 
The  lightning  of  their  burning  torches  glares 
Before  my  eyes  already,  and  1  see 
Their  swords  by  thousands.     Impious  Philistine  ! 
Thou  shalt  find  me,  but  like  a  king,  here,  dead.* 

As  he  speaks  tliese  words  he  falls,  transfixed  by  his  own 
sword.  The  victorious  Pliilistines  surround  him  in  a  crowd, 
with  blazing  torches  and  bloody  swords.  "While  they  are 
rusliing  with  loud  cries  upon  Saul,  the  curtain  falls. 

This  tragedy  is  essentially  different  from  the  other  dramas 
of  Alfieri.     It  is  conceived  in  the  spirit  of  Shakspeare,  and 


*  Oh  figli  miei ! — Fui  padre  ! — 
Eccoti  solo,  0  rii ;  non  un  ti  resta 
Dei  tanti  amici,  o  servi  tuoi. — Sei  paga, 
D'  inesorabil  Dio  terribil  ira  ? — 
!Ma  tu  mi  resti,  0  hrando,  all'  ultim  uopo. 
Fido  ministro,  orvieni. — Ecco,  gia  gli  urli 
Deir  insoleute  vincitor  :  sul  ciglio 
Giii  lor  tiaccole  ardenti  balenarmi 
Veggo,  e  le  spade  a  mille. — Empio  Filiste, 
Me  troverai,  ma  almen  da  rfe,  qui — morto. 


OF    THE    ITALIANS.  43 

not  of  the  French  drama.  It  is  not  a  conflict  between  passion 
and  duty,  which  furnishes  the  plot  of  this  tragedy.  We  here 
find  a  representation  of  a  noble  character,  suffering  under 
those  weaknesses  which  sometimes  accompany  the  greatest 
virtues,  and  governed  by  the  fatality  not  of  destiny,  but  of 
human  nature.  There  is  scarcely  any  action  in  this  piece. 
Saul  perishes,  the  victim,  not  of  his  passions,  not  of  his  crimes, 
but  of  his  remorse,  augmented  by  the  terror  which  a  gloomy 
imagination  has  cast  over  his  soul.  He  is  the  first  heroic 
madman,  who,  if  my  memory  be  correct,  has  been  introduced 
into  the  classical  drama ;  while  in  the  romantic  theatre, 
Shakspeare  and  his  followers  have  delineated  with  terrible 
truth  this  moral  death,  more  shocking  than  our  natural  disso- 
lution ;  this  melancholy  catastrophe  in  the  drama  of  real  life, 
which,  though  ennobled  by  the  rank  of  its  victim,  is  yet  not 
confined  to  any  one  class,  and,  though  exhibited  to  our  eyes 
in  the  person  of  a  king,  menaces  us  all  alike. 

•At  the  same  time  with  >SV/?//,  appeared  the  eight  last  trage- 
dies of  Alfieri.  In  JSIary  Stuart,  the  scene  is  laid,  not  at  the 
melancholy  termination  of  lierlong  captivity,  but  at  the  period 
when  she  entered  into  the  conspiracy  with  Bothwell  against 
her  husband,  and  tarnished  her  fame  with  the  blood  of  the 
unfortunate  Darnley.  The  conspiracy  of  the  Pazzi  in  1478 
to  restore  liberty  to  Florence,  is  the  subject  of  the  second  of 
these  tragedies.  The  catastrophe  is  striking,  and  the  situa- 
tion of  Bianca,  the  sister  of  the  Medici  and  the  wife  of  one  of 
the  Pazzi,  distracted  between  her  affection  for  her  brothers  and 
her  husband,  forms  the  chief  interest  of  the  drama.  Don 
Garcia  is  a  second  tragedy  drawn  from  the  history  of  the 
Medici,  after  that  ambitious  fixmily  had  gained  possession  of 
the  sovereign  power.  Don  Garcia,  one  of  the  sons  of  Cosmo 
I.  was  the  instrument  of  the  terrible  vengeance  of  his  father; 
by  whose  order  he  slew,  witii  his  own  hand  and  in  the  obscu- 
rity of  night,  his  brother  whom  he  did  not  know,  and  was 
himself,  in  his  turn,  put  to  death  by  the  tyrant.  The  fourth 
tragedy  is  Agis,  king  of  Sparta,  whom  the  Ephori  put  to 
death  for  attempting  to  augment  the  privileges  of  the  people, 
and  to  place  bounds  to  the  power  of  the  aristocracy.  The 
plot  of  Sophonisba  is  the  story  of  the  mistress  of  Massinissa, 
who  killed  herself  to  avoid  being  led  to  Rome  in  triumph. 
The  next  tragedy  is  the  Elder  Brutus,  who  judged  his  own 

C  2 


44  ON    THE    LITEKATUKE 

^ons.  The  next,  Myrrlia,  who  died  the  victim  of  Iier  sinful 
passions.  The  last  of  these  dramas  is  founded  on  the  story  of 
the  younger  13  rut  us,  tlie  assassin  of  Cyesar.  Amongst  these 
latter  tragedies  we  sliall  find  Mary  Stuart,  the  conspiracy  of 
the  Piizzi,  and  tlie  two  Brutuses  most  worthy  of  our  study 
and  attention.  We  have  already  expended  so  much  time  ou 
the  theatre  of  Alfieri,  that  we  cannot  afford  to  give  any 
more  analyses  ;  but  we  must  not  quit  so  celebrated  an  author 
without  saying  a  few  words  upon  his  other  works. 

Previously  to  so  doing,  however,  we  shall,  in  order  to  ter- 
minate our  history  of  the  Italian  Theatre,  give  some  account 
of  those  tragedians  who,  succeeding  Alfieri,  took  that  great 
man  for  their  model,  and  who  share  at  this  moment  the  Italian 
stage  in  common  with  him.  The  first  of  these  is  Vincenzio 
Monti  of  Ferrara,  of  whom  we  shall  again  speak  in  the  next 
chapter,  when  we  come  to  mention  his  epic  compositions. 
Ilis  Aristudemo  is  one  of  the  most  afifecting  of  all  the  Italian 
tragedies.  This  Messenian,  who,  to  gain  the  suffrages  of  iiis 
fellow-citizens,  and  to  attain  the  regal  power,  has  voluntarily 
offered  up  his  daughter  as  a  sacrifice  to  the  Gods,  appears 
upon  the  stage,  fifteen  years  after  the  commission  of  this  crime, 
devoured  with  i-emorse  at  having  outraged  nature  to  serve  his 
ambition.  The  union  of  this  remorse  with  the  heroism  which 
he  displays,  in  his  public  capacity,  and  with  his  affection 
towards  another  daughter,  who  has  been  long  lost  to  him,  and 
whom  he  believes  to  be  a  Spartan  captive,  affords  ample 
opportunity  for  fine  acting,  and  for  producing  strong  emotion; 
but,  in  truth,  there  is  very  little  action  in  the  drama,  which  is 
filled  with  negotiations  with  the  envoy  of  Sparta,  entirely 
foreign  to  the  passions  of  the  hero  of  the  piece  ;  and  when  at 
the  con<;lusion  lu;  kills  himself,  his  death  is  caused  rather  by 
his  fifteen  years  of  remorse,  than  by  any  thing  which  passes 
in  the  five  acts  of  the  tragc(ly.  Yet  we  recognize  the  school 
of  Alfieri  in  the  loftiness  of  the  characters,  in  the  energy  of 
the  sentiments,  in  the  simplicity  of  the  action  so  devoid  of  in- 
cident, in  the  abstuice  of  all  foreign  pomp,  and  in  the  interest 
sustained  without  the  ai^sistance  of  love.  We  likewise  remark 
the  peculiar  talent  of  Monti,  in  which  he  excelled  Alfieri ;  his 
harmony,  his  elegance,  and  his  poetical  language,  which,  while 
they  charm  our  minds,  never  fail  to  deligiit  our  ear. 

Monti  has  written  another  tragedy,  entitled  Galcotto  Man- 


OF    THE    ITALIANS. 


45 


fredi;  the  subject  of  which  is  drawn  from  the  Itah'an  chron- 
icles of  the  fifteenth  century ;  a  period  so  fertile  in  tyi-ants 
and  in  crimes.  Tliis  Prince  of  Faenza,  the  victim  of  his  wife's 
jealousy,  was  assassinated  by  her  order  and  under  her  own 
eyes.  In  this  drama,  likewise,  Monti  approaches  Alfieri  in 
the  nakedness  of  the  action,  in  the  energy  of  the  characters, 
and  in  the  eloquence  of  the  sentiments.  He  has  adhered  but 
too  closely  to  his  model  in  his  neglect  of  all  local  colouring. 
This  national  tragedy  would  possess  many  more  charms,  did  it 
but  present  a  lively  picture  to  the  spectators  of  the  Italians  of 
the  middle  age.  * 


*  As  a  specimen  of  tbe  talents  of  Monti,  I  have  selected  the  scene  in 
which  Zambrino  excites  Matilda  to  assassinate  her  husband.  The 
situation  resembles  that  of  iEgisthus  and  Clytemnestra,  in  the  drama 
of  Alfieri. 

Matild.  Meco  ti  victa 

Ogni  coUoquio  11  crudo,  {Manfredi)  e  so  ben  io 

Perchfe  lo  vieta  ;  accusator  ti  teme 

De'  tradimenti  suoi,  1'  infame  tresca 

Tenermi  occulta  per  tal  modo,  ci  pensa. 

Ben  lo  comprendo. 
Zamb.  Io  taccio. 

JIatild.  Ho  d'  uopo  io  forse 

Che  tu  mel  noti  ]    Si ;  me  sola  intende 

II  tiranno  oltraggiar,  quando  mi  pri^^a 

Deir  unico  fcdel,  che  raddolcirmi 

Solea  le  pene,  ed  asciugarmi  il  pianto  ; 

Ma  ne  sparsi  abbastanza  ;  or  d'  ira,  in  seno 

II  cor  cangiommi;  ed  ei  con  gli  occhi  ha  rotta 

Corrispondenza. 
Zamb.  Ah  !  Principessa,  il  cielo 

M'5  testimon,  che  mi  sgomenta  solo 

De'  tuoi  mali  il  pensiero ;  in  me  si  sfoghi 

Come  pill  vuol  Manfredi,  e  mi  punisca 

D'  aver  svelato  alia  tradita  moglie 

La  nuova  infcdelta  ;  sommo  delitto 

Che  sommo  traditor  mai  non  perdona. 

Di  t^  duolmi  infelice.     Alia  mia  mente, 

Funesto  e  truce,  un  avvenir  s'affaccia 

Che  fa  tremarmi  il  cuor  sul  tuo  destino. 

Tu  del  consorte,  tu  per  sempre,  0  donna, 

Hal  perduto  I'amor. 
Matild.  Ma  non  perduta 

La  mia  vendetta;  ed  io  I'avro  ;  pagarla 

Dovessi  a  prezzo  d'anima  e  di  sangue ; 

Si,  compita  I'avrd. 

2iAMB. 


46  ox    THE    LITERATURE 

Some    less  celebrated  autliors  also  liavc  profited  by  the 
precepts  and  the  models  which  Allieri  bequeathed  to  them. 


Zamb.  Ma  d'un  vipudio 

Meglio  non  fora  tollcrar  ratt'ronto  1 
Matild.  Di  ripudio  che  pai'li ! 
Zamb.  E  clii  potria 

Campartenc'!    Nonvedi?    Ei  per  EHsa 

D'amor  dclira.     Possederla  in  moglic, 

Ahh'i  sicuro  che  vi  pen.^a,  e  due 

Capirne  il  Ictto  marital  non  piiote. 

A  scacciarne  te  posda ;  il  suo  dispetto 

Fia  di  mcz/i  abliondantc,  c  di  pretcsti. 

L'odio  d'entrambi,  rint'econdo  nodo, 

D'un  successor  necessitii,  gran  possa 

Di  forti  amici,  e  bastera  per  tutti 

Di  Valentino  I'amista.     Di  Roma 

L'oracolo  fia  poi  mite  e  cortese, 

Intercer^sore  Valentino.     E  certo 

II  trionfo  d'Elisa. 
Maxii-u.  Anzi,  la  morte. 

Vien  meco. 
Zamb.  E  dove  1 

Matild.  A  trucidarla. 

Zamb.  Ignori 

Clie  Manfredi  h  con  lei  ?     L'ho  visto  io  stesso 

Furtirvo  cntrarvi  col  favor  dell' ombre, 

E  scrrar  I'uscio  sospettoso  e  cheto. 

Avvicinai  I'orecchio,  e  tutto  intomo 

Era  silcnzio,  e  nulla  intesi,  e  nulla 

Di  pill  so  dirti. 
Matild.  Ah  taci  !     Ogni  parola 

Mi  drizza  i  crini,  assai  dicesli,  basta 

Basta  cosi,  non  prescguir  .  .  .  L'  liai  visto 

Tu  stesso,  non  6  ver ';     I'arla. 
Zamb.  T'  accheta : 

Oh  !  taciuto  1'  avessi  ! 
Matild.  Ebben,  ti  prego, 

Tiriamo  un  velo,  oh  Dio  !     Spalanai,  0  terra, 

Le  voragini  tue  :  quest'  empi  inghiotti 

Nel  calor  della  colpa,  e  qucste  niura 

E  r  intora  cittii ;  sorga  una  fiamma 

Che  li  divori,  e  me  con  essi,  e  quanti 

Vi  son  ribaldi,  die  la  fede  osaro 

Del  talamo  tradir. 
Zamb.  (Pungi,  proscgui 

Dcmone  tutelar,  colniala  tutta 

E  testa  e  cuor.  di  rabliia  e  di  veleno, 

E  d'uiia  crudelta  limpida,  pura, 

Senza  mistura  di  pieta.) 

31atild. 


OF    THE    ITALIANS.  47 

Amongst  these  we  may  mention  Alessandro  Pepoll  of  Bologna, 
an  enthusiastic  lover  of  the  drama,  wlio  attempted,  and  some- 
times imprudently,  to  make  new  discoveries  in  his  ai't.  He 
died  young  in  the  year  1796.  He  has  imitated  Alfieri  not  in 
the  construction  of  his  plot,  but  in  his  eloquence,  his  precision, 
and  his  laconic  dialogues.* 

But  the  most  faithful  of  all  the  imitators  of  Alfieri  is 
Giovanni  Battista  Niccolini,  a  Florentine  by  birth,  who  is 
very  recently  known  in  Italy  as  the  author  of  a  tragedy 
entitled  Pohjxena.  From  tlie  worn-out  materials  of  the  an- 
cient mythology,  and  the  trite  incident  of  a  human  sacrifice, 
he  has  formed  a  most  beautiful  tragedy,  in  which  love  is  the 
con.spicuous  passion.  Polyxena,  the  daugliter  of  Priam, 
was,  according  to  the  tradition,  the  betrothed  bride  of 
Achilles  at  the  period  of  his  death,  and  was  the  victim 
immolated  by  Pyrrhus  on  the  tomb  of  his  father,  after  the 
capture  of  Troy.  Niccolini,  however,  supposes  that  Poly- 
xena,  in  the   division   of   the  captives,   falls  to  the   lot  of 


Matild.  Spergiuro  ! 

Barbaro  !  finalmente  io  ti  riugrazio 

DeUa  tua  reita.     Cosi  mi  spogli 

Di  quahmqne  rimorso.     E  tu  dal  fodro 

Esci,  ferro  di  morte  :  a  questa  punta 

La  mia  vendetta  raccommando ;  il  tuo 

Snuda,  Zambrino. 
Zamb.  T'obbedisco. 

Matild.  Andiamo. 

Galeotto  Manfredi,  Atto  v.  Sc.  5. 

*  The  following  lines,  from  the  commencement  of  his  Eotrude,  arc 
evidently  in  the  manner  of  Alfieri  : — 

Adalulfo.  Parla.  mio  rfe,  che  vTioi  ? 

Ariovaldo.  Conforto. 

Adal.  E  a  me  lo  chiedi  ? 

Ariov.  E  tu  mel  dei, 

Se  a  me  tu  lo  rapisti. 
Adal.  Accusi  forse  .  .  .? 

Ariov.     No,  bramo,  sfogo,  e  in  un  consiglio. 
Adal.  Intendo. 

Vuoi  parlar  di  Rotrude ;  a  lei  sol  pensi, 

E  non  vivi  che  a  lei. 
Ariov.  Perdona,  amico, 

Alia  mia  debolezza  ;  io  la  comprendo, 

E  quasi  la  detesto. 

AttoI.Sc.l. 


48  ON    THE    LITEHATURE 

Pyrrhtis,  as  Cassandra  to  Agamemnon  ;  that  she  is  beloved 
by  him,  and  loves  him  in  her  turn  ;  but  that  the  Gods  have 
forbidden  the  return  of  the  Greeks  to  their  own  country, 
until  one  of  the  daughters  of  Priam  has  been  sacrificed  by 
the  hand  of  him  wlio  is  dearest  to  her,  to  appease  the  shade 
of  Achilles.  The  power  of  his  fanatical  feelings,  which  are 
well  described  throughout  the  whole  drama,  excites,  in  the 
breast  of  Pyrrhus,  tlie  most  violent  contest  between  filial 
piety  and  love.  Polyxena  at  last  dies  by  his  hand,  precipi- 
tating herself  upon  the  sword  with  which  he  was  about  to 
strike  Calchas.  AVe  find  in  this  love  plot,  and  in  the  sacri- 
fice, some  traces  of  the  French  school  and  the  drama  of 
Metastasio  ;  but  the  purity  of  the  conception,  the  simplicity 
of  the  action,  the  grandeur  of  the  characters,  which  are  all 
of  the  first  cast,  without  confidants  or  idle  attendants,  and 
the  power  and  elevation  of  the  language,  springing  from  the 
energy  of  the  sentiments,  and  expressed  with  precision,  are 
all  of  them  worthy  of  a  scholar  of  Alfieri.  The  merits  to 
which  this  tragedian  may  lay  an  exclusive  claim,  are  the 
lively  representation  of  the  time  and  scene  of  the  drama,  the 
locality  of  the  poetry^  if  I  may  so  express  myself,  and  the  many 
allusions  which  it  contains  to  Grecian  manners  and  history. 
Niccolini,  fresh  from  the  perusal  of  Homer  and  of  Virgil, 
has  pi'eserved  more  of  the  customs  and  opinions  of  the 
Greeks,  than  may  perhaps  be  allowable  in  the  modern 
drama.  Tie  calls  up  to  our  imagination  and  impresses  into 
his  service  all  the  poetical  traditions  which  we  find  in  the 
classics,  while  he  enriches  his  poem  with  all  the  antique  mag- 
nificence of  the  ruins  of  Troy  ;  for  it  is  within  the  yet 
smoking  walls  of  tliat  city  that  the  scene  of  his  tragedy  is 
laid.* 

»  I  shall  give  a  few  extracts  from  this  tragedy,  which  was  represented 
in  1811,  and  which  raised  such  brilliant  expectations  of  the  young 
author,  wliose  first  attempt  it  was.  Calchas  describes  to  Ulysses  the 
apparition  of  Achilles  : 

Calcante.  I'irro 

Coi  Mirmidoni  suoi  sfidava  in  guerra 
E  la  Grecia,  c  gli  Dei,  dove  d'Achille 
S'  erge  11  sepolcro  :  in  resta  era  ogni  lancia{\), 


t  This  is  an  error  in  costume  ;  it  Wiis  only  in  the  middle  ages  that 
the  lance  was  ever  put  in  the  rest. 


OF    THE    ITALIANS.  4? 

But  to  return  to  Alfieri.     In  the  collection  of  his  works, 
published  during  his  lite,  of  eight  volumes,  five  contain  his 

E  teso  ogni  arco,  allor  che  i  passi  miei 

Guida  incognita  forza  :  ah  !  certo  un  Dio 

M'  empiea  di  se,  cli'io  piCi  mortal  non  era. 

Volo  in  mezzo  alle  schiere,  aflVonto  Pirro 

E  grido  :  Questc  alia  paterna  tomba 

Son  le  vittime  care  ]    Ah  !  sorgi,  Achilla, 

Sorgi,  e  rimira  dell'  insano  Pirro 

Le  sacnleghe  imprese,  ed  arrossisci 

D'esser  gU  padre.     Allor  dai  marmi  un  cupo 

Gemito  s'ode  :  nell'  incerte  destre 

Tremano  Taste,  le  contrarie  schiere 

Unisce  la  paura,  il  suol  vaciU  x, 

II  cielo  tuona,  agli  sdegnali  fiutti 

Lira  s'accresce  del  preseute  Achille  ; 

Orrendo  ei  stette  suUa  tomba  :  in  oro 

Gli  splendean  1'  armi  emule  al  sole,  e  fiamma 

Deir  antico  furor  gli  ardea  negli  occhi. 

Cosi  11  volse  nel  funesto  sdegno 

Contro  il  iiglio  d'Atreo.     Tu,  prole  ingrata, 

Tu,  grida  a  Pirro,  mi  contrast!  onore 

In  vano.     Trema,  I'ostia  io  scorgo,  il  fciTO 

A  me  promesso.     II  sacerdote,  il  sanguc 

Sil  Polissena.     Allor  vermigUa  luce 

Dair  armi  sfolgoro,  maggiore,  immenso, 

Torreggio  Achille  suUa  tomba,  ascose 

Fra  i  lampi  il  capo,  fra  le  nubi,  e  sparve. 

Polyxena,  Atto  1 V.  Sc.  2. 

In  the  same  act  Cassandra  is  suddenly  seized  with  the  prophetic 
fervor,  and  reveals  to  Agamemnon  the  terrors  of  the  future. 

Cassandra.  }  ^'^^^ 

A  tua  crudcl  clemenza  egual  mercede 
Daranno,  io  tel  predico. 

Agam.  E  quale! 

Cas.  Un  figlio 

Simile  a  te  ;  che  ardisca,  e  tremi,  e  sia 
Empio  per  la  picta  ;  che  non  s'appelli 
Innocente,  nfe  reo  ,  che  la  natura 

Vendichi  e  offenda  ; a  che  mi  rendi,  0  iebo, 

Inutil  dono  !  .  .  .  Hio  non  cadde  1 .  .  .  Ahi  dove 
Sono  !  Che  veggo  !  0  patria  mia,  raflrena 
II  pianto,  e  mira  sull'  Euboico  lido 
Le  fiamme  utrici .  .  .  Gia  la  Grecia  uuota 
Dalle  tue  spoglie  oppressa  .  .  .  Orribil  notte 
Siede  sul  mare  ...  II  fulmine  la  squarcia  . .  . 
Ah  !  chi  Io  vibra  \  .  .  .  Tardi,  0  Dea,  conosci 
1  Greci,  tardi  a  veudicarmi  impugn! 


50  ox    THE    LITERATURE 

tragedies,  Avliich  are  known  to  every  one  ;  and  the  other 
three  are  lilled  with  his  political  works  and  poems,  with 
which  very  few  persons  are  acquainted.  A  long  treatise  On 
the  Prince  and  on  Literature  forms  one  of  these  volumes,  and 
may,  in  point  of  elegance  and  force  of  style,  be  compared 
witli  the  best  writings  in  the  Italian  lan<rua2;e.  It  is  rich  in 
thought  and  liigh  sentiment;  and  treats,  with  profound 
ability  and  in  every  view,  of  tliat  important  question,  the 
])rotection  which  it  is  said  a  prince  ought  to  extend  to  lite- 
rature, and  tlie  corrupting  effects  of  this  patronage  upon 
literary  men.  The  extreme  bitterness,  however,  of  the 
author's  manner,  and  the  affected  style,  which  is  evidently 
imitated  from  Macliiavelli,  take  away  all  our  pleasure  in  the 
perusal  of  this  book.     We  are   so  well  acquainted,  before 

La  folgorc  paterna  .  .  .  Eccomi  in  Argo  : 

Tenebre  cguali  alio  Troiane  stanuo 

Sovra  la  rcggia  Tclopca  :  di  pianto 

Suonan  gli  atri  regali  .  .  .  Imbelle  mauo 

Vcndica  I'Asia,  c  la  ncfanda  scare 

Cade  pur  sul  mio  coUo.     Ah  !  grazie,  0  Numi, 

Alfin  libera  io  sono,  e  gia  ritrovo 

Lombrc  dciuiei .  .  .  Che  dissi  !  Ah  !  ch'  io  vancggio. 

In  the  first  scene  of  the  fifth  act,  Polyxena  having  determined  to  die, 
in  order  to  expiate  the  love  which  she  is  ashamed  of  feeling  for  her 
father's  murderer,  thus  takes  leave  of  her  sister  Cassandra  : 

Certo  il  mio  fato, 
Kon  cercarne  perchi?.     Meco  sopolto 
Eesti  cio,  che  a  te  duolo,  a  me  vergogna 
Saria,  se  tu  il  sapessi.     A  quest"  arcano 
Dono  il  mio  sangue  :  n^  acquistarnc  onore, 
Ma  non  perderlo  b  il  frutto.     Io  uon  t'  inganno : 
Son  giusti  i  Numi,  e  la  niia  morte  (5  giusta. 
La  madre  assisti ;  tu  le  asciuga  il  pianto, 
E  in  consolar  la  sventurata,  adempi 
Pur  le  mie  vcci.     Esser  sostcgno,  e  guida 
Agl"  infernii  anni  suoi  tu  dei,  n&  trop{)0 
Kammeutarmi  all'  afflitta;  il  suo  dolorc 
Accresceresti.     Sul  materno  volto 
Ai  tuoi  baci,  0  Cassandi-a,  aggiungi  i  miei. 
Air  ombre  io  sccndcro,  ma  questa  cura 
Vcrra  meco  insepolta.     A  I'riamo,  ai  figli, 
Di  lei  ragioncru.     Diro  che  teco 
Lasciai  la  madre.     Ah  !  tu  mi  guardi,  c  piangi  ! 
Dell !  col  tuo  duol  non  funestarmi,  O  cara, 
II  piacer  della  morte. 


OF    THE    ITALIANS.  51 

corarnencing  it,  with  the  prejudices  of  the  author,  that  we 
sometimes  combat  opinions  to  vvliich  we  might  have  yielded, 
had  they  been  less  roughly  presented  to  us.  Aliieri,  like 
Machiavelli,  treats  every  enquiry  as  a  question  of  utility 
and  not  of  morality;  but  his  excessive  bitterness  has  at  least 
this  advantage,  that  it  does  not  conceal  the  contempt  which 
he  feels  for  those  who  stand  in  need  of  his  melancholy  coun- 
sels, and  to  whom  they  are  addressed. 

The  next  volume  contains  another  long  dissertation  On 
Tyranny,  in  which  the  same  faults  are  observable,  with  even 
a  greater  exaggeration  of  principle,  and  with  reasoning  more 
palpably  false.  His  panegyric  on  Trajan,  which  he  supposes 
to  have  been  written  by  Pliny,  is  a  very  favourable  specimen 
of  Altieri's  powers  of  eloquence,  if,  indeed,  true  eloquence 
can  exist,  when  the  author  writes  under  an  assumed  character, 
and  imagines  himself  the  creature  of  another  i\^q,  under  the 
influence  of  other  manners,  and  of  other  circumstances. 

Alfieri  also  attempted  to  write  an  epic  in  four  cantos,  in 
the  ottava  rinia,  entitled  Etrurla  Vendicata.  Tlie  hero  is 
Lorenzino  de'  Medici,  and  the  catastrophe  is  the  murder  of 
the  contemptible  Alexander,  first  duke  of  Floi'ence.  A  con- 
spiracy like  this  is  perhaps  little  fitted  to  be  the  subject  of 
an  epic  poem,  in  which  we  rather  look  for  truth  and  nature, 
and  an  acquaintance  with  the  hUman  heart,  than  for  the  rich 
colourings  of  the  imagination.  In  this  poem,  although  the 
plot  is  in  itself  full  of  interest,  it  is  yet  rendered  cold  and 
flat  by  the  ornaments  with  which  the  poet  has  surrounded  it. 
All  the  supernatui-al  part,  the  appearance  of  Liberty,  of 
Fear,  and  of  the  shade  of  Savonarola,  produces  no  otlier  im- 
pression than  a  cold  allegory  would  do.  The  poet  does  not 
appear  to  feel  the  truth  of  his  verse  any  more  than  his 
readers.  The  liberties,  also,  which  are  taken  with  histo- 
rical facts  in  the  arrangement  of  the  incidents,  in  the  cha- 
racter of  Lorenzino,  and  in  the  death  of  Alexander,  appear 
tome  to  injure,  instead  of  augmenting  the  effect;  and  to 
conclude,  the  style  is  absolutely  destitute  of  dignity  and  of 
poetical  attraction.  It  is  not,  however,  reasonable  to  judge 
Alfieri  by  a  work  which  he  never  avowed,  and  which,  in  all 
probability,  he  regarded  as  unfinished  at  the  time  when  it 
was  published  without  his  consent. 

Five  odes  on  the  independence  of  America,  nearly  two 


52 


ON    THE    LITERATURE 


hundred  sonnet:?,  and  some  other  poems  in  various  styles, 
comph^e  tlie  collection  of  Alfieri's  works,  as  they  were  pub- 
lished in  his  life-time.  His  posthumous  productions,  which 
began  to  make  their  appearance  in  1804,  and  which  extend  to 
thirteen  volumes  in  octavo,  have  occupied  the  attention  of 
Italy,  and  indeed  of  all  the  literati  of  Europe,  without  adding 
much  to  the  author's  reputation.  His  Abel,  which  he  whim- 
sically entitled  a  Tratnelorjech/,  is  a  composition  in  which  he 
has  attempted  to  blend  together  the  lyric  and  the  tragic  style 
of  poetry,  and  to  unite  the  melody  of  the  opera  with  tlie  most 
powerful  workings  of  the  feelings.  The  allegory,  however, 
is  fatiguing  upon  the  stage,  and  the  versification  of  Alfiei'i  does 
not  possess  the  loftiness  and  the  fascination  which  are  re- 
quisite to  adapt  it  to  music.  The  whole  drama  is  cold  and 
uninteresting.  Two  tragedies  on  the  story  of  Alcestes  follow  : 
one  is  iVom  Euripides,  and  is  merely  a  happy  translation  ;  the 
other,  which  is  on  the  same  subject,  the  poet  has  recast  and 
treated  in  his  own  manner.  For  ten  years  Alfieri  abstained 
from  writing  for  the  stage.  In  that  interval  not  only  his 
ideas,  but  his  character  itself,  sustained  a  change  ;  he  had 
been  softened  down  by  the  domestic  affections  ;  and  his 
Alcestes  does  not  rcseml)le  any  of  his  former  tragedies.  Con- 
jugal tenderness  is  beautifully  painted  in  it  ;  and  the  intei'- 
vention  «f  supernatural  powei's  and  of  the  chorus,  together 
with  a  happy  terminiition,  give  it  quite  a  different  character. 
Yet  the  seal  of  genius  is  most  strongly  impressed  upon  his 
earlier  tragedies. 

The  comedies  of  Alfieri,  of  which  there  are  six,  are  con- 
tained in  two  volumes  ;  and  in  all  probability  they  will  never 
be  played  upon  any  stage.  It  is  difficult  to  conceive  how  this 
celebrated  man  could  ever  have  entertained  the  whimsical 
idea  of  making  a  comedy  a  vehicle  for  his  political  sentiments. 
Tiie  four  first,  which  are  in  fact  only  one  drama  divided  into 
four  parts,  are  written  to  illustrate  the  monarchical,  the  aris- 
tocratical,  the  democratieal,  and  tlie  mixed  form  of  govern- 
ment. He  has  entitled  them,  One,  Feiv,  Too  mani/,  and 
The  Antidote.  They  are  all  in  iambics,  like  his  tragedies. 
The  scene  of  the  first  is  laid  in  Persia,  and  tlie  subject  of  it  is 
the  election  of  Darius  to  the  throne  by  the  neighing  of  his 
horse.  The  drama  turns  upon  the  fraud  of  Darius's  groom, 
who,  by  an  artifice,  makes  his  master's  steed  neigh  before  any 


OF    THE   ITALIANS.  53 

of  the  others  ;  and  the  king's  ingratitude  in  sacrificing  his 
horse  to  the  sun,  and  then  raising  a  statue  to  him,  forms  the 
catastrophe.  Tlie  scene  of  the  second,  the  drama  of  aristo- 
cracy, is  laid  at  Rome,  in  the  house  of  the  Gracchi  ;  the 
subject  of  it  is  tlie  contest  between  the  hitter  and  Fabius,  for 
the  consulate.  Their  defeat,  and  humiliation,  induces  them 
to  propose  an  Agrarian  law.  The  scene  of  the  third  drama, 
Democracy,  or  2^oo  mani/,  is  laid  at  the  court  of  Alexander, 
and  the  orators  are  introduced  who  have  been  despatched  to 
the  king  by  the  Athenians.  These  orators  are  ten  in  number, 
and  ai'e  divided  into  two  parties,  of  which  Demosthenes  and 
^schines  are  the  leaders  ;  and  they  are  in  turns  courted  and 
mocked  by  Alexander  and  his  courtiers.  Their  baseness, 
their  jealousy,  and  their  venality  are  fully  displayed  in  the 
drama,  which,  however,  can  scarcely  be  said  to  boast  of  any 
action.  The  drama  of  INIixed  Government,  or,  as  it  is  also 
singularly  entitled,  3Iix  three  Poisons  and  you  will  have  the 
Antidote,  is  a  plot  of  his  ovvn  invention,  and  the  scene  is  laid 
in  one  of  the  Orcades.  It  was,  to  a  certain  extent,  a  new 
idea  to  choose  heroic  characters  to  fill  the  parts  in  a  comedy. 
In  the  present  age,  a  taste  has  arisen  for  the  comedy  of 
common  life  ;  and  Alfieri  has  expressed  his  dislike  to  this 
manner  of  debasing  the  dramatic  art,  and  of  associating 
poetry  with  the  most  vulgar  sentiments  and  circumstances. 
It  is  strange,  however,  that  he  should  himself  have  felt  no 
disgust  at  attributing  vulgarity  of  manner,  of  feeling, 
and  of  language,  to  men  whose  very  names,  rendered 
so  familiar  to  us  by  history,  lead  us  to  expect  something 
elevated  and  noble  from  them.  He  seems  to  have  thouuht 
it  ntcessary  to  introduce  into  his  comedies  the  most  dis- 
tinguished men,  merely  to  display  their  low  and  vulgar 
qualities.  He  has  endued  them  with  all  the  passions  which 
their  rank  should  liave  engaged  them  most  anxiously  to  con- 
ceal ;  he  has  attributed  to  them  language  which  they  would 
have  blushed  to  hear  ;  and  he  expects  to  excite  laughter  by 
exposing  the  poverty  and  often  the  grossness  of  great  men's 
wit.  Very  little  praise  is  due  to  a  writer  who  entertains  us  at 
an  expense  like  this,  but  Alfieri  has  not  even  so  far  succeeded. 
To  make  vice  ridiculous,  it  is  not  necessary  to  excite  rcfiug- 
nance  ;  but  Alfieri,  in  his  comedies,  produces  in  the  reader  a, 
deep  disgust  for  the  society  into  which  he  is  introduced,  and  a 


54  '  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

humiliating  sense  of  the  depravity  of  the  liiiman  race,  which 
even  in  tlic  liighest  ranks  can  be  thus  debased.  Of  the  two 
remaining  comedies  of  Alfieri,  the  one  entitled  La  Fineatrina 
is  very  fantastical :  the  scene  is  laid  in  Hell,  and  the  comedy, 
in  fact,  consists  of  the  dialogues  of  the  dead  dramatised.  Tlie 
other  is  untitled  The  Dicorce ;  not  because  a  divorce  is  the 
subject  of  the  piece,  but  because  the  author  concludes  by  lay- 
ing down  a  maxim  that  a  marriage  in  Italy  puts  the  parties 
upon  precisely  the  same  footing  as  a  divorce  elsewhere. 
This  is  the  only  one  of  his  dramas  which  can  fairly  be  classed 
with  modern  comedies.  The  characters  in  it  are  finelv  drawn, 
and  it  contains  a  true,  but  very  severe,  representation  of 
Italian  manners.  All  the  personages  are  more  or  less  vicious, 
and  there  is  therefore  very  little  gaiety  in  the  piece  ;  for  it  is 
impossible  to  laugh  at  any  thing  which  powerfully  excites  our 
indignation.  The  author  manifests  in  these  dramas  the 
powers  of  a  great  satirist,  not  of  a  successful  dramatist. 

The  satires,  which  entirely  fill  tlie  third  volume  of  Alfieri's 
posthumous  works,  have  had  greater  success  in  Italy  than  all 
his  other  compositions,  notwithstanding  their  occasional  ob- 
scurity, the  ruggedness  of  the  verse,  and  their  prosaic  style. 
Alfieri  had  something  of  the  cynic  in  his  character,  which 
affects  his  language,  Avhen  he  is  not  elevated  by  the  dignity 
of  the  sock.  The  rest  of  his  posthumous  works  consist  of 
translations  from  the  ancient  authors,  the  productions  of  his 
latter  j'cars,  after  he  had  renounced  dramatic  com|)osition, 
and  when  the  want  of  occupation,  which  he  never  lelt  until 
an  advanced  age,  had  induced  him  to  study  Greek. 

Tiie  two  last  volumes  contain  the  life  of  Alfieri,  written  by 
himself,  with  that  warmth,  vivacity,  and  truth  of  feeling, 
which  throw  sucli  a  charm  over  confessions  like  these,  and 
which  never  fail  to  interest  the  reader,  although  the  author, 
honestly  displaying  iiis  faults,  sometimes  appears  in  no  very 
amiable  light.  If  the  study  of  the  Iiuman  heart,  even  where 
the  individual  has  no  claim  to  a  rank  above  mediocrity,  is  so 
attractive,  how  much  more  precious  must  those  confessions 
be  which  present  us  with  portraits  of  men  distinguished  by 
their  talents,  who  have,  from  time  to  time,  influenced  the 
opinions  or  the  characters  of  their  contemporaries  ;  who  have 
struck  out  new  paths,  led  the  way  to  new  glories,  and  created 
new  schools  of  poetry  ;  and  who,  having  impressed  their  cha* 


OP    THE    ITALIANS.  55 

racter  upon  the  age  in  which  they  lived,  are  cited  by  posterity 
as  having  constituted  the  glory  of  their  times  I  The  study  ot 
the  human  mind  becomes  still  more  interesting,  when  the 
individual  is  no  less  remarkable  for  his  intellectual  qualities 
than  for  his  personal  character  ;  and  when  he  possesses  that 
inexhaustible  fountain  of  genius  which  tinctures  every  thing 
which  it  touches  with  its  own  colours.  It  is  in  his  memoirs 
alone  that  we  can  become  acquainted  with  Alfieri.*  Extracts 
from  them  can  give  no  adequate  idea  of  that  boiling  impa- 
tience of  character,  which  perpetually  propelled  him  towards 
some  indefinite  object  ;  of  that  melancholy  agitation  of  spirit 
which  affected  him  in  every  relation  of  society,  in  every 
situation  of  life,  and  in  every  country  ;  of  that  imperious 
want,  which  he  ever  felt  in  his  soul,  for  something  more  free 
in  politics,  more  elevated  in  character,  more  devoted  in  love, 
more  perfect  in  friendship  ;  of  that  ardour  for  another  exis- 
tence, for  another  universe,  which  he  vainly  sought,  with  all 
the  rapidity  of  a  courier,  from  one  extremity  of  Europe  to 
another,  and  wliicli  he  was  unable  to  discover  in  the  real 
world ;  and  of  his  thirst  for  that  poetical  creation  which  he 
experienced  before  he  knew  it,  and  which  he  was  unable  to 
satisfy,  until  casting  off  the  passions  of  his  youth,  his  thoughts 
turned  to  the  contemplation  of  that  new  universe  which  he 
had  created  in  his  own  bosom,  and  the  agitation  of  his  soul  was 
calmed  by  the  production  of  those  masterpieces  which  have 
immortalized  liis  name. 


*  Alfieri  was  descended  from  a  rich  and  noble  family,  was  born  at 
Asti,  in  Piedmont,  on  the  seventeenth  of  January,  1749,  and  died  at 
Florence  on  the  eighth  of  October,  1803.  His  first  tragedy,  Cleopatra, 
which  he  afterwards  regarded  as  unworthy  of  being  published,  was  acted 
for  the  first  time  at  Turin,  on  the  sixteenth  of  June,  1775.  In  the 
seven  following  years  he  composed  the  fourteen  tragedies,  which  form 
the  first  part  of  his  works.  After  having  renounced  dramatic  composi- 
tion, he  began,  at  the  age  of  forty-eight,  to  learn  Greek,  and  made  him- 
self completely  master  of  that  difficult  language.  His  connexion  for 
more  than  twenty  years  with  a  lady,  not  less  distinguished  by  her 
character  and  wit  than  by  her  rank,  proves  that  he  united  many  amiable 
qualities  to  those  faults  which  he  has  with  so  much  candour  displayed. 


CHAPTER  XXIL 

ON  THE  PKOSE  WRITERS  AND  EPIC  AND  LYIUC  POETS  OF  ITALY,  DURING 
THE  EICHTEEXTH  CENTURY. 

ALTiioucai  we  have  devoted  the  five  last  Chapters  to  tiie 
Italian  poets  of  the  eighteenth  century,  we  have  not  yet  pro- 
ceeded iartlier  tiian  the  dramatic  writers.  Metastasio,  Gol- 
doni,  Gozzi,  and  Alfieri,  almost  at  the  same  time,  carried  tiie 
opera,  comedy,  farce,  and  tragedy,  to  the  highest  pitch  which 
those  compositions  ever  reached  in  Italy.  Those  authors 
have,  therefore,  justly  assumed  their  rank  amongst  the  classics 
of  which  their  country  is  proud,  while  their  reputation  has 
extended  itself  beyond  the  limits  of  their  native  land,  and  has 
become  the  glory  of  the  age. 

There  were,  liowever,  other  Italians  who,  at  this  period, 
devoted  themselves  to  other  branches  of  literature  ;  and  who, 
without  being  able  to  talce  the  place  of  the  great  men  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  yet  proved  that  the  ancient  genius  of  the 
nation  was  not  absolutely  extinct.  The  individual  wlio  ap- 
proached most  nearly  to  the  spirit  of  earlier  times,  and  who 
almost  a[)peared  to  belong  to  another  age  and  another  state  of 
things,  was  Niccolo  Forteguerra,  the  author  of  Ricciardetto, 
th«  last  of  the  poems  of  chivalry.  With  this  author  termi- 
nated that  long  series  of  poetical  romances,  founded  on  the 
adventures  of  Charlemagne's  peers,  which  extended  from  the 
twelfth  to  the  eighteenth  century.  Niccolo  Fortinguerra,  or 
Forteguerra,  was  born  at  Rome,  in  1674.  of  a  family  origin- 
ally from  Pistoia  ;  he  was  educated  to  tlie  priesthood,  and 
was  made  a  prelate  by  the  Roman  Court.  This  was  one  of  the 
reasons  whidi  induced  him  not  to  publish  his  poem  under  his 
own  name,  assuming  that  of  Carteromacho,  which  is  a  trans- 
lation of  it  into  Grei'k.  He  displayed  at  an  early  period  his 
talents  for  verse;  but  he  had  little  idea  of  ever  becoming 
an  author,  and  it  was  a  sort  of  challenge  which  gave  birth  to 
his  poem.  He  happened  to  be  residing  in  the  country  with 
some  persons  who  W(,'re  entliusiastic  admirers  of  Ariosto,  and 
who,  discovering  some  hidden  meaning  in  every  freak  of  th« 
poet's  imagination,  fell  into  ecstasies  at  thericlmess  of  inven- 


OF    THE    ITALIANS.  57 

tion  displayed  in  the  Orlando  Furioso,  and  at  the  time  and 
labour  which  so  highly  wrought  a  plot  must  have  cost  the 
poet.  Forteguerra,  on  the  contrary,  in  Ariosto's  grace  found 
a  proof  of  his  facility  in  composition.  He  maintained  that  all 
his  brilliant  creations  were  the  sport,  not  the  labour,  of  his 
poetical  imagination,  and  declared  that  however  much  he 
admired  them,  he  could  not  think  them  inimitable.  The  dis- 
cussion, at  last,  became  so  animated,  that  Forteguerra  engaged 
to  write,  in  four  and  twenty  hours,  a  canto  of  a  poem  in  the 
same  style,  which  he  promised  to  read  to  his  friends  on  the 
evening  of  the  ensuing  day.  It  was  not  the  poetical  charms 
of  Ariosto  that  he  undertook  to  equal.  He  only  wished  to 
prove  that  this  species  of  composition  was  far  from  being 
difficult,  and  that  by  the  assistance  of  the  supernatural  and 
the  romantic,  related  in  a  lively  manner,  it  was  very  pos- 
sible to  captivate  the  reader  without  wasting  much  labour. 
The  first  canto  of  Ricciardetto  was  composed  imder  these 
circumstances,  and  surpassed  the  expectation  both  of  the 
friends  of  Forteguerra  and  of  the  author  himself.  They 
begged  him  to  continue  it,  and  this  romance  was  all  written 
with  the  same  facility,  and  in  an  extraordinaiy  Khort  space  of 
time.  More  deliberate  corrections  no  doubt  were  necessary 
to  prepare  it  for  the  public  eye. 

Ricciardetto  is  therefore  the  product,  in  some  degree,  of 
the  pleasing  talents  of  an  improvvisatore,  the  creature  of  that 
fertile  imagination,  that  natural  harmony,  and  that  simple 
and  infantine  gaiety  which  characterize  the  Italians.  The 
stanzas  display  a  negligence  which  only  the  beauty  of  so 
poetical  and  sonorous  a  language  could  ever  have  rendered 
agreeable  ;  but  they  often  possess  the  superior  merit  which 
results  from  the  ardour  of  inspiration.  The  versification  is 
frequently  careless  and  heavy,  but  occasionally  it  displays  all 
the  brilliant  colours  of  a  southern  imagination.  A  few 
portions  of  the  romance  are  of  the  highest  order  of  poetry, 
while  in  others  the  habitual  liveliness  and  freedom  give  an 
air  of  charming  simplicity  to  the  easy  style  in  which  they  are 
written.  The  principal  hero  is  a  younger  brother  of  Rinaldo, 
but  all  the  Paladins  of  Charlemagne  are  introduced  in  their 
proper  characters.  The  comic  part  of  the  romance  is  dis- 
played in  broader  relief  than  in  Ariosto.  The  manner  of 
that  great  poet  appears  to  have  been  blended  by  Forteguerra 

VOL.  II.  D 


58  ox    THE    LITEUATURE 

with  that  of  Berni  and  Tassoni;  and,  indeed,  he  equals  all 
his  predecessors  in  wit  and  pleasantry.  A  slight  tincture  of" 
profanity  occasionally  adds  to  the  piquancy  of  the  poem  ;  for 
the  prelate  thought  he  might  make  free  with  his  own  property. 
The  hypocrisy  and  sensual  passions  of  the  monks,  in  general, 
and  of  Ferrau,  who  had  become  a  hermit,  in  particular,  are 
the  objects  of  this  very  diverting  satire  of  Forteguerra.*  He 
died  on  the  seventeenth  of  February,  1735. 

There    existed    some    celebrated    prose    writers    in    the 
eighteenth  century,  though  their  works  are  seldom  found  in 

*  The  first  appearance  of  Ferrau,  and  his  dispute  with  Einaldo  about 
Angelica,  place  his  brutality  and  his  devotion  in  curious  opposition : 

Di  pur  fratello  mio,  ch'  io  ti  perdono: 
E  presa  Fcrrail  la  disciplina 
Battcasi  forte  si,  che  parve  un  tuono. 
Disse  Rinaldo  :  Sino  a  domattina 
Per  me,  seguita  pur  cotesto  suono  : 
Ma  quclla  fune  fc  troppo  piccolina; 
S'  io  fossi  in  ih,  0  Ferrail  beato. 
Mi  frusterei  con  un  bel  correggiato. 

Io  ti  vorrei  corregorer  con  modestia 
Se  si  potesse,  (disse  Ferrail) ; 
Ma  tu  sei  troppo  la  solenue  bestia, 
E  a  dirla  giusta,  non  ne  posso  piil. 
Disse  Einaldo  :  Disprezzo  e  molestia 
Soli'erta  in  pace  h  grata  al  buon  Gesil 
Ma  tu  sei,  per  la  verginc  Maria, 
Romito  false,  e  piil  briccon  di  pria. 

A  quel  dir  Ferrail  gli  d\h  sul  grugno 
La  disciplina  sua  cinque  o  sei  volte  : 
E  Rinaldo  aftibiogU  un  cotal  pugno, 
Che  gli  ffc  dar  dugento  giravolte. 

Ma  nel  mentre  che  ognuno  urla  e  schiamazzu 
S'ode  un  gran  picchio  all'  uscio  della  cella, 
Che  introna  a'  combattenti  la  cervella. 

E  grida  Ferrautc  :  Ave  Maria; 
E  mena  intanto  un  pugno  al  buon  Einaldo  : 
Gridano  :  Aprite.  quolli  dcUa  via. 
Kiun  si  muove,  cd  in  pugnar  sta  saldo. 
Pur  Ferrail  dall'  oste  si  disvia 
E  sbufiando,  per  1'  ira  c  per  Io  caldo, 
Si  aftaccia  al  bucolino  della  chiavc, 
Poi  spranga  V  uscio  con  pesante  trave. 

Canto  3.  st.  G9. 


OF    THE   ITALIANS.  59 

libraries,  and  excite  but  little  curiositj.  The  long  thraldom 
to  which  the  intellect  of  the  Italians  had  been  subjected,  pre- 
vented them  from  raising  themselves  to  the  same  rank  as 
other  nations,  whenever  reason  or  philosophy  was  the  object 
of  their  labours.  Even  after  they  had  partially  recovered 
that  liberty  of  which  tliey  had  been  so  long  deprived,  they 
were  compelled  to  tread  in  the  footsteps  of  the  foreign  philo- 
sophers who  had  preceded  them.  In  the  works  of  their  most 
ingenious  and  profound  writers,  we  find  them  frequently 
stopping  to  discuss  common-place  truths,  or  trite  sophistries, 
of  which  all  the  rest  of  Europe  had  long  been  tired ;  but 
which  they,  with  perfect  good  faith,  brought  forward  as 
ingenious,  deep,  and  novel  ideas  of  their  own.  It  is,  besides, 
exceedingly  difficult  for  those  who  can  only  devote  themselves 
to  philosophy  by  incurring  a  sort  of  rebellion,  to  examine  any 
system  with  impartiality.  Their  intellect  is  either  acted  upon 
throughout  life  by  the  prejudices  in  which  they  have  been 
educated,  or  else  they  reject  them  with  such  violence,  that 
they  look  with  a  hostile  feeling  upon  those  questions  from  the 
consideration  of  which  they  had  been  excluded ;  and  attack 
with  bitterness  the  most  consolatory  truths,  because  they  have 
been  inculcated  by  those  whom  they  despise.  The  little  import- 
ance of  the  prose  writers  of  Italy  prevented  us  from  dwelling 
upon  them,  in  giving  an  account  of  the  literature  of  the 
seventeenth  century;  and  we  shall  therefore  take  this  oppor- 
tunity of  presenting  a  view  of  what  has  been  accomplished 
in  that  department  of  letters,  from  the  sixteenth  century  to 
our  own  times. 

In  History  alone  have  the  Italians  any  claim  to  merit,  at  a 
period  when  every  other  kind  of  inspiration  seemed  to  have 
forsaken  them.  We  shall  always  read  with  pleasure  the 
works  of  Fra  Paolo  Sarpi,  the  Venetian,  who  lived  between 
1552  and  1623,  and  who  defended  with  great  courage  the 
authority  of  the  sovereign  and  the  senate  of  Venice  against 
the  power  of  the  Popes,  notwithstanding  their  excommuni- 
cations and  their  attempts  at  assassination.  His  History  of 
the  Council  of  Trent,  which  was  published  under  the 
assumed  name  of  Pietro  Soave,  contains  a  curious  account  of 
the  intrigues  of  the  Court  of  Rome  at  the  period  of  the 
Reformation.  The  History  of  the  Civil  Wars  of  France,  by 
Enrico  Caterino  Davila,  the  son  of  a  Cypriote,  and  born  in 

d2 


'60  ON    THE    LITEKATUIIE 

1 576,  is  a  work  of  still  greater  interest.     He  very  early  con- 
nected himself  with  the  Court  of  France,  and  Catherine  de' 
Medici  was  his  godmother.     In  his  gratitude  for  this  kind- 
ness he  has  sometimes  suppressed  in  his  history,  the  relation 
of  many  crimes  in  wliich  she  was  involved,  and  of  which  the 
other  historians  of  France  have  endeavoured  to  show  that  she 
alone  was  guilty.     After  the  death  of  Henry  IH.  and  the 
capitulation  of  Paris,  Uavila  served  for  live  years  under  the 
banners  of  Henry  IV.     In  1599  he  was  recalled  to  his  family 
at  Venice,  and  there,    occupied  at  the  same  time  with  his 
civil  and  military  duties,  he  composed  his  History,   which 
comprehends  the  civil  wars  from  loo9  to  1598,  and  displays 
a  profound  knowledge  of  the  times,  the  characters,  and  the 
intrigues,  upon  which,  however,   he  has  perhaps  been  a  little 
too  diffuse.     He  was  assassinated  in  1631,  during  a  journey, 
on  account  of  some  insignificant  quarrel.     With  less  talent, 
less  nature,  less  thought,  and  less  depth,  Guido  Bentivoglio 
has  yet  acquired  considerable  reputation  by  his  History  of  the 
Wars  of  Flanders,  and  by  the  Account  of  his  Embassies.     He 
was  despatched  in  1607  as  Apostolic  Nuncio  to  Flanders, 
where  he  remained  in  that  character  until  1616.      The  four 
following  years  he  spent  in  France  ;  and  procured  a  cardinal's 
hat  on  the  eleventh  of  January,  1621.     Too  great  a  preten- 
sion  to   elegance   of  style,   a    declared    partiality  for    the 
Spaniards,   an  interested  zeal  for  the  Roman  Court,  and  a 
superficial    understanding,    derogate    considerably  from   the 
value  of  his  History;  though  the  precision  and  clearness  of 
his    style  entitle    him  to  a    higher  rank   than  many  of  his 
countrymen.     Battista  Nani,  the  historian  of  Venice  for  a 
period  included  between  the  years  1613  and  1673,  is  the  last 
of  the  writers  of  this  age,  who,  by  his  narrative  talents  and 
his  merits  as  a  prose  writer,  has  obtained  some  degree  of 
reputation. 

The  Italian  authors  who  in  the  eighteenth  century  have 
been  celebrated  for  their  prose  writings,  are  rather  philoso- 
phers than  poets.  Amongst  these  may  be  mentioned  Fran- 
cesco Algarotti,  of  Venice  (1712—1764),  the  friend  of 
Frederic  II.  and  of  Voltaire,  in  whom  we  find  a  rare  and 
happy  union  of  scientific  knowledge,  taste,  philosophy,  erudi- 
tion, and  benevolence.  His  works  have  been  collected  in 
seventeen  volumes  8 vo.  Venice,  1791 — 1794.    XavierBetti- 


OF    THE    ITALIANS.  61 

nelli,  of  Mantua  (1718 — 1808),  a  Jesuit  and  professor,  whose 
numerous  writings  are  comprised  in  twenty-four  volumes  in 
12mo,  should  likewise  be  noticed.  The  fine  arts,  philosophy, 
and  polite  literature,  fill  the  gi-eater  portion  of  these  volumes. 
The  letters  of  Virgil  to  the  Arcadians,  in  which  the  author 
attacks,  with  considerable  wit,  but  with  great  injustice,  the 
reputation  of  Dante  and  Petrarch,  soon  brought  him  into 
notice,  but  gained  him  a  crowd  of  enemies.*  Algarotti  and 
Bettinelli  are  of  that  class  of  men  of  taste  who  follow  the 
spirit  of  the  age,  instead  of  leading  it  into  new  paths,  and 
whose  reputation,  by  soaring  too  high  in  their  own  day, 
rarely  survives  them. 

About  the  same  period  flourished  the  celebrated  Marquis 
Beccaria,  who,  in  his  Treatise  on  Crimes  and  Punishments, 
has  defended  with  such  animation  the  cause  of  humanity;  and 
the  Cavaliere  Filangieri,  the  author  of  a  valuable  work  on 
Legislation.  Neither  of  these  productions  properly  belong 
to  literature  as  we  are  considering  it,  wliich  may  likewise  be 
said  of  the  Revolutions  of  Italy  and  Germany,  by  the  Abbate 
Denina.  The  style  of  these  works  is  but  a  small  portion  of 
their  merit,  and  a  translation  of  them  would  fully  supply  the 
place  of  the  originals.  From  what  has  been  said,  it  may  ba 
gathered  that  there  are  no  prose  writers  amongst  the  Italians 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  whose  compositions  can  induce  a 
desire,  in  those  who  are  ignorant  of  it,  to  become  acquainted 
with  the  Italian  language. 

We  have  now  treated  of  Italian  literature  from  its  first 
origin,  when  the  language  was  in  its  infancy,  down  to  our  own 
days  ;  and  we  have  taken  a  view  of  the  writers  of  every  kind, 
and  of  every  age.  To  complete  this  portion  of  our  work,  it 
only  remains  to  say  a  few  words  respecting  the  poets  of  Italy 
contemporary  with  ourselves,  the  commencement  of  wliose 
fame  we  have  ourselves  seen,  and  upon  whom  the  judgment  of 
the  public,  anticipating  that  of  posterity,  has  not  been  passed 
without  a  possibility  of  appeal.     The  account  which  we  are 

*  Gaspard  Gozzi,  a  Venetian  gentleman,  and  brother  of  the  comic 
poet,  wrote  against  Bettinelli  a  defence  of  Dante.  He  wrote  also,  at 
Venice,  an  Osservatore,  published  twice  a  week,  in  imitation  of  the 
Spectator  of  Addison.  The  Italians  have  a  high  opinion  of  his  style, 
his  small  courtesies  of  life,  and  of  his  burlesque  gaiety.  I  do  not  find 
that  their  praises  inspire  one  with  a  desire  to  read  his  works. 


■  62  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

about  to  give  of  these  writers  is  a  matter  of  some  delicacy. 
Their  present  reputation  is  contbiinded  with  their  real  fame. 
They  all  stand  pretty  nearly  upon  the  same  level  ;  nor  does 
it  become  us  to  decide  upon  pretensions  upon  which  the  public 
voice  has  not  yet  pronounced  a  determinate  judgment.  "We 
shall  therefore  consider  oui\<elves  bound  to  bestow  an  almost 
equal  degree  of  attention  upon  all  those  who  possess  any 
degree  of  celebrity. 

The  present  race  of  literary  men  in  Italy  attempt  to  sup- 
ply, by  a  greater  depth  of  thought,  the  deficiencies  of  the 
imagination,  as  may  be  observed  on  a  comparison  with  the 
poets  of  the  sixteenth  century.  The  study  of  philosophy  has 
replaced  that  of  the  classics  ;  the  intellect  has,  momentarily 
at  least,  shaken  off  its  chains;  new  ideas  have  been  spread 
abroad,  and  the  knowledge  of  foreign  languages  and  letters  has 
gone  far  to  dissipate  tiie  prejudices  of  the  Italians  ;  who,  in- 
stead of  being,  as  they  were  ibrmerly,  an  isolated  people,  have 
now  become  members  of  the  great  literary  Republic  of  Europe. 

Tlic  first  amongst  these  modern  poets,  with  reference  both 
to  the  period  at  which  he  flourished  and  to  the  extent  of  his 
talents,  is  Melchior  Cesarotti,  whom  Italy  lost  a  few  years 
since,  at  an  advanced  age.  He  was  one  of  the  most  learned 
men  of  his  country,  and,  having  an  excellent  knowledge  of 
the  classical  languages,  he  translated  Homer  with  no  less  of 
the  spirit  of  a  critic  than  of  a  poet.  But  the  admirers  of 
antiquity  will  never  pardon  him  for  having,  by  various  altera- 
tions, attempted  to  render  the  works  of  the  father  of  poetry 
more  conformable  to  the  taste  of  the  times  ;  for  having  dared 
to  adapt  Homer  to  a  standard  of  taste  and  sentiment,  which 
will,  in  all  probability,  soon  be  abolislied,  while  the  beauties 
of  the  great  original  will  never  pass  away.  It  is  the  admira- 
])le  monument  so  prized  by  every  successive  age  which  we  re- 
quire a  translator  to  present  to  us,  not  the  new  Iliad  of  Pope 
or  of  Cesarotti.* 

*  As  an  example  of  the  versification  of  Cesarotti,  and  to  enable  the 
reader  to  perceive  in  what  manner  lie  has  preserved  or  altered  the 
original,  we  have  given  below  the  celebrated  scene  between  Priam  and 
Achilles,  whore  the  former  demands  the  body  of  his  son.  (Iliad  xxiv. 
V.  486  to  606.     Trans.  G57  to  6S!l.) 

Ecco  e  in  vista  d'Achille  :  a  quella  vista  - 
Un  tumulto  d'  atfctli,  un  gruppo,  un  nembo, 

L'anima 


OP    THE    ITALIANS.  63 

The  latter  poet,  perhaps,  deserves  more  fame  for  his  trans- 
lation of  Ossian.  He  appears  to  have  been  deeply  penetrated 
with  the  spirit  of  the  ancient  Caledonian,  and  has  preserved 
much  of  his  dim  and  gigantic  grandeur.  With  a  very  harmo- 
nious ear,  he  has  always  chosen  the  most  proper  metre  to 
express  the  lyrical  inspiration  of  the  bard  of  Morven.  These 
odes,  which  display  a  greater  variety  in  the  disposition  of  the 
rhymes  than  is  to  be  found  in  the  works  of  any  other  of  the 
Italian  poets,  appear  rather  to  be  the  offspring  of  native  in- 
spiration than  translations.     There  is  a  great  deal  of  genius 

L'anima  gli  rimescola,  ne  scoppiano 

Mai  repressi  singulti ;  ognun  si  volge, 

Scosso  I'Eroe  fiso  sel  guarda,  il  vecchio 

Pria  clie  '1  ravvisi,  a  pi6  gli  casca,  e  man 

A  lui  strette  e  ginoccliia,  ah  pieta,  grida. 

Divino  Achille,  il  padre  tuo  t'  implora; 

Per  tuo  padre  pieta.     Mirati  innaazi 

Un  immagine  sua  :  canuto  e  carco 

D'anni  e  di  cure  in  sua  solinga  reggia, 

E  cinto  forse  di  perigli  aneh'  esso, 

Langue  e  sospira,  e  chiama  il  figlio ;  ah'l  figlio 

Ei  rivedry,  fra  le  sue  braccia  un  giorno 

Cadra  per  gioia ;  0  me  tapino  ed  orbo, 

Diserto  me  !  tutto  perdei ;  piu  speme, 

Pill  conforto  non  ho  :  di  tanta  prole 

(Cinquanta  del  mio  talamo  fecondo 

Erano  i  frutti)  omai  gia  poclii,  (Achille, 

Troppo  tel  sai)  restano  in  vita :  io  vidi 

L'un  dopo  Taltro,  di  sanguigne  morti 

Contaminar  gli  occhi  paterni ;  e  quello 

Ch'  era  il  primo  e  '1  miglior,  quel  che  fu  solo 

Mio  sostegno  e  niia  speme  (oim^,  nomarlo 

Pur  non  ardisco)  per  tua  man  mel  tolse 

II  fato  incsorabilo.     Ti  basti, 

Placati  alfin,  terribil  Dio  ;  tremante 

A  te  ricorro  e  lagrimoso  ;  ah  rendi 

Gli  avanzi  a  me  della  siraziata  salma 

Ch'  Ettor  gia  fil.     Quelle  in  compenso  accogli 

Ch'  io  recai  meco,  preziose  ofi'erte 

Che  a  te  consacro  ;  dell'  eta  cadente  > 

Rispetta  i  dritti ;  ti  disarmi  il  sacro 

Carattere  paterno ;  e  se  pur  vago 

Sei  dello  strazio  mio,  pensa  che  immenso 

Lo  soflro  gia,  non  mai  provato  in  terra 

Dal  cor  d'un  padre,  poiche  adoro  e  bacio 

La  fatal  destra,  quella  destra,  oh  Dio  ! 

Che  ancor  del  saugue  de'  miei  figli  e  tinta. 


64  ON    THE    LITERATLTiE 

displayed  in  the  form  whit  h  lie  has  given  to  these  composi- 
tions, as  well  as  much  truth  and  pi-ecision  in  the  fidelity  with 
which  he  has  rendered  the  original  ;  and  as  there  are  none 
wiio  are  able  to  read  the  songs  of  the  son  of  Fingal  in  their 
primitive  language,  I  should  recommend  the  perusal  of  the 
translation  of  Cesarotti  in  preference  to  the  prose  of  Mac- 
pherson  ;  since  in  the  former  we  have  all  tlie  charm  and 
harmony  of  verse,  without  which,  poetry  must  always  appear 
monotonous  and  affected. 

Cesarotti  is  very  voluminous,  both  in  his  translations  and 
in  his  original  compositions.  The  last  edition  of  his  works 
consists  of  thirty  volumes.  The  modern  Italians  are  too 
much  addicted  to  prolixity,  and  we  lose  all  desire  to  become 
intimately  acquainted  with  such  interminable  writers. 

Lorenzo  Pignotti  of  Arezzo,  who  died  at  Pisa,  in  which 
University  he  was  one  of  the  professors,  has  acquired  con- 
siderable celebrity  by  his  fables,  which  are  thought  to 
surpass  his  other  poems,  though  many  of  the  latter  are 
highly  beautiful.  The  Italian  language  appears  to  be  pe- 
culiarly adapted  to  this  species  of  composition.  It  lias  pre- 
served a  sort  of  infantine  simplicity,  absolutely  necessary  to 
a  relator  of  fables,  who  demands  to  be  believed  when,  like  a 
child,  he  attributes  to  inanimate  objects  or  to  creatures 
deprived  of  reason,  human  passions,  sentiments,  and  lan- 
guage. Pignotti  relates  these  fables  with  inhnite  grace  ;  his 
style  is  perfectly  picturesque  ;  and  he  always  presents  an 
image  to  the  eye  of  his  readers.  In  his  versification  he  is 
very  harmonious  ;  sometimes  writing  with  great  latitude, 
and  at  others  confining  himself  within  the  most  severe  rules, 
yet  always  preserving  an  air  of  playfulness,  as  though  he 
did  not  i'eel  the  fetters  with  which  he  had  shackled  himself. 
Facility  is  essential  to  grace  and  simplicity,  nor  does  it  ever 
abandon  him.  Sometimes,  however,  Pignotti  is  too  diffuse, 
and  from  a  fear  of  confining  himself  within  too  narrow 
limits,  he  trespasses  upon  tlu;  patience  of  his  readers.  The 
most  celebrated  writers  of  fables  have,  we  know,  frequently 
done  nothing  more  than  translate  from  another  language 
fables  which  seem  to  be  as  ancient  as  the  world  itself.  In 
this  way  Pignotti  has  followed  La  Fontaine,  Pliajdrus,  Esop, 
and  Pilpai.  A  few,  indeed,  are  of  his  own  invention,  but 
tliey    are  not  in  general  his  best.     The  moral  of  a  fable 


OP   THE   ITALIANS.  65 

should  rather  be  addressed  to  man  as  a  member  of  a  social 
community,  than  as  one  of  the  fashionable  world.  The 
passions,  the  vices,  and  the  errors  of  the  human  race  form 
admirable  caricatures  when  represented  in  animals  ;  but  the 
follies  of  fashionable  society  have  not  enough  of  nature  in 
them  to  suit  the  same  purpose.  Pignotti,  however,  appears 
to  have  addressed  his  fables  to  fops  and  coquettes.  The  re- 
semblance between  the  persons  intended  to  be  satirized  and 
the  creatures  introduced  in  the  fables,  exists  rather  in  the 
writer's  wit  and  imagination  than  in  the  objects  which  are 
thus  compared,  and  these  little  poems  consequently  want 
truth.*  When  he  versifies  an  old  subject  Pignotti  soon 
falls  into  the  contrary  error.  The  writer  of  fables  is  always 
liable  to  one  of  two  faults;  too  great  study,  or  too  much 
trifling.  If  he  is  desirous  of  instillina;  wit  into  his  verses, 
he  is  apt  to  forget  what  kind  of  compositions  he  is  engaged 
upon,  and  becomes  affected  ;  and  if,  on  the  contrary,  he 
neglects  ingenious  and  brilliant  ideas,  he  easily  falls  into 
common- places.  The  beasts  who  are  introduced  are  allowed 
to  possess  neither  as  much  wit  as  men,  nor  less.  The  French 
writers  of  fables  who  have  succeeded  La  Fontaine,  have  erred 
by  an  excess  of  wit ;  the  Italian  authors,  by  an  excess  of 
simplicity. 

Pignotti  did  not  confine  himself   to  the  composition   of 


*  The  fables  of  Pignotti  are  all  too  long  to  allow  me  to  extract  any 
at  full  length.  I  shall  only  give  the  commencement  of  the  eleventh, 
II  Ragno,  which  will  convey  some  idea  of  the  ease  of  the  poet's  versifi- 
cation, and  of  his  talent  at  painting. 

Vedi,  0  leggiadra  Fillide,  E  ancli'  essa  dilettavasi 
Quel  fraudolento  insetto  Come  tu  appunto  fai, 

Che  ascoso  sta  nell'  angolo  I  piil  brillanti  giovani 

Del  obbliato  tetto  ?  Ferir  co'  suoi  bei  rai. 

E  che  nel  foro  piccolo  Ora  uno  sguardo  tenero, 

Mezzo  si  mostra  e  cela.  Ma  insiem  ftvlso  e  bugiardo, 

Attento  ai  moti  tremuli  Con  un  linguaggio  tacito 

Delia  sua  fragil  tela?  Parea  dicesse,  io  ardo ; 

Ci  narrano  le  favole  E  di  pieta  la  languida 

Che  bestia  si  schifosa  Faccia  si  ben  pingea 

Fil  gia  donzella  amabile  Che  i  cuori  anche  i  piii  timidi 

E  al  par  di  te  vezzosa.  Assicurar  parea,  &c. 

But  this  fable,  containing  about  one  hundred  verses,  is  too  long  for  the 
mere  purpose  of  drawing  a  comparison  between  the  coquette  and  the 
spider,  and  between  her  admirers  and  flies. 


66  *  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

fables  only,  for  he  has  left  some  odes  and  a  j)oem,  in  blank 
verse,  entitled  The  SJtade  of  Pope.  Pignotti  was  well  ac- 
quainted with  English  literature,  but  the  turn  of  his  mind, 
and  the  peculiarity  of  his  talents,  did  not  lit  him  to  take  full 
advantage  of  that  circumstance.  He  was  of  the  classic,  not 
the  romantic,  order  of  poet-;.  Correctness  pleased  him  more 
than  genius  ;  and  Pope,  whom  he  has  celebrated  in  his  verses, 
appeared  to  him  the  first  of  English  poets. 

The  poems  of  Luigi  Savioli,  of  Bologna,  are  entirely 
amatory  ;  and  none  of  tlie  poets  of  the  present  age  so  com- 
pletely remind  the  reader  of  Anacreon.  There  is  the  same 
grace  in  the  images,  the  same  softness  in  the  versification, 
the  same  expression  of  fond  and  happy  love,  without  any 
mixture  of  deep  and  passionate  feeling.  Like  Anacreon,  we 
may  imagine  this  poet  seated  at  the  festive  table,  and  crowned 
with  roses  at  his  mistress's  side.  He  seems  not  to  iiave  been 
made  to  experience  the  torments  of  jealousy,  or  the  im- 
petuosity of  anger,  or,  indeed,  suffering  under  any  of  its 
ibrms.  The  metre  which  he  has  selected  he  never  changes. 
It  is  a  stanza  of  four  short  verses,  of  which  the  first  and 
the  third  are  sdruccioli  of  eight  syllables,  and  do  not  rhyme 
together  ;  the  second  and  the  Iburth  are  lines  of  seven 
syllables,  and  rhyme  together.  The  effect  of  these  little 
verses  is  singularly  musical  and  agreeable  to  the  ear,  pro- 
ducing something  of  the  same  feeling  of  delight  to  which 
the  poet  abandons  himself. 

Savioli  might  be  called  a  Pagan  poet,  for  he  never  steps 
out  of  the  heathen  mythology,  which,  in  his  creed,  seems  to 
form  part  of  the  worship  of  love.  This  is  so  completely  in 
harmony  with  the  habitual  feelings  of  the  poet,  and  has 
become  so  natural  to  him,  that  we  judge  him  as  we  should 
judge  a  classical  author  ;  and  we  feel  no  dislike  to  what,  in  his 
case,  is  a  species  of  worship,  while,  in  other  poets,  it  is 
merely  an  allegory.  His  poetry  is  iiighly  picturesque  ;  each 
separate  couplet  makes  a  beautiful  little  painting,  which  we 
gaze  at  with  delight  as  it  passes,  though  it  vanishes  almost 
as  soon  as  it  is  formed.  It  is  quite  impossible  to  give  any 
idea  in  a  prose  translation  of  the  graces  of  a  poet,  whose 
charm  consists  entirely  in  his  style.  To  give  them  in  verse 
is,  it  must  be  admitted,  a  diflicult  task,  though  a  very  useful 
one,  to  those  who  wish  to  excel  in  the  poetical  art.     The 


OF    THE    ITALIANS. 


67 


odes  to  Venus,*  to  Destiny,  and  to  Happiness,  will  give 
some  notion  of  Savioli's  rich  poetical  style,  and  of  those 
animated  paintings  contained  in  his  lyrics,  which  are  too 
seldom  found  in  the  French  lansruag-e. 

Giovanni  Gherardo  di  Rossi,  a  Roman  by  birth,  of  whom 
we  have,  in  one  of  tlie  preceding  chaptei's,  already  spoken  as 
a  comic  poet,  resembles  Savioli,  in  many  respects,  in  his 
amatory  poems.  Like  him,  his  imagination  revels  in  the 
classical  mythology  ;  his  style,  like  his,  is  graceful ;  and  the 
pictures  which  his  poems  present  are  all  Anacreontic.  He 
has  given  the  name  of  Picturesque  and  Poetical  Trifles  to 
some  pleasing  epigrams,  which  are  illustrated  by  still  more 
pleasing  engravings.  Perhaps,  however,  he  has  relied  too 
much  on  the  graver  of  the  artist ;  and  the  epigrams,  indeed, 
would  not  be  of  much  value  without  the  explanation  of  the 
prints.  Rossi  has  more  wit,  but  less  tenderness,  in  his  love 
songs,  than  Savioli,  and  therefore  less  nature.  We  perceive 
the  poet's  hand  rather  than  his  heart.  In  his  fables,  of 
which  Rossi  has  published  a  volume,  we  find  similar  faults ; 


^  0  Figlia  alma  d'Egioco, 

Leggiadro  onor  dell'  acque. 
Per  cui  le  grazie  apparvero, 
E  '1  riso  al  mondo  nacque. 

0  molle  Dea,  di  nivido 
Fabbro,  gelosa  cura, 
0  del  figliuol  di  Cinira 
Beata  un  di  ventura. 

Teco  il  garzon  cui  temono 
Per  la  gran  face  eterna, 
Ubbidienza  e  imperio 
Soavemente  alterna. 

Accesse  a  te  le  tenere 
Fanciulle  alzan  la  mano, 
?ol  te  ritrosa  invocano 
Le  antiche  madri  iuvano. 

Te  suUe  corde  Eolie 
Saftb  iavitar  solea, 
Quando  a  quiete  i  languid! 
Begli  occhi  amor  togliea. 

E  tu  richiesta,  0  Venere, 
Sovente  a  lei  scendesti, 
Posta  in  obblio  1'  ambrosia 
E  i  tetti  aurei  celesti. 


II  gentil  carro  Idalio 

Ch'or  le  colombe  addoppia, 
Lieve  traea  di  passera 
Nera  amorosa  coppia. 

E  mentre  udir  propizia 
Solevi  il  flebil  canto, 
Tergcan  le  dita  rosee 
Delia  fauciulla  il  pianto. 

E  a  noi  pur  anco  insolito 
Ricerca  il  petto  ardore, 
E  a  noi  1'  esperta  cetera 
Dolce  risuona  amore. 

Se  tu  m'  assisti,  io  Pallade 
Abbia  se  vuol  nimica : 
Teco  ella  innanzi  a  Paride 
Perd^  la  lite  antica 

A  che  valer  puo  1'  Egida 
Se  '1  figlio  tuo  percote  1 
Quel  che  i  suoi  dardi  possono 
L'  asta  immortal  nou  puote. 

Meco  i  mortali  innalzino 
Solo  al  tuo  nome  altari ; 
Citera  tua  divengano 
II  ciel,  la  terra,  i  mari. 


6s  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

there  is  more  wit  and  less  simplicity  in  them  than  in  those 
of  Pignotti.  Rossi  had  the  talent,  but  not  tlie  ins[)iration, 
of  a  poet.  What  lie  wished  to  be,  he  was ;  and  since  his 
path  was  entirely  of  his  own  choice,  he  might,  perhaps,  with 
advantage  have  attempted  a  higher  style  of  poetry,  in  which 
wit  is  more  valuable,  and  in  which  natural  grace  and  the 
forgetfulness  of  the  poet's  self  are  less  essentially  requisite. 

After  Savioli  and  Gherardo  di  Rossi,  may  be  ranked  Gio. 
Fantoni,  a  Tuscan,  better  known  by  the  name  of  Labindo, 
an  appellation  which  he  received  as  an  Arcadian.  In  his 
amatory  poems  we  find  much  ease,  grace,  and  voluptuous- 
ness. In  his  odes,  he  has  attempted  to  imitate  the  different 
metres  which  Horace  has  employed,  at  least  as  far  as  the 
language  permitted  him,  and  he  has  likewise  endeavoured  to 
preserve  his  style  of  thinking,  and  the  turn  of  his  wit ;  but 
it  Avas,  perhaps,  the  consciousness  of  this  imitation  which 
deprived  Fantoni  of  that  freedom  of  style  so  essential  to  a 
lyrical  poet.  Labindo,  who  attached  himself  to  the  court  of 
Charles  Emmanuel  Malespina,  IMarquis  of  Fosdinovo,  did 
not  forget  the  interests  and  the  destinies  of  Europe,  in  the 
beautiful  mountains  of  Lunijriana,  where  the  sovereign  rules 
over  a  country  of  two  or  three  square  miles,  and  a  population 
of  a  few  hundred  inhabitants.  Of  all  the  Italian  poets  of 
this  period,  he  is  the  one  in  whose  works  we  find  the  most 
frequent  allusions  to  public  events.  He  speaks  with  enthu- 
siasm of  the  victories  of  the  English  during  the  American 
war,  and  of  the  exploits  of  Admiral  Rodney.  As  the  period 
approached  when  his  own  country  was,  at  length,  to  ex- 
perience the  horrors  of  war,  of  which  she  had  so  long  been 
an  indifferent  spectator,  Labindo  immediately  perceived  how 
disgraceful  a  timid  line  of  conduct  would  be  to  him,  and  in 
his  Ode  to  Italy,  1791,  we  discover  the  truest  patriotism; 
patriotism,  which  taught  his  countrymen  to  seek  for  inde- 
pendence and  glory  in  the  reformation  of  their  manners,  and 
in  their  own  energies  and  virtues.* 

The  Cavaliere  Ippolito  Pindemonti,  of  Verona,  is  the  first 


•  Or  (Inida,  or  serva  di  stranierc  genti, 

liuccorcio  il  crin,  brcvc  la  gonna,  il  femore 
Sulle  piume  adagiato,  i  di  languenti 
Vmai  oziosa,  c  di  tua  gloria  imincmorc. 

Alio 


OP    TUE    ITALIANS.  69 

of  the  Italians  whose  poetry  is  thoughtful  and  melancholy. 
The  loss  of  a  friend,  and  an  illness  which  attacked  himself, 
and  which  he  considered  fatal,  made  a  deep  impression  upon 
his  mind  of  the  vanity  of  life.  Detaching  itself  from  the  con- 
templation of  its  own  feelings,  his  heart  turned  with  eager- 
ness to  the  pleasures  of  nature,  and  to  the  delights  of  the 
country  and  of  solitude.  In  his  little  poem  on  the  four 
portions  of  the  day  he  muses  on  his  own  tomh,  a  humble 
stone,  unmarked  by  any  inscription. 

Oh,  then,  thus  softly  to  the  silent  bed 

Of  the  dark  tomb  let  me  at  length  descend  ; 
Where  the  bleak  path  which  now  on  earth  I  tread, 

So  dear  and  yet  so  sad,  shall  have  an  end. 
Day  shall  return  ;  but  this  unconscious  head 

Shall  never  from  its  pillow  damp  ascend. 
Nor  on  the  fields  and  all  their  tenants  gaze, 
Nor  watch  the  setting  sun's  sweet  parting  rays. 
Perchance,  across  these  pleasant  hills,  one  day, 

In  search  of  me  some  much-loved  friend  will  come, 
And  asking  for  me,  as  he  takes  his  way, 

Some  peasant-boy  will  lead  him  to  my  tomb  ;  * 

Alle  mense,  alle  danze,  i  figli  tuoi 

Ti  seguon  sconsigliati,  e  il  nostro  orgoglio 

Pill  non  osa  vantar  Duci  ed  Eroi, 

Che  i  spiranti  nel  marmo  in  Campidoglio. 


Squarcia  le  vesti  dell"  obbrobrio  ;  al  crine 

L'  elmo  riponi,  al  sen  1'  usbergo  ;  destati 
Dal  lungo  sonno,  sulle  vette  alpine 

Alia  difesa  ed  ai  trionfi  apprestati. 
Se  il  mar,  se  1'  onda  che  ti  parte,  e  serra 

Vano  fia  schcrmo  a  un  vincitor  terribile, 
Serba  la  tomba  nell'  Esperia  terra 

Air  audace  stranier  fato  invincibile. 

*  0  cosi  dolcemente  della  fossa 
Nel  tacito  calar  sen  tenebroso 
E  a  poco  a  poco  ir  terminand'  io  possa 
Questo  viaggio  uman  caro  e  afFannoso ; 
Ma  il  di  ch'  or  parte,  riederil ;  quest'  ossa 
Io  pill  non  alzero  dal  lor  riposo ; 
Ne  il  prato,  e  la  gentil  sua  varia  prole 
Rivedro  piil,  ne  il  dolce  addio  del  sole. 

Forse  per  questi  ameni  colli  un  giorno 
Volgera  qualche  amico  spirto  il  passo, 
E  chiedendo  di  me,  del  mio  soggiorno 
Sol  gli  lia  mostro  senza  nome  un  sasso 


SotLo 


70  ON    TllK    LITERATURE 

My  tomb — this  nameless  stone — where  oft  I  stray, 

And  rcft  my  weary  limbs  as  'twere  my  home. 
And  sit  unmoved  and  sad,  or  to  the  breeze 
Pour  all  my  soul's  poetic  ecstasies. 

And  these  dark  groves,  which  o'er  me  gently  sigh. 
In  death  above  my  peaceful  grave  shall  nod. 

And  the  tall  grass,  so  welcome  to  my  eye, 
Over  my  head  shall  deck  the  verdant  sod. 

"  0  happy  thou  !"  my  friend  perchance  shall  cry, 
"  The  culm  and  lonely  path  which  thou  hast  trod 

Hath  led  thy  footsteps  to  a  holier  state. 

And  half  deceived  the  stern  decrees  of  Fate." 

Several  other  of  Pindemonti's  poems  are,  like  the  fore- 
going .  something  in  the  style  of  Gray.  It  is  singular  to 
hear  the  Genius  of  the  Nortli  thus  using  Italian  accents,  and 
it  is  dfficult  to  imagine  a  thoughtful  spirit  breathing  Ibrth 
its  feelings  amidst  all  the  gaieties  which  nature  dis- 
plays in  Italy.  We  become  attached  to  Pindemonti,  for  all 
his  sentiments  are  noble  and  pure.  This  delicacy  of  feeling 
may  be  observed  in  his  love-verses  to  an  English  lady ;  in 
his  lines  to  a  mother  who  had  resolved  to  nurse  her  own 
children ;  in  those  on  liberty ;  and  in  his  address  to  Frederic 
IV.  of  Denmark,  supposed  to  be  written  by  a  lady  of  Lucca, 
who  was  beloved  by  the  prince  during  his  residence  in  Italy, 
and  who,  after  his  departure,  shut  herself  up  in  a  convent, 
being  unable  to  conquer  lier  passion.  Others  of  Pindemonti's 
compositions  are  of  a  still  more  foreign  interest.  He  had  tra- 
velled much,  and  we  have  odes  of  his  on  the  Lake  of  Geneva, 
the  glaciers  of  Bossons  and  tlie  cascade  of  Arpinas ;  names 
which  we  are  more  astonished  to  find  in  the  mouth  of  an 
Italian,  than  in  that  of  an  American. 

Sotto  queir  elce,  a  cui  sovente  or  tomo 
Per  dar  ristoro  al  fianco  errante  c  lasso. 
Or  pensoso  ed  immobile  qual  pietra, 
Ed  or  voci  Febee  vibrando  all'  etra. 

Mi  coprira  quella  stess'  ombra  morto, 
L'  ombra,  mcntr'  io  vivca,  si  dolce  avuta, 
E  r  erba,  de'  miei  lumi  ora  conibrto, 
Allor  sul  capo  mi  sara  crcsciuta. 
Felice  tfc,  dira  forse  ci,  che  scorto 
Per  una  strada  c  ver  solinga  e  muta. 
Ma  d'  ondc  in  altro  suol  meglio  si  v.irca, 
Giungesti  quasi  ad  ingannar  la  Parca. 

La  Sera,  st.  12,  p.  73. 


OF    THE    ITALIANS.  7] 

It  lias  been  said  that  Pindemonti  was  a  traveller,  nor  in- 
deed did  he  travel  without  benefit ;  and  yet  he  has  written  a 
little  poem,  full  of  ingenuity  and  wit,  against  the  prevailing 
passion  for  travelling.  With  a  knowledge  of  foreign  lands, 
he  has  yet  preserved  an  aflection  for  his  own  country,  which 
is  always  the  mark  of  a  noble  mind.  The  following  verses 
are  most  pleasing : 

Oh  !  liappy  he,  whose  foot  hath  never  stray'd 
O'er  the  sweet  threshold  of  his  native  land ; 
Whose  heart  hath  never  been  enthrall'd  to  those 
He  ne'er  again  must  see  ;  whose  spirit  mourns  not 
For  those  that  live,  though  ever  dead  to  him.*' 

A  little  further  on  he  thus  proceeds  : 

And  if  the  importunate 
Stern  hand  of  death  should  seek  th^e,  dost  not  fear 
That  it  should  iind  thee  in  the  wretched  chamber 
Of  some  poor  hostel,  far  from  all  thy  friend* 
Mid  unaccustom'd  faces,  in  the  arms 
Of  thine  hired  servant,  who,  though  erewhile  faithful. 
Corrupted  by  temptations  on  thy  travels. 
Now  casts  a  greedy  eye  upon  thy  mails, 
Furnished  with  snow-white  linen,  silks,  and  goods 
Of  price,  till  in  his  heart  at  least  he  kills  thee  ? 
No  pious  kinsman  comes,  no  weeping  friend. 
To  close  thine  eyes  ;  nor  can  thy  languid  hand 
Clasp  with  faint  grasp  some  dear  and  faithful  palm. 
Thy  dying  wandering  eyes  in  vain  would  rest 
Upon  some  much-loved  object,  till  at  length,f 

*  Oh  felice  chi  mai  non  pose  il  piede 

Fuori  della  natia  sua  dolce  terra ; 
Egli  il  cor  non  lascio  fitto  in  oggetti 
Che  di  pill  riveder  non  ha  speranza, 
E  cio,  che  vive  ancor,  morto  non  piange. 

f  Se  r  importuna 

Morte  th  vuol  rapir,  br.imi  tu  dunque 
Che  nella  stanza  d'un  ostier  ti  colga 
Lunge  da  tuoi,  tra  ignoti  volti,  e  in  braccio 
D'  un  servo,  che  fedel  prima,  ma  guasto 
Anch'  ei  dal  lungo  viaggiar,  tuoi  bianchi 
Lini,  le  sete,  e  i  preziosi  arredi 
Mangia  con  gli  occhi,  e  nel  suo  cor  t'  uccide  1 
Non  pieta  di  congiunto,  non  d'  amico 
Vienti  a  ehiuder  le  ciglia  ;  debilmente 
Stringer  non  puoi  con  la  mano  mancante 
Una  man  cara,  e  uu  caro  oggetto  indarno 
Da'  moribondi  erranti  occhi  cercato, 
Gli  chini  sul  tuo  sen  con  un  sospiro. 


72  ON    THE    LITEUATURE 

Discerning  nouglit  they  love  to  gaze  upon, 
They  close  amid  thy  sighs. 

The  Cavaliere  Pinrlemonti,  the  brother  of  the  Marquis 
whom  we  mentioned  in  a  preceding  chapter,  has  likewise 
written  a  tragedy,  the  liero  of  wliich  is  Arminiiis,  the  great 
antagonist  of  the  Romans,  and  tlie  liberator  of  Germany. 
We  have  not  space  to  give  any  extracts  frbni  tins  piece,  as 
we  have  already  occupied  ourselves  so  long  with  the  drama. 
It  will  be  sufficient  to  mention  the  general  impression  which 
this  tragedy  leaves  upon  th'i  mind, — that  it  is  the  compo- 
sition of  a  high-minded  man,  who  has  delighted  to  describe 
a  noble  character. 

The  Abbate  Aurelio  Bertola,  of  Rimini,  was  the  friend  of 
the  Cavaliere  Pindemonti,  to  whom  he  addressed  several  of 
his  poetical  productions.  He  died  about  the  year  1798, 
leaving  three  volumes  of  poems ;  amongst  which  his  fables 
hold  the  highest  rank.  In  grace  and  simplicity  he  surpasses 
Pignotti,  though  he  is  inferior  to  him  in  harmony  and  colour- 
ing. His  manner  of  relating  a  story  is  so  perfectly  infantine, 
that  to  translate  his  poems  as  they  deserve  would  require 
even  greater  talents  than  he  himself  possessed.  It  would  be 
necessary  to  endow  a  language,  by  no  means  so  expressively 
simple  as  his  own,  with  those  graces,  wliich  in  him  are  the 
spontaneous  gift  of  nature.  I  shall,  however,  venture  to  give 
the  fable  of  the  Lizard  and  the  Crocodile. 

A  Lizard,  one  day, 

In  a  weak  little  voice, 
To  a  Crocodile  said, 

"  Oh,  how  much  I  rejoice 

That  I  am  permitted 

At  length  to  behold 
One  of  my  little  family 

So  great  and  so  bold  ! 

I  have  come  fifty  miles,  Sir, 

To  look  in  your  face  ; 
For  you're  very  much  honoured 

By  all  of  our  race.* 

*  [The  Translator  fears  that,  in  the  English  version,  the  reader  ■will 
doubly  feel  the  force  of  M.  de  Siamondi's  observation. —  Tr.] 
Una  lucertolctta  Un  della  mia  famiglia 

Diceva  al  cocodrillo  :  Si  grande  e  si  potente  ! 

()  quanto  mi  diletta  Ho  fatto  mille  miglia 

Di  vetli;r  fmalmcntc  J'cr  venirvi  a  vcderc  : 

Sire, 


OF    THE    ITALIANS.  73 

Though  we  creep  through  the  herbage 

And  chinks  in  the  ground, 
Yet  the  true  ancient  blood,  Sir, 

Within  us  is  found." 

.    Through  all  this  politeness 
King  Crocodile  dozed  ; 
But  just  as 'twiis  ended 
His  eyes  he  unclosed  ; 

And  asking  the  meaning, 

The  Lizard,  elate, 
Began  the  long  story 

Again  to  relate. 

But.  as  he  thus  open'd 

His  month  to  reply, 
The  Crocodile,  snoring, 

Again  shut  his  eye. 

The  admiration  oi"  Bertola  for  Gessner,  with  whom  he  was 
acquainted  at  Zurich,  and  upon  whom  he  wrote  an  eulogy,  in 
some  degree  shews  the  nature  of  his  talents.  Though  he  has 
not  composed  any  pastorals,  yet  his  poems  display  the  same 
sort  of  love  for  the  country,  and  the  same  delicacy  and  tender- 
ness of  feeling,  mingled  with  some  degree  of  affectation.  We 
feel  as  thougii  we  were  satiated  with  milk  and  honey. 

Clemente  Bondi,  of  Parma,  is  known  as  the  author  of  two 
volumes  of  poems.  A  canzone  on  the  abolition  of  the  Jesuits 
gives  us  to  understand  that  lie  was  himself  a  member  of  that 
order.  When  he  believed  that  he  had  for  ever  abandoned 
the  cares  of  this  life,  the  suppression  of  the  Jesuits  again 
threw  him  into  the  world.  His  indignation  against  the 
supreme  Pontiff,  who  had  thus  consented  to  the  dispersion  of 
liis  most  faithful  servants,  is  expressed  with  a  strength  of 
feeling  which  we  rarely  find  in  the  Italian  poets.  Except  upon 
this  single  occasion,  when  he  was  animated  by  personal 
interest,  Bondi  seems  to  be  destined  to  fill  the  office  of  Poet 
Laureate  of  the  feast  ;  v>'hich  indeed  may  also  be  said  of  Ber- 

Sire,  tra  noi  si  serba  Pur  sugli  uUinu  accent! 

Di  voi  memoria  viva,  Dal  sonno  si  riscosse 

Benche  fuggiani  tra  V  erba  E  addiniando  chi  fosse  ; 

E  il  sassoso  sentiere,  La  parentela  autica. 

In  sen  pero  non  langue  11  cammin,  la  fatica, 

1/  onor  del  prisco  sangue.  Quella  gli  torna  a  dire  : 

L'  anfibio  rfe  dormiva  Ed  ei  torna  a  dc'-mire. 
A  questi  complimenti ;  Favola  xvii.  p.  29. 

VOL.  II.  F. 


74  ON    TUE    LITKUATUKE 

tola,  and  some  others.  Tlie  amiable  Abbate  was  invited  to 
the  neigliboLiring  jnansion,  where  he  was  entreated  to  write 
an  epithalaraiuni  for  a  marriage,  or  some  congratulatory 
verses  at  a  christening,  or  some  stanzas  lor  the  fete  of  the 
Lord  or  the  Lady,  or  some  pretty  couplet  on  a  journey,  or 
on  some  vilkgijintura  more  gay  than  usual.  Bondi  accom- 
plishes all  this  task-work  in  an  ingenious  and  sometimes  a 
graceful  style,  but  without  any  traces  of  inspiration.  A  light 
little  poem.  La  Giornata  V'dhreccia ;  A  Daij  in  the  Couiitrij, 
is  written  with  liveliness  and  elegance  ;  but  if  the  flatteries 
addressed  by  Horace  to  Augustus  are  tiresome  to  us,  how  can 
we  be  expected  to  endure  those  of  Bondi  to  Silvio  Martinengo, 
whose  only  merit,  as  far  as  we  know,  was,  that  he  was  the 
possessor  of  a  country-house  not  far  I'rom  Bologna,  at  which 
our  author  used  to  be  hospitably  entertained.  Amongst  these 
poems,  written  by  particular  desire,  there  are  a  great  number 
of  sonnets  of  which  I  have  perused  only  a  few.  They  appear, 
however,  richer  in  ideas,  and  less  full  of  pompous  phrases 
than  the  genei-ality  of  Italian  sonnets ;  but  who  has  the 
courage  to  read  such  a  collection  through  ? 

A  poem  on  Conversation,  some  descriptive  verses  written 
on  a  journey,  some  lines  to  Nice,  and  a  few  amatory  canzoni, 
addressed  to  an  imaginary  fair  one,  complete  the  catalogue  of 
Bondi's  works.  In  every  one  of  his  poems  there  may  be 
remarked  the  absence  of  the  estro,  or  true  creative  inspiration. 
If  an  Abbate  will  be  poetical,  let  him  write  religious  poems, 
if  such  be  his  talent,  or  let  him  forget,  and  suffer  us  also  to 
foiget,  that  he  is  an  Abbate.  I  know  not  whether,  in  fact, 
Bondi  was  of  a  warm  tempei'ament  ;  but  his  amatory  effusions 
certainly  appear  to  me  not  to  be  inspired  by  love.  Because 
he  was  a  poet,  he  imagined  it  necessary  to  sing  the  charms  of 
Nice  and  Lycoris  ;  and  this,  too,  without  displaying  any  real 
passion  or  real  tenderness,  because  he  was  an  Abbate, .and 
must,  tlierefore,  be  content  with  displaying  the  ingenuity  of 
his  wit.  With  regard  to  his  didactic  poems,  they  are  not 
devoid  either  of  wit  or  of  imagination  ;  but  we  require  other 
attractions  to  relieve  and  give  a  zest  to  compositions  of  so  cold 
a  character. 

Giuseppe  Parini,  a  native  of  Milan,  who  died  at  an  ad- 
vanced age  during  the  revolution,  is  equal  to  Savioli  in  his 
love-poems  ;  and,  like  him,  is  an  imitator  of  Anacreon.     His 


OF    THE    ITALIANS.  75 

verses  display  real  inspiration,  and  feelings  both  delicate  and 
tender  ;  and  his  love  always  appears  to  be  an  overflowing  of 
happiness.  He  has  imitated  the  Rape  of  the  Lock  in  his  Day 
of  a  Mail  of  the  World.  With  much  wit,  elegance,  and 
letineraent,  he  supposes  himself  giving  a  lecture  on  the  em- 
ployment of  the  morning,  the  day,  and  the  evening,  to  a 
young  gentleman,  who  neither  knows,  nor  wishes  to  know, 
any  other  occupations  than  such  as  luxury  and  pleasure  can 
aftbrd.  He  has  painted  high  society  with  some  delicate 
satirical  touches  ;  and  whilst  he  has  adorned  that  effeminate 
life  witli  all  the  graces  of  his  pencil,  he  has  yet  succeeded  in 
making  those,  who  devote  themselves  to  it,  ashamed  of  their 
uselessness  and  unreal  virtues.*     Parini,  indeed,  was  a  man 


*  We  adduce,  in  the  history  of  a  favourite  dog,  an  example  of 
Parini's  talent  in  painting,  and  of  his  manner  of  conveying  a  moral 
lesson. 

Or  le  sovviene  il  giorno, 

Ahi  fero  giorno  !  allor  che  la  sua  bella 

Vergine  cuccia,  delle  Grazie  alunna, 

Giovenilmente  vezzeggiando,  il  piede 

Villan  del  servo  con  T  eburneo  dente 

Segn6  di  lieve  nota  :  ed  egli  audace 

Con  sacrilego  piJi  lanciolla ;  e  quella 

Tre  volte  rotoUo ;  tre  volte  scosse 

Gli  scompigliati  peli,  e  dalle  molli 

Nari  soffio  la  polvere  rodente. 

Indi  i  gemiti  alzando  :  aita,  aita  ! 

Parea  dicesse  ;  e  dalle  aurate  volte 

A  lei  r  impietosita  Eco  rispose  ; 

E  dagl'  infimi  chiostri  i  mesti  servi 

Asceser  tutti ;  e  dalle  somme  stanze 

Le  damigellc  pallide  tremanti 

Precipitaro.     Accorse  ognuno  ;  il  volte 

Fu  spruzzato  d'  essenzc  alia  sua  dama  ; 

Ella  rinvenue  alfin  :  1'  ira,  il  dolore, 

L'  agitavano  ancor  :  fulminei  sguardi 

Getto  sul  servo,  e  con  languida  voce 

Chiamo  tre  volte  la  sua  cuccia ;  e  quesfa 

Al  sen  le  corse ;  in  suo  tenor  vendetta 

Chieder  sembrolle  :  e  tu  vendetta  avesti, 

Vergine  cuccia,  delle  Grazie  alunna. 

L'  empio  servo  tremd ;  con  gli  occhi  al  suolo 

Udi  la  sua  condanna.     A  lui  non  valse 

Merito  quadrilustre  ;  a  lui  non  valse 

Zelo  d'arcani  uflici :  in  van  per  lui 

Fu  pregato  e  promesso  ;  ei  nudo  andonne 

E  2  Dell' 


76  ON    THE    LITERATUIIE 

of  a  lii_i;li  mind,  who,  amidst  tlui  various  revolutions  vi'Iiich  we 
have  witnessed,  deserved  and  obtained  the  respect  of  all  par- 
ties. The  love  of  liberty  and  the  love  of  virtue,  which  were 
united  in  his  heart,  give  a  noble  character  to  his  verses  ;  and 
although  there  are  few  (tf  them  written  on  subjects  of  public 
interest,  yet  even  in  his  most  trifling  pieces,  we  recognize  the 
pen  of  an  honest  man  and  a  good  citizen.  An  Epistle  to 
Sylvia,  who,  in  1795,  appeared  in  a  dress  of  a  new  fashion, 
which  was  called  A  la  VicUme,  presents  a  rare  mixture  of 
beauty  and  of  enejgy,  of  gallantry  and  of  indignation.  Parini 
makes  his  mistress  blush  for  having  dared  t(j  adopt  a  dress, 
the  name  of  which  alone  recalled  such  terrible  crimes.  He 
shews  the  danger  of  becoming  familiar  with  images  of  cruelty, 
and  in  so  doing  he  displays  a  warmth  of  heart,  a  delicacy  of 
feeling,  a  severity  of  virtue,  and  a  paternal  tenderness,  which 
render  this  little  piece  truly  eloquent  and  touching. 

Onofrio  Menzoni  the  eldei',  of  Ferrara,  is  one  of  those 
religionists,  who,  gifted  with  real  eloquence  and  original 
fervour,  devote  themselves  to  the  career  to  which  their  vows 
have  bound  them.  He  has  scarcely  written  any  other  than 
religious  poems,  which  owe  their  reputation  to  the  boldness 
of  invention,  and  to  the  richness  of  imagery  which  they 
display.  The  poet's  imagination,  however,  is  generally  ex- 
ercised upon  very  trite  subjects,  and  his  most  brilliant  images 
are  confined  within  a  very  narrow  circle.  Menzoni  never 
attempted  any  great  religious  poem.  His  compositions  con- 
sist, for  the  most  part,  of  some  sonnets  on  the  Solemnities  of 
the  Church  ;  and,  whatever  may  be  his  reputation,  he  can 
never  become  a  popular  writer.  The  first,  as  well  as  the  mosi 
celebrated  of  these  sonnets,  has  been  translated  into  French 
verse  by  an  illustrious  lady,  by  whom  it  was  recited  in  the- 
Academy  of  the  Arcadians. 

Deir  assisa  spogliato,  ond'  era  un  giorno 
Venerabile  al  vulgo.     Jnvaii  novello 
Signor  spcrd  :  che  le  jiietose  dame 
Inorridiro,  c  del  niisfatto  atroce 
Odiar  1'  autorc.     11  misero  si  giacque 
Con  la  squallida  prole,  e  con  la  nuda 
Consortc  a  lato,  sulla  via  spargendo 
Al  passeggiere  inutile  lamento. 
E  tu,  vergine  cuccia,  idol  placate 
Dalle  vittime  umanc,  isti  superba. 

II  Mezzogiorno,  p.  100. 


OF    THE    ITALIANS.  77 

SONNET. 

W  heu  Jesus,  uttering  his  last  mortal  sigh, 

Open'd  the  graves,  while  shook  the  earth's  Avide  bouuf\ 
Adam,  his  head,  iu  terror  at  the  cry, 

Uprais'd,  and  started  from  the  rending  ground. 

Erect.     He  casts  his  troubled  eyes  around, 
Fill'd  with  deep  fear  and  dim  perplexity, 

And  asks,  \vhile  doubt  and  dread  his  heart  astound, 
Whose  is  the  bloody  form  and  pallid  eye. 
But  when  he  knew  him,  on  his  furrow'd  brow, 

And  on  his  wither'd  cheek  and  hoary  head. 
In  deep  remorse  he  dealt  the  furious  blow ; 

And  turning,  weeping,  to  his  consort,  said. 
While  all  the  mountain  echoed  with  his  woe, 

"  Through  thee  I  sold  our  Saviour  to  the  dead  ! "  * 

Another  sonnet,  by  Menzoni,  though  of  a  very  different 
class,  enjoys  abnost  an    equal   reputation   in    Italy.       It  is 

*  Quando  Gesil  con  1'  ultimo  lamento 

Schiusse  le  tombe,  e  le  montagne  scosse, 
Adamo  rabufiiito  e  sonnolento 
Levo  la  testa,  e  sovra  i  pi&  rizzose. 

Le  torbide  pupille  intorno  mosse 

Piene  di  niaraviglia  e  di  spavento, 

E  palpitando  addimando  chi  fosse 

Lui  che  pendeva  insanguinato  e  spento. 
Come  lo  seppe,  alia  rugosa  fronte, 

Al  crin  canuto,  ed  alle  guance  smorte, 

Colla  pentita  man  fh  danni  ed  onte. 

Si  volse  lagrimando  alia  consorte, 

E  gridd  si,  che  rimbombonne  il  monte  : 
lo  per  tfe  diedi  al  mio  signer  la  morte. 

The  following  is  the  French  translation  alluded  to  in  the  text. 
Quand  Jesus  expirait,  a  ses  plaintes  funtibres 
Le  tombeau  s'eutrouvrit,  le  mont  fut  ebranle. 
Un  vieux  mort  I'entendit  dans  le  sein  des  tenebres, 
Son  antique  repos  tout  a  coup  fut  trouble  : 
C'etait  Adam  ;  alors  soulevant  sa  paupi^re, 
II  tourne  lentcmcnt  son  ceil  plein  de  terreur, 
Et  demande  quel  est,  sur  la  croix  meurtrifere, 
Get  objet  tout  sanglant  vaincu  par  la  douleur. 
L'infortuue  le  sut,  et  son  pale  visage, 
Ses  longs  cheveux  blanchis,  et  son  front  sillonn6, 
De  sa  main  repentante  eprouvferent  I'outrage. 
En  j^leurant,  il  reporte  un  regard  consterne 
Vers  sa  triste  compagne,  et  sa  voix  lamentable, 
Que  labime,  en  grondant,  repfete  au  loin  encore, 
Fit  entendre  ces  mots  :  Malheureuse  coupable  ! 
Ah  !  pour  toi,  j'ai  livre  mon  Seigneur  a  la  mort ! 


78  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

burlesque  both  in  the  subject  and  in  the  rhymes.  In  other 
respects  it  is  a  true  monkish  sonnet,  heartless  and  unfeeling. 
He  complains  of  his  misfortunes  in  beint;  compelled  alone  to 
supply  all  the  wants  of  his  family.  He  complains  of  the 
voracity  of  liis  mother,  of  the  silliness  of  his  brother,  of  the 
coquetry  of  his  sister,  and  of  all  the  cares  which  these  incum- 
brances produce.  The  mere  sound  of  the  verses  and  their 
whimsical  rhymes,  have  contributed,  more  than  the  ideas,  to 
the  fame  of  this  sonnet.* 

The  Abbate  Giovan-Battista  Casti,  who  died  a  few  years 
since,  at  a  very  advanced  age,  is  accounted  one  of  the  most 
prolific  authors  of  Italy  ;  but  the  greater  part  of  his  works 
cannot  be  noticed  in  this  place.  His  best  production  is  his 
mock  heroic  poem  of  Gli  Animali  Parlanti ;  in  which  he 
has  given  an  epic  form  to  his  apologue,  and,  like  JE'iop, 
endowing  animals  with  human  passions,  has  pleasantly  enough 
satirized  the  character  bf  political  revolutions  ;  the  high  sen- 
timents which  are  promulgated  ;  the  secret  selfishness  of  the 
heads  of  successive  parties  ;  and  the  intolerance  of  those  who 
will  allow  of  no  salvation  out  of  their  own  pale,  and  who 
regard  the  reigning  sentiments  as  immutable  principles.  He 
paints,  in  a  very  lively  manner,  the  democratic  eloquence  of 
the  dog,  the  aristocratical  pride  of  the  bear,  the  jovial  dis- 
position of  Lion  I.,  and  the  vices  of  Lion  IL  The  joke  is,  how- 
ever, rather  tedious.  It  seems  impossible  that  the  interest  of 
the  reader  should  be  sustained  during  a  fable  of  twenty-six 

*  Una  madre  che  semprc  ii  malaticcia, 

E  uon  ha  parte  che  non  sia  malconcia. 

Pure  si  mangia  un  sacco  di  salsiecia 

E  si  beve  d'aceto  una  bigoncia ; 
Un  paio  di  Sorelle,  a  cui  stropiccia 

Amor  le  goto,  ed  i  capegli  acconcia. 

Ma  nella  testa  impolverata  e  riccia 

Loro  non  laseia  di  ccn-ello  uu'  oncia  : 
Un  picciolo  fratello  cosi  gonzo 

Che  dalla  micia  non  distingue  il  cuccio, 

L'acqua  dal  vino,  dalla  pappa  il  bronzo  ; 
Ecco  cid  di  che  sposso  io  mi  corruccio  : 

Que'  poi  che  mi  fann"  ire  il  capo  a  zonzo 

Sono  un  velo,  una  spada,  cd  un  capuccio. 

This  sonnet  has,  besides,  something  which  I  suppress,  without  fear  of 
causing  regret. 


OF    THE    ITALIANS.  79 

cantos  in  lenfrth,  with  more  than  six  hundred  lines  in  each 
canto  ;  and  the  slovenly  and  negliaent  style  of  Casti  does 
not  contribute  to  remedy  this  defect.* 

At  length  we  come  to  Vincenzio  Monti  of  Ferrara,  whom 
Italy,  with  one  unanimous  voice,  has  recognized  as  the  first 
of  her  living  poets.  Fickle  to  an  excess,  irritable  and  full  of 
passion,  the  sentiments  of  the  present  moment  govern  him 
with  unbounded  sway.  Every  feeling,  and  every  conviction, 
is  full  of  impetuosity  and  fury.  Whatever  object  his  thoughts 
are  employed  upon,  his  eyes  immediately  behold  ;  and  as  it 
stands  before  him,  a  flexible  and  harmonious  lan<>;ua<i;e  is  ever 
at  his  command,  to  paint  it  in  the  brightest  colours.  Per- 
suaded that  poetry  is  only  another  kind  of  painting,  he  makes 
his  whole  art  consist  in  presenting  to  the  eye  of  his  reader 
the  pictures  which  his  own  imagination  has  created  ;  and  he 

*  The  Novelle  of  Casti  are  of  equal  celebrity  with  his  Gli  Animali 
Parkmti,  but  are  mostly  of  a  very  free  character.  We  give  the  first 
three  stanzas  of  Novella  XI V.  as  an  example  of  the  style.  The  trans- 
lation is  believed  to  be  by  Lord  Byron,  and  is  extracted  from  an  un- 
published manuscript  in  the  possession  of  the  publisher. 

THE    BLACK    VELVET    BREECHES. 

The  English,  or  at  least  their  folks  of  quality, 
Have  lots  of  money  in  their  pockets  clinking, 
The  best  of  passports,  and  a  liberality 
In  their  way  of  talking,  if  not  that  of  thinking  ; — 
And  some  mean  what  they  say — the  generality 
Of  them  smoke,  too,  segars,  and  love  hard  drinking ; 
Yet,  as  they  pay,  and  for  the  most  part  do  Avell 
Their  duty,  find  the  fair  sex  seldom  cruel. 

Not  long  since  lived,  his  name  you'll  know  directly, 
An  Englishman,  scarce  to  be  matched  by  any ; 
Rich,  young,  and  six  foot  high,  and  })uilt  compactly ; 
His  father  governed,  but  for  years  how  many 
It  matters  not,  nor  do  I  know  exactly, 
Bengal,  and  brought  home,  if  he  made  a  penny. 
Two  hundred  thousand  pounds  of  sterling  money  : 
The  country's  not  amiss,  if  'twasn't  so  sunny  ! 

He  left, — and  how  'twas  got  I  have  no  leisure 
To  say, — his  son  this  fortune  and  a  title  ; 
'  Who,  as  he  loved  women,  and  wine,  and  pleasure, 
(He  from  his  youth  up  had  not  learnt  to  bridle 
His  wildest  fancies.)  thought  the  Xaliob's  treasure, 
In  India  bonds,  or  stock,  was  lying  idle, 
Tricked  himself  out  in  all  that  was  the  fashion, — 
But  snuff-boxes  and  rings  were  his  chief  passion. 


80  ON    THE    LlTEllATUKE 

never  writes  a  single  verse  which  does  not  in  this  manner 
display  some  image  to  the  eye.  Educated  in  the  school  of 
Dante,  he  has  again  introduced  into  Italian  poetry  some  of 
those  bold  and  severe  beauties,  which  adorned  it  during  its 
infancy;  and  he  thus  proceeds  from  picture  to  picture,  with 
a  grandeur  and  dignity  peculiar  to  himself.  It  is  singular 
that  with  so  much  severity  in  his  manner  and  style,  a  man  of 
his  passionate  I'eelings  does  not  display  a  greater  constancy 
in  his  principles.  In  many  other  poets  this  fault  would  not 
be  perceived ;  but  circumstances  have  brought  the  versatility 
of  Monti  into  more  conspicuous  notice,  and  his  i'ame  depends 
upon  works  which  perpetually  display  him  in  contradictory 
lights.  Living  in  the  midst  of  the  revolutions  of  Italy,  he 
has  generally  chosen  political  subjects  upon  which  to  exercise 
his  pen,  and  he  has  in  turns  celebrated  every  party  as  it 
became  the  successful  one.  We  may  suppose,  by  way  of 
excuse,  that  he  writes  like  an  improvvisatore,  that  he  works 
himself  into  an  inspiration  upon  any  theme,  and  that  he 
seizes  with  avidity  upon  any  political  sentiment,  however 
foreign  it  may  be  to  his  own  feelings.  In  these  political  poems, 
which  display  such  opposite  principles,  there  is  not  perhaps 
sufficient  variety  of  invention  and  style.  La  liasvUjUana  is 
the  most  celebrated  of  them.  The  readers  of  Monti  will  soon 
perceive  that  the  author,  who  always  copies  Dante,  not  un- 
frequently  copies  himself. 

Hughe  Basville  was  a  French  envoy,  who,  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  revolution,  was  massacred  by  the  people  of 
Home,  for  att(;nipting  to  excite  an  insurrection  against  the 
pontifical  authority.  Monti,  who  was  then  the  Papal  poet, 
as  he  afterwards  was  the  republican  Laureate,  supposes  that 
at  the  moment  of  Basville's  death,  a  sudden  repentance 
snatches  him  from  the  pangs  of  the  reprobate,  and  withdraws 
him  from  the  punishments  which  he  so  richly  deserved  for 
his  philosophical  principles.  In  expiation  of  his  sins,  and  as  a 
sort  of  connnutation  for  the  tortures  of  purgatory,  he  is  con- 
demned by  the  ordinances  of  Divine  justice  to  traverse  France, 
until  the  crimes  of  that  country  have  received  their  due 
reward,  and  to  contemplate  the  misfortunes  and  reverses, 
which  he  had  contributed  to  produce  by  the  share  which  he 
took  in  the  revolution.  An  angel  conducts  Basville  from 
province  to  province,  in  order  to  shew  him  the  desolation  of 


OF    TUE    ITALIANS.  81 

this  beautit'ul  country;  and  after  leading  hini  to  Paris,  that 
lie  may  witness  the  execution  of  Louis  XVI.,  bids  him 
behold  the  allied  armies  ready  to  rush  down  upon  France,  to 
avenge  the  death  of  the  king.  The  poem  ends  without  the 
reader  being  made  acquainted  with  the  issue  of  the  war.  It 
is  divided  into  four  cantos  of  three  hundred  verses  each,  and, 
like  the  great  poem  of  Dante,  it  is  written  in  the  terza  rima. 
Not  only  many  forms  of  expression,  many  epithets  and 
whole  verses,  are  borrowed  from  the  Divina  Comedia,  but  the 
general  idea  of  that  poem  seems  to  have  been  here  imitated. 
An  angel  conducts  Basville  through  the  sutfering  world,  and 
this  faithful  guide,  who  sustains  and  consoles  the  hero  of  the 
poem,  plays  precisely  the  same  part  which  Virgil  sustains  in 
Dante.  In  thought,  sentiment,  and  suffering,  Dante  is  the 
prototype  of  Basville.  Monti  has  scarcely  preserv('d  in  him 
any  traces  of  his  revolutionary  character.  He  makes  him 
leel  more  pity  than  remorse,  and  he  seems  to  forget,  when  he 
thus  identifies  himself  with  him,  that  he  had  before  repre- 
sented Basville,  perhaps  without  any  real  grounds,  as  an  in- 
fidel and  a  most  ferocious  revolutionist. 

The  Basvigliana  is  remarkable,  perhaps  beyond  every  other 
poem,  for  the  majesty  of  the  verse,  the  nobleness  of  expres- 
sion, and  the  richness  of  the  colouring.  In  the  first  canto, 
the  soul  of  Basville  bids  adieu  to  his  body  : 

And  then  he  cast  ;i  glance  upon  the  corse, 
His  earthly  consort,  in  whose  every  vein 
Anger  and  zeal  had  opend  life's  red  source. 

Oh  sleep  in  peace  !  he  said  :  oh  !  of  my  pain 
Beloved  companion,  till  that  final  day, 
AVhen  the  great  trumpet  wakens  thee  again  ! 

And  lightly  on  thee  press  the  earth's  cold  clay, 
Nor  rudely  blow  the  winds  of  heaven  o'er  thee, 
Nor  ever  traveller  taunt  thee  on  his  way  !* 


Poscia  1'  ultimo  sguardo  al  corpo  afSsse, 
Gia  suo  consorte  in  vita,  a  cui  le  vene 
Bdegno  di  zelo  e  di  ragion  trafisse  ; 

Dormi  in  pace,  dicendo,  0  di  mie  pene 
Caro  compagno,  infin  chc  del  gran  die 
L'  orrido  squillo  a  risvegliar  ti  viene. 

Lieve  intanto  la  terra,  e  dolci  e  pie 

Ti  sien  I'aure  e  le  pioggie  ;  e  a  te  non  dica 
Parole  il  passegger  scortesi  e  rie. 


Oltre 


82  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

Beyond  the  tomb  there  dwells  not  enmity, 
And  on  the  blessed  shore,  where  now  we  part, 
Justice  and  mercy  reign  triumphantly. 

In  the  second  canto,  Basville  enters  Paris,  with  the  angel, 
his  guide,  at  the  moment  of  the  execution  of  Louis  : 

The  Shade  upon  his  guide,  whose  cheeks  were  stain'd 
With  tears,  in  wonder  gazed,  and  on  each  street, 
Along  whose  bounds  still  deepest  silence  reign'd. 

Mute  was  the  brazen  trumpet,  and  the  feet 

Of  artizans  were  heard  not,  nor  did  sound 

Of  anvil,  or  of  saw,  the  strangers  greet ; 
A  whisper  only  tremblingly  crept  round, 

'ilid  guarded  looks,  and  fearful  questionings, 
•     While  grief  within  each  hoavj'  heart  was  found. 

Voices  were  heard,  confused  murmurings. 
The  voice  of  many  a  mother,  who  in  fear 
Her  trembling  arms  around  her  infant  flings ; 

Voices  of  wives,  who,  as  their  husbands  dear 
Pass  o'er  the  threshold,  on  their  footsteps  press. 
And  stay  their  ardent  course  with  sigh  and  tear ; 

But  woman's  love  and  kindly  tenderness 

Were  conquer'd  by  their  fury's  fiercer  power. 
Which  tore  them  from  the  conjugal  caress.* 


Oltre  11  rogo  non  vive  ira  nemica, 
E  neir  ospite  suolo  ove  io  ti  lasso, 
Giuste  son  I'alme,  e  la  pietadc  &  antica. 


E  r  ombra  si  stupia  quinci  vedendo 
Lagrimoso  il  suo  duca,  e  posscdute 
Quindi  le  strade  da  silenzio  orrendo. 

Muto  de'  bronzi  il  sacro  squillo,  e  mute 
L'opre  del  gioruo,  e  muto  lo  stridore 
Deir  asprc  incudi,  e  dcUe  .seghe  argute. 

Sol  per  tutto  un  bisbiglio  cd  un  terrore, 
Un  domandare,  ud  sogguardar  sospetto, 
Una  mcstizia  die  ti  piomba  al  cuore  ; 

E  cupe  voci  di  confuso  afl'etto, 

Voci  di  madri  pic,  cho  gl'  innocentl 
Figli  si  scrran,  trepidando,  al  petto  ; 

Voci  di  spose,  che  ai  mariti  ardcnti 
Coutrastano  1'  uscita,  e  sugle  soglie 
Fan  dl  lagrime  Intoppo  e  di  lament!. 

Ma  tenerez7.;v  e  carita  di  moglie 

Vinta  0  da  furia  di  maggior  possanza, 
Che  dair  amplesso  conjugal  li  .scioglie. 


OF    THE    ITALIANS.  83 

We  liave  elsewhere  spoken  of  the  two  tragedies  of  Monti, 
which  are  the  pride  of  the  modern  Italian  theatre.  We  are 
happy,  in  concluding  this  account  of  the  literature  of  Italy,  to 
be  able  to  contemplate  a  man  of  genius,  who,  still  in  the  prime 
of  his  age,  may  yet  enrich  his  language  with  masterpieces 
worthy  of  being  placed  by  the  side  of  those  of  the  greatest 
writers  of  his  country  ;  more  especially  if,  yi(4ding  only  to 
the  dictates  of  genuine  inspiration,  he  should  refuse  to  sacri- 
fice to  the  interests  of  the  moment,  a  reputation  which  was 
made  to  endure  for  ages. 

We  have  attempted  by  the  extracts  which  we  have  made, 
and  by  the  fragments  of  translations  which  we  have  introduced, 
to  make  the  reader  acquainted  with  the  poets,  who,  during 
the  last  five  centuries,  have  shed  such  lustre  upon  the  Italian 
language  ;  or  rather  our  object  has  been  to  awaken  curiosity 
and  to  induce  the  reader  to  judge  for  himself.  Italy  still 
possesses  another  class  of  poets,  whose  fugitive  talents  leave 
no  traces  behind  them,  but  who  yet  give  birth  for  the  moment 
to  a  very  lively  pleasure.  We  should  convey  an  exceedingly 
imperfect  idea  of  the  poetry  of  Italy,  did  we  omit  to  say  a 
few  words  of  the  Improvvisatori.  Their  talent,  their  inspi- 
ration, and  the  enthusiasm  which  they  excite,  are  all  most 
illustrative  of  the  national  character.  In  them  we  perceive 
how  truly  poetry  is  the  immediate  languase  of  the  soul  and 
of  the  imagination  ;  how  the  thoughts  at  their  birth  take  this 
harmonious  form  ;  and  how  our  feelings  are  so  closely  con- 
nected with  the  music  of  language  and  with  the  rich  graces 
of  description,  that  the  poet  displays  resources  in  verse, 
which  he  never  appears  to  possess  in  prose  ;  and  that  he, 
who  is  scarcely  worthy  of  being  listened  to  in  speaking, 
becomes  eloquent,  captivating,  and  even  sublime,  when  he 
abandons  himself  to  the  inspiration  of  the  Muse. 

The  talent  of  an  improvvisatore  is  the  gift  of  nature,  and  a 
talent  which  has  frequently  no  relation  to  the  other  faculties. 
When  it  is  manifested  in  a  child,  it  is  studiously  cultivated, 
and  he  receives  all  the  instruction  which  seems  likely  to  be 
useful  to  him  in  his  art.  He  is  taught  mythology,  history, 
science  and  philosophy.  But  the  divine  gift  itself,  the  second 
and  more  harmonious  language,  which  with  graceful  ease 
assumes  every  artificial  form,  this  alone  they  attempt  not  to 
change  or  to  add  to.  and  it  is  left  to  develope  itself  according 


84  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

to  the  dictates  of  nature.  Sounds  call  up  corresponding 
sounds  ;  the  rhymes  spontaneously  arrange  themselves  in 
their  places;  and  the  inspired  soul  pours  itself  forth  in  verse, 
lik(i  the  concords  naturally  elicited  from  the  vibrations  of  a 
musical  chord. 

The  iinprovvisatore  generally  begs  from  the  audience  a 
subject  for  his  verse.  The  topics  usually  j)resented  to  iiim  are 
drawn  from  mythology,  from  religion,  from  history,  or  from 
some  passing  event  of  the  day ;  but  from  all  these  sources 
thousands  of  the  most  trite  subjects  may  be  derived,  and 
we  are  mistaken  in  supposing  that  we  are  rendering  the  poet 
a  service  in  giving  him  a  subject  whicli  has  already  been  the 
object  of  his  vex'se.  He  would  not  be  an  improvvisatore,  if 
he  did  not  entirely  abandon  himself  to  the  impression  of  the 
moment,  or  if  he  trusted  more  to  his  memory  than  to  his 
feelings.  After  having  been  informed  of  his  subject,  the  im- 
provvisatore remains  a  moment  in  meditation,  to  view  it  in 
its  various  lights,  and  to  shape  out  the  plan  of  tlie  little  poem 
which  he  is  about  to  compose.  He  then  prepares  the  eight 
first  verses,  that  his  mind  during  the  recitation  of  them  may 
receive  the  proper  impulse,  and  that  he  may  awaken  tliat  pow- 
erful emotion,  which  makes  him  as  it  were  a  new  beiuir.  In 
about  seven  or  eight  minutes  he  is  fully  prepared,  and  com- 
mences his  poem,  which  often  consists  of  five  or  six  hundi-ed 
verses.  His  eyes  wander  around  him,  his  i'eatures  glow,  and 
he  struggles  with  the  prophetic  spirit  which  seems  to  animate 
him.  Nothing,  in  the  present  age,  can  represent  in  so  strik- 
ing a  manner  tlu;  Pythia  of  Delphos,  when  the  god  descended 
and  spoke  by  her  mouth. 

Thei'e  is  an  easy  metre,  the  same  which  Metastasio  has 
employed  in  the  Partenza  a  Nice,  and  which  is  adapted  to 
the  air  known  by  the  name  of  the  Air  of  the  Improvvisatori. 
This  measure  is  generally  made  use  of  when  the  poet  wishes 
not  to  give  himself  much  trouble,  or  when  he  has  not  the  talent 
to  attempt  a  higher  strain.  The  stauza  consists  of  eight 
lines  with  seven  syllables  in  each  line,  and  divided  into  two 
quatrains,  each  quatrain  being  terminated  by  a  verso  tronco, 
so  that  there  are  properly  only  two  of  the  lines  rhymed  in 
each  quatrain.  The  singing  sustains  and  strengthens  the 
prosody,  and  covers,  where  it  is  necessary,  defective  verses, 
so  that  the  art  is  in  this  form  within  the  capacity  of  persois 


OF    THE    ITALIANS.  85 

possessing   very  ordinary  talents.     All  the  improvvisatori, 
however,  do  not  sing.     Some  of  the  most  celebrated  amongst 
them  have  bad  voices,  and  are  compelled  to  declaim  their 
verses  in  a  rapid  manner,  as  if  they  were  reading  them.     The 
more  celebrated   improvvisatori  consider  it  an  easy  task  to 
conform  themselves  to  the  most  rigid  laws  of  versification. 
At  the  will  of  the  audience,  they  will  adopt  the  terza  rhna  of 
Dante,  or  the  ottava  rinia  of  Tasso,  or  any  other  metre  as 
constrained  ;  and  these  shackles  of  rhyme  and  verse  seem  to 
augment  the  richness  of  their  imagination  and  their  eloquence. 
The  famous  Gianni,  the  most  astonishing  of  all  the  improvvi- 
satori,  has  written  nothing  in  the  tranquillity  of  his  closet 
which  can  give  him  any  claim  to  his  prodigious  reputation. 
When,  however,  he  utters  his  spontaneous  verses,  which  are 
preserved  by  the  diligence  of  short-hand  writers,  we  remark 
with  admiration  the  lofty  poetry,  the  rich  imagery,  the.  power- 
ful  eloquence,    and,   occasionally,   the  deep    tliought  which 
they  display,  and  which  place  their  author  on  a  level  with  the 
men  who  are  the  glory  of  Italy.     The  famous  Gorilla,  who 
was  crowned  in  the  Gapitol,  was  distinguished  for  her  lively 
imagination,  her  grace,  and  her  gaiety.     Another  poetess.  La 
Bandettini,  of  IModena,  was  educated   by  a  Jesuit,  and  from 
him  acquired  a  knowledge  of  the  ancient  languages,  and  a 
familiarity  with  the  classical  authors.   She  afterwards  attached 
herself  to   scientific  pursuits,  that  she  might  render  herself 
equal  to  any  theme  that  might  be  proposed  to  her,   and  she 
thus  rendered  her  numerous  acquirements  subservient  to  her 
poetical  talents.     La  Fantastici,  the  wife  of  a  rich  goldsmith 
of  Florence,  did  not  devote  herself  to  such  abstruse  branches 
of  knowledge  ;  but  she  possessed  from  heaven  a  musical  ear, 
an  imagination  v/orthy  of  the  name  she  bore,  and  a  facility  of 
composition,  which  gave  full  employment  to  her  melodious 
voice.     Madame   Mazzei,  whose  former  name  was  Landi,  a 
lady  of  one  of  the  first  families  in  Florence,  surpasses,  perhapi;, 
all  her  compeers  in  the  fertility  of  her  imagination,  in  tiie 
richness  and  purity  of  her  style,  and  in  the  harmony  and  per- 
fect regularity  of  her  verses.    She  never  sings  ;  and  absorbed 
in  the  process  of  invention,  her  thoughts  always  outstrip  her 
words.      She  is  negligent  in  her  declamation,  and  her  recita- 
tion is  therefore  not  graceful ;  but  the  moment  she  commences 
her  spontaneous  eflfusions,  the  most  harmonious  language  in 


86  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

the  world  seems  at  her  bidding  to  assume  new  beauties.  We 
are  dehghted  and  drawn  forward  by  the  magic  stream.  We 
are  transported  into  a  new  poetical  world,  where  to  our 
amazement  we  discover  man  speaking  the  language  of  the 
gods.  I  have  heard  her  exert  her  talents  upon  subjects  which 
were  unexpectedly  offered  to  her.  I  have  heard  her  in  the 
most  magnificent  ottava  rinia  celebrate  the  genius  of  Dante,  of 
Macliiavelli,  and  of  Galileo.  I  have  heard  her  in  terza  rima 
lament  the  departed  glory  and  the  lost  liberties  of  Florence.  I 
have  heard  her  compose  a  fragment  of  a  tragedy,  on  a  subject 
which  the  tragic  poets  had  lUivcr  touched,  so  as  to  give  an 
idea  in  a  few  scenes  of  the  plot  and  the  catastrophe  ;  and 
lastly  I  have  heard  her  pronounce,  confining  herself  to  the 
same  given  rhymes,  five  sonnets  on  five  different  subjects. 
But  it  is  necessary  to  hear  her,  in  order  to  form  any  idea  of 
the  prodigious  power  of  this  poetical  eloquence,  and  to  feel 
convinced  that  a  nation  in  whose  heart  so  bright  a  flame  of 
inspiration  still  burns,  has  not  yet  accomplished  her  litc'rary 
careei",  but  that  there  still  perhaps  remain  in  reserve  for  her 
greater  glories  than  any  which  she  has  as  yet  acquired. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

ORIGIN    OP    THE   SPANISH  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY.       POKM    OF    THE   CID. 

We  may  be  considered  as  making  the  tour  of  Europe  for 
the  purpose  of  examining,  nation  by  nation,  and  country  by 
country,  the  effect  which  was  produced  by  the  mixture  of  the 
two  great  races  of  men,  the  northern  and  the  southern.  We 
are  thus  present,  as  it  were,  at  the  birth  of  the  modern  lan- 
guages, and  of  that  genius  and  literature  with  which  they 
were  accompanied.  We  remark  the  local  circumstances  wliich 
modified  each  simultaneous  developement.  We  behold  the 
formation  of  national  taste  and  genius  ;  and  we  are  enabled 
to  understand  in  what  manner  each  nation  of  Europe  created 
a  literature  which  differed  from  the  rest,  not  only  in  the  rules 
which  it  laid  down,  but  likewise  in  the  object  which  it  pro- 
posed to  itself,  and  in  the  means  wliich  it  took  to  secure  the 
accomplishment  of  that  object.  Having  already  traversed 
Provence,  the  North  of  France,  and  Italy,  we  now  arrive  at 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  87 

'Spain ;  and  in  proportion  as  we  advance,  the  difficulty  of  our 
"task  increases.  With  the  hmguage  of  which  we  are  now  about 
to  treat,  we  are  not  so  familiarly  acquainted  as  with  the 
Italian,  nor  is  it  indeed  generally  known.  Spanish  books, 
moreover,  are  rare  in  France  and  difficult  to  be  procured ; 
and  there  are  scarcely  any  of  the  writers  in  that  language 
whose  works  have  been  translated,  and  whose  fame  has  be- 
come general  throughout  Europe.  The  Germans  alone  have 
studied  the  literary  history  of  Spain  with  zeal  and  attention ; 
and,  notwithstanding  the  effijrts  I  have  made  to  procui'e  the 
original  authors  in  the  most  celebrated  libraries  of  those 
Italian  towns  over  which  Spanish  princes  have  reigned,  I 
shall  yet  be  compelled  occasionally  to  form  my  judgment  on 
the  credit  of  other  writers,  and  to  consult  the  German  authors, 
Bouttervvek,  Dieze,  and  Schlegel.  The  number  of  Spanish 
writers,  also,  is  very  considerable,  and  their  fecundity  is  most 
appalling.  For  example,  there  are  more  dramas  in  the  Spa- 
nish, than  in  all  the  other  languages  of  Europe  put  together  ; 
and  it  cannot  be  allowed  us  to  judge  of  these  compositions  by 
specimens  chosen  by  chance  from  the  bulk.  The  very  pecu- 
liar national  taste  of  the  Spaniards  likewise  augments  the 
difficulty  we  feel  in  becoming  acquainted  with  them.  The 
literature  of  the  nations  upon  which  we  have  hitherto  been 
employed,  and  of  those  of  which  we  have  yet  to  treat,  was 
European :  the  literature  of  Spain,  on  the  contrary,  is  deci- 
dedly oriental.  Its  spirit,  its  pomp,  its  object,  all  belong  to 
another  sphere  of  ideas — to  another  world.  We  must  become 
perfectly  familiar  with  it  before  we  can  pretend  to  judge  of 
it,  and  nothing  could  be  more  unjust  than  to  estimate  by  our 
notions  of  poetry,  which  the  Spaniards  neither  know  noi 
regard,  works  which  have  been  composed  upon  absolutely 
different  principles. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  literature  of  Spain  wiU  amply  repay 
the  labour  which  an  examination  of  it  requires.  This  brave 
and  chivalrous  nation,  whose  pride  and  dignity  have  passed 
into  a  proverb,  is  reflected  in  its  literature,  in  which  we 
may  delight  to  find  all  the  distinctive  traits  which  characterise 
the  part  which  the  Spaniards  have  acted  in  Europe.  The 
same  nation  which  opposed  so  strong  a  barrier  to  the  Saracen 
invaders,  which  maintained  for  five  centuries  its  civil  and 
religious  liberties,  and  which,  after  it  had  lost  both  the  one 


88  ox    THE    LITERATDHE 

and  the  other,  umlcr  Cliarles  V.  and  his  successors,  seemed 
desirous  of  l)nrjing  both  Europe  and  tlie  New  World  under 
the  ruins  of"  its  own  constitution,  has  also  displayed  in  its 
literature,  the  loftiness  and  grandeur  of  its  character,  and  the 
power  and  riclmess  of  its  imagination.  In  its  early  poems,  we 
again  behold  the  heroism  of  its  ancient  knights  ;  and  in  the 
poets  of  its  brightest  age,  we  recognize  the  uKignilicence  of 
the  court  of  Charles  V.  ;  when  the  same  men  who  led  armies 
from  victory  to  victory  likewise  held  the  first  rank  in  the 
empire  of  letters.  J^ven  in  the  universal  decay  which  suc- 
ceeded, we  behold  the  loftiness  of  the  Spanish  cliai-acter.  The 
poets  of  later  times  sunk  under  the  weight  oi"  tlieir  riches, 
and  yielded  to  the  strength  of  their  own  efforts,  less  for  the 
purpose  of  vaii(|uisliing  others,  than  of  surpassing  themselves. 

The  literature  of  Spain  manifests  itself  in  sudden  and  fitful 
lights.  We  admire  it  for  an  instant,  and  it  is  again  lost  in 
obscurity  ;  but  these  glimpses  always  induce  a  desire  to  see 
more  of  it.  The  first  tragic  writer  of  the  French  stage  bor- 
rowed his  grandeur  from  the  Spaniards  ;  and,  after  the  Cid, 
which  he  imitated  from  Guillen  de  Castro,  many  tragi-comic 
pieces  and  chivalric  di-amas  transport  us  into  Spain.  The 
celebrated  Romance-writer,  Le  Sage,  has  displayed  all  the 
gaiety  of  a  Spaniard's  genius  ;  and  Gil  Bias,  though  the  pro- 
duction of  a  Frenchman,  is  completely  Spanish  in  manners,  in 
spirit,  and  in  action,  Don  Quixote  is  well  knowii  to  every 
nation  as  one  of  the  most  animated,  witty,  and  pleasant  satires 
in  the  world.  A  few  novels  translated  by  M.  de  Florian,  and 
some  dramatic  pieces  which  Beaumarchais  has  adapted  to  our 
stage  from  the  Spanish,  have  once  more  awakened  our  curiosity 
with  regard  to  this  peculiar  country,  yet  without  satisfying  it  ; 
:uid  its  literature  is  still  very  little  known  to  the  French. 

At  the  period  of  the  subversion  of  the  empire  of  the  West, 
during  the  reign  of  Honorius,  Spain  was  invaded  about  the 
year  409,  by  the  Suevi,  the  Alani,  the  Vandals,  and  the 
Visigoths.  This  nation,  which  for  six  centuries  had  been  sub- 
jected to  the  dominion  of  the  Romans,  and  liad  comj)letely 
adopted  the  language  and  civilized  arts  of  its  masters,  expe- 
rienced those  changes  in  its  manners,  its  opinions,  its  military 
spirit,  and  its  language,  which,  we  have  already  observed,  took 
place  in  the  other  provinces  of  the  empire,  and  which  were 
in  fact,  the  origin  of  the  nations  wdiich  arose  on  the  overthrow 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  89 

of  the  Roman  power.  Amongst  the  conquerors,  the  Visigoths 
were  the  most  numerous,  which  may  be  considered  as  a  for- 
tunate circumstance  for  Spain,  since,  of  all  the  northern 
nations,  the  Goths  both  of  the  east  and  tlie  west  were  by  far  the 
most  just  and  enlightened  ;  affording  greater  protection  to  the 
vanquished,  and  establishing  amongst  tliem  an  excellent 
system  of  legislation.  The  Alani  were  subdued  by  the  Visi- 
goths ten  years  after  their  entry  into  Spain  ;  and  ten  years 
later,  the  Vandals  passed  into  Ai'rica,  for  the  purpose  of 
foundin<T  that  warlike  monarchy  whicli  was  destined  to  avenge 
Carthage  and  to  pillage  Rome.  Tlie  Suevi,  wlio  had  preserved 
their  independence  for  a  centur}^  and  a  half,  were  at  last 
ovei'come  in  their  turn  in  the  year  585.  Tiie  dominion  of  the 
Visigoths  was  thus  extended  over  all  Spain  with  the  exception 
of  a  few  maritime  towns,  which  still  remained  in  the  power  of 
the  Greeks  of  Constantinople  ;  and  which,  by  their  commer- 
cial pursuits,  acquired  great  riches  and  an  abundant  popula- 
tion. The  ancient  Roman  subjects  who  were  elevated  by  the 
laws  of  the  Visigoths  to  a  level  with  their  conquerors,  being 
educated  in  the  same  manner,  admitted  to  the  same  public 
employments,  and  professing  the  same  religion,  wei"e  speedily 
confounded  with  them  ;  and  when,  in  the  year  710,  Spain  was 
invaded  by  the  Musulmans,  all  the  Christians  who  inhabited 
that  country  were  amalgamated  into  one  people. 

It  is  the  opinion  of  the  Spaniards  themselves  that  their 
language  was  formed  during  the  three  hundred  years  of  the 
Visigothic  dominion.  It  is  evidently  the  result  of  a  mixture 
of  tlie  German  vvitli  the  Latin,  the  termination  of  the  words  in 
the  latter  language  being  contracted.  The  Arabic  afterwards 
enriched  it  with  a  iminber  of  expressions,  which  preserve  their 
foreign  character  in  the  midst  of  a  language  derived  from  the 
Latin  ;  and  this  circumstance  has,  no  doubt,  had  an  influence 
on  the  pronunciation  of  the  language,  although  not  so  much  as 
to  change  its  genius.  The  Spanish  and  Italian,  possessing  a 
common  origin,  yet  differ  in  a  very  striking  manner.  Tiie 
syllables  lost  in  the  contraction  of  words,  and  those  retained, 
are  by  no  means  the  same  in  both;  insomuch  that  many  words 
derived  in  each  tongue  from  the  Latin,  have  little  resemblance 
to  one  another.*    The  Spanish,  more  sonorous,  and  more  full 

*  A  few  general  rules  on  the  transformations  which  dilFerent  letters 
have  undergone,  may  enable  us  to  recognize  words  which  have  passed 
VOL.  II.  F 


90  ox    THE    LITERATURE 

of  aspinUes  and  accents,  lias  something  in  it  moi'e  dignified, 
firm,  and  imposing  ;  w  Idle,  on  the  other  hand,  having  been 
less  cultivated  by  philosopliers  and  by  orators,  it  possesses  less 
flexibility  and  precision.  In  its  grandeur  it  is  occasionally 
obscure,  and  its  pomp  is  not  exempt  from  being  turgid.  But 
notwithstanding  these  diversities,  the  two  languages  may  still 
be  recognized  as  sisters,  and  the  passage  from  the  one  to  the 
other  is  certainly  easy. 

There  are  no  remains  of  the  Spanish  language  during  the 
dominion  of  the  Visigoths.  The  laws  which  they  promul- 
gated were  in  Latin,  in  which  language  their  chronicles  also 
were  written.  Some  people  pretend  that  in  these  productions 
traces  of  the  Spanish  character  are  to  be  found.  The  Visigoths 
manifested  an  extreme  jealousy  with  regard  to  their  women, 
by  no  means  common  to  the  other  northern  nations  ;  but  all 
that  remains  of  their  history  and  their  manners  is  too  scanty 
to  allovv  us  to  form  any  judgment  respecting  them. 

Tiic  extreme  corruption  of  the  Goths,  under  their  later 
sovereigns,  was  the  cause  of  their  ruin,  at  the  period  when 
the  Arabs  were  extending  their  contiuests  in  Africa. 
Roderick  having  driven  the  sons  of  Witiza,  the  legitimate 
heirs  to  the  throne,  into  exile,  mortally  otiended  Count 
Julian,  the  governor  of  the  provinces  situated  on  both  sides 
of  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar,  by  dishonouring  his  daughter. 
Julian  and  the  sons  of  Witiza  placed  themselves  under  the 
protection  of  the  Moors.     Musa,  the  Moorish  commander  in 

from  one  language  to  another.  F,  which  is  in  fact  a  strong  aspirate,  is 
often  changed  in  Spanish  into  /(,  and  sometimes  the  h  into  /.  Thus 
fabulari.  to  speak,  is  hahlar  in  Spanish  ;  in  Italian, /(«'e//ar;  and  as 
the  b  and  the  v  are  continual! j*  used  for  one  another,  this  word  is,  in 
fact,  precisely  the  same  in  hoth  languages.  The  j,  which  is  strongly 
aspirated  by  the  Spaniards,  is  frequentl}  substituted  for  the  liquid  /,  so 
that  hijo  and  fi'jUo  are  the  .same  word.  The  I  liquid,  in  Spanish,  is 
always  used  instead  of  the  pi  of  the  Latins,  and  the  pi  of  the  Italians. 
Thus,  planus,  Latin,  llano,  Spanish,  piiano,  Italian;  Plcniis,  Latin, 
lleno,  Spani.-h,  picno,  Italian.  The  Spanish  ch  supplies  the  place  of  the 
Latin  c/,  and  the  Italian  tt.  Factits,  hcclio,fatto  ;  dictux,  dicho,  detto. 
The  Spanish  terminate  their  words  with  consonants  more  frequently 
than  the  Italians  ;  and  the  language  is  full  of  words  ending  in  ar,  cr,  on, 
and  as.  The  infinitive  of  verbs,  and  the  plural  of  nouns,  are  terminated 
by  consonants  ;  but  the  former  arc  accentuated,  and  the  latter  not.  In 
short,  the  Italians  have  softened  down  the  pronunciation  of  the  Romans, 
while  the  Spaniards  have  preserved  a  great  numlier  of  harsh  syllables, 
and  have  multiplied  a.spirates  in  the  letters  x,j,  <j,  h,  and/. 


OP    THE    SPANIARDS.  91 

Africa,  dispatclied  TariiFa,  or  Tarikli,  in  tlie  year  710,  with 
a  Musulman  army  to  tbeir  assistance,  and  to  these  forces  all 
the  malcontent  Visigoths  united  themselves.  A  pitched 
battle  was  fought  between  the  hostile  armies,  each  consisting 
of  nearly  a  hundred  thousand  men,  at  Xeres,  on  the  borders 
of  the  Guadaleta,  from  tlie  nineteenth  to  the  twenty-sixth 
day  of  July,  711.  The  Goths  were  vanquished;  a  defeat 
which  their  king,  Roderick,  could  never  repair  ;  and  by  this 
battle  the  monarchy  of  the  Goths  was  destroyed,  and  Spain 
was  subjected  to  the  Musulmans. 

A  few  valorous  chieftains,  liowever,  retired  into  the 
mountains,  and  especially  into  that  vast  chain  which  extends 
along  the  northern  part  of  the  Peninsula.  In  716  they 
drove  out  of  one  portion  of  the  Asturias  the  Cliristian 
governor,  whom  the  Arabs  had  placed  there  ;  and  they  at 
length  succeeded  in  establishing  their  independence.  This 
example  was  imitated  ;  and  from  these  fugitives  pi'oceeded 
the  kings  of  Oviedo,  descended  from  Pelagius,  one  of  the 
princes  of  tlie  family  of  the  Visigoth  kings  ;  the  kings  of 
Navarre,  the  counts  of  Castile,  the  counts  of  Soprarbia,  who 
afterwards  reigned  in  Aragon,  and  the  counts  of  Barcelona  ; 
princes  who  were  destined  at  a  future  time  to  reconquer  the 
Peninsula  from  the  Arabians.  But  by  far  the  greater  number 
of  the  Christians  submitted  to  the  yoke  of  the  Moors,  who 
granted  them  the  fullest  tolei-ation  in  religious  matters,  and 
who  freely  communicated  to  them  the  knowledge  of  which 
they  were  themselves  masters.  In  a  former  chapter  we  liave 
given  some  account  of  the  literary  splendour  of  Spain  during 
the  government  of  the  Moors,  and  of  the  influence  which  they 
exercistid  over  the  Christians.  By  a  foolish  policy,  however, 
common  to  all  Musulman  conquerors,  they  neglected  to  amal- 
gamate the  vanquishers  and  the  vanquished  ;  and  throughout 
all  their  successes  they  oppressed  the  nations  whom  they  held 
tributary  to  them,  by  whom  they  were  hated  in  return.  It 
was  by  these  means  that  they  supplied  the  Spaniards,  who 
had  taken  refuge  in  the  mountains,  with  powerful  allies  in 
the  Moorish  provinces. 

These  mountaineers,  who  had  preserved  the  religion,  the 
laws,  the  honour,  and  the  liberty  of  the  Visigoths,  together 
with  the  use  of  their  Roman  language,  did  not  all  speak  tlie 
same    dialect.     In    Catalonia    the    Provengal    or    Limousin, 

F  2 


92  ox    THE    LITEKATURE 

which  so  long  engaged  our  attention,  was  spoken.  In  Astu- 
rias,  in  old  Castile,  and  in  the  kingdom  of  Leon,  the  Castilian 
prevailed  ;  and  in  Galicia,  the  Gallego,  whence  the  Portuguese 
liad  its  origin.  In  Navarre,  and  in  some  parts  of  Biscay, 
the  Basque  was  still  preserved  ;  a  Celtic  dialect,  or,  according 
to  others,  of  African  or  Numidian  origin,  prior  to  the  con- 
quests of  the  Romans,  which  never  intermingled  with  the 
Spanish  language,  nor  exercised  any  inlluence  over  its  litera- 
ture. When  the  Christians,  profiting  by  the  extinction  of 
the  Caliphate  of  the  Ommiades  of  Cordova,  and  the  division 
of  the  Musuhnans  into  a  number  of  petty  principalities, 
began,  posterior  to  the  year  1031,  to  recover  Spain  from  the 
Saracens,  they  introduced  into  the  South  the  language  which 
they  had  preserved  amidst  the  mountains  ;  and  Spain  was 
divided  into  three  longitudinal  portions,  of  which  the 
inhabitants  of  each  spoke  a  separate  language.  The  Catalan, 
in  the  states  of  Aragon,  extended  along  the  Mediterranean, 
from  the  Pyrenees,  to  the  kingdom  of  Murcia  ;  the  Castilian 
occupied  the  centre  of  the  country,  and  extended  likewise 
from  the  Pyrenees  to  the  kingdom  of  Grenada  ;  while  the 
Portuguese  was  spoken  from  Galicia  to  the  kingdom  of 
Algarves. 

The  Cliristians  who  had  preserved  their  independence 
amidst  tlie  fastnesses  of  the  mountains,  were  illiterate  and 
rude  men,  though  high-spirited,  courageous,  and  incapable  of 
bearing  the  yoke.  Each  valley  regarded  itself  as  a  separate 
state,  and  attempted  by  its  own  strength  to  render  itself 
respected  abroad,  and  to  maintain  its  laws  and  manners  at 
home.  Thes'c  valleys  had  received  Visigoth  Kings,  Counts 
who  administered  justice,  and  led  the  troops  to  battle.  Their 
authority  continued  to  subsist  after  the  destruction  of  the 
monarchy,  but  they  were  ratlier  considered  as  military 
leaders,  and  as  protectors  of  the  people,  than  as  masters. 
Every  man  by  defending  his  own  liberty,  became  cognizant 
of  his  own  rights.  Every  man  was  aware  of  the  power  with 
which  his  own  valour  endowed  him,  and  exacted  towards 
himself  the  same  respect  which  he  paid  to  others.  A  nation 
composed  for  the  greater  part  of  emigrants,  who  had  preferred 
liberty  to  riches,  and  wlio  liad  abandoned  their  country.,  in 
order  that  they  might  preserve  amidst  the  solitude  of  the 
mountains  their  religion  and  their  laws,  were  not  likely  to 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  93 

recognize,  to  any  great  degree,  the  distinctions  wliicli  fortune 
created.  The  son  of  tiie  governor  of  a  province  might  often 
be  seen  clothed  in  very  homely  garments  ;  and  the  hero  by 
whose  valour  a  battle  had  been  gained,  might  be  found  re- 
posing in  a  hut.  The  dignity  of  the  people  of  Castile,  which 
is  observable  even  amongst  the  beggars,  and  their  respect  for 
every  citizen,  whatever  may  be  his  fortune,  are  peculiarities 
in  Spanish  manners,  which  may  no  doubt  be  referred  to  the 
period  of  which  we  are  speaking.  Tiie  forms  of  the  language, 
and  the  usages  of  society  established  at  this  period,  became 
an  integral  part  of  the  national  manners,  and  display  their 
ancient  dignity  even  at  the  present  day. 

Civil  liberty  was  preserved  as  perfect  in  Spain,  as  it  can 
be  under  any  constitution.  The  nation  seemed  to  have 
created  kings,  in  order  that  the  authority,  which  necessarily 
devolved  upon  the  sovereign  power  might  be  circumscribed 
within  narrower  limits.  Their  object  was  to  provide  them- 
selves with  able  captains,  with  judges  of  the  lists,  and  with 
chieftains  who  might  serve  as  models  to  a  gallant  nobility  ; 
but  they  yet  watched  with  jealousy  an}^  attempts  to  extend 
the  royal  prerogative.  Judges  were  appointed,  to  whom  the 
nation  might  appeal  under  ordinary  circumstances,  and  legal 
forms  were  established,  by  which  the  people  were  authorized 
to  resist  by  force  abuses  of  power.  All  classes  were  admitted 
to  an  equal  share  in  the  representation,  and  every  Spaniard 
was  taught  to  place  a  due  value  on  his  privileges  as  a  citizen, 
and  on  his  nobility  as  a  Visigotli.  The  Court,  the  general 
nobility,  and  the  equal  balance  of  ranks,  of  which  no  one  was 
suffered  to  feel  degraded,  preserved  in  the  mannei's,  the 
language,  and  the  literature  of  the  Spaniards,  a  kind  of 
elegance,  and  a  tone  of  courtesy  and  high-breeding,  with  some- 
what of  an  aristocratical  character  of  manners,  which  the 
Italians  lost  very  early,  because  they  owed  their  liberties  to  a 
democratical  spirit. 

When  political  liberty  was  once  properly  appreciated, 
religious  servitude  could  not  long  continue  to  exist  ;  and  the 
Spaniards  therefore,  until  the  time  of  Charles  V.,  maintained 
their  independence,  in  a  great  degree,  against  the  church  of 
Rome,  of  which  they  subsequently  became  tlie  most  timid 
vassals,  when  once  deprived  of  their  free  constitution.  The 
religious  independence   of  the  Spaniards  has  been  little  re- 


9\  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

laarked  upon,  because  the  native  writers  of  the  present  day 
are  ashamed  of  the  fact,  and  have  endeavoured  to  conceal  it, 
while  foreign  autiiors  liavc  formed  their  o))inion  of  that 
nation  from  its  situation  during  their  own  time.  "We  shall, 
however,  have  occasion  to  remark  in  examining  tlie  early 
Spanish  poets,  that  even  in  the  wars  with  the  Moors,  as 
early  as  the  eleventh  century,  they  ascribe  to  their  heroes  a 
spirit  of  charity  and  humanity  for  their  enemies,  as  a  quality 
highly  honourable  to  them.  All  their  most  celebrated  men, 
as  Bernard  de  Carpio,  the  Cid,  and  Alfonso  VI.,  had  com- 
bated in  the  ranks  of  the  Moors.  About  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury, as  we  have  already  said  in  treating  of  the  Troubadours, 
the  kings  of  Aragon  granted  free  libert}'  of  conscience  in 
their  states  to  the  Paulicians,  and  to  the  sectaries,  who  after- 
wards acquired  the  name  of  Albigenses.  They  likewise  took 
arms  in  their  defence  in  that  deadly  crusade  which  was 
headed  by  Simon  de  Montfort ;  and  Peter  II.  of  Aragon 
was  slain,  in  1213,  at  the  battle  of  Muret,  fighting  against 
these  crusaders,  in  the  cause  of  religious  toleration.  In 
1268,  two  princes  of  Castile,  brothers  of  Alfonso  X., 
quitted  the  banners  of  the  infidels,  under  which  they  had 
served  at  Tunis,  to  give  their  assistance,  at  the  head  of  eight 
hundi'ed  gentlemen  of  Castile,  to  the  Italians,  who  were 
endeavouring  to  throw  off  the  tyranny  of  the  Pope,  and  of 
Charles  of  Anjou.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  same  century 
(1282),  Peter  III.  of  Aragon,  voluntarily  exposed  himself  to 
the  thunders  of  the  Church,  in  order  to  rescue  Sicily  from  the 
oppression  of  the  French.  He  and  his  descendants  lived  under 
sentence  of  excommunication  for  nearly  the  whole  of  the  four- 
teenth century  ;  nor  ever  consented  to  purchase  the  repeal  of 
those  censures  by  any  concession  of  their  rights.  In  the  great 
schism  of  the  West  (1378),  Peter  IV.  embraced  that  side  which 
was  regarded  by  the  Church  as  schismatic  ;  a  course  which  was 
suited  to  his  political  interests,  since  Peter  de  Lunn,  who  was 
afterwards  Anti -pope,  under  the  name  of  Benedict  XIII.,  was 
his  subject.  His  successors  still  continued  to  countenance 
the  schism,  notwithstanding  the  efforts  of  all  the  rest  of 
Christendom  to  extinguisli  it.  Alfunso  V.  of  Arngon  again 
renewed  it,  after  the  council  of  Constance,  and  even  after  the 
death  of  Benedict  XIII.  He  consented  in  1429  to  the 
deposition  of  that  shadow  of  a  Pope,  which  he  had   himself 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  95 

created  ;  an  act  of  condescension  which  was  repaid  by  the 
Holy  Pontiff  with  great  sacrifices.  Until  the  reign  of 
Charles  V  ,  this  monarch,  his  son,  and  his  successoi-s  on  the 
throne  of  Naples,  were  in  a  state  of  almost  perpetual  hostility 
with  the  Popes.  We  are  not  inclined  to  attribute  any  ex- 
traordinary merit  to  the  Aragonese  sovereigns,  on  account  of 
these  pi'olonged  contests  with  the  church.  It  is  not  to  be 
doubted  that  they  frequently  sacrificed  their  religion  to  their 
temporal  intei'ests  on  those  occasions  ;  but  a  nation,  which, 
during  three  centuries,  lived  in  a  state  of  almost  constant 
controversy  with  the  papal  power,  and  despised  its  excom- 
munications, was  undoubtedly  far  removed  from  that  blind 
faith  and  superstitious  submission,  to  which  Philip  il. 
ultimately  succeeded  in  reducing  it.  The  last  struggles  in 
defence  of  the  liberties  of  Ai-agon  occurred  in  the  year  1485  ; 
when  the  people  I'ose  to  repel  the  introduction  of  the  Inqui- 
sition, which  Ferdinand  the  Catholic  attempted  to  impose 
upon  them.  To  resist  the  establishment  of  this  odious 
tribunal,  the  whole  population  took  up  arms.  The  grand 
inquisitor  was  put  to  death,  and  his  infamous  agents  were 
expelled  from  Aragon. 

Although  the  minds  of  the  Spaniards  were  not  directed  to 
the  subtleties  of  scholastic  theology,  yet  their  ardent  and 
passionate  imaginations  produced  amongst  them  some  mystics 
who,  confounding  together  love  and  religion,  mistook  the 
aberrations  of  their  feelings  for  divine  inspirations.  These 
wei-e  almost  the  only  sectaries  whom  the  Roman  Church  had 
occasion  to  condemn  in  Spain.  Even  at  the  period  when  they 
enjoyed  the  greatest  religious  liberty,  few  men  devoted  them- 
selves to  the  examination  of  the  orthodox  dogmas,  or  to  the 
discussion  of  points  of  faith.  The  Jews  and  the  JMusul- 
mans  remained  steady  in  their  belief,  while  the  Catholics 
likewise  persisted  in  their  faith  without  taking  the  trouble  to 
examine  the  grounds  of  it  ;  and  religion  was  only  employed 
to  furnish  occasional  matter  of  controversy  in  a  convent,  or 
the  subject  of  a  hymn  in  honour  of  some  saint. 

The  literary  men  of  Spain  have  collected  with  great  dili- 
gence, the  earliest  remains  of  their  native  poetry.  D.  Thomas 
Antonio  Sanchez,  librarian  to  the  king,  in  1779  published 
four  octavo  volumes  containing  specimens  of  the  most  ancient 
Castilian  poets,  of  whose  works  he  had  been  able  to  procure 


96  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

manuscripts.  The  first  in  the  collection  is  tlie  poem  of  the 
Cid,  which,  in  his  opinion,  was  written  towards  the  middle 
of  the  twelftli  centnry,  that  is  to  say,  about  fifty  years  after 
the  death  of  the  hero.  Although  the  Cid,  both  in  versifi- 
cation and  in  language,  is  almost  absolutc;ly  barbarous,  it  is 
yet  so  curious  on  account  of  its  simple  and  faithful  descrip- 
tions of  the  manners  of  the  eleventh  eentury,  and  still  more 
on  account  of  its  date,  it  being  the  most  ancient  epic  in  the 
modern  languages,  that  we  liave  determined  to  present  a 
detailed  analysis  of  the  poem.* 

In  order  to  give  the  reader  some  idea  of  the  place  where 
the  scene  is  laid,  it  will,  however,  be  necessary  to  make  a 
few  previous  remarks  on  the  situation  of  Spain,  at  the  period 
when  the  Cid  was  wi-itten.  Sancho  III.  of  Navarre,  who 
died  in  1034,  had  united  almost  all  the  Christian  states  of 
the  Peninsula  under  one  dominion,  having  married  the  heiress 
of  the  county  of  Castile,  and  obtained  the  hand  of  the  sister 
of  Bermudez  III.,  tlie  last  king  of  Leon,  for  his  second  son, 
Ferdinand.  The  Asturias,  Navarre,  and  Aragon,  were  all 
subject  to  him,  and  he  was  the  first  who  assumed  the  title  of 
King  of  Castile.  To  him  the  sovereign  houses  of  Spain  have 
looked  up  as  their  common  ancestor,  for  the  male  line  of  the 
Gothic  Kings  became  extinct  in  Bermudez  III.  It  was  in 
the  reign  of  this  Sancho,  surnamed  the  Great,  that  D.  Ro- 
drigo  Laynez,  the  son  of  Diego,  was  born,  to  whom  the 
Spaniards  gave  the  abbreviated  appellation  of  Ruy  Diaz, 
while  the  five  Moorish  Generals  whom  he  had  vanquished 
bestowed  upon  him  the  title  of  Es  Sayd,  (or,  my  Lord,)  whence 
the  name  of  the  Cid  had  its  origin.  Muller  conjectures  that 
he  was  born  about  the  year  1026.  The  castle  of  Bivar,  two 
leagues  from  Burgos,  whence  he  took  his  name,  was  probably 
the  place  of  his  birtli,  and  perhaps  a  conquest  of  his  father's. 
On  the  female  side  he  was  descended  from  the  ancient  Counts 
of  Castile ;  yet,  though  liis  birth  was  illustrious,  he  was  com- 

*  The  MS.  which  has  been  preserved,  bears  the  date  of  1207,  or  1245, 
of  the  Spanish  aei\a,  thougli  it  is  certainly  not  the  most  ancient.  M. 
liaynouard  has  promised  us  a  Provencal  poem  ou  Boethiiis,  anterior  to 
the  year  lOOd,  and  which  must  consequently  be  of  higher  antiquity  than 
the  poem  of  the  Cid.  This  discovery  is  due  to  JI.  Haynouard,  who  as 
yet  is  the  only  person  wlio  possesses  the  means  of  forming  a  judgment 
upon  the  composition.  [This  poem  may  be  found  in  Haynouard,  vol.  ii. 
p.  4.— 7V.] 


OF    THE    SrANlAUDS.  97 

paratively  poor,  before  his  valour  had  acquired  him  riches  as 
well  as  glorj. 

D.  Sancho  divided  his  states  amonj^st  his  children  : 
D.  Garcia  became  King  of  Navarre,  D.  Ferdinand,  King  of 
Castile,  and  D.  Ramirez,  King  of  Aragon.  The  Cid,  who 
was  a  subject  of  D.  Ferdinand,  entered  upon  his  military 
career  under  that  monarch's  banners,  where  he  displayed 
that  marvellous  strength  and  prodigious  valour,  that  con- 
stancy and  coolness,  which  raised  him  above  all  the  other 
warriors  of  Europe.  Many  of  the  victories  of  Ferdinand  and 
the  Cid  were  obtained  over  the  Moors,  who  being  at  that 
time  deprived  of  their  leader  and  without  a  central  govern- 
ment, were  much  exposed  to  the  attacks  of  the  Christians. 
It  was  when  the  young  Hescham  el  Mowajed,  the  last  of 
the  Ommiades,  was  on  the  point  of  receiving  at  Cordova,  in 
1031,  the  oath  of  allegiance  of  all  the  Moors  of  Spain,  and  of 
being  raised  to  the  throne  as  Emir  el  Mumenin,  (Miramolin, 
or  Emperor  of  the  West,)  that  a  sudden  cry  was  heard 
amongst  the  people  :  "  The  Almighty  hath  turned  away  his 
eyes  from  the  I'ace  of  Omajah!  Reject  ye  the  forsaken  one!" 
The  result  was,  that  the  Prince  was  compelled  to  take  to 
flight,  and  to  abandon  his  throne ;  and  that  every  noble  and 
powerful  individual  rendered  himself  independent  in  one  or 
another  of  the  cities  of  Moorish  Spain  as  Emir  or  Cheick. 

The  arms  of  Ferdinand  and  the  Cid  were  not,  however, 
always  directed  against  the  infidels.  The  ambitious  Monarch 
soon  afterwai'ds  attacked  his  brother-in-law,  Bermudez  III.  of 
Leon,  the  last  of  the  descendants  of  D.  Pelagius,  whom  he 
despoiled  of  his  states,  and  put  to  death  in  1037.  He  subse- 
quently attacked  and  dethroned  his  eldest  brother,  D.  Garcia, 
and  afterwards  his  younger  brother,  D.  Ramirez,  the  former 
of  whom  he  likewise  sacrificed.  The  Cid,  who  had  received  his 
earliest  instructions  under  D.  Ferdinand,  made  no  scrupulous 
enquiries  into  the  justice  of  that  prince's  cause,  but  combating 
blindly  for  him,  rendered  him  glorious  in  the  eyes  of  the 
vulgar  by  these  iniquitous- conquests. 

It  is  also  in  the  reign  of  Ferdinand,  that  the  first  romantic 
adventures  of  tlie  Cid  are  said  to  have  occurred;  his  attach- 
ment to  Xiraena,  the  only  daughter  of  Count  Gormaz ;  his 
duel  with  the  Count,  who  had  mortally  injured  his  father; 
and  lastly  his  marriage  with  the  daugliter  of  the  man  who 


98  ON    THE    LITKRATURE 

had  perished  by  his  sword.  The  authenticity  of  these  poetical 
achievements  rests  entirely  on  the  romances  which  we  shall 
examine  in  the  next  chapter ;  but  though  this  brilliant  story 
is  not  to  be  found  in  any  historical  document,  yet  the 
universal  tradition  of  a  nation  seems  to  stamp  it  with  suf- 
ficient credit. 

The  Cid  was  in  habits  of  the  strictest  friendship  with  the 
eldest  son  of  Ferdinand,  D.  Sancho,  surnamed  the  Strong, 
and  the  two  warriors  always  combated  side  by  side.  During 
the  lifetime  of  the  father,  the  Cid,  in  1049,  had  rendered 
tributary  the  Musulman  Emir  of  Saragossa.  He  defended 
that  Moorish  Prince  a^j^ainst  the  Aragonese,  in  1063;  and 
when  Sancho  succeeded  to  the  throne  in  1065,  he  was  placed, 
by  the  young  King,  at  the  head  of  all  his  armies,  whence, 
without  doubt,  he  acquired  the  name  of  Canipeador. 

D.  Sancho,  wlio  merited  the  friendship  of  a  hero,  and  who 
always  remained  faithful  to  him,  was,  notwithstanding,  no  less 
ambitious  and  unjust  tlian  his  fatlier,  whose  example  he  fol- 
lowed in  endeavouring  to  deprive  his  brotliers  of  their  share 
of  the  paternal  inheritance.  To  the  valour  of  the  Cid  he 
owed  his  victories  over  D.  Garcia,  King  of  Gnlicia,  and  D. 
Alfonso,  King  of  Leon,  whose  states  lie  invaded.  The  latter 
prince  took  refuge  amongst  the  Moors,  with  the  King  of 
Toledo,  who  afforded  him  a  generous  asylum.  D.  Sancho,  after 
having  also  stripped  liis  sisters  of  their  inheritance,  was  slain 
in  1072,  before  Zamora,  where  the  last  of  his  sisters,  D.  Ur- 
raca,  had  fortified  herself.  Alfonso  VI.,  recalled  from  the 
Moors  to  ascend  the  vacant  tin-one,  after  having  taken  an 
oath,  administered  by  the  hands  of  the  Cid,  that  he  had  been 
in  no  degree  accessary  to  his  brothei''s  death,  endeavoured  to 
attach  that  celebrated  leader  to  his  interest-;,  by  promising 
him  in  marriage  his  own  niece  Ximena,  whose  mother  was 
sister-in-law  to  Ferdinand  the  Great  and  Bermudez  III.  the 
la'^t  King  of  Leon.  This  marriage,  of  which  liistorical 
evidence  remains,  was  celebrated  on  the  19tli  of  July,  1074. 
The  Cid  was  at  that  time  nearly  fifty  years  of  age,  and  had 
survived  his  first  wife  Ximena,  the  daughter  of  Count  Gor- 
maz,  so  celebrated  in  the  Spanish  and  French  tragedies. 
Being  soon  afterwards  despatched  on  an  embassy  to  the 
Moorish  princes  of  Seville  and  Cordova,  the  Cid  assisted  them 
in  gaining  a  groat  victory  over  the  King  of  Grenada  ;  but 


OF    TDE    SPANIARDS.  99^ 

scarcely  had  the  heat  of  the  battle  passed  away,  Avhen  he 
restored  all  the  prisoners  whom  he  had  taken,  with  arms  in 
their  hands,  to  liberty.  By  these  constant  acts  of  generosity 
he  won  the  hearts  of  his  enemies  as  well  as  of  his  friends.  He 
was  admired  and  respected  both  by  Moors  and  Christians.  He 
had  soon  afterwards  occasion  to  claim  the  protection  of  the 
former  ;  for  Alfonso  VI.  instigated  by  those  who  were  envious 
of  the  hero's  success,  banished  liim  from  Castile.  The  Cid 
upon  this  occasion  took  refuge  with  his  friend  Ahmed  el 
Muktadir,  King  of  Saragossa,  by  whom  he  was  treated  with 
boundless  confidence  and  respect.  He  was  appointed  by  him 
to  the  post  of  governor  of  his  son,  and  was  in  fact  intrusted 
with  the  whole  administration  of  the  kingdom  of  Saragossa, 
during  the  reign  of  Joseph  El  Muktamam,  from  lOyl  to 
108.5,  within  which  period  he  gained  many  brilliant  victories 
over  the  Christians  of  Aragon,  Navarre,  and  Barcelona. 
Always  generous  to  the  vanquished,  he  again  gave  liberty  to 
the  prisoners.  Alfonso  VI.  now  began  to  regret  that  he  had 
deprived  himself  of  the  services  of  the  most  valiant  of  his 
warriors  ;  and  being  attacked  by  the  redoubtable  Joseph,  the 
son  of  Teschfin,  the  Moi-abite,  who  had  invaded  Spain  with  a 
new  army  of  JVIoors  from  Africa,  and  having  sustained  a 
defeat  at  Zalaka,  on  the  23d  of  October,  1087,  he  recalled  the 
Cid  to  his  assistance.  That  hero  immediately  repaired  to  his 
standard  with  seven  thousand  soldiers,  levied  at  his  own 
charge  ;  and  for  two  years  continued  to  combat  for  his  un- 
grateful sovereign  ;  but  at  length,  either  his  generosity  in 
dismissing  his  captives,  or  his  disobedience  to  the  orders  of  a 
prince  far  inferior  to  himself  in  the  knowledge  of  the  art  of 
war,  drew  upon  him  a  second  disgrace  about  the  year  1090. 
He  was  again  banished  ;  his  wife  and  son  were  imprisoned, 
and  his  goods  were  confiscated.  It  is  at  this  period  that 
the  poem,  from  which  we  are  about  to  make  some  extracts, 
commences.  It  is  in  fact  the  fragment  of  a  complete  history 
of  the  Cid,  the  beginning  of  which  has  been  lost. 

The  opening,  as  it  has  been  transmitted  to  us,  is  not 
deficient  either  in  dignity  or  in  interest.  The  hero  is  de- 
parting from  Bivar,  his  native  place,  where  every  thing  bears 
the  marks  of  desolation.  The  doors  ai'e  torn  down,  the  win- 
dows driven  in,  and  the  I'ooms  usually  appropriated  to  the 
protection  of  treasure  and  valuable  effects,  are  broken  open 


100  ON    THE    I-ITKRATURE 

and  empty.  The  falcons'  mews  are  deserted,  and  within 
tlieni  neither  falcons  nor  haw  ks  are  to  be  found.*  The  hero 
weeps  as  he  quits  these  scenes  ;  for  to  shed  tears  was  never 
•leemed  by  the  ancient  kniirhts  to  be  inconsistent  with  their 
cliaracter  as  brave  men.  He  traverses  Burgos  at  the  head  of 
sixty  lances.  The  friends  of  a  knight  ever  remained  faithful 
to  him  in  misfortune.  The  anger  of  a  king  could  not  separate 
those  who  had  pledged  their  faitii  to  each  other  in  battle  ;  and 
those  who  had  marched  beneath  the  triumpliant  standard  of 
liodrigo,  cheerfully  followed  him  into  exile.  The  citizens  of 
Burgos,  crowding  to  their  doors  and  windows,  wept  as  he 
passed,  and  exclaimed,  "  O  God  !  why  didst  not  thou  give  so 
good  a  vassal  a  good  Lord  ?"  None,  however,  ventured  to 
invite  the  fugitive  to  partake  of  the  rites  of  hospitality  ;  for 
Alfonso  had  in  his  anger  declared,  that  whoever,  in  the  city, 
should  receive  him,  should  forfeit  his  goods  and  be  deprived 
of  his  eyes.  The  Cid,  after  having  thus  traversed  the  capital 
of  Castile,  was  compelled  to  leave  it  by  the  opposite  gate, 
without  meeting  a  single  individual  who  dared  to  oHer  him  an 
asylum. 

The  language  of  the  poet  frequently  does  not  rise  above 
that  of  a  barbarous  chronicler;  but  he  relates  his  incidents 
with  great  fidelity,  and  places  them,  as  it  were,  before  our 
eyes.  lie  tells  us  how  the  Cid,  advancing  towards  the  bor- 
ders of  the  Moorish  territories,  found  that  he  lacked  money 
to  carry  on  the  war  ;  and  as  all  his  property  had  been  se- 
questrated by  order  of  the  king,  how  he  borrowed  from  a 
Jew  five  hundred  marks  of  silver  wherewith  to  equip  his 
troops,  giving  him,  by  way  of  pledge  for  repayment,  two 
heavy  cases  filled  with  sand,  which,  as  he  pretended,  held 
his  treasures,  and  which  he  commanded  the  J(;w  not  to  open 
until  a  year  had  expired.      This  deception,  tlie   only  one  of 

*  The  following  are  the  opening  lines  : 

Do  los  BUS  ojoa  tan  fuertemientrc  lorando, 

Torn:il>a  la  calie/.a,  c  estabalos  catando  : 

Vio  pucrtas  alncrtas,  e  ii/.os  sin  cafiados, 

Alcandaras  vacias,  sin  piellcs  e  sin  mantos : 

H  sin  falconcs,  e  sin  adioros  mudados. 

Sospiru  mio  Cid,  ca  mucho  avic  grandes  cuidados  : 

Tabid  niio  Cid,  bien  e  tan  mesurado. 

Grado  a  ti,  scfior  padre,  que  estas  en  alto, 

Esto  nic  ban  biiclto  niios  encmigos  malos. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  101 

which  the  Spanish  hero  was  ever  guilty,  scarcely  merited  the 
name,  since  his  word,  which  was  alone  worth  a  treasure,  was 
pledged  for  the  restoration  of  the  money.  The  first  Moorish 
spoils  enabled  him  to  repay  the  loan.  The  Cid  had  left 
Ximena,  with  his  daughters,  at  the  abbey  of  St.  Peter  ;  and 
she,  hearing  of  his  arrival  at  that  place,  commanded  her  six 
ladies  to  conduct  her  to  his  presence. 

Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and  she  sunk  upon  the  floor, 

And  she  tried  to  kiss  his  hands,  and  cried,  Mercy,  Campeador  ! 

Oh  !  Born  in  happy  hour,*  to  the  evil  of  the  land 

Your  enemies  have  made  you  here  a  banish'd  man  to  stand. 

Mercy  !  oh  gallant  Beard,  to  thee  I  bring  thy  daughters  fair, 

Who  still  are  in  their  early  years,  and  under  God's  good  care. 

That  you  will  quit  us  soon,  I  see  will  be  our  fate. 

And  even  while  we  live  'tis  doom'd  that  we  live  separate  ; 

Give  us,  for  Holy  Mary's  sake,  your  counsel  ere  too  latcf 

The  Cid  placed  his  hand  upon  his  bushy  beard,  and  em- 
bracing his  daughters,  strained  them  to  his  breast,  for  they 
were  very  dear  to  him.  As  his  eyes  filled  with  tears,  he 
sighed  and  exclaimed : 

Ximena  !  fairest  woman,  as  my  soul  to  me  you're  dear. 

But  we  must  part,  and  I  must  go,  and  you  must  tarry  here. 

Still,  if  it  pleases  God,  and  the  Holy  Virgin  too, 

I  hither  will  return  to  my  daughters  and  to  you ; 

I'll  marry  them,  and  pass  again  some  happy  days  with  thee  ; 

Now  farewell,  honour'd  lady,  sometimes  think  of  me. 

Three  hundred  cavaliers  attached  themselves  to  tli3  for- 
tunes of  the  Cid,  and  in  company  with  him  abandoned 
Castile.;}:  Don  Rodrigo,  banished  from  his  native  land,  still 
continued  to  combat  against  the  enemies  of  his  prince  and 
his  faith.  On  the  first  day,  he  captured  Chatillon  de  Henarez, 
and  after  having  divided  the  booty  among  his  soldiers,  he 
abandoned  the  castle  to  the  Moors,  and  advanced  further  into 
their  territories.  He  soon  afterwards  besieged  Alcocer,  and 
after  having  gained  possession  of  that  strongly  fortified  place, 
was  in  his  turn  besieged  in  it  by  three  of  the  Moorish  kings.|| 
He  had  no  hope  of  succour,  and  already  the  stores  of  pro- 
visions were  beginning  to  fail,  when,  inspiring  his  soldiers 
with  the  courage   of  despair,   he  attacked  the    Moors,  and 

*  [The  Cid  was  called,  "  The  born  in  happy  hour."— T^r.] 

+  Sanchez,  v.  265.  t.  i.  p.  241.  J  Sanchez,  v.  422,  p.  246. 

li  Sanchez,  v.  645,  p.  254. 


102  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

routed  them,  wounding  two  of  their  kiiias,  dispersing  their 
whole  army,  and  possessing  liimseli"  of"  a  vast  booty.  He 
immediately  despatched  an  ambassador  to  D.  Alfonso  to 
com[)linient  him  on  these  victories,  and  to  present  him  with 
thirty  horses  taken  from  the  Moors,  as  his  share  of  the 
plunder,  while  at  the  same  time  he  instructed  the  messenger 
to  have  a  thousand  masses  said  for  the  good  of  his  soul,  at 
the  Church  of  St.  Mary  of  Burgos.  Alfonso,  softened  by 
this  tribute  of  respect,  permitted  the  Cid  to  levy  troops  in 
Castile,  where  the  name  of  the  hero  drew  numbers  of  war- 
riors to  his  standard,  lie  sold  to  the  Moors  of  Calatayud 
the  fortress  of  Alcocer,  which  he  was  unable  to  defend,  and 
divided  the  money  amongst  the  soldiery.  When  the  Moors 
of  Alcocer  beheld  him  depart,  they  lamented  and  exclaimed, 
"  Go,  my  Cid  !  and  our  prayers  go  with  you,  while  here  we 
remain  overwhelmed  with  benefits."* 

The  conquests  of  the  Cid  excited  the  jealousy  of  the  other 
Christian  princes  of  Spain  ;  and  Raymond  III.  Count  of 
Barcelona,  an  ally  of  the  Moors,  whom  Kodrigo  had  attacked, 
defied  him  to  battle.  In  vain  did  the  Cid  attempt  to  accom- 
modate these  differences ;  he  was  compelled  to  give  battle, 
and  was  victorious.  Count  Kaymond  himself  being  taken 
prisoner.  The  Count's  sword,  surnamed  Colada,  worth  a 
thousand  marks  of  silver,  was  the  rich  trophy  of  this  vic- 
tory. The  Count,  ashamed  of  his  defeat,  and  disdaining  a 
dishonoured  life,  rejected  the  food  which  was  offered  liim  : 

"  I  will  not  eat  a  morsel  for  the  sum  of  all  Spain's  wealth  ; 

Not  for  my  soul's  salvation,  no,  nor  for  my  hotly 's  health, 

Since,  by  such  vagabonds  as  these,  I  have  been  vanquished." 

Now  listen  what  my  Cid,  Iluj  Dias  straightway  to  him  said  : 

"  Eat,  Count,  this  bread,  and  drink  tliis  wine,  and  do  as  I  command, 

And  speedily  from  prison  free,  believe  me,  you  shall  stand  ; 

Or  elsewisc  you  shall  never  more  behold  the  Christian  land." 

Don  Kaymond  answered  him  :  "  Eat  yourself,  Cid,  and  rejoice, 

But  as  for  me,  I  will  not  eat ;  so  leave  me  to  my  choice."t 


*  Sanchez,  v.  8.55,  p.  261. 

f  A  mio  Cid  Don  llodrigo  grant  cocinal  adoba])nn  ; 

El  Conde  Don  llemOnt  non  gelo  presia  nada. 

Aduccnle  los  comercs,  delante  gelos  paraban ; 

El  r.on  lo  quiere  comer,  a  todos  los  so/.anaba. 

Non  combre  un  bocado  por  (luanto  ha  en  toda  Espafia, 

Antes  perderc  el  cuerpo  e  dexare  el  alma  : 

Pues  que  tales  malcalzados  me  vencieron  de  batalla. 

Mio 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  103 

He  maintained  this  resolution  till  the  third  day ;  and 
whilst  they  were  dividing  their  immense  booty,  they  were 
unable  to  make  him  eat  a  single  moi'sel  of  bread.  At  last 
the  Cid  said  to  him  : 

Eat,  Count,  or  ne'er  again  Christian  visage  shalt  thou  see ; 
But  if  you  Avill  consent  to  eat,  and  give  content  to  me, 
You  and  your  children  twain  shall  presently  be  free. 

The  Count  was  moved,  and  demanding  water  to  wash  his 
hands,  he  ate,  and  the  Cid  placed  him  at  liberty. 

D.  Rodrigo  now  turned  his  arms  towards  the  South, 
though  he  still  remained  in  the  eastern  parts  of  Spain.  He 
took  Alicant,  Xerica,  and  Almenar,  and  prepared  for  the 
.siege  of  Valencia,  to  which  he  invited  all  the  chivalry  of 
Castile  and  Aragon.  After  a  siege  of  six  months  that  city 
capitulated.*  Here  he  established  a  bishop,  and  sent  for 
Ximena  and  his  daughters,  before  whom  he  marched  to  do 
them  lionour,  mounted  on  his  good  horse  Babieca,  the  name 
of  which  is  no  less  celebrated  in  Spain  than  that  of  the  Cid 
himself.  Scarcely  had  Ximena  safely  arrived  at  the  Alcazar, 
or  palace  of  the  Moorish  kings,  when  Yousouf,  the  Emperor 
of  INIoroeco,  landed  with  an  army  of  fifty  thousand  men. 
The  Cid  soon  received  intelligence  of  this  : 


C5 


This  news  unto  my  Cid  thus  suddenly  being  given, 

He  cried,  "  Thanks  to  God,  my  Father  who  is  in  Heaven, 

That  all  that  1  possess  is  here  before  my  sight. 

There  "s  Valencia  which  I  gained,  and  which  I  hold  as  my  right  ; 

Valencia  I  will  never  yield,  but  only  with  my  life. 

Now,  praised  be  God  and  the  Vii'gin,  my  daughters  and  my  wife. 

Those  blessings  of  the  land,  have  travelled  to  this  shore, 

And  now  shall  I  put  on  my  arms,  and  never  leave  them  more. 

My  daughters,  and  my  wife  likewise,  shall  see  me  smite  the  foe. 

And  to  gain  a  home  in  foreign  lands,  the  way  to  them  I'll  show  ; 

And  how  I  furnish  bread  to  them  thej'  by  their  eyes  shall  know. " 

His  daughters  and  his  wife,  from  the  towers  of  Alcazar, 

Their  eyes  they  lifted  up,  and  beheld  the  tents  of  war. 


Mio  Cid  Ruy  Dias  odrides  lo  que  d:xo. 

Comed,  Conde,  deste  pan,  e  bebed  deste  vino  : 

Si  lo  que  digo  ficieredes,  saldredes  de  cativo 

Si  non  en  todos  vuestros  dias  non  veredes  Christianismo. 

V.  1025,  p.  207. 

*  According  to  Muller,  whose  Dissertation  on  the  Cid  has  been  often 
consulted  by  us,  Valencia  yielded  to  the  hero  in  April,  1094. 


104  ON    THE    LITERATDRE 

"  What  is  this  matter,  Cid  ?  God  keep  you  safe  from  harm  I" 
"  You  need  not,  honoured  Lady,"  said  he,  "  feel  the  least  alarm  ! 
The  riches  whicli  are  shown  to  us  are  great  and  marvellous. 
For  scarcely  have  you  h.cre  arrived,  ■when  God  vouchsafcih  us 
For  these,  our  dearest  daughters,  a  marriage  portion  thus." 

The  Cid  immediately  gave  battle  to  the  Moorish  king,  and 
destroyed  nearly  his  whole  army,  carrying  off  likewise  a 
prodigious  booty,  a  portion  of  which  he  dispatched,  by  way 
of  paying  homage,  to  King  Alfonso,  who  offered  to  restore 
him  to  favour,  provided  he  would  give  his  two  daughters  in 
marriage  to  Diego  and  Fernando,  the  sons  of  Gonzales, 
Count  of  Carion.  The  description  of  the  feasts  which 
followed  these  marriages  completes  the  first  part  of  the  poem, 
which  contains  2287  verses. 

Tiie  Cid  had  bestowed  the  hands  of  his  daughters  on  the 
sons  of  Carion  only  at  the  solicitation  of  the  King.  He  re- 
garded the  marriages  with  great  regret  ;  and,  indeed,  on  the 
very  day  of  the  nuptials,  his  sons-in-law  showed  themselves 
little  worthy  of  such  an  alliance.  A  lion,  which  Kodrigo 
used  to  keep  fastened  up  in  his  palace,  broke  its  chain,  and 
rushed  into  the  hall,  vi'here  the  festivities  were  conducting. 
The  commotion  was  universal  ;  but  the  terror  of  the  children 
of  Carion  equalled  that  of  the  women.  They  retreated  behind 
the  guests,  whilst  the  Cid  advancing  towards  the  lion,  took 
him  by  the  chain,  and  led  him  back  to  his  den.  On  the 
arrival  of  a  fresh  Moorish  force  on  the  shores  of  Valencia, 
the  old  warriors  of  the  Cid  beheld  their  approach  with  joy, 
as  they  furnished  an  ojiportunity  of  again  acquiring  fame  and 
riches  ;  but  his  sons-in-law  sighed  for  tlieir  peaceable  retreat 
in  the  castle  of  Carion.  The  bishop  of  Valencia,  more  war- 
like than  the  y»Hing  princes,  seeking  the  presence  of  the  Cid, 
exclaimed  : 

To-day,  of  Holy  Trinity  will  I  recite  the  mass, 

And  for  that  purpose  from  the  town  now  hither  do  I  pass; 

To  do  that  holy  duty  I  stand  your  ranks  before. 

As  well  as  for  the  great  desire  I  have  to  kill  a  Moor : 

Fain  would  1  grace  my  holy  garb,  and  sanctify  my  hands. 

And  now  good  licence  do  I  ask  to  march  before  your  bands. 

My  banner  an<i  my  arms  1  bear,  and  if  it  pleases  God, 

Kight  soon  will  1  rejoice  my  lieart,  and  cover  them  with  blood. 

Your  noble  soul,  my  Cid,  tiius  gladly  would  1  cheer, 

But  if  this  favour  you  deny,  no  more  I  tarry  here* 


Y.  2380,  p.  320. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  105 

The  prayers  of  this  prelate,  tliough  not  of  a  very  Christian 
character,  were  heard,  and  at  tlie  commencement  of  the  com- 
bat, he  overthrew  two  Moors  with  his  lance,  and  put  1o  death 
five  more  with  his  sword.  The  exploits  of  the  Cid  were  still 
more  brilliant.  He  slew  Bucar,  the  Moorish  king,  who  led 
the  enemy,  and  gained  possession  of  his  sword,  named  Tizon, 
valued  at  a  thousand  marks  of  gold.  The  sons  of  Carion, 
however,  trembling  in  the  midst  of  veteran  warriors,  and 
exposed  to  the  ill-dissembled  contempt  of  all  the  Cid's  com- 
panions in  arms,  languished  to  return  to  their  native  place, 
and  besought  Rodrigo  to  pertnit  them  to  carry  tlieir  wives  to 
Carion,  to  bestow  upon  them  the  investiture  of  those  seign- 
ories  and  castles  which  they  had  pi'omised  them  as  their 
dower.  The  Cid  and  Ximena  beheld  their  departure  with 
the  darkest  forebodings,  and  their  daughters  Donna  Elvira 
and  Donna  Sol,  though  they  shed  a  flood  of  tears  on  this  se- 
paration from  their  father,  could  not  refuse  to  accompany 
their  husbands.  Rodrigo  overwhelmed  them  with  presents, 
giving  to  his  two  sons-in-law,  in  addition  to  very  considera- 
ble treasures,  the  two  swords  Colada  and  Tizon,  which  he 
had  won  from  the  Catalans  and  the  Moors,  and  at  the  same 
time  he  chai'ged  his  cousin,  Felez  Munos,  to  accompany  the 
travellers.  The  sons  of  Carion  hud,  however,  married  the 
daughters  of  the  Cid  only  from  avaricious  motives,  for  they 
thought  themselves  infinitely  their  superiors  in  birth,  and  as 
the  cowardly  are  ever  perfidious,  they  resolved  to  rid  them- 
selves of  the  burthen  on  their  journey,  and  then,  carrying  off 
their  treasures,  to  espouse  the  daughters  of  the  king.  They 
commenced  their  treacherous  proceedings  against  the  Moor 
Aben  Galvon,  King  of  Molina,  Ai'buxuelo,  and  Salon,  anally 
of  the  Cid,  and  his  best  friend.  On  their  journey  he  had 
loaded  them  with  presents,  and  entertained  them  with  brilliant 
festivals  ;  and,  in  return,  the  Infants  of  Carion  meditated  his 
assassination  in  order  to  gain  his  treasures.  A  Moor  latinado, 
that  is  to  say,  who  was  acquainted  with  the  Spanish,  over- 
heard the  plot,  and  gave  his  master  warning  of  it.  Aben 
Galvon  sent  for  the  Infants  of  Carion,  and  reproached  them 
with  their  infamous  ingratitude  : 

If  I  did  not  respect  the  Cid,  the  world  both  far  and  near 
How  justly  I  had  dealt  with  you  should  very  shortly  hear. 
The  daughters  of  my  faithful  Cid  no  more  should  wend  with  you ; 
Nor  ever  more,  believe  me,  Carion  should  you  view  ; 
VOL.  II.  G 


106  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

But  now  I  do  dismiss  you  both,  as  villains  and  traitors  too. 

A  gentle  farewell,  ladies,  both  :  I  wish  to  hear  no  more 

Of  these  your  husbands  ;  l)Ut  may  Heaven  great  blessings  have  in  store 

For  marriages  that  pbase  my  friend,  the  gallant  Campeador. 

The  Infants  of  Carion  continued  their  journey  until  the/ 
arrived  at  the  oak  forest  of  Corpes. 

The  mountains  there  are  high,  and  the  branches  scem'd  to  rest 
Upon  the  clouds,  and  wild  beasts  did  the  travellers  molest. 
They  found  a  pleasant  orchard,  through  which  a  streamlet  went. 
And  there  ihey  presently  resolved  that  they  would  pitch  their  tent  ; 
That  by  them  and  those  they  brought  with  them  the  night  might 

there  be  spent. 
They  pressed  their  ladies  to  their  hearts,  with  the  words  which  love 

attbrds  ; 
But  when  the  morning  came,  it  seem'd  they  had  forgot  those  words. 
Orders  were  given  by  them  to  load  their  baggage — a  rich  store  ; 
The  tent  in  which  that  night  they  slept  was  folded  up  once  more  ; 
And  the  servants  who  had  care  of  them  had  all  pushed  on  before. 
The  Infants  so  had  ordered  it,  that  no  one  should  remain, 
E.vcepting  Donna  Elvira  aud  Donna  Sol,  their  wives  twain. 

*  *  *  *  * 

The  rest  had  push'd  before,  and  these  four  remain'd  alone. 
When  to  their  wives  they  said  :  "  In  these  mountains  wild  and  lone. 
With  shame  shall  you  be  covered  :  as  for  us,  wc  travel  on. 
And  leave  you  here,  for  you  ne'er  shall  see  the  lands  of  Carion. 
You  may  carry  this  news  to  the  Cid,  and  say,  we  take  our  vengeance 

thus 
For  the  good  jest  he  play'd  on  us,  wnen  he  let  his  lion  loose." 

The  Infants  imagined  that,  in  order  to  prove  their  courage, 
or  rather  in  ridicule  of  their  timidity,  the  Cid  had  unchained 
the  lion  on  the  day  of  their  nuptials. 

Thus  having  said,  these  traitors  false  their  mantles  they  did  doff. 
And  from  their  coward  shoulders  their  pelisses  did  put  off: 
And  they  took  the  horses'  reins,  which  when  their  wives  did  sec, 
"  In  the  name  of  God,"  cried  Donna  Sol,  "  we  supplicate  that  ye. 
As  ye  have  two  trenchant  swords,  Colada  and  Tizon, 
With  them  will  slay  us  speedily,  that  wc,  when  we  are  gone, 
The  martyr  crown  not  shamefully  may  be  reckoned  to  have  won. 
But  whip  us  not  like  slaves  ;  lest  when  we  are  beaten,  you, 
By  the  blows  which  you  have  given,  shall  be  degraded  too." 

Their  supi)lications,  however,  were  useless.  The  Infants 
lashed  them  with  tlie  tliong^s,  until  the  blood  started  from  the 
wounds.  Tliey  fell  senseless  upon  the  ground,  and  their 
husbands  left  them  as  dead,  a  prey  to  the  birds  and  wild 
beasts. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  107 

Felez  Munoz,  however,  whom  the  Cid  had  du-ected  to  ac- 
company  them,  uneasy  at  their  delay,  waits  until  the  party 
passes.  When  he  sees  the  two  Infaiits  unattended  by  their 
wives,  without  discovering  himself,  which  would  undoubtedly 
have  occasioned  Iiis  death,  he  returns  and  finds  his  two 
cousins  stretched  upon  the  earth  and  weltering  in  their  blood. 

"  Cousins  !  gentle  cousins  ! "  cried  he,  "  waken  you  I  pray  ; 

For  the  love  of  God,  awaken  ;  and  hasten,  while  "lis  day. 

Lest  the  night  arrive,  and  wild  beasts  should  eat  us  on  our  way." 

At  his  cries,  his  cousins  both  their  senses  did  regain, 

And  opening  their  eyelids,  saw  Felez  Munoz  again. 

"  Make  an  effort,  cousins,  for  God's  sake,  cousins  dear. 

For  if  the  Infants  miss  me,  they'll  follow  my  footsteps  here  ; 

And  if  God  should  not  assist  us,  Ave  all  must  die,  I  fear." 

"  For  the  love  of  the  Cid,  our  father,"  Donna  Sol  she  cried  out  first, 

"  Bring  us  some  water,  cousin,  to  quench  our  raging  thirst." 

Felez  Munoz  hearing  her  complaint,  a  stream  of  water  sought, 

And  in  his  hat,  which  lately  in  Valencia  he  had  bought. 

To  satisfy  his  cousin's  thirst,  some  water  straightway  brought ; 

They  cruelly  were  torn,  but  he  did  exhort  them  so, 

That  their  courage  he  restored,  and  they  both  declar'd  they'd  go  ; 

So  he  placed  them  on  his  horse,  and  with  his  mantle  ho 

Did  cover  them,  and  he  took  the  reins,  and  they  journey 'd  joyfully 

Through  the  oak  woods  of  Corpus,  and  out  of  that  wild  country. 

At  twilight,  they  had  pass'd  the  hills,  and  reach'd  the  Douro's  side, 

Where  Felez  Munoz  left  them,  for  Santesteban,  to  provide 

Horses  and  habits  fit  for  them,  and  every  thing  beside. 

The  daughters  of  the  Cid  found  an  asylum  at  Santesteban, 
with  Diego  Tellez,  and  here  they  remained  until  the  news  of 
the  outrage  had  reached  Don  Rodrigo,  who  sent  for  his 
daughters  to  Valencia,  and  promised  them  that,  if  they  had 
lost  a  noble  alliance,  he  would  procure  them  one  still  better. 
Before  he  attempted  to  avenge  himself,  he  dispatched  an  am- 
bassador to  King  Alfonso,*  i-epresenting  to  him  that  it  was 
through  his  means  that  the  marriages  had  taken  place,  and 
that  the  Infants  of  Carion  had  outraged  tlie  king  as  much  as 
their  father-in-law.  He  then  demanded  that  in  a  Conference, 
Junta,  or  Cortes,  this  cause,  in  which  his  honour  was  com- 
mitted, should  be  judged  by  the  kingdom.  Alfonso  felt  the 
insult  Avhich  had  been  offered  to  the  Cid  and  to  himself,  and 
he  convoked  at  Toledo  the  Cortes  of  the  counts  and  nobles  to 
adjudge  this  cause  at  the  expiration  of  seven  weeks. 

The  very  animated  and  dramatic  description  of  the  Cortes 

*  V.  2960.  p.  342. 
G  2 


108  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

is,  perhaps,  the  most  interesting  portion  of  tlie  volume.  Its 
value,  as  an  historical  painting,  or  representation  of  manners, 
is  even  greater  than  its  poetical  excellence.  It  would, 
however,  be  more  easy  to  translate  the  seven  hundred  and 
forty  verses  which  compose  tlie  catastrophe,  tlian  to  preserve 
their  spirit  and  features  in  an  abridgment.  The  Cortes  are 
assembled  at  Toledo.*  The  grandees  of  Castile  arrive  in 
succession  at  this  city.  Count  D.  Garcia  Ordoiiez,  the 
enemy  of  the  Cid,  is  amongst  the  first.  He  encourages  the 
Infants  of  Carion,  and  promises  them  his  assistance,  and 
that  of  the  numerous  party  which  he  had  formed  in  the 
kingdom.  The  Cid  at  length  arrives,  attended  by  a  hundred 
knights,  amongst  whom  are  the  bravest  of  those  who,  in  con- 
junction with  him,  had  conquered  the  kingdom  of  Valencia, 
lie  has  requested  them  to  provide  themselves  with  their  best 
arms,  in  order  to  be  ready  for  the  combat,  if  attacked  ;  but, 
at  the  same  time,  he  desires  them  to  appear  in  their  richest 
habits  and  mantles,  that  in  the  great  assembly  of  the 
kingdom  they  may  wear  a  pacific  aspect.  As  soon  as  the 
Cid  enters  the  assembly,  the  Grandees  all  rise  to  do  him 
honour,  except  those  who  had  taken  part  with  the  Infants  of 
Carion.  Alfonso  himself  testifies  his  gratitude  to  the  hero 
of  Spain,  and  his  indignation  at  the  outrage  oflTered  to  him. 
He  appoints  judges  to  decide  between  the  Cid  and  the 
Infants,  selecting  them  from  such  as  had  not  yet  espoused 
either  side. 

The  Cid,  instead  of  immediately  relating  the  insult  of 
which  he  complained,  reminded  the  judges,  that,  at  the  time 
when  he  gave  away  his  daughters  in  marriage,  he  had 
bestowed  upon  those,  whom  he  believed  liis  sons-in-law,  two 
swords  of  great  price,  Coluda  and  T'izon,  whicli  he  had  won, 
the  one  from  the  Count  of  Barcelona,  the  other  from  the  King 
of  Morocco.  lie  demands  tliat  tiie  Infants,  who  had  re- 
turned his  daughters  to  him,  should  likewise  restore  this 
property  which  had  ceased  to  belong  to  them,  and  which 
formed  a  trophy  of  his  valour.  Count  Garcia  advised  the 
Infants  to  concede  this  point,  in  which  they  were  evidently 
wrong,  and  to  yield  up  the  swords.  Rodrigo  then  demands 
that  they   should    restore   three   thousand    marks   of   silver. 


Y.  3005.     This  city  had  been  lately  conquered  from  the  iloors. 


OF    THE    SPANIAEDS.  109 

which  they  had  received  as  a  dowry  with  his  daughters,  to 
which  they  could  make  no  claim.  The  Infants  are  com- 
pelled to  yield  in  this  instance  also,  and  they  pay  this  debt 
by  borrowing  from  their  friends,  or  mortgaging  their  lands. 
This  pretended  moderation  of  the  Cid,  who  seemed  desirous 
of  recovering  his  precious  effects,  instead  of  trusting  to  the 
judgment  of  God  to  clear  his  honour,  induced  the  Infants 
to  believe  that  they  should  only  have  to  dispute  with  him 
for  the  possession  of  this  property.  As  soon,  however,  as 
the  hero  had  recovered  his  riches,  and  had  given  his  two 
swords  to  Pero  Bermuez  and  Martin  Antolinez,  two  of  his 
most  faithful  relatives  and  lieutenants,  he  again  addressed 
the  king.* 

"  Justice  and  mercy,  my  Lord  the  King,  I  beseech  you  of  your 

grace  ! 
"  I  have  yet  a  grievance  left  behind,  which  nothing  can  efface. 
"  Let  all  men  present  in  the  court  attend  and  judge  the  case, 
"  Listen  to  what  these  Counts  have  done  and  pity  my  disgrace. 
"  Dishonour'd  as  I  am,  I  cannot  be  so  base, 
"  But  here  before  I  leave  them,  to  defy  them  to  their  face. 
"  Say,  Infants,  how  had  I  deserved,  in  earnest  or  in  jest, 
"  Or  on  whatever  plea  you  can  defend  it  best, 
"  That  you  should  rend  and  tear  the  heartstrings  from  my  breast  ? 
"  I  gave  you  at  Valencia  my  daughters  in  your  hand, 
"  I  gave  you  wealth  and  honours,  and  treasure  at  command  ; 
"  Had  you  been  weary  of  them,  to  cover  your  neglect, 
"  You  might  have  left  them  with  me,  in  honour  and  respect. f 

*  [The  remaining  translations  of  the  specimens  from  the  poem  of  the 
Cid  are  borrowed  from  the  Appendix  to  Mr.  Southey's  "  Chronicle  of 
the  Cid."  Nothing  can  surpass  the  spirit  and  simplicity  of  this  version, 
which  induces  us  to  regret  that  the  author  has  not  been  prevailed  upon 
to  publish  a  complete  translation  of  the  "  Spanish  Homer."  The  ex- 
tracts given  in  Mr.  Southey's  Appendix  were,  he  informs  us,  communi- 
cated to  him  by  a  gentleman  well  acquainted  with  the  Spanish  language; 
and  he  adds,  that  he  had  never  seen  any  translation  which  so  perfectly 
represented  the  manner,  character,  and  spirit  of  its  original. — Tr.] 

+  "  ilerced  ay,  Rey  ^  Senor,  por  amor  de  caridad. 
"  La  rencura  maior  non  se  me  puede  olvidar. 
"  Oydme  toda  la  cort,  e  pesevos  de  mio  mal. 
"  De  los  Infantes  de  Carion  quem'  desondraron  tan  mal, 
"  A  menos  de  riebtos  no  los  puedo  dexar. 
"  Decid  que  vos  mereci  Infantes  en  juego  o  en  vero  : 
"  0  en  alguna  razon  aqui  lo  meiorare  a  juuicio  de  la  cort. 
"  A  quem'  descubriestes  las  telas  del  corazon  ? 
"  A  la  salida  de  Valencia  mis  fijas  vos  di  yo, 
"  Con  muy  grand  ondra  fe  haberes  k  nombre. 

"  Quando 


110  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

"  Whj'  did  you  take  tbem  irom  me,  Dogs  and  Traitoi^s  as  you  were  ? 

"  lu  tbe  furest  of  Corpus,  why  did  you  strip  them  there? 

"  Why  did  you  mangle  tlicm  with  wliips  !  Wliy  did  you  leave  them  bare 

"  To  the  vultures  and  the  wolves,  and  to  the  wintry  air  1 

"  The  count  will  hear  your  answer,  and  judge  what  you  have  done. 

"  I  say,  your  name  and  honour  henceforth  is  lost  and  gone." 

The  Count  Don  Garcia  was  the  first  to  rise  : 

"  We  crave  your  iavour,my  Lord  the  King,  you  are  always  just  and  wise; 

"  The  Cid  is  come  to  your  court  in  such  an  uncouth  guise, 

"  He  has  left  his  beard  to  grow  aud  tied  it  in  a  braid, 

"  We  are  half  of  us  astonish'd,  the  other  half  afraul. 

"  The  blood  of  the  Counts  of  Carion  is  of  too  high  a  line 

"  To  take  a  daughter  from  his  house  though  it  were  for  a  concubine. 

"  A  concubine  or  a  Icman  from  the  lineage  of  the  Cid, 

"  They  could  have  done  no  other  than  leave  them  as  they  did  : 

"  We  neither  care  for  what  he  says  nor  fear  what  he  may  threat." 

With  that  the  noble  Cid  rose  up  from  his  seat ; 

1.  e  took  his  beard  in  his  hand  :  "  If  this  beard  is  fair  and  even, 

"  I  must  thank  the  Lord  above,  who  made  both  earth  and  heaven  ; 

"  It  has  been  cherished  with  respect  and  therefore  it  has  thriven : 

"  It  never  sufiered  an  all'ront  since  the  day  it  first  was  worn. 

"  What  business.  Count,  have  you  to  speak  of  it  with  scorn  / 

"  It  never  yet  wa.s  shaken,  nor  pluck'd  away  nor  torn, 

"  By  Christian  nor  by  Moor,  nor  by  man  of  woman  born, 

"  Quando  las  non  queriedes  ya  canes  traydores, 

"  Por  que  las  sacabades  de  Valencia  sus  onores  ? 

"  A  que  las  firiestes  a  cinchas  b  a  espolonesi 

"  Solas  las  dexastes  en  el  Kobredo  de  Corpfes 

"  A  las  bestias  fieras  e  a  las  aves  del  mont. 

"  Tor  quanto  les  ficiestes  menos  valedes  vos. 

"  Sinon  recudcdes  vealo  csta  cort." 

El  Coude  Don  Garcia  en  pic  se  Icvantaba ; 

"  Merced  ya,  Key,  el  meior  de  toda  Espafia. 

"  Yezos  Mio  Cid  alias  cortes  pregonadas  ; 

"  Dexola  crecer  e  luenga  trae  la  barba. 

"  Los  unos  le  ban  miedo  ii  los  otros  cspanta. 

"  Los  de  Carion  son  de  natural  tal, 

"  Non  gclas  debicn  quercr  sus  fijas  por  barraganas  ; 

"  0  quien  gelas  diera  por  jiarcia.s  o  por  vcladas. 

"  Dcrccho  licieron  porque  bis  ban  dexadas. 

"  (Quanto  el  dice  non  gelo  prcciauios  nada." 

Esora  el  Carapeador  prises'  a  la  ba.ba  ; 

"  Grade  a  Dies  que  Cielo  c  tierra  manda, 

"  Por  eso  es  luenga  que  a  delicio  fue  criada. 

"  Que  habedes  vos,  Conde,  por  retraer  la  mi  barba  '< 

"  Ca  de  quando  na.sco  a  delicio  fue  criada  ; 

"  Ca  non  me  priso  a  clbi  fijo  de  mugier  nada, 

"  Ximlda  mcso  fijo  de  More  nin  de  Christiano, 

"  Conio  yo  a  vos,  Conde,  en  el  Casticllo  do  Cabra, 

"  Quando  pria'  a  Cabra,  e  a  vos  por  la  barba. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  Ill 

"  As  yours  was  once,  Sir  Count,  the  day  Cabra  was  taken ; 

"  When  I  was  master  of  Cabra  that  beard  of  youis  Mas  shaken, 

"  There  was  never  a  footlioy  in  my  camp  but  tu  ilch'd  away  a  bit ; 

'•  The  side  that  I  tore  ofi"  grows  all  uneven  yet." 

Ferran  Gonzales  started  ujjon  the  iioor, 

He  cried  with  a  loud  voice,  "  Cid,  let  iis  hear  no  more ; 

"  Your  claim  for  goods  and  money  was  satisfied  before  : 

"  Let  not  a  feud  arise  betwixt  our  friends  and  you ; 

"  We  are  the  Counts  of  Carion,  from  them  our  birth  we  drew, 

"  Daughters  of  Emperors  or  Kings  were  a  match  for  our  degree, 

"  We  hold  ourselves  too  good  for  a  baron's  such  as  thee. 

"  If  we  abandon'd,  as  you  say,  and  left  and  gave  them  o'er, 

■'  We  vouch  that  we  did  right,  and  prize  ourselves  the  more." 

The  Cid  looked  at  Bennuez,  that  was  sitting  at  his  foot : 

'■■  Speak  thou,  Peter  the  Dumb,  what  ails  thee  to  sit  mute  ? 

"  Jly  daughters  and  thy  nieces  are  the  parties  in  dispute. 

"  Stand  forth  and  make  reply,  if  you  would  do  them  right ; 

"  If  I  should  rise  to  speak,  you  cannot  hope  to  fight." 

Peter  Bermuez  rose,  somewhat  he  had  to  say. 

The  words  were  strangled  in  his  throat,  they  could  not  find  their  way; 

Till  forth  they  came  at  once,  without  a  stop  or  stay. 

"  Cid,  I'll  tell  j'ou  what,  this  always  is  your  way  ! 

"  You  have  always  served  me  thus ;  whenever  we  have  come 

"  To  meet  here  in  the  Cortes,  you  call  me  Peter  the  Dumb. 


"  Non  y  ovo  rapaz  que  non  meso  su  pulgada ; 

"  La  que  yo  meso  aun  non  es  eguada." 

Ferran  Gonzales  en  pie  se  levanto  ; 

A  altas  voces  ondredes'<  que  fablo. 

"  Dexasedes  vos,  Cid,  de  f.questa  lazon ; 

"  De  vuestros  haberes  de  todos  pagados  sodes. 

"  Non  crecies'  baraia  entre  vos  e  nos. 

"  De  Natura  somos  de  Condes  de  Carion ; 

"  Debiemos  casar  con  fijas  de  Heyes  6  de  Emperadores  ; 

"  Ca  non  pertenecien  fijas  de  Infanzones. 

"  Porque  las  dexamos  ;  durecho  ficiemos  nos  ; 

"  JIas  nos  preciamos,  sabct,  que  menos  no." 

Mio  Cid  liuy  Diaz  a  Pero  Bermuez  cata  ; 

"  Fabla,  Pero  ]\Iudo,  varon  que  tanto  callas ; 

"  Hyo  las  he  fijas,  e  tu  primas  cormanas, 

"  A  mi  lo  dicen,  a  ti  dan  las  oreiadas. 

"  Si  yo  respondier',  tu  non  entraras  en  armas  " 

Pero  Bermuez  conpezo  de  fablar: 

Detienes'  le  la  lengua,  non  puede  delibrar, 

Mas  quando  enpieza,  sabed,  nol'  da  vagar. 

"  Direvos,  Cid,  costumbres  habedes  tales  ; 

"  Siempre  en  las  cortes,  Pero  ]\ludo  me  lamades. 

"  Bi<»n  lo  sabedes  que  yo  non  puedo  mas  ; 

"  Por  lo  que  yo  ovier'  a  fer  por  mi  non  mancara. 


Probably  oudredes. 

'•'  Mientes 


112  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

"  I  cannot  help  my  nature ;  I  never  talk  nor  rail  ; 

"  But  when  a  thing  is  to  be  done,  you  know  I  never  fail- 

"  Fernando,  you  have  lied,  you  liave  Hod  in  every  word  ; 

"  You  have  been  honourd  by  the  Cid,  and  favour'd  and  preferr'd. 

"  I  know  of  all  your  tricks,  and  can  tell  them  to  your  face  : 

"  Do  you  remember  in  Valencia  the  skinnish  and  the  chase? 

"  You  asked  leave  of  the  Cid,  to  make  the  first  attack  : 

"  You  went  to  meet  the  Moor,  but  you  soon  came  running  back. 

"  I  met  the  Moor  and  kill'd  him,  or  he  would  have  kill'd  you ; 

"  I  gave  you  up  his  arms,  and  all  that  was  my  due.  , 

"  Up  to  this  very  hour  1  never  said  a  word. 

"  You  praised  yourself  before  tlic  Cid,  and  I  stood  by  and  heard, 

"  How  you  had  kill'd  the  Moor,  and  done  a  valiant  act, 

"  And  they  believ'd  you  all,  but  tliey  never  knew  the  fact. 

"  You  are  tall  enough  and  handsome,  but  cowardly  and  weak. 

"  Thou  tongue  without  a  hand,  how  can  you  dare  to  speak  ] 

•'  There's  the  story  of  the  lion  should  never  be  forgot : 

"  Now  let  us  hear,  Fernando,  what  answer  have  you  got  ] 

"  The  Cid  was  sleeping  in  his  chair,  with  all  his  kniuhts  around, 

"  The  cry  went  forth  along  the  Hall,  That  the  lion  was  unbound, — 

"  What  did  you  do,  Fernando  ?  like  a  coward  as  you  were, 

"  You  slunk  behind  the  Cid,  and  crouch'd  beneath  his  chair. 

"  We  press'd  around  the  throne,  to  shield  our  Lord  from  harm, 

"  Till  the  good  Cid  awoke  ;  he  rose  without  alarm  ; 

"  He  went  to  meet  the  lion,  with  his  mantle  on  his  arm  ; 

"  Jlientes  Ferrando  de  quanto  dicho  has  : 

"  Por  el  Campeador  mucho  valiestes  mas. 

"  Las  tus  mafias  j'o  te  las  sabr6  contar ; 

"  Miembrat'  quando  lidiamos  cerca  Valencia  la  grand, 

"  Pedist'  las  feridas  primeras  al  Campeador  leal : 

"  Visf  un  Moro,  fustel'  ensaiar ;  antes  fugiste  que  al  te  alegases. 

"  Si  yo  non  uvjas'  el  Moro  te  jugara  mal, 

"  Pase  por  ti  con  el  Moro  me  ottde  aiuntar  : 

"  De  los  primeros  colpes  ofle  de  arrancar; 

"  Did  el  cavallo,  tobeldo  en  poridad  : 

"  Fasta  este  dia  no  lo  deseubri  a  nadi. 

"  Delant'  ^lio  Cid,  &  delante  todos  ovistete  de  alabar, 

"  Que  mataras  el  Moro  6  que  ficieras  barna.\. 

"  Crovierontelo  todos,  mas  non  saben  la  verdad. 

"  £  eres  fermoso,  mas  mal  barnigan. 

"  Lengua  sin  manes,  cuemo  osas  fablar  1 

"  Di  Ferrando,  otorga  esta  razon  ; 

*'  Non  te  viene  en  miente  en  Valencia  lo  del  Leon, 

"  Quando  durmie  Mio  Cid  ii  el  Leon  se  desato  I 

"  E  tu  Ferrando  que  ficist'  eon  el  pavor ! 

"  Metistet'  tras  el  escano,  de  Mio  Cid  el  Campeador, 

"  Metistet'  Ferrando,  poni  menos  vales  hoy. 

"  Nos  cercamos  el  escano  por  curiar  nuestro  Senor, 

"  Fasta  do  desperto  Mio  Cid  el  que  Valencia  gaiio. 

"  Levantos'  del  escano  6  fues'  poral  Leon  : 

"El 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS,  113 

"  The  lion  was  abasli'd  the  noble  Cid  to  meet, 

"  He  bow'd  his  mane  to  the  earth,  his  muzzle  at  his  feet, 

"  The  Cid  by  the  neck  and  mane  drew  him  to  his  den, 

"  He  thrust  "him  in  at  the  hatch,  and  came  to  the  hall  again  . 

"  He  found  his  knights,  his  vassals,  and  all  his  valiant  men  ; 

"  He  asi'd  for  his  sons-in-law,  they  were  neither  of  them  there. 

"  I  defy  you  for  a  coward  and  a  traitor  as  you  are  ; 

"  For  the  daughters  of  the  Cid  you  have  done  them  great  unright, 

"  In  the  wrong  that  they  have  sufler'd,  you  stand  dishonour'd  quite. 

"  Although  they  are  but  women,  and  each  of  you  a  knight, 

"  I  hold  them  worthier  far,  and  here  my  word  I  plight, 

"  Before  the  King  Alfonso  upon  this  plea  to  fight ; 

"  If  it  be  God  his  will,  before  the  battle  part, 

"  Thou  shalt  avow  it  with  thy  mouth,  like  a  traitor  as  thou  art." 

Uprose  Diego  Gonzalez  and  answered  as  he  stood  : 

"  By  our  lineage  we  are  Counts,  and  of  the  purest  blood  ; 

"  This  match  was  too  unequal,  it  never  could  hold  good  ; 

"  For  the  daughters  of  the  Cid  we  acknowledge  no  regret, 

"  We  leave  them  to  lament  the  chastisement  they  met. 

"  It  will  follow  them  through  life  for  a  scandal  and  a  jest  : 

"  I  stand  upon  this  plea  to  combat  with  the  best, 

"  That  having  left  them  as  we  did,  our  honour  is  increased." 

Uprose  Martin  Antolinoz  when  Diego  ceas'd  : 

"  Peace,  thou  lying  mouth  !  thou  traitor  coward,  peace  ! 

"  The  story  of  the  Hon  should  have  taught  you  shame  at  least : 

"  El  Leon  premio  la  cabeza,  a  Mio  Cid  espero, 

"  Dexos'  le  prender  al  cuello,  fe  a  la  red  le  metio. 

"  Q.uando  se  torno  el  buen  Campeador 

"  A  SOS  vasallos,  violos  aderredor. 

"  Demando  por  sus  Yernos,  ninguno  non  fallo. 

"  Riebtot'  el  cuerpo  por  malo  e  por  traydor. 

"  Estot'  lidiare  aqui  antel  Rey  Don  Alfonso 

"  For  fijas  del  Cid  Don'  Elvira  e  Dona  Sol. 

'•■  Por  quanto  las  dexastes  menos  valedes  vos. 

"  Ellas  son  mugieres,  h  vos  sodes  varones  ; 

"  En  todas  guisas  mas  valen  que  vos. 

"  Quando  fuere  la  lid,  si  ploguiere  al  Criador, 

"  Tu  lo  otorgaras  aguisa  de  traydor. 

"  De  quanto  he  dicho  verdadero  sere  yo." 

De  aquestos  amos  aqui  quedo  la  razon. 

Diego  Gonzalez  odredes  lo  que  dixo  : 

"  De  uatura  somos  de  los  Condes  mas  limpios. 

"  Estos  casamientos  non  fuesen  aparecidos 

"  Por  consograr  con  Mio  Cid  Don  Rodrigo. 

"  Porque  dexamos  sus  fijas  aun  no  nos  repentimos. 

"  Mientra  que  vivan  pueden  haber  sospiros. 

"  Lo  que  les  ficiemos  series  ha  retraido ;  esto  lidiare  a  tod'  el  mas 

ardido. 
"  Que  porque  las  dexamos  ondrados  somos  nos." 
Martin  Antolinez  en  pie  se  levantaba  ; 

"  Gala, 


114  OX    THE   LITERATUKE 

"  You  rnsli'd  out  at  the  door,  and  ran  away  ^o  hard, 
"  You  fell  into  the  cispool  that  uas  open  in  the  yard. 
"  We  dragg'd  you  forth  in  all  mens  sight,  dripping  from  the  drain  ; 
"  For  rihame,  never  wear  a  mantle,  nor  a  knightly  robe  again  ! 
"  I  fight  upon  this  plea  without  more  ado, 
"  The  daughters  of  the  Cid  are  worthier  fiir  than  you. 
"  Before  the  combat  part  you  shall  avow  it  true. 
''  And  that  you  have  been  a  traitor  and  a  coward  too."' 
Thu.s  was  ended  the  parley  and  challenge  betwixt  these  two. 
Assur  Gonzalez  was  entering  at  the  door 
With  his  ermine  mantle  trailing  along  the  floor  ; 
With  his  sauntering  pace  and  his  hardy  look, 
Of  manners  or  of  courtesy,  little  heed  he  took  : 
He  was  flush'd  and  hot  with  breakfast  and  with  drink. 
"  What  oh,  my  masters,  your  spirits  seem  to  sink  ! 
"  Have  we  no  news  stirring  from  the  Cid  lluy  Diaz  of  Bivar  ] 
'"  Has  he  been  to  Riodivinia  to  besieu;e  the  windmills  there  ? 
'"  Does  he  tax  the  millers  fur  their  toll,  or  is  that  practice  past  1 
"■  Will  he  make  a  match  for  his  daughters,  another  like  the  last }" 
Munio  Gustioz  rose  and  made  reply ; 
"  Traitor,  wilt  thou  never  cease  to  slander  and  to  lie  ] 


"  Gala,  alevoso,  boca  sin  verdad. 

"  Lo  del  Leon  non  se  te  debe  olvidar ; 

"  Saliste  por  la  puerta,  metistet'  al  corral ; 

"  Fusted  meter  tras  la  viga  lagar ; 

"  Mas  non  vestid'  el  manto  nin  el  brial : 

"  Hyo  lo  lydiare,  non  pasara  por  al. 

"  Fijas  del  Cid  por  que  las  vos  dexastesl 

"  En  todas  guisas,  sabet,  que  mas  valen  que  vos. 

"  Al  partir  de  la  lid  por  tu  boca  lo  diras, 

"  Que  eras  traydor  ti  mentiste  de  quanto  dicho  has." 

Destos  amos  la  razon  finco. 

Asur  Gonzales  cntraba  por  el  Palacio ; 

Manto  armiuo  ^  un  brial  rastrando  ; 

Bermeio  viene,  ca  era  almorzado. 

En  lo  que  fablo  avie  poco  recabdo. 

"  Hya  varones  quien  vio  nunca  tal  mal  ] 

"  Quien  nos  darie  nuevas  de  Mio  Cid  el  de  Bihar? 

"  Fues'  a  Kiodouirna  los  molinos  jjicar, 

"  E  prender  maquilas  como  lo  suele  far"  : 

"  Quir  darie  con  los  de  Carion  a  casar'  ]'' 

Esora  Muno  Gustioz  en  pie  se  levanto : 

"  Gala,  alevoso,  malo  &  traydor, 

"  Antes  almuerz  IS  que  bayas  a  oracion  ; 

"  A  los  que  das  paz,  fartaslos  aderredor. 

"  Non  dices  verdad  amigo  ni  a  Seiior, 

"  Falso  a  todos  b  mas  al  Criador. 

"  En  tu  amistad  non  quicro  aver  racion. 

"  Facertelo  decir  que  tal  eres  qual  digo  yo." 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  1  1  o 

"  You  lirealifast  before  mass,  you  drink  l:)cfore  you  pray  ; 

"  There  is  uo  honour  in  your  heart,  nor  truth  in  what  you  say ; 

"  You  cheat  your  comrade  aud  your  Lord,  you  flatter  to  betray  : 

"  Your  hatred  I  despise,  your  friendship  I  dpfy  : 

"  False  to  all  mankind,  and  most  to  God  on  high. 

"  I  shall  force  you  to  confess  that  what  1  say  is  true." 

Alfonso  here  imposes  silence  upon  the  assembly.  He 
declares  that  he  grants  permission  to  the  challengers  to  fight, 
and  that  by  them  the  cause  shall  be  decided.  At  this 
moment  two  ambassadors  from  Navarre  and  Aragon  enter 
the  assembly,  and  demand  of  the  Cid,  with  the  consent  of 
Alfonso,  to  grant  his  two  daughtf^rs  in  marriage  to  the  two 
Kings  or  Infants  of  Navarre  and  Aragon  ;  a  request  suffi- 
ciently singular  after  the  adventures  which  they  had  undergone, 
llodrigo,  at  the  solicitation  of  Alfonso,  accedes  to  the  demand. 
Menaya  Alvar  Fanez,  one  of  the  Cid's  friends,  takes  this 
opportunity  of  again  defying  either  of  the  Infants  who  may 
be  inclined  to  meet  him.  The  king,  however,  again  imposes 
silence,  and  declares  that  the  three  first  couple  of  combatants 
are  sufficient  to  settle  the  question.  He  was  desirous  of 
adjourning  the  combat  till  the  following  day  only,  but  the 
Infants  of  Carion  demand  three  weeks  in  order  to  prepare 
themselves  ;  and  as  the  Cid  wishes  to  return  to  Valencia, 
the  king  takes  under  his  own  protection  the  tiiree  knights 
who  were  to  combat  for  him.  He  promises  to  preside  at  the 
combat  on  the  plains  of  Carion  ;  and  having  appointed  the 
two  parties  to  meet  there  in  one  and  twenty  days,  he  an- 
nounces that  those  who  fail  to  appear  shall  be  accounted 
vanquished,  and  reckoned  as  traitors.  Don  Rodrigo  tiien 
unties  his  beard,  which  hitherto  he  had  kept  bound  in  sign 
of  his  'affliction  ;  he  thanks  the  king,  and  taking  leave  of  all 
the  grandees,  to  each  of  whom  he  offers  a  present,  returns 
to  Valencia.  He  endeavoured  to  make  the  king  accept  his 
good  horse,  Babieca  ;  but  the  monarch  answered  that  the 
charger  would  be  a  loser  by  the  change,  and  that  it  was  fit 
that  the  best  warrior  in  Spain  should  possess  the  best  horse 
to  pursue  the  Moors. 

After  a  delay  of  three  weeks,  Alfonso  proceeds  to  Carion 
with  the  three  champions  of  the  Cid.  On  the  other  side  the 
Infants  of  Carion  arm  tliemselves  under  the  superintendence 
of  the  Count  Gai-cia  Ordonez.  They  beg  the  king  to  forbid 
their  adversaries  to  use  the  two  good    swords    C'ulada  and 


116  ox    THE    LITEItATUKE 

Tizon,  wliidi  tliey  had  restored,  and  wliicli  were  about  to  he 
used  against  their  late  masters.  The  king  replies  that  they 
had  restored  them  in  the  Cortes  without  drawing  them  from 
their  sheaths,  and  that  it  is  now  their  duty  to  procui'e  good 
weapons.  He  directs  the  barriers  to  be  raised  ;  he  names 
the  heralds  and  the  judges,  and  then  thus  addresses  them  : 

"  Infants  of  Carion  !     Attend  to  what  I  say  : 

"  You  sliould  have  fought  this  battle  upon  a  former  day, 

"  When  we  were  at  Toledo,  but  you  would  not  agree  ; 

"  And  now  the  noble  Cid  has  sent  these  champions  three, 

"  To  fight  in  the  lauds  of  Carion,  escorted  here  by  me. 

"  Be  valiant  in  your  right,  attempt  no  force  or  wrong; 

"  If  any  man  attempt  it  he  shall  not  triumph  long, 

"  He  never  shall  have  rest  or  peace  within  my  kingdom  more." 

The  Infants  of  Carion  are  now  repenting  sore  ; 

The  Heralds  and  the  King  are  foremost  in  the  place. 

They  clear  away  the  people  from  the  middle  space  : 

They  measure  out  the  lists,  the  barriers  they  fix  : 

They  point  them  out  in  order,  and  explain  to  all  the  six  : 

"  If  you  are  forc'd  beyond  the  line  where  they  are  fix'd  and  traced, 

"  You  shall  be  held  as  conquered  and  beaten  and  disgraced." 

Six  lances  length  on  either  side  an  open  space  is  laid, 

They  share  the  field  between  them,  the  sunshine  and  the  shade. 

Their  office  is  pcrform'd,  and  from  the  middle  space 

The  heralds  are  withdrawn,  and  leave  them  face  to  face. 

Here  stood  the  warriors  of  the  Cid,  that  noble  champion. 

Opposite  on  the  other  side,  the  Lords  of  Carion.  ■■ 

*  "  0yd  que  vos  digo,  Infantes  de  Carion  ; 

"  Esta  lid  en  Toledo  la  ficierades,  mas  non  quisiestes  vos  : 

"  Estos  tres  cavalleros  de  niio  Cid  cl  Ci'mpeador, 

"  Hyo  los  aduj'  a  salvo  a  tierras  de  Carion. 

"  Habed  vuestro  derecho,  tucrto  non  querades  vos  ; 

"  Ca  qui  tuerto  quisiere  fazer,  mal  gelo  vedare  yo  ; 

'•  En  todo  mio  regno  non  habra  buen  sabor." 

Hya  les  va  pesandc  3,  los  Infantes  de  Carion. 

Los  Fieles  fc  el  lley  ensenaron  los  moioncs. 

Librabanse  del  campo  todos  adcrredor  ; 

Bien  gelo  demonstrarou  a  todos  seis  como  son, 

Que  por  y  serie  vencido  qui  salicsc  del  moion. 

Todas  las  yentes  esconbraron  aderredor 

De  seis  astas  de  lanzas  que  non  legasen  al  moion. 

Sorteabanles  el  campo,  ya  les  partien  el  .sol  ; 

Salien  los  Fieles  de  medio  ellos,  cara  por  cara  son. 

Desi  vinien  los  de  Mio  Cid  a  los  Infantes  de  Carion, 

Ellos  Infantes  de  Carion  a  los  del  Campeador. 

Cada  uno  dellos  micutes  tiene  al  so. 

Abrazan  los  cscudos  delant'  los  corazones  ; 

Abaxan  las  lanzas  abueltas  con  los  pendones ; 

Eucliuabuu 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS,  117 

Earnestly  their  minds  are  fix'd  each  upon  his  foe  ; 

Face  to  face  they  take  their  place,  anon  the  trumpets  hlow. 

They  stir  their  horses  with  the  spur,  they  lay  their  lances  low, 

They  bend  their  shields  before  their  breasts,  their  face  to  the  saddlebow. 

Earnestly  their  minds  are  fix'd  each  upon  his  foe. 

The  heavens  are  overcast  above,  the  earth  trembles  below. 

The  people  stand  in  silence,  gazing  on  the#how  : 

Bermuez  the  first  challenger  first  in  combat  closed. 

He  met  Ferran  Gonzales,  face  to  face  opposed  ; 

They  rush  together  with  such  rage  that  all  men  count  them  dead, 

They  strike  each  other  on  the  shield,  without  all  fear  or  dread. 

Ferran  Gonzales  with  bis  lance  pierced  the  shield  outright, 

It  pass'd  Bermuez  on  the  left  side,  in  his  flesh  it  did  not  bite. 

The  spear  was  snapp'd  in  twain,  Bermuez  sat  upright, 

He  neither  flinch'd  nor  swerved,  like  a  true  steadfast  knight. 

A  good  stroke  he  received,  but  a  better  he  has  given  ; 

He  struck  the  shield  upon  the  boss,  in  sunder  it  is  riven. 

Onward  into  Ferran's  breast  the  lance's  point  is  driven, 

Full  upon  his  breast-plate,  nothing  would  avail ; 

Two  breast-plates  Fernando  wore  and  a  coat  of  mail : 

The  two  are  riven  in  sunder,  the  third  stood  him  in  stead, 

The  mail  sunk  in  his  breast,  the  mail  and  the  spear-head, 

The  blood  burst  from  his  mouth  that  all  men  thought  him  dead. 

The  blow  has  broken  his  girdle  and  his  saddle  girth, 

It  has  taken  him  over  his  horse's  back,  and  borne  him  to  the  earth. 


Enclinaban  las  caras  sobre  los  arzones  ; 

Batien  los  cavallos  con  los  espolones  ; 

Tembrar  querie  la  tierra  dod  eran  movedores. 

Cada  uno  dellos  mientes  tiene  al  so. 

Todos  tres  por  tres  ya  juntados  son. 

Cuidanse  que  esora  cadran  muertos,  los  que  estan  aderredor. 

Pero  Bermuez  el  que  antes  rebto. 

Con  Ferran  Gonzalez  de  cara  se  junt6 ; 

Feriense  en  los  escudos  sin  todo  pavor ; 

Ferran  Gonzalez  a  Pero  Bermuez  el  escudol'  paso  ; 

Prisol'  en  vacio,  en  came  nol'  tomo  : 

Bien  en  dos  lugares  el  astil  le  quebro ; 

Firme  estido  Pero  Bermuez,  por  eso  nos'  encam6  ; 

Un  colpe  recibiera,  mas  otro  firio ; 

Quebranto  la  boca  del  escudo,  apart  gela  echo  ; 

Pasogelo  todo  que  nada  nol'  valio ; 

Metiol'  la  lanza  por  los  pechos,  que  nada  nol'  valio  ; 

Tres  dobles  de  loriga  tenie  Fernando,  aquestol'  presto 

Las  dos  le  desmanchan,  fe  la  tercera  finco  : 

El  belmez  con  la  eamisa  e  con  la  guarnizon 

De  dentro  en  la  carne  una  mano  gela  metio  ; 

Por  la  boca  afuera  la  sangrel'  salio. 

Quebrar  onle  las  cinchas,  ninguna  nol'  ovo  pro  ; 

Por  la  copla  del  cavallo  en  tierra  lo  echo, 

Aai 


118  ON    THE    LITKKATUUE 

The  people  think  him  dead  as  he  lies  on  the  sand  ; 
Bermuez  lefi  his  hince  and  took  his  sword  in  liand. 
Ferran  Gonzales  knew  the  blade  whieh  he  had  worn  of  old, 
Before  the  blow  came  down,  he  yielded  and  cried,  "  Hold  I" 
Antolinez  and  Diego  encounterd  man  for  man, 
Their  spears  were  shiver'd  with  tlie  siiock,  so  eagerly  they  ran. 
Antolinez  drew  forth  tli^g  blade  which  Diego  once  had  worn, 
Eagerly  he  aim'd  the  blow  for  the  vengeance  he  had  sworn. 
Right  through  Diego's  helm  the  blade  its  edge  has  borne, 
The  crest  and  helm  are  lopt  away,  tiie  coif  and  hair  are  sliorn. 
He  stood  astounded  with  the  stroke,  trembling  and  forlorn. 
He  waved  his  sword  aljove  his  head,  he  made  a  piteous  cry, 
"  0  save  me,  save  me  from  that  blade.  Almighty  Lord  on  higli 
Antolinez  came  fiercely  on  to  reach  the  fetal  stroke, 
Diego"s  courser  rear'd  upright,  and  through  the  barrier  broke. 
Antolinez  has  won  the  day,  though  his  blow  was  miss'd. 
He  has  driven  Diego  from  the  field,  and  stands  within  the  list. 
I  must  tell  you  of  ^lunio  Gustioz,  two  combats  now  are  done  ; 
How  he  fought  with  Assur  Gonzales,  vou  shall  hear  anon. 


Aai  lo  tenien  las  yentes  que  mal  ferido  es  de  muert. 

El  dexo  la  lanza,  h  al  espada  metio  mano. 

Quando  lo  vio  Ferran  Gonzalez,  conuuo  a  Tizon. 

Antes  que  el  colpe  esperase,  dixo,  "  venzudo  so," 

Otorgarongelo  los  Fieles,  Pero  Bennuez  le  dexo. 

]yiartin  Antolinez  e  Diego  Gonzalez  firieronse  de  las  lanzas  ; 

Tales  fueron  los  colpes  que  les  quebraron  Ian  lanzas; 

Martin  Antolinez  mano  metio  al  espada  ; 

Rehimbra  tod' el  campo,  tanto  es  limpia  fe  elara. 

Diul"  un  colpe,  de  traviesol'  tomaba  ; 

El  casco  de  somo  apart  gelo  echaba  ; 

Las  moucluras  del  yelmo  todas  gelas  cortaba  : 

Alia  lebo  el  almol'ar,  fata  la  cofia  legaba  ; 

La  cofia  ii  el  almofar  todo  gelo  lebaba ; 

Eaxol'  los  pelos  de  la  cabeza,  bien  a  la  carne  legaba. 

Lo  uno  cayo  en  el  campo  e  lo  al  suso  tincaba. 

Quando  desfe  colpe  ha  ferido  Colada  la  preciada, 

Vio  Diego  Gonzalez  que  no  escaparie  con  alma. 

Bolvi.)  la  rienda  al  cavalio  por  tornase  de  cara. 

Esora  Martin  Antolinez  recibioTcon  el  espada. 

Un  colpel'  dio  de  lano,  con  el  agudo  nol'  tomaba. 

Dia  Gonzalez  espada  tiene  en  mano,  mas  non  la  ensaiaba. 

Esora  el  Infante  tan  grandes  voces  daba, 

"  ^'alme,  Dios  glorioso,  Senor,  e  curiarm'  desta  espada  !" 

El  cavalio  asorrienda  e  mesurundol'  del  espada, 

Sacol'  del  moion,  ilartin  Antolinez  en  el  campo  fincaba. 

Esora  dixo  el  Key,  "  venid  vos  a  mi  coinpana, 

"  For  quanto  avedes  feclio,  vencida  avedus  csta  batalla." 

Oiorgangelo  los  Fieles  que  dice  verdadera  palabra. 

Los  dos  han  arrancado  :  direvos  de  Mufio  Gustioz 

Con 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  119 

Assur  Gonzales,  a  fierce  and  hardy  knight, 

He  rode  at  Miinio  Gustio/  with  all  his  force  and  might : 

He  struck  the  shield  and  pierced  it  through,  but  the  point  came  wide, 

It  passed  by  Munio  Gustioz,  betwixt  his  arm  and  side : 

Sternly,  like  a  practised  knight,  JIunio  met  him  there. 

His  lance  he  levell'd  steadfastly,  and  through  the  shield  him  bare ; 

He  bore  the  point  into  his  breast,  a  little  beside  the  heart ; 

It  took  him  through  the  body,  but  in  no  mortal  part  ; 

The  shaft  stood  out  behind  his  back  a  clothyaj-d  and  more  ; 

The  pennon  and  the  point  were  dripping  down  with  gore. 

Munio  still  clench  d  hi.s  spear,  as  he  pass'd  he  forced  it  round. 

He  wrench'd  him  from  the  .saddle,  and  cast  him  to  the  ground. 

His  horse  sprung  forward  with  the  spur,  he  pluck'd  the  spear  away. 

He  wheel'd  and  came  again  to  pierce  him  where  he  lay. 

Then  cried  Gonzalo  Asurez,  "  For  God's  sake  spare  my  son  ! 

"  The  other  two  have  yielded,  the  field  is  fought  and  won." 

The  heralds  and  king  Alfonso  proclaim  that  the  champions 
of  the  Cid  have  conquered.  Tlie  hitter,  iiowever,  are  conveyed 
during  the  night  from  the  lands  of  Carion,  and  return  to  tiieir 
leader,  lest  the  vassals  of  the  Infants  should  avenge  the  dis- 
comfiture of  their  lords. 

The  two  last  verses  of  this  poem  inform  us  that  the  Cid 
died  on  the  Day  of  Pentecost,  witliout  stating  the  year  or 
the  mode  of  his  death.  Commentators  have  supposed  that  it 
was  on  the  29th  of  Ma}'.  1099;  and  MuUer  has  conjectured 
that  it  was  in  the  montii  of  July,  in  the  same  year.  In  ex- 
Con  Asur  Gonzalez  como  se  adobo  : 

Firiense  en  los  escudos  unos  tan  grandes  colpes  : 

Asur  Gonzalez,  furzudo  ^  de  valor, 

Firio  en  el  escudo  a  Don  Muno  Gustioz. 

Tras  el  escudo  falsoge  la  guarnizon; 

En  vacio  fue  la  lanza,  ca  en  carne  nol'  tomo. 

Este  colpe  fecho,  otro  did  Jlufio  Gustioz, 

Tras  el  escudo  fal.soge  la  guarnizon. 

For  medio  de  la  bloca  del  escudo  quebrant6. 

Nol'  pudo  guarir,  falsoge  la  guarnizon. 

Apai't'  le  priso,  que  non  cabel  corazon. 

Metiol'  por  la  carne  adentro  la  lanza  con  el  pendon. 

De  la  otra  part  una  braza  gela  echo  : 

Con  el  dii)  una  tuerta,  de  la  siella  lo  eneamo, 

Al  tirar  de  la  lanza  en  tierra  lo  echo. 

Bermeio  salio  el  astil,  6  la  lanza  e  el  pendon. 

Todos  se  cuedan  que  ferido  es  dc  muert. 

La  lanza  recombro  e  sobrel  se  paro 

Dixo  Gonzalo  Asurez,  nol'  firgudes  por  Dios. 

Venzudo  es  el  campo  quando  esto  se  aeabo. 


120  ON    THE    LITEUATUUE 

araining,  in  lac  next  chapter,  the  romances  or  ballads  of  the 
Cid,  we  shall  meet  with  some  circumstances  relative  to  the 
death  of  the  Spanish  hero. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

SPANISH  POETKT  OF  THE  THIRTEENTH  CENTURY. ROMANCES  OF  THE  CID. 

The  Cid  has  already  occupied  much  of  our  time,  nor  can 
we  yet  dismiss  him.  This  hero,  who  was  more  instrumental 
than  even  the  princes  wliom  he  served,  in  founding  the 
monarchy  of  Castile,  and  who,  during  the  course  of  his  long 
life,  led  tlie  conquering  arms  of  his  sovereign  over  nearly  a 
quarter  of  Spain,  is  intimately  connected  with  all  our  ideas  of 
the  glory,  the  love,  and  the  chivalry  of  the  Spanish  nation. 
In  the  foreground  of  their  history  and  of  their  poetry,  the  Cid 
stands  conspicuous,  while  the  renown  of  his  name  fills  the  age 
in  which  he  lived.  So  dear,  indeed,  is  his  memory  to  the 
Spaniards,  that  the  form  of  their  most  sacred  and  irrevocable 
adjuration  is  derived  from  his  name  ;  affe  de  Rodrif/o,  by  the 
faith  of  Rodrigo,  says  the  Spaniard,  who  would  strengthen  his 
promise  by  recalling  the  ancient  loyalty  of  this  hero. 

It  is  said  that  the  original  Chronicle  of  the  Cid  was  written 
in  Arabic  a  few  years  after  his  death,  by  two  of  his  pages, 
who  were  Musulmans,  and  that  from  this  chronicle,  the  poem 
of  wliich  we  have  given  some  extracts  was  taken,  as  well  as 
the  romances  which  we  are  about  to  notice,  and  many  of  the 
most  admired  tragedies  on  the  same  subject  in  the  Spanish 
drama.  The  poem,  though  a  most  Christian  performance, 
bears  some  traces  of  its  Arabic  origin.  The  style  in  which  the 
Divinity  is  spoken  of,  and  the  epithets  which  are  applied  to 
him,  bear  traces  of  a  Moorish,  rather  than  of  a  Catholic  pen. 
He  is  called  the  Father  of  Spirits,  the  Divine  Creator,  and 
other  names,  which,  as  they  are  sufficiently  accordant  with 
Christian  notions,  the  poet  has  preserved,  although  they 
betray  their  JMusulman  origin.  This  poem,  which  is  anterior 
by  a  huiulred  and  fifty  years  to  the  immortal  composition  of 
Dante,  bears  evident  marks  of  its  venerable  antiquity.  It  is 
without  pretension  and  without  art,  but  full  of  the  finest 
nature,  and  gives  an  excellent  idea  of  the  people  of  that  age, 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS,  121 

SO  different  from  those  of  our  own.  "We  live  amongst  them,  as 
it  were,  and  our  minds  are  the  more  completely  captivated, 
because  we  know  that  the  author  had  no  design  to  paint  a 
brilliant  picture.  Just  as  he  found  them,  the  poet  has  exposed 
them  to  our  view,  without  the  least  desire  to  make  an  exhibi- 
tion of  them.  The  incidents  which  strike  us,  bore  no  extraor- 
dinai-y  character  in  his  eyes.  There  was  to  liim  no  distinction 
between  the  manners  of  his  heroes  and  of  his  readers,  and 
the  simplicity  of  the  representation,  which  supplies  the  place 
of  talent,  produces  a  more  powerful  effect. 

With  regard  to  the  versification,  I  scarcely  know  any  pro- 
duction more  completely  barbarous.  Many  of  the  lines  are 
Alexandrines,  that  is,  lines  of  fourteen  syllables,  with  a 
caesura  on  the  sixth,  which  is  accentuated ;  but  many  others 
consist  of  fifteen,  or  even  eighteen  syllables,  so  that  the  author 
seems  to  have  arranged  his  expressions  without  ever  attempt- 
ing to  adapt  them  to  his  metre.  Many  of  the  lines  are  doubt- 
less altered  by  transcribers,  but  more  have  been  left  unfinished 
by  the  poet  himself 

The  rhyme  alone  enables  the  reader  to  discover  that  the 
composition  is  in  verse,  though  even  that  is  so  barbarous,  that 
gometimes  we  have  considerable  difficulty  in  ascertaining  its 
existence.  The  Spaniards  distinguish  their  rhymes  into  conso- 
nant and  assonant  rhymes.  The  latter,  as  we  have  formerly 
explained  them,  consist  in  the  repetition  of  the  same  vowel. 
When  the  Spaniards  had  become  more  familiar  with  poetical 
composition,  and  had  laid  down  certain  rules  of  art,  the  asso- 
nant rhymes  became  as  regular  as  the  consonant.  If  the 
rhyme  was  not  complete,  being  only  framed  from  the  vowels 
of  the  two  last  syllables,  it  was  prolonged,  and  all  the  second 
verses  of  the  romance  were  terminated  by  the  same  assonant 
rhymes.  In  the  poem  of  the  Cid,  the  assonants  are  very  incom- 
plete, and  fail  to  satisfy  the  ear.  The  poet  rhymes  the  same 
vowel  for  fifteen,  twenty,  or  even  thirty  lines,  until  he  fatigues 
himself  in  endeavouring  to  discover  more  words  suited  to  his 
purpose,  and  he  is  thus  compelled  to  abandon  his  former  for 
some  new  rhyme,  which  in  its  turn  must  share  the  same  fate. 
This  was  the  infancy  of  versification,  of  poetry,  and  of  lan- 
guage in  Spain,  but  it  was  the  manhood  of  national  spirit  and 
of  heroism. 

Before  entering  upon  the  romances  of  the  Cid,  which  were 

VOL.  II.  u 


122  ox    TUE    LITERATURE 

composed  more  than  a  century  after  the  ancient  poem,  we 
must  for  a  short  time  dismiss  the  hero,  and  notice  some 
remains  of  Spanish  poetry,  which  belong  to  the  thirteenth 
century.  Sanchez  has  published  the  works  of  two  writers 
of  this  remote  period,  of  whose  lives  he  has  likewise  given 
us  some  account.  The  first  is  Gonzalez  de  Berceo,  a  monk, 
and  afterwards  a  priest,  attached  to  tlie  monastery  of  Saint 
Millan,  who  was  born  in  1198,  and  died  about  tlie  year  12G8. 
Nine  poems  by  him  have  been  preserved,  making  together 
upwards  of  thirty  thousand  verses.  To  judge  merely  from 
the  language  and  versification,  these  productions  would  seem 
to  be  posterior  to  the  ancient  poem  of  tlie  Cid,  though  they 
cannot  be  compared  with  that  composition  in  point  of  sim- 
plicity and  interest.  The  metre  is  the  same,  but  more  care- 
fully managed,  and  the  lines  are  Alexandrines,  sometimes 
consisting  of  four  dactyls,  sometimes  of  four  amphibrachs, 
which  are  always  carelessly  put  together.  The  verses  con- 
sist of  couplets,  of  four  lines  each,  and  the  lines  of  each 
couplet  conclude  with  the  same  rhyme.  This  was  the  metre 
to  which  the  Spaniards  gave  the  title  of  versos  de  arte  mayor, 
and  which  they  reserved  for  their  more  serious  works,  while 
they  destined  the  livelier  measure  of  the  redondillias  for 
their  romances  and  songs.  The  former  continued  to  be  em- 
ployed to  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century ;  and  Gonzalez  de 
Berceo  was  the  master  of  this  style  of  poetry,  which  was 
regarded  as  the  most  noble,  while  in  fact  it  was  the  most 
monotonous  of  all. 

Gonzalez  de  Berceo,  who  was  educated  and  passed  his  life 
amongst  monks,  scarcely  possessed  a  single  idea  which  was 
not  to  be  found  within  the  precincts  of  a  monastery.  His 
nine  poems  are  all  upon  sacred  subjects,  and  they  treat 
rather  of  the  Christian  mythology,  than  of  Christianity 
itself.  The  first  contains  the  life  of  St.  Domingo,  or  Domi- 
nick  of  Silos ;  not  the  celebrated  founder  of  the  order  of 
friars-preachers  and  the  Inquisition.  The  poet  gives  an 
account  of  liis  religious  infancy,  when,  amidst  the  shepherds 
and  guarding  his  flock,  he  nourished  liis  jiious  fancies  ;  of 
his  reception  in  the  monastery  of  St.  Millan  ;  the  noviciate 
which  lie  was  compelled  to  undergo,  and  the  courage  with 
which  he  resisted  Ferdinand  I.  of  Castile,*  who  demanded 

*  Copla  83. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  123 

a  contribution  fi'om  the  monastery,  to  assist  him  in  carryino- 
on  the  war  against  the  Moors ;  so  that  Saint  Dominick  was 
a  sort  of  contemporary  of  the  Cid,  though  his  life  is  far  from 
presenting  the  same  degree  of  interest.  The  second  part  of 
the  poem  contains  the  miracles  which  St.  Dominick  wrought 
during  his  life ;  tlie  third,  those  which  were  worked  by  his 
intercession  after  his  death.  I  have  endeavoured  to  discover 
some  extract  remarkable  for  the  imagination,  the  piety,  or 
even  the  wliimsicality  which  it  displays,  tliat  I  might  give 
some  idea  of  the  style  of  a  poet,  whose  elegance  and  purity 
have  been  celebrated  by  Sanchez  ;  but  I  must  confess  that  I 
am  unable  to  meet  with  a  single  striking  passage.  Every 
part  is  equally  careless,  common-place,  and  dull ;  the  lan- 
guage and  the  thoughts  being  those  of  monks  of  all  ages,  in 
which  we  in  vain  attempt  to  discern  any  characteristic  marks 
of  their  times.  I  shall  venture,  however,  to  translate  an 
account  of  a  miracle  which  St.  Dominick  wrought  after  his 
death,  for  the  delivery  of  a  captive  from  the  Moors.  Such 
is  the  natural  taste  of  man  for  the  marvellous,  that  the 
most  absurd  miracles  gain  our  attention.  We  conceive  that 
the  romancer  displays  imagination,  while,  in  fact,  it  is  our 
own  imagination  which  is  in  action ;  and  we  rejoice  when- 
ever we  read  of  a  triumph  over  the  powers  of  nature,  the 
subjection  to  which  is  so  insupportable  to  us.  * 

"  I  wish,"  says  Gonzalez  de  Berceo,  "  to  relate  to  you  a 
precious  miracle,  and  do  you  open  your  ears  to  listen  to  it. 
Let  your  faith  therein  be  firm  ;  and  the  good  father  St.  Domi- 
nick will  become  greater  in  your  eyes.  In  a  place  called 
Coscorrita,  not  far  from  Tiron,  there  was  born  a  valiant 
soldier,  named  Servan,  who  in  fighting  against  the  Moors 
was  taken  prisoner  by  them.  This  valiant  soldier  fell  to  the 
share  of  some  cruel  men,  who  led  him  in  chains  to  Medina 
Cell,  where  they  loaded  him  with  irons,  and  enclosed  him  in 
a  narrow  cell  surrounded  with  thick  walls.  The  Moors  by 
every  means  rendei'ed  his  prison  odious  to  him,  and  hunger 
and  the  weight  of  his  fetters  tormented  him.  During  the 
day  he  was  made  to  labour  with  the  other  captives,  and  at 
night  he  was  shut  up  under  dismal  bolts.  Often  did  they 
inflict  stripes  upon  him,  and  wound  his  flesh  ;  but  what  was 
more  grievous  still,  were  the  blasphemies  which  he  heard 
these  miscreants  utter.      Servan's  only  resource  during  his 

H  2 


124  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

sulTering  was  Jesus  Christ.  O  Lord  !  cried  he,  who  com- 
iiuindest  the  winds  and  the  sea,  take  pity  on  my  pain,  and 
deign  to  look  down  upon  me.  O  Lord  !  I  have  no  hope  of 
succour,  but  from  thee.  I  am  tormented  by  the  enemies  of 
the  cross  ;  I  am  maltreated  because  I  venerate  thv  name. 
O  Lord  I  who  sufferedst  for  me  death  and  martyrdom,  may 
thy  mercy  succour  me  in  my  sins  !  When  Servan  had 
linished  his  prayer,  midnight  was  past,  and  the  hour  arrived 
when  the  cock  was  used  to  crow.  Under  all  the  weight  of 
his  punishments  he  still  slept,  but  he  despaired  of  his  safety 
and  of  his  life.  Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  his  prison, 
appeared  a  resplendent  light ;  and  Servan  awakened,  and  was 
afraid.  Raising  up  his  head,  he  called  on  his  Creator,  and 
making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  he  exclaimed  :  O  Lord  !  help 
thou  me  !  Then  it  seemed  that  he  saw  a  man  clothed  in 
white,  as  though  he  were  a  priest  prepared  for  mass  ;  and 
the  jioor  captive,  terrified  at  the  sight,  turned  aside  his  head, 
and  threw  himself  uj)on  his  face.  The  vision  then  addressing 
him,  said,  Servan,  fear  not,  but  know  that  God  hath  heard 
thee,  and  hath  sent  me  hither  to  release  thee.  Trust  there- 
fore in  God,  who  will  snatch  thee  from  danger.  My  Lord  ! 
answered  the  captive,  if  thou  art  he  whom  thou  sayest,  tell 
me  in  the  name  of  God,  and  his  glorious  mother,  what  is  thy 
name,  lest  I  be  deceived  by  a  lying  spirit.  The  holy 
messenger  answered  him  :  I  am  brother  Dominick,  formerly 
a  monk.  I  was  abbot  of  Silos,  though  unworthy,  and  there 
are  my  bones  interred.  My  Lord  !  said  the  captive,  how 
may  1  escape  hence,  when  I  cannot  even  disengage  myself 
from  my  irons?  If  thou  indeed  art  the  physician  who  is  to 
heal  me,  without  doubt  thou  hast  a  remedy  for  this  evil. 
Then  St.  Dominick  gave  iiim  a  mallet,  made  entirely  of  wood, 
without  either  iron  or  steel,  which  yet  broke  the  stoutest  bars 
as  you  would  pound  garlick  in  a  mortar.  Wiien  Servan  had 
broken  through  the  bars  of  his  prison,  St.  Uominiek  bade 
liim  go  bravely  forth.  Servan  answered,  that  the  walls  of 
his  prison  were  very  high,  and  that  he  had  no  ladder  where- 
with to  scale  them  ;  but  the  holy  messenger,  sitting  upon  the 
top  of  the  wall,  let  down  a  cord,  one  end  of  which  the  captive 
fastened  round  his  waist,  while  the  celestial  messenger  held 
the  other  in  his  hand,  and  sitting  above  him,  pulled  him  up 
with  his  irons  on  as  easily  as  if  he  had  been  a  little  bundle, 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  125 

and  placed  him  on  the  outside  of  his  prison.  The  good  con- 
fessor then  said  to  him,  Fly,  my  friend  ;  the  gates  are  open, 
and  the  Musulmans  are  asleep  ;  thou  shalt  meet  with  no 
trouble,  for  thou  art  under  good  protection,  and  shalt  be  far 
enou'i^h  off  by  daybreak.  Do  not  thou  hesitate  as  to  thy 
place  of  refuge  ;  but  proceed  directly  to  my  monastery,  with 
thy  chains  ;  place  them  upon  my  sepulchre,  where  my  body 
reposeth,  and  thou  shalt  encounter  no  obstacle,  and  mayest 
trust  in  me.  After  having  instructed  him  in  this  manner, 
the  white  figure  disappeared  from  his  eyes.  Servan  imme- 
diately commenced  his  journey,  and  meeting  with  no  obstacle, 
and  finding  no  gate  shut  against  him,  when  day  appeared,  he 
was  far  on  his  way.  At  length  he  arrived  at  the  monastery, 
as  he  had  been  commanded.  It  happened  that  a  festival  was 
iield  there  on  that  day,  it  being  the  anniversary  of  the  day 
whereon  the  church  had  been  consecrated,  and  many  priests 
were  there  assembled  together,  with  a  crowd  of  the  neigh- 
bours. A  Cardinal  of  Rome,  who  appeared  as  legate,  was 
presiding  over  the  assembly,  and  had  brought  with  him  a 
number  of  bishops  and  abbots,  who  formed  a  brilliant 
assembly.  The  captive,  still  loaded  with  his  irons,  in  squalid 
garments,  and  wretchedly  shod,  appeared  in  the  midst  of 
them.  His  hair  was  uncombed,  his  beard  was  long,  and  he 
fell  in  prayer  before  the  sepulchre  of  the  confessor.  My  lord 
and  father,  he  cried,  it  is  unto  thee  that  I  ought  to  return 
thanks,  that  I  again  appear  in  a  Christian  land.  It  was  by 
thy  means  that  I  escaped  from  prison  ;  by  thee  have  I  been 
healed,  and  even  as  thou  didst  command,  am  I  come  to  offer 
up  to  thee  my  chains.  The  report  of  the  favour  which  the 
confessor  had  shewn  him,  was  quickly  noised  through  all  the 
town,  and  there  was  neither  bishop  nor  abbot,  who  did  not 
shew  Servan  marks  of  his  esteem.  The  legate  himself  did 
not  refuse  to  chaunt  the  canticle  Tihi  laiis,  in  company  with 
a  man  so  favoured  by  heaven,  and  moreover  granted  general 
pardons  to  the  people,  while  all  persons  acknowledged  the 
power  of  the  holy  confessor,  after  so  marvellous  a  miracle. 
A  treasure  like  this,  a  light  so  shining  as  this,  should  cast  its 
rays  from  a  rich  shrine  ;  and  if  they  before  valued  it  as  a 
precious  relic,  they  now  estimated  it  still  more  highly.  The 
legate  Richard  preached  his  fame  at  Rome,  and  the  Pope 
acknowledged  him  to  be  a  most  accomplished  saint." 

The  next  uoem  of  Gk)nzalez  de  Berceo  is  a  life  of  St.  Mil- 


126  ox    THE    LITERATURE 

Ian,  the  founder  of  the  monastery  to  which  the  poet  belonged. 
The  Saint  died  in  594,  before  the  invasion  of  Spain  by  the 
IMoors.  Tlie  various  miracles  which  he  wrought  form  the 
subject  of  a  second  book  ;  and  his  appearance,  long  after  his 
death,  at  the  battle  of  Siraancas,  in  934,  when  the  Moors  were 
concjuered,  is  related  in  a  third  book.  If  we  are  to  believe  a 
tradition  which  does  not  rest  on  any  very  solid  foundations, 
this  battle  delivered  the  kingdom  of  Oviedo  from  a  tribute  of 
a  hundred  maids,  which  was  yearly  paid  to  the  Musulmans. 
The  courage  of  seven  young  girls  of  Simancas,  who,  being 
destined  to  tliis  fate,  cut  off  their  hands,  that  the  Moors  might 
reject  them,  inspired  the  people  who  groaned  under  this  yoke 
with  spirit  to  throw  it  off.  Berceo  has  made  no  use  of  this 
poetical  tradition,  which  lias  furnished  Lope  de  Vega  with  the 
subject  of  one  of  his  most  brilliant  tragedies,  La^  Donzellas 
de  Simanca>i.  The  monkish  poet  has  suppressed  every  heroic 
circumstance,  in  order  to  bring  forward  his  miracles.  He  has 
sacrificed  the  glory  of  his  countrymen  to  that  of  his  saint,  and 
the  life  and  interest  of  his  poem  to  a  narrow  and  degrading 
superstition. 

Another  production  of  the  thirteenth  century,  which  has 
also  been  published  by  Sanchez,  is  the  poem  of  Alexander, 
written  by  Juan  Lorenzo  Segui-a  de  Astorga.  The  editor 
assures  us  that  this  poem  is  not  a  translation  of  that  which 
Philippe  Gaultier  de  Chatillon  wrote  in  Latin  in  the  year  1 1 80, 
and  which  was  afterwards  turned  into  Fi'ench  verse  by  Lam- 
bert li  Cors  and  Alexandre  de  Paris.  However,  thei'e  is 
certainly  a  great  similarity  between  the  two  works,  which 
display  an  equal  mediocrity.  There  is  neither  invention,  nor 
dignity,  nor  harmony,  to  be  found  in  this  composition  ;  and 
yet  the  absolute  ignoi'ance  of  antiquity  in  which  the  world 
was  plunged  at  the  period  when  it  was  written,  renders  the 
work  interesting.  For  tlie  autiior,  unable  to  describe  times 
of  which  he  knew  nothing,  had  recourse  to  those  with  which 
he  was  acquainted,  and  bestowed  upon  the  heroes  of  Greece 
the  manners,  the  sentiments,  the  prejudices,  and  the  educa- 
tion of  a  .Si)uniard  of  the  thirteenth  century ;  nor  is  he  ever 
alile  to  get  rid  of  his  Christian  phraseology.  He  dubs  Alex- 
ander a  knight  on  the  feast  of  St.  Antherius,  the  Pope,  (the 
third  of  January.)     *He  assures  us,  "  that  the  young  prince 

•  T  ui.  Copla  78. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  127 

being  impatient  to  wage  war  against  the  Jews  and  the  Moors, 
believed  that  he  had  ah-eady  conquered  the  territory  of  Baby- 
lon, India,  and  Egypt,  Africa,  and  Morocco,  and  indeed  all 
the  countries  over  which  Charlemagne  had  reigned."  These 
anachronisms  excite  only  a  passing  smile  ;  but  the  most  inte- 
resting and  curious  part  of  tlie  work  is  that  in  which,  in  a 
Greek  story,  the  manners  and  opinions  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury are  described :  as,  for  example,  in  tlie  lessons  which 
Aristotle  gives  to  his  pupil.*  "  Master  Aristotle,  who  was 
his  teacher,  had  been  all  this  while  shut  up  in  his  chamber, 
Avhere  he  had  been  composing  a  logical  syllogism,  and  had  not, 
day  or  night,  tasted  any  repose."  When  Alexander  appears 
before  him,  inflamed  with  a  desire  to  deliver  his  country  from 
the  tribute  which  it  paid  to  the  Persians,  Aristotle  recapitu- 
lates all  the  advice  which  he  had  formerly  given,  to  fit  him  for 
the  career  which  he  was  destined  to  run.  "  My  son,"  says  he, 
"  thou  art  a  learned  clerk ;  thou  art  the  son  of  a  king,  and 
thou  hast  much  perspicacity.  From  thine  infancy  thou  hast 
shewn  a  wonderful  regard  for  chivalry ;  and  I  hold  thee  to 
be  the  best  knight  of  all  who  now  live.  Remember,  that  thou 
ever  take  counsel  upon  thine  undertakings,  and  discourse 
thereof  with  thy  vassals,  who  shall  be  more  faithful  to  thee 
when  thou  thus  consultest  them.  Above  all,  beware  of  the 
love  of  women ;  for  when  once  a  man  hath  turned  towards 
them,  he  pursueth  them  everlastingly,  and  daily  becomes  less 
valiant ;  nay,  he  is  in  danger  even  of  losing  his  soul,  the 
which  would  be  a  great  offence  unto  God.  Beware  how  thou 
trustest  thy  afKiirs  to  a  man  of  low  birth :  be  not  drunken, 
and  frequent  not  the  taverns  :  keep  firm  and  true  to  thy  word, 
nor  love  nor  listen  to  flatterers.  When  thou  sittest  in  judg- 
ment, judge  according  to  right ;  and  let  not  avarice,  nor  love, 
nor  hatred  weigh  in  thy  decisions.  Beware  of  shewing  thine 
anger  amongst  thy  vassals.  Never  eat  separate  from  them 
and  apart,  and  appear  not  to  be  tired  of  them,  if  thou  wouldst 
preserve  their  love.  When  thou  leadest  thine  armies,  do  not 
leave  the  old  warriors  and  carry  with  thee  the  young  soldiers  : 
the  former  are  wise  in  council,  and  in  the  battle  they  will  not 
flee."  The  arms  and  the  equipments  in  which  Alexander  appears 
on  the  day  when  he  is  dubbed  a  knight,  are  highly  precious. 


*  Copla  30. 


128  ON    THE    LITEUATURE 

Some  are  the  workmansliip  of  tliti  fairies,  others  of  Vulcan;  and 
every  piece  is  gifted  with  someenchanted  power,  strengthening 
the  courage,  the  virtue,  and  the  chai^tity  of  the  wearer.  "  All  the 
riches  of  Pisa  and  Genoa  would  not  have  bought  his  tunic;  and, 
as  to  Bucephalus,  when  he  was  harnessed,  he  Avas  worth  more 
than  all  Castile."*  Having  clothed  himself  in  these  arms, 
Alexander,  with  a  small  retinue  of  knights,  sets  off  in  search 
of  adventures  to  try  his  prowess.  At  some  distance  from  his 
own  territory,  he  meet.s  with  a  king  whom  the  poet  calls 
Nicholas,  who  asks  Alexander  his  name  and  occupation. f 
Alexander  answ-ers,  "  that  he  is  the  son  of  Philip  and  Olym- 
pias  ;  that  he  is  journeying  through  the  world  to  exercise  his 
strength,  seeking  for  adventures  in  deserts  and  plains,  sparing 
some  and  despoiling  others ;  and  that  none  can  say  that  they 
have  dared  to  treat  him  with  disrespect."  It  was  not,  we  see, 
without  reason,  that  Don  Quixote  always  reckons  Alexander 
in  the  number  of  knights  errant,  and  compares  Rosinante  to 
Bucephalus.  The  ancient  poets  of  Spain  knew  no  other 
heroism  than  that  of  chivalry,  and  had  no  conception  of  gran- 
deur which  was  not  gathered  from  the  romances.  The  hero 
of  La  Mancha,  who  had  studied  history  in  their  pages, 
was  sure  to  find  a  knight  errant  in  every  hero  of  antiquity. 

The  martial  poetry  of  Spain,  a  poetry  truly  national,  and 
completely  in  accordance  with  the  manners,  the  hopes,  and 
the  recollections  of  the  people,  was  inspired  by  an  enthusiasm 
which  in  its  turn  it  contributed  to  nourish.  Of  this  poetry  we 
have  already  had  some  specimens  in  the  history  of  the  Cid, 
and  we  shall  soon  meet  with  others  in  tlie  romances.  The 
two  poems  of  Berceo  and  of  Lorenzo  Segura  have  given  us 
some  idea  of  the  poetry  of  the  monks  during  the  same  period, 
the  pedantry  of  which  betrays  the  ignorance  of  the  authors, 
and  in  which  the  absence  of  truth  in  the  incidents,  in  the 
feelings,  and  in  the  language,  shews  clearly  that  all  the  inspi- 
rations of  nature  were  banished  from  their  gloomy  convents. 
We  shall  terminate  the  literary  history  of  Spain,  during  the 
thirteenth  century,  with  some  account  of  a  royal  poet, 
Alfonso  X.  of  Castile,  who  was  born  in  1221,  came  to  the 
crown  in  1252,  and  was  named  Emperor  of  Germany  by  four 
of  the  electors  in  1257.     After  having  been  deposed  by  his 


Copla  79.  t  Copla  119. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  129 

son,  he  died  in  1284.  Alfonso  was  surnamed  the  "Wise,  from 
his  acquaintance  with  asti-onomy  and  chemistry,  and  is  known 
by  a  system  which  he  proposed  as  to  the  arrangement  of  the 
heavenly  bodies,  and  wliich  subjected  him  to  a  charge  of  im- 
piety ;  a  treatise  which  must  be  considered  merely  as  a  com- 
mentary upon  tlie  complicated  system  of  Ptolemy,  to  which 
he  had  devoted  his  attention.  Alfonso,  though  he  was  not  a 
good  sovereign,  was  yet  a  great  patron  of  letters,  and  intro- 
duced into  Europe  the  sciences,  arts,  and  manuf\ictures  of  the 
Arabians.  He  invited  to  his  court  many  of  the  philosophers 
and  learned  men  of  the  East,  whose  works  he  caused  to  be 
translated  into  the  Castilian,  in  which  language  he  likewise 
directed  the  decisions  of  tlie  courts,  and  the  laws  of  the  Cortes 
to  be  framed  ;  and  in  this  earliest  Spanish  code,  which  is  en- 
titled las  Partidas,  is  found  that  remarkable  sentence  which 
struck  the  attention  of  Montesquieu  :  The  despot  cuts  down 
the  tree,  but  t/ie  wise  monarch  j^runes  it.  In  fact,  tliis  mon- 
ai"ch  was  the  first  to  give  that  impulse  to  the  literature  of 
Spain,  which  was  in  the  succeeding  century  so  greatly  acce- 
lerated. His  writings  contributed  very  considerably  to  the 
advancement  of  science,  and  something  to  the  progress  of 
literature.  There  is  still  preserved  in  manuscript  at  Toledo, 
a  book  of  Canticles  in  Galician,  written  by  him  in  honour  of 
the  Virgin  Mary.  The  music  for  the  first  line  of  each  can- 
ticle is  given  as  if  for  chaunting.  Two  other  productions  in 
Castilian  by  the  same  royal  author  also  survive.  The  first  of 
these  is  a  book  of  Complaints,  il  libro  de  las  Querelas,  com- 
posed between  1282  and  1284,  in  which  Alfonso  complains 
of  his  son  Don  Sancho  and  his  nobles,  who  had  rebelled 
against  him  and  driven  him  from  his  throne.  To  judge  from 
the  commencement,  this  poem,  which  is  written  in  verses  de 
arte  mayor,  and  in  octave  stanzas  consisting  each  of  two 
quatrains,  appears  to  be  worthy  of  the  sentiments  which 
ought  to  sustain  a  deposed  monarch.  The  other  poem,  which 
is  entitled  The  Book  of  IVeasure,  or  The  Philosopher's 
Stone,  is  a  pretended  exposition  of  this  hidden  knowledge, 
which  havd  long  employed  the  attention  of  Alfonso,  and  which 
he  asserted  had  been  communicated  to  him  by  an  Egyptian 
sage.  The  introduction  to  this  work  is  the  only  intelligible 
portion  of  it.  It  consists  of  eleven  stanzas,  in  which  the 
author  recounts  the  mode  in  which  he  became  possessed  of 


130  ON    THE    LITEUATURE 

the  grand  arcanum  of  the  alcliemists.*  When  he  comes  to 
exphiin  the  secrc^t  itself,  tlie  reader  is  presented  with  thirty- 
five  stanzas  of  eiglit  lines  each,  in  cyplier,  which  it  is  impos- 
sible for  any  one  to  coinprclicml ;  althongli  a  key  is  given, 
which  is  in  fact  just  as  intelligible  as  the  cyphers  themselves. 
When  we  recollect  that  Alfonso  was  deposed  by  the  Castilians 
for  liaving  dtibased  the  coin,  by  alloying  the  silver  with  copper, 
and  issuing  it  as  a  pure  silver  coinage,  we  cannot  help  sus- 
pecting tiiat  the  noble  sovereign  of  Castile,  and  Emperor  of 
the  Romans,  has  bequeathed  an  enigma  to  posterity,  which  is 
incapable  of  explanation,  and  that  his  cyphers  are  absolutely 
destitute  of  all  meaning,  lie  had  a  great  desire  to  propagate 
a  belief  that  he  had  attained  immense  riches  by  his  knowledge 
of  alchemy,  in  order  that  he  might  impress  his  enemies  and 
strangers  with  a  high  idea  of  his  power. 

The  desire  of  celebrating  the  achievements  of  a  hero,  gave 
rise  to  the  first  attempt  in  Spanish  poetry.  To  the  same 
feeling  did  the  art  owe  its  perfection  ;  while  the  verses  were 
adapted  to  music,  in  order  to  render  them  more  popular.  The 
measure  of  these  early  romances,  or  redoinl'dhas,  was  com- 
pletely the  reverse  of  the  Italian  ;  it  changed  from  long 
to  short,  the  verse  containing  four  trochees,  with  an  occa- 
sional defective  verse.f    With  regard  to  rhyme,  each  second 

*  The  following  are  the  two  first  stanzas  of  the  Libro  del  Tesoro : 

Llego  pues  la  fama  a  los  mis  oidos 
Queu  ticrra  de  Egipfo  un  sabio  vivia, 
E  con  su  saber  oi  que  facia 
Notos  los  casos  ca  non  son  vcnidos  : 
Los  astros  juzgaba,  e  aqiicstos  movidos 
Por  disposicion  del  ciclo,  fallaba 
IjOS  casoii  quel  tiempo  futuro  ocultaba, 
Bicn  fuesen  antes  por  este  entendidos. 

Codicia  del  sabio  movio  mi  aficion, 
Mi  pluma  e  mi  lingua,  con  grande  luiniildad 
Postrada  la  altcza  do  mi  magestad, 
Ca  tanto  poder  ticne  una  pasion. 
Con  ruegos  le  fiz  la  niia  peticion, 
E  si  la  mandfc  con  mis  mcn>ageros. 
Avcres  faciendas  o  muchos  dineros 
Alii  le  ofreci  con  santa  intcncion. 

t  1  must  repeat  here,  that  nothing  is  more  irregular  than  this  suc- 
ceesiou  of  four  trochees.     The  accent  on  the  Bcventh  syllabic  alone  is 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  131 

line  terminated  with  an  assonant,  wliile  the  first  lines  were 
unrhymed.  It  was  in  this  metre  that  the  deeds  of  many 
a  brave  Spaniard,  and  more  especially  of  the  Cid,  w^ere 
celebrated  by  anonymous  poets.  These  romances  were  taught 
by  mothers  to  their  children,  recited  at  festivals,  and  sung 
by  the  soldiers  before  battle  ;  and  being  transmitted  fx-om 
mouth  to  mouth,  long  before  they  were  committed  to 
writing,  they  changed  their  shape  with  each  variation  of  the 
language,  though  they  preserved  their  spirit  under  every 
alteration.  The  first  romances  of  the  Cid  were  probably 
composed  soon  after  his  death,  and  others  were  added  at 
different  periods,  though  it  is  difficult  to  assign  their  proper 
dates.  They  are  generally  filled  with  minute  details,  and  have 
an  air  of  truth  about  tliem,  which  proves,  that,  at  the  period 
of  their  composition,  the  hero  of  Spain  was  still  well  known. 
So  completely  national  was  his  history,  and  so  connected  with 
the  state  of  Castile,  that  every  Christian  soldier,  in  the  achieve- 
ments of  the  Citl,  became  acquainted  with  the  glories  of  his 
country.  Li  the  three  centuries  which  preceded  the  birth  of 
this  hero,  and  in  the  two  which  succeeded,  the  history  of 
Spain  presents  nothing  but  one  continued  struggle  with  the 
Moors  ;  and  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  distinguish  the 
various  sovereigns  who  succeeded  one  another,  during  these 
five  centuries,  if  the  glory  of  the  Cid  and  of  his  companions 
had  not  formed  so  distinguished  an  gera. 

These  popular  romances  were  collected  at  the  commence- 
ment of  the  sixteenth  century  by  Fernando  del  Castillo,  and 
reprinted  in  1614,  by  Pedro  de  Florez,  in  one  volume  in 
quarto.  In  these  collections,  all  the  romances  of  the  Cid  are 
to  be  found,  though  not  in  clironological  order.  Hei'der,  a 
German  poet  and  philosopher,  a  few  years  ago  formed  a  col- 
lection of  them,  and  arranged  them  so  as  to  present  a  complete 
biographical  account  of  the  hero,  translating  them  into  verse 
of  the  same  measure,  with  a  scrupulous  fidelity  peculiar  to  the 
Germans.* 


obligatory  :    but  it  is  BufEcient  to  gire  a  trochaic  movement  to  the 
•whole  verse. 

*  There  existed  long  before  Herders  work  appeared,  a  collection 
entitled  Tesoro  escondido  de  todos  los  mas  famosos  Romances  assi  an- 
tiguos,  como  modernos,  del  Cid:  por  Franc.  Meige.  Barcelona,  1626, 


132  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

The  life  of  the  Cid  maybe  divided  into  four  periods  ;  con- 
taining his  exploits  under  Ferdinand  the  Great,  under  Sancho 
the  Brave,  under  Alfonso  VI.,  and  in  the  principality  of 
Valencia,  which  he  had  conquered,  and  of  which  he  had  con- 
stituted himself  sovereign.  The  first  period  comprises  his 
youth,  the  time  at  which  Corneille  has  laid  his  tragedy.*  The 
second  presents  the  history  of  the  civil  wars  of  S{)ain  ;  and 
the  third,  and  a  part  of  the  fourth,  correspond  with  the  poem 
which  we  analyzed  in  the  last  chapter  ;  the  conclusion  of  the 
fourth  contains  the  old  age  and  death  of  the  hero.f 


8vo.  This  little  selection,  instead  of  the  seventy  romances  which 
Herder  has  translated,  contains  only  forty,  many  of  which  are  of  little 
importance.  The  same  romance  is  often  ditt'erently  given  in  ditlerent 
collections  :  for,  as  they  were  the  property  of  no  one,  every  editor  altered 
them  according  to  his  taste.  Thus  the  translations  of  Herder,  who  was 
acquainted  with  all  the  originals,  and  who  has,  with  great  taste  and 
judgment,  selected  the  best,  are  superior  to  all  the  Spanish  collections. 
[The  largest  collection  of  the  ballads  of  the  L'id  appears  to  be  that  which 
is  mentioned  by  Sarmiento  :  Hi-^toria  del  inui/  valeroso  Carallero  el 
Cid  Buy  Diaz  dc  Divar,  en  Bomance-'i  en  lenguage  antiquo,  recopiladoa 
por  Juan  de  Escobar  :  Sevilla,  1632.  This  volume  contains  102  ballads. 
See  Southey's  Chron.  of  the  Cid,  pref.  x.  Mr.  Southey  designates  the 
greater  part  of  these  poems  as  utterly  worthless.  The  reader,  from  the 
specimens  here  presented,  may  perhaps  hesitate  before  he  concurs  in  so 
harsh  a  censure. — 7V.] 

*  Corneille  borrowed  his  Cid  partly  from  these  romances,  as  he  con- 
fesses in  his  preface,  and  partly  from  two  Spanish  tragi-comedies ;  one 
by  Diamante,  and  the  other  by  Guillen  de  Castro.  By  a  strange  his- 
torical error,  the  French  poet  has  laid  the  scene  at  Seville,  a  city  at  that 
time  a  hundred  leagues  distant  from  the  Christian  frontier,  and  which 
remained  under  the  Musulman  dominion  for  two  centuries  afterwards. 
It  was  only  in  the  old  age  of  the  Cid,  that  even  Toledo  and  New  Castile 
were  recovered  from  the  Moors.  The  French  critics,  who  have  passed 
their  judgments  on  this  masterpiece  of  Corneille,  have  never  givea 
themselves  the  trouble  of  forming  an  acquaintance  with  the  hero  of  the 
tragedy.  La  Harpe  supposes  him  to  have  lived  in  the  fifteenth  century. 
Voltaire,  when  he  reproaches  D.  Ferdinand  with  not  taking  better 
measures  for  the  defence  of  his  capital,  forgets  that  at  that  period  the 
King  of  Castile  commanded  a  small  territory,  the  inhabitants  of  which 
were  perpetually  under  arms;  and  that  the  attacks  of  the  Moors  were 
not  foimal  expeditions,  but  rapid  and  unexpected  incursions,  executed 
as  soon  as  the  project  was  formed,  and  which  could  only  be  met  by  the 
bravery  of  the  soldiery,  and  not  prevented  by  the  policy  of  the  prince. 

f  [In  the  original,  the  remainder  of  this  chapter  is  occupied  with 
prose  translations  into  French,  of  the  ballads  of  the  Cid,  as  given  by 
Herder  in  his  Oennan  version,  and  by  occasional  remarks  on  those 
extracts  by  M.  de  Sismondi.     As  Mr.  Lockhart  has  favoured  the  public 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  133 

111  the  ballad  of  the  young  Cid,*  Rodrigo  is  represented  as 
riding  with  his  father.  Diego  Laynez,  to  do  liomage  to  the 
king.  Three  hundred  gentlemen  accompany  the  father  and 
son  on  this  expedition  : 

All  talking  with  each  other  thus  along  their  waj'  they  pass'd, 
But  now  they've  come  to  Burgos,  and  met  the  king  at  last  ; 
When  they  came  near  his  nobles  a  whisper  through  them  ran  : 
"  He  rides  amongst  the  gentry  that  slew  the  Count  Lozan." 

With  very  haughty  gesture,  Eodrigo  rein'd  his  horse, 

Right  scornfully  he  shouted  when  he  heard  them  so  discourse — 

"  If  any  of  his  kindred  or  vassals  dare  appear, 

The  man  to  give  them  answer  on  horse  or  foot  is  here." 

No  one,  however,  dares  to  notice  the  defiance,  and  Diego 
Laynez  desires  his  son  to  kiss  the  good  king's  hand.  Rodrigo's 
answer  was  a  very  short  one  : 

"  Had  any  other  said  it,  his  pains  had  well  been  paid  ; 
But  thou,  Sir,  art  my  father — thy  word  must  l)e  obey'd  :" 
With  that  he  sprang  down  lightly,  before  the  king  to  kneel, 
But  as  the  knee  was  bending,  outleap'd  his  blade  of  steel. 

The  king  drew  back  in  terror,  when  he  saw  the  sword  was  bare  ; 
"  Stand  back,  stand  back,  Rodrigo,  in  the  devil's  name  beware  ; 
Your  looks  bespeak  a  creature  of  father  Adam's  mould, 
But  in  your  wild  behaviour  you're  like  some  lion  bold." 

When  Rodrigo  heard  him  say  so,  he  leap'd  into  his  seat, 
And  thence  he  made  his  answer  with  visage  nothing  sweet ; 

with  metrical  translations  of  several  of  the  most  interesting  ballads  of 
the  Cid,  calculated  to  give  the  reader  a  very  pleasing  idea  of  the  sin- 
gular character  of  the  originals,  it  appeared  advisable  to  the  editor  to 
substitute  specimens,  selected  from  Mr.  Lockhart's  translations,  instead 
of  attempting  either  to  versify  Herder,  or  the  original  Spanish  ballads, 
in  case  he  should  be  able  to  discover  them.  He  had,  indeed,  resolved 
at  one  time  to  translate  into  English  verse  some  portions  of  the  ballads 
of  the  Cid,  contained  in  the  collection  of  Spanish  Romances,  published 
by  M.  Depping  :  Samlung  der  besten  alien  Hjyanishen  hUtorichen  Bitter 
und  Maurishen' Romanzen,  itc.  von  Ch.  Depping,  Leipzig,  1817;  a 
collection  of  which  M.  de  Sismondi  would,  doubtless,  have  availed 
himself,  had  it  been  published  at  the  period  when  this  work  was  written. 
The  appearance  of  the  Ancient  Spcuiish  Ballads  induced  the  editor  to 
abandon  this  design,  under  a  full  persuasion  that  Mr.  Lockhart's  ver- 
sions were  far  superior  to  anything  which  it  would  be  in  his  power  to 
produce.  He  has,  therefore,  made  a  selection  from  the  eight  ballads  of 
the  Cid,  given  by  Jlr.  Lockhart,  connecting  the  fragments,  when  neces- 
sary, by  an  explanatory  text.  The  matter  thus  substituted  occupies 
from  p.  133  to  p.  139.— rr.] 

*  [This  ballad  is  the  fifth  in  Escobar's  collection. —  Tr.'\ 


134  ON    THE    LITERATUKE 

"  I'd  think  it  little  honour  to  kiss  a  kingly  palm, 
And  if  iny  fathers  kiss'd  it,  thereof  ashamed  I  am. 

When  he  these  words  had  uttcr'd,  he  turnVl  him  from  the  gate, 
Ilis  true  tlirec  hundred  gentles  behind  him  foUow'd  straight; 
If  with  good  gowns  they  came  that  day,  with  better  arms  they  went ; 
And  if  their  mules  behind  did  stay,  with  horses  they're  content. 

Diego  Laynez  having  been  insulted  by  Count  Gomez,  the 
lord  of  Gorniaz,  the  young  Rodrigo  cliallenges  him  to  single 
combat,  and  slays  him.  In  consequence  of  tliis  affair,  Ximena 
Gomez,  the  daughter  of  the  Count,  demands  vengeance  from 
the  king,  against  the  youthful  Cid.*  The  monarch  is  dii:- 
turbed  in  his  court  at  Burgos  by  a  loud  clamour  at  his  palace- 
porch,  where  he  finds  the  fair  Ximena  Gomez  kneeling  and 
crying  for  vengeance  : 

Upon  her  neck  disorder'd  hung  down  the  lady's  hair, 
And  floods  of  tears  were  streaming  upon  her  bosom  fair ; 
Sore  wept  she  for  her  father  the  Count  that  had  been  slain, 
Loud  cursed  she  Rodrigo  whose  sword  his  blood  did  stain. 

They  turn'd  to  bold  Eodrigo,  I  wot  his  cheek  was  red ; 
AVith  haughty  wrath  he  listcn'd  to  the  words  Ximena  said  — 
"  Good  king,  I  cry  for  justice;  now  as  my  voice  thou  hearest, 
So  God  befriend  the  children  that  in  thy  land  thou  rearest. 

The  king  that  doth  not  justice,  hath  forfeited  his  claim 
Both  to  his  kingly  station,  and  to  his  kingly  name  ; 
He  should  not  sit  at  banquet,  clad  in  the  royal  pall, 
Nor  should  the  nobles  serve  him  on  knees  within  the  hall. 

Good  king,  I  am  descended  from  barons  bright  of  old 
That  with  Castilian  pennons  Pelayo  did  uphold  ; 
But  if  my  strain  were  lowly,  as  it  is  high  and  clear. 
Thou  still  should'st  prop  the  feeble,  and  the  afflicted  hear. 

For  thee,  fierce  homicide,  draw,  draw  tJiy  sword  once  more, 
And  pierce  the  breast  which  wide  1  spread  thy  stroke  before  ; 
Because  I  am  a  woman  my  life  thou  necd'st  not  .spare, 
I  am  Ximena  Gomez,  my  slaughter'd  father's  heir. 

Since  thou  hast  slain  the  knight  who  did  our  faith  defend. 

And  still  to  shameful  flight  all  the  Almanzors  send, 

'Tis  but  a  little  matter  that  I  confront  thee  .so  ; 

Come,  champion,  slay  his  daughter,  she  needs  must  be  thy  foe." 

Ximena  gazed  upon  him,  but  no  reply  could  meet, 

His  fingers  held  the  bridle,  he  vaulted  to  his  seat; 

She  turn'd  her  to  the  nobles,  I  wot  her  cry  was  loud. 

But  not  a  man  durst  follow ;  slow  rode  he  through  the  crowd. 

*  [This  ballad  is  the  sixth  in  Escobar.— 2V.] 


OP    THE    SPANIARDS.  135 

There  is  considerable  doubt  with  regard  to  the  authenticity 
of  that  portion  of  the  Cid's  history,  which  relates  to  his  mar- 
riage with  Ximena  Gomez.*  From  the  baUad  of  the  Cid's 
coiTrtship,  however,  it  appears  that  the  fair  Ximena,  having 
pardoned  him  for  the  murder  of  her  father,  asked  him  from 
the  king  in  marriage  : 

To  the  good  king  Fernando,  in  Burgos  where  he  lay, 
Game  tlien  Ximena  Gomez,  and  thus  to  him  did  say ; 
"  1  am  Don  Gomez'  daughter,  in  Gormaz  Count  was  he, 
Him  slew  Rodrigo  of  Bivar  in  battle  valiantly. 

Now  I  am  come  before  you  this  day  a  boon  to  crave, 
And  it  is  that  I  to  husband  may  this  Rodrigo  have  : 
Grant  this,  and  I  shall  hold  me  a  happy  damosell ; 
Much  honour'd  shall  I  hold  me,  I  shall  be  married  well. 

I  know  he's  born  for  thriving,  none  like  him  in  the  land, 
I  know  that  none  in  battle  against  his  spear  may  stand  ; 
Forgiveness  is  well  i^leasing  in  God  our  Saviour's  view, 
And  I  forgive  liim  freely,  for  that  my  sire  he  slew." 

The  king  is  highly  pleased  with  Ximena's  request,  and 
instantly  dispatches  a  messenger  to  Rodrigo,  who,  leaping 
upon  Bavieca,  speedily  makes  his  appearance  before  the 
monarch.  Fernando  informs  him  that  Ximena  has  granted 
him  pardon,  and  offered  him  her  hand  : 

"  I  pray  you  be  consenting,  my  gladness  will  be  great, 
You  shall  have  lands  in  plenty  to  strengthen  your  estate." 
"  Lord  King,"  Rodrigo  answers,  "  in  this  and  all  beside, 
Command  and  I'll  obey  you,  the  girl  shall  be  my  bride." 

But  when  the  fair  Ximena  came  forth  to  plight  her  hand, 
Rodrigo,  gazing  on  her,  his  face  could  not  command  : 
He  stood  and  blush'd  before  her  ;  thus  at  the  last  said  he, 
"  I  slew  thy  sire,  Ximena,  but  not  in  villany. 

In  no  disguise  I  slew  him,  man  against  man  I  stood. 

There  was  some  wrong  between  us,  and  I  did  shed  his  blood  ; 

I  slew  a  man,  I  owe  a  man  :  fair  lady,  by  God's  grace, 

An  honour'd  husband  shalt  thou  have  in  thy  dead  father's  place." 

The  ballad  of  the  Cid's  wedding  contains  many  curious 

traits  of  national  manners  : 

Within  his  hall  of  Burgos  the  king  prepares  his  feast, 
He  makes  his  preparation  for  many  a  noble  guest. 
It  is  a  joyful  city,  and  it  is  a  gallant  day ; 
'Tis  the  Campeador's  wedding,  and  who  will  bide  away? 

»  [See  Southey's  Chron.  of  the  Cid,  p.  Q.—Tr.] 


136  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

Laj'n  Calvo,  the  Lord  Bishop,  he  first  comes  forth  the  gate, 
Behind  him  comes  IJuy  Diaz,  in  all  his  bridal  state ; 
The  crowd  makes  way  before  them,  as  up  the  street  they  go ; 
For  the  multitude  of  people  their  steps  must  needs  be  slow. 

The  king  had  taken  order,  that  they  should  rear  an  arch 
From  house  to  house  all  over,  in  the  way  where  they  must  march. 
They  have  hung  it  all  with  lances,  and  shields,  and  glittering  helms. 
Brought  by  the  Campcador  from  out  the  Jloorish  realms. 

They  have  scatter'd  olive-branches  and  rushes  on  the  street, 
And  ladies  fling  down  garlands  at  the  Campeador's  feet ; 
With  tapestry  and  broidery,  their  balconies  between. 
To  do  his  bridal  honour  their  walls  the  burghers  screen. 

They  lead  the  bulls  before  them,  all  cover'd  o'er  with  trappings, 
The  little  boys  pursue  them  with  hootings  and  Avith  clappings; 
The  fool  with  cap  and  bladder  upon  his  ass  goes  prancing 
Amidst  troops  of  caj^tivc  maidens,  with  bells  and  cymbals  dancing. 

With  antics  and  with  fooleries,  with  shouting  and  with  laughter, 
TJiey  fill  the  streets  of  Burgos,  and  the  devil  he  comes  after  ; 
For  the  king  had  hired  the  horned  fiend  for  sixteen  maravedis. 
And  there  he  goes  with  hoofs  for  toes  to  terrify  the  ladies. 

Then  comes  the  bride  Ximena  :^the  king  he  holds  her  hand, 
And  the  queen,  and  all  in  fur  and  pall,  the  nobles  of  the  land  : 
All  down  the  street,  the  ears  of  wheat  are  round  Ximena  flying, 
But  the  king  lifts  oS"  her  bosom  sweet  whatever  there  is  lying. 

Quoth  Suero,  when  he  saw  it,  (his  thought  you  understand) 

"  'TLs  a  fine  thing  to  be  a  king ;  but  heaven  make  me  a  hand  !" 

The  king  was  very  merry  when  he  was  told  of  this. 

And  swore  the  bride  ere  eventide  should  give  the  boy  a  kiss. 

The  king  went  always  talking,  but  she  held  down  her  head. 
And  seldom  gave  an  answer  to  any  thing  he  said. 
It  was  better  to  be  silent  among  such  a  crowd  of  folk. 
Than  utter  words  so  meaningless  as  she  did  when  she  spoke. 

The  valour  of  Rodrigo  was  equalled  by  his  humanity.  The 
balhad  of  The  Cid  and  the  Leper,  exhibits  this  quality  in  a 
strong  light.* 

He  has  ta'en  some  twenty  gentlemen  along  with  him  to  go, 
For  he  will  pay  that  ancient  vow  he  to  St.  James  doth  owe; 
To  Compostello,  where  the  shrine  doth  by  the  altar  stand. 
The  good  llodrigo  de  Bivar  is  riding  through  the  land. 

Where "er  he  goes  much  alms  he  throws,  to  feeble  folk  and  poor, 
Beside  the  way  for  him  they  pray,  him  blessings  to  procure; 
For  (iod  and  .^lary  Mother,  their  heavenly  grace  to  win. 
His  hand  was  ever  bountiful ;  great  was  his  joy  therein. 

*  [The  Cid  and  the  Leper  is  the  twelfth  romance  in  Escob-ir  :  and 
eec  Southey's  Chron.  of  the  (Jid,  p.  8. —  Tr.] 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  137 

And  there  in  middle  of  the  path,  a  Leper  did  appear  ; 

In  a  deep  slough  the  leper  lay,  none  would  to  help  come  near  ; 

With  a  loud  voice  he  thence  did  cry,  "  For  God  oar  Saviour's  sake, 

From  out  this  fearful  jeopardy  a  Christian  brother  take." 

When  Roderic  heard  that  piteous  word,  he  from  his  horse  came  down, 

For  all  they  said,  no  stay  he  made,  that  noble  champion  ; 

He  reach'd  his  hand  to  pluck  him  forth,  of  fear  was  no  account. 

Then  mounted  on  his  steed  of  worth,  and  made  the  leper  mount. 

Behind  him  rode  the  leprous  man ;  when  to  their  hostelrie 
They  came  he  made  him  eat  with  him  at  table  cheerfully  ; 
While  all  the  rest  from  that  poor  guest  with  loathing  shrunk  away. 
To  his  own  bed  the  wretch  he  led,  beside  him  there  he  lay. 

All  at  the  mid  hour  of  the  night,  while  good  Kodrigo  slept, 
A  breath  came  from  the  leprous  man,  it  through  his  shoulders  crept ; 
Eight  through  the  body,  at  the  breast,  pass'd  forth  that  breathing  cold, 
I  wot  he  leap'd  up  with  a  start,  in  terrors  manifold. 

He  groped  for  him  in  the  bed,  but  him  he  could  not  find. 
Through  the  dark  chamber  groped  he  with  very  anxious  mind. 
Loudly  he  lifted  up  his  voice,  with  speed  a  lamp  was  brought. 
Yet  no  where  was  the  leper  seen,  though  far  and  near  they  sought. 

He  turu'd  him  to  his  chamber,  God  wot  perplexed  sore 

With  that  which  had  befallen  ;  when  lo  !  his  face  before 

There  stood  a  man  all  clothed  in  vesture  shining  white, 

Thus  said  the  vision,  "  Sleepest  thou,  or  wakest  thou.  Sir  Knight?" 

"  I  sleep  not,"  quoth  Rodrigo,  "  but  tell  me  who  art. thou,  ^ 
For,  in  the  midst  of  darkness,  much  light  is  on  thy  browT' 
"  I  am  the  holy  Lazarus,  I  come  to  speak  with  thee ; 
I  am  the  same  poor  leper  thou  savedst  for  charity. 

Not  vain  the  trial,  nor  in  vain  thy  victory  hath  been ; 
God  favours  thee,  for  that  my  pain  thou  didst  relieve  yestreen. 
There  shall  be  honour  with  thee  in  battle  and  in  peace, 
Success  in  all  thy  doings,  and  plentiful  increase. 

Strong  enemies  shall  not  prevail  thy  greatness  to  undo, 
Thy  name  shall  make  men's  cheeks  full  pale.  Christians  and  Moslems  too ; 
A  death  of  honour  shalt  thou  die,  such  grace  to  thee  is  given. 
Thy  soul  shall  part  victoriously,  and  be  received  in  heaven." 

When  he  these  gracious  words  had  said,  the  spirit  vanish'd  quite  ; 
Rodrigo  rose  and  knelt  him  down— ^he  knelt  till  morning  light ; 
Unto  the  heavenly  Father,  and  ^lary  Mother  dear. 
He  made  his  prayer  right  humbly  till  dawn'd  the  morning  clear. 

The  subject  of  the  next  ballad  is  BarAeca,  the  Cid's  charger, 
whose  fame  has  been  celebrated  in  almost  every  romanc(; 
which  has  recorded  the  exploits  of  his  master.  He  is  al.-o 
mentioned  in  the  Cid's  will.  "  When  ye  bury  Bavieca,  dig 
deep  ;  for  .-hameful  thing  were  it  that  he  should  be  eat  by 

VOL.  II.  I 


138  ON  tiieHteuature 

curs  wlio  hatli  trampled  down  so  much  currish  flesh  of  Moors." 
Rodrigo  likewise  directed  that  his  dead  body  should  be  placed 
in  armour,  upon  Bavieca,  and  so  led  to  the  church.  After  this 
ceremony  had  been  performed,  no  man  was  again  suttered  to 
bestride  tlie  gallant  charger.  Bavieca  survived  his  master 
about  two  years,  having  lived,  according  to  the  history,  full 
forty  years. 

The  king  look'd  on  him  kindly,  as  ou  a  vassal  true, 
Then  to  the  king  Ruy  Diaz  spake,  after  reverence  due  : 
"  O  king,  the  thing  is  shameful  that  any  man  beside 
The  liege  lord  of  Castile  himself  should  Bavieca  ride. 

For  neither  Spain  nor  Araby  could  another  charger  bring 

So  good  as  he,  and  certes  the  best  befits  my  king  ; 

But  that  you  may  behold  him  and  know  him  to  the  core, 

I'll  make  him  go  as  he  was  wont  when  his  nostrils  smelt  the  Moor." 

With  that  the  Cid,  elad  as  he  was  in  mantle  furr'd  and  wide. 
On  Bavieca  vaulting,  put  the  rowel  in  his  side, 
And  up  and  down,  and  round  and  round,  so  fierce  was  his  career, 
Streamd  like  a  pennon  on  the  wind,  Ruy  Diaz'  minivere. 

And  all  that  saw  them  prais'd  them  ;  they  lauded  man  and  horse, 
As  matched  well,  and  rivalless  for  gallantry  and  force  ; 
Ne'er  had  they  look'd  on  horseman,  might  to  this  knight  come  near. 
Nor  on  other  charger  worthy  of  such  a  cavalier. 

Thus  to  and  fro  a-rushing  the  fierce  and  furious  steed 
He  snapt  in  twain  his  hither  rein — "  God  pity  now  the  Cid  ! 
"  God  pity  Diaz  !"  cried  the  lords — but  M'hen  they  look'd  again. 
They  saw  Ruy  Diaz  ruling  him  with  the  fragment  of  his  rein  ; 
They  saw  him  proudly  ruling  with  gesture  firm  and  calm, 
Like  a  true  lord  commanding,  and  obey'd  as  by  a  lamb. 

And  so  he  led  him  foaming  and  panting  to  the  king. 
But,  "  No,"  said  Don  Alfonso,  "  it  were  a  shameful  thing 
That  pceiless  Bavieca  .should  ever  be  bestrid- 
By  any  mortal  but  Bivar — mount,  mount  .again,  my  Cid." 

The  Excommunication  of  the  Cid  is  certainly  of  a  very 
apocryphal  character.  The  ballad,  however,  is  an  entertaining 
and  curious  one. 

It  was  when  from  Spain  across  the  main,  the  Cid  was  come  to  Rome, 
He  chanced  to  see  chairs  four  and  three,  beneath  St  Peter's  dome  ; 
"  Now  tell,  I  pray,  what  chairs  be  they  !"    "  .Seven  kings  do  sit  thereon, 
As  well  doth  suit,  all  at  the  foot  of  the  holy  father's  throne. 

The  pope  he  sitteth  above  them  all,  that  they  may  kiss  his  toe, 
Below  the  keys  the  Flower-de-lys  doth  make  a  gallant  show  ; 
For  his  puissance  the  king  of  France  next  to  the  pope  may  sit. 
The  rest  more  low,  all  in  a  row,  as  doth  their  station  fit.'' 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS,  139 

"  Ha  !"  quoth  the  Cid,  "  now  God  forbid  !  it  is  a  shame,  I  wis, 
To  see  the  Castle*  planted  beneath  the  Flower-de-lj-s.f 
No  harm  I  hope,  good  father  pope,  although  I  move  thy  chair  ;" 
In  pieces  small  he  kick'd  it  all  ('twas  of  the  ivory  fair.) 

The  pope's  own  seat,  he  from  his  feet,  did  kick  it  far  away, 
And  the  Spanish  chair  he  planted  u^jon  its  place  that  day; 
Above  them  all  he  planted  it,  and  laugh'd  right  bitterly. 
Looks  sour  and  bad  I  trow  he  had,  as  grim  as  grim  might  be. 

Now  when  the  pope  was  aware  of  this,  (he  was  an  angry  man,) 
His  lips  that  night,  with  solemn  rite,  pronounced  the  awful  ban ; 
The  curse  of  God  who  died  on  rood,  was  on  that  sinner's  head. 
To  Hell  and  woe  man's  soul  must  go,  if  once  that  curse  be  said. 

I  wot  when  the  Cid  was  aware  of  this,  (a  woeful  man  was  he,) 
At  dawn  of  day  he  came  to  pi'ay  at  the  blessed  father's  knee  ; 
"  Absolve  me,  blessed  father,  have  pity  upon  me. 
Absolve  my  soul,  and  penance  I  for  my  sin  will  dree  ?' 

"Who  is  this  sinner,"  quoth  the  pope,  "who  at  my  foot  doth  kneel  1" 

"  I  am  Rodrigo  Diaz,  a  poor  baron  of  Castile — " 

Much  marvell'd  all  were  in  the  hall,  when  that  word  they  heard  him 

say,— 
"  Rise  up,  rise  up,"  the  pope  he  said,  "  I  do  thy  guilt  away  : 

I  do  thy  guilt  away,"  he  said — "and  my  curse  I  blot  it  out  ; 
God  save  Rodrigo  Diaz,  my  Christian  champion  stout  ! 
I  trow  if  I  had  known  thee,  my  grief  it  had  been  sore 
To  curse  Ruy  Diaz  de  Bivar,  God's  scourge  upon  the  Moor." 

I  feel  no  regret  in  having  so  long  dwelt  upon  the  times  of 
the  Cid.  The  brilliant  reputation  of  that  hero,  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  Spanish  monarchy,  eclipses  the  glory  of  all 
who  either  preceded  or  followed  him.  Never  was  a  reputation 
more  completely  national,  and  never,  in  the  estimation  of 
men,  has  there  been  a  hero  in  Spain  who  has  equalled  Don 
Eodrigo.  He  occupies  the  debateable  ground  between  history 
and  romance,  and  the  historian  and  the  poet  both  assert  their 
claims  to  him.  The  ballads  which  we  have  been  examining 
are  considered  by  MuUer  as  authentic  documents  ;  while  the 
poets  of  Spain  have  chosen  them  as  the  most  brilliant  subjects 
for  their  dramatic  compositions.  Diamante,  an  old  poet,  and 
subsequently  Guillen  de  Castro,  have  borrowed  from  the  early 
romances  the  plots  of  their  tragedies  of  the  Cid,  both  of  which 
furnished  a  model  to  Corneille.  Lope  de  Vega,  in  his  Almenas 
de  Toro,  has  dramatised  the  second  period  of  the  warrior's 
life,  and  the  death  of  Sancho  the  Strong.  Other  writers  have 

*  The  arms  of  Castile.  \  The  anus  of  Fpance. 

I  2 


140  ox    THE    LITERATURE 

introduced  other  incidents  of  his  life  upon  tlie  stage.  No  hero, 
in  short,  has  ever  been  so  universally  celebrated  by  his 
countrymen,  nor  is  the  fame  of  any  individual  so  intimately 
connected  as  his,  with  all  the  poetry  and  the  history  of  his 
native  land. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

ON  SPANISH  LITERATURE,  DURING  THE  FOURTEENTH  AND  FIFTEENTH 

CENTURIES. 

I\  the  formation  of  her  language  and  her  poetry  Spain 
preceded  Italy  very  considerably,  though  the  progress  which 
she  afterwards  made  was  so  slow,  that  it  was  difficult  to  dis- 
tinguish it.  From  the  twelfth,  until  the  end  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  when  the  spirit  of  Italian  literature  began  to  exert 
an  influence  in  Spain,  every  production  of  value  which  pro- 
ceeded from  the  pen  of  a  Spaniard  is  anonymous  and  without 
date  ;  and  although,  perhaps,  in  the  songs  and  romances  of 
these  four  centuries,  the  progress  of  the  language  and  of  the 
versification  may  be  traced,  yet  in  the  ideas,  in  the  senti- 
ments, and  in  the  images,  there  is  so  much  similarity  as  to 
prevent  us  from  dividing  this  portion  of  the  literary  history 
of  Spain  into  separate  epochs,  and  from  assigning  to  each  a 
distinctive  character. 

This  uniformity  in  its  literary  history  is  likewise 
observable  in  the  political  history  of  Spain.  During  these 
four  centuries,  the  Spanish  character  was  strengthened,  con- 
firmed, and  developed,  but  not  changed,  by  the  national 
successes.  There  was  the  same  chivalric  bravery  exercised 
in  combats  against  the  Moors,  and  exercised  too  without 
ferocity,  and  even  with  feelings  of  mutual  esteem.  There 
was  the  same  high  feeling  of  honour,  and  the  same  gallant 
bearing,  nourished  by  rivalry  with  a  nation  as  honourable 
and  gallant  as  themselves  ;  a  nation  with  whom  the  knights 
of  Spain  had  been  often  mingled,  with  whom  they  had 
sought  an  asylum,  and  with  whom  they  had  even  served 
under  the  same  banners ;  and  lastly,  there  was  the  same 
independence  amongst  the  nobles,  the  same  national  pride, 
the  same  patriotic  attachments  which  were  nourished  by  the 
division  of  S[)ain  into  separate  kingdoms,  and   l)y  the  right 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  141 

of  every  vassal  to  make  war  upon  the  crown,  provided  he 
restored  the  fiefs  which  he  held  from  it. 

Spain,  from  the  commencement  of  the  eleventh  century, 
■was  divided  into  five  Christian  kingdoms.  It  would  be  no 
easy  task  to  present,  in  a  few  words,  a  picture  of  the  various 
revolutions  to  which  tliese  states  were  exposed,  though  the 
dates  of  their  progress  and  decline  may  be  succinctly  stated. 
The  kingdom  of  Navarre,  which  was  separated  very  early 
from  the  Moors  by  tlie  Castilians,  gradually  extended  itself 
on  the  side  of  Gascony.  .  But,  notwithstanding  its  frequent 
wars  with  the  neighbouring  states,  notwithstanding  various 
accessions  of  territory,  followed  invariably  by  new  partitions, 
Navarre  remained  within  nearly  the  same  limits  until  the 
time  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  who  conquered  it  in  1512. 
The  kingdom  of  Portugal,  which  was  founded  in  1090,  by 
Alfonso  VI.  of  Castile,  as  a  provision  for  his  son-in-law,  ex- 
tended itself  during  the  twelfth  century  along  the  shores  of 
the  Atlantic,  and  at  that  period  was  comprised  within  the 
limits  which,  notwithstanding  its  long  wars  with  Castile,  it 
has  since  preserved.  The  kingdom  of  Leon,  which  formerly 
extended  over  Galicia  and  the  Asturias,  was  the  most 
ancient  of  all,  and  the  true  representative  of  the  monarchy 
of  the  Visigoths.  Having  been  founded  by  Pelagius  and  his 
descendants,  it  was  to  extend  its  frontiers  that  those  heroic 
combats  were  fought,  which,  at  tlie  present  day,  fill  the 
poetical  history  of  Spain;  and  it  was  for  the  purpose  of 
establishing  the  independence  of  this  country,  that  the  semi- 
fabulous  hero  Bernard  del  Carpio  slew  the  Paladin  Orlando 
at  Roncevalles.  The  ancient  house  of  the  Visigoth  kings 
became  extinct  in  1037,  in  the  person  of  Bermudez 
HI ,  and  the  kingdom  of  Leon  then  iell  into  the  hands  of 
Ferdinand  th?  Great  of  NaA-arre,  who  united  under  his 
sceptre  all  the  Christian  states  of  Spain.  On  liis  death,  he 
again  severed  Navarre  and  Castile  in  fiivour  of  one  of  his 
sons ;  and  the  kingdom  of  Leon,  governed  by  the  house  of 
Bigorre,  preserved  an  independent  but  inglorious  existence 
until  the  year  1230,  when  it  was  for  the  last  time  united  to 
Castile  by  an  intermarriage  of  the  sovereigns. 

In  the  east  of  Spain  the  resistance  of  the  Christians  had 
been  less  effectual.  At  the  foot  of  the  Pyrenees,  around 
the  towns  of  Jaca  and   Huesca,  and  in  the  little  county  of 


142  ON    THE   LITERATURE 

Soprarbia,  the  kingdom  of  Aragon  took  its  rise.  Soon  after- 
wards, the  expedition  of  Charlemagne  against  the  Moors,  laid 
the  foundation  of  the  county  of  Barcelona,  then  confined  by 
the  shores  of  the  sea.  From  this  feeble  origin  a  powerful 
monarchy  arose.  Aragon,  reunited  to  Navarre  under  Sancho 
the  Great,  was  again  severed  from  it  in  10.3.5  ;  Saragossa 
was  won  from  the  Moors  in  1112,  and  the  victories  of  Alfonso 
the  Warlike,  who  was  in  vain  defeated  at  Fraga,  in  1134, 
tripled  the  extent  of  the  monarchy.  Three  years  after  his 
death  the  state  of  Aragon  was  united  to  that  of  Barcelona, 
in  1137,  by  marriage;  and  a  second  Alfonso,  in  1167,  added 
Pi'ovence  to  the  same  sovereignty.  James  I.,  in  1238,  con- 
quered the  kingdom  of  Valencia,  and  his  successors  united 
to  it  the  Balearic  Isles,  Sicily,  Sardinia,  Corsica,  and  lastly 
the  kingdom  of  Naples.  The  monarchy  of  Aragon  had 
arrived  at  its  highest  pitch  of  glory,  when  Ferdinand  of 
Aragon,  in  1469,  intermarried  with  Isabella  of  Castile,  and 
founded,  by  the  union  of  the  two  crowns,  that  powerful 
monarchy,  whieli  under  Charles  V.  embraced  all  Spain,  and 
threatened  the  independence  of  the  whole  world. 

But  the  most  powerful  of  the  monarchies  of  Christian 
Spain  was  Castile,  whieli,  as  it  inherited  the  conquests,  the 
grandeur,  and  the  glory  ot'  the  other  states  of  the  Peninsula, 
demands  a  more  particular  examination.  By  the  assistance 
of  the  kings  of  Oviedo  and  Leon,  part  of  New  Castile  suc- 
ceeded in  throwing  off  the  Musulman  yoke,  though,  until 
the  year  1028,  the  sovereign  only  bore  the  title  of  Count. 
Sancho  III.  of  Navarre,  by  his  marriage  with  the  heiress  of 
Castile,  united  this  sovereignty  to  his  othcn'  states  ;  from 
which  it  was  again  separated  in  1035,  in  favour  of  Ferdinand 
the  Great,  who  first  assumed  the  title  of  King  of  Castile. 
The  victories  of  that  monarch,  and  of  his  son  Sancho  the 
Strong,  rescued  all  Old  Castile  from  the  Moorish  yoke. 
New  Castile  was  at  that  period  a  powerful  Musulman 
kingdom,  the  capital  of  which  was  Toledo.  It  was  at  the 
court  of  one  of  the  kings  of  Toledo,  that  Alfonso  VI., 
when  pursued  by  his  brother,  sought  an  asylum.  He  after- 
wards proceeded,  in  1072,  with  the  assistance  of  the  Moorish 
monarch,  to  recover  the  inheritance  of  Sancho  the  Strong. 
Deaf  to  the  voice  of  gratitude,  Alfonso  VI.  did  not  hesitate 
to  despoil   Iliaia,  the  son  of  his  benefactor,  of  his  dominions. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  143 

In  1085,  lie  conquered  Toledo  and  New  Castile.  The 
Moors,  who,  when  they  arrived  in  Spain,  were  better  soldiers 
than  the  Goths^  very  quickly  lost  this  advantage.  The  use 
of  baths,  and  other  luxuries  and  delicacies,  to  which  they 
had  been  unaccustomed,  soon  enervated  them.  They  were 
vanquished  in  every  combat  where  they  were  not  infinitely 
superior  in  numbers  ;  and  they  frequently  submitted  to  be- 
come the  vassals  of  a  few  kniglits,  who  established  themselves 
amongst  them.     Alfonso  VI.  in  his  dominions,  the  extent  of 


'& 


which  he  had  almost  doubled,  counted  more  than  two 
millions  of  Musulraan  subjects,  to  whom  he  was  engaged  by 
the  most  solemn  oaths  to  preserve  their  laws,  their  worship,  and 
all  their  privileges.  The  Christians,  who,  though  inferior  in 
number,  had  obtained  the  ascendancy  over  this  still  powerful 
people,  were  not  united  amongst  themselves.  An  inveterate 
jealousy  separated  the  conquerors,  who  called  themselves 
Montafies.  on  account  of  their  residence  in  the  mountains, 
from  tlie  Mogarabians,  or  freedmen  of  tlie  Moors.  Religion, 
which  ought  to  have  united  them,  was  a  new  source  of  dis- 
pute and  contention.  The  Christians  who  were  found  in 
New  Castile  when  it  was  delivered  from  the  dominion  of  the 
Moors,  had  preserved  in  their  churches  a  particular  rite  in 
the  celebration  of  divine  service,  which  was  designated  by 
the  name  of  the  Mogarabian  ceremony.  The  conquerors 
wished  to  establish  the  Arabrosian  ceremony ;  and  the  choice 
between  the  two  forms  of  worship  was  referred  to  the  judg- 
ment of  God,  in  declaring  which  the  policy  of  the  monarch, 
and  not  the  jealousy  of  the  priests,  was  fortunately  the 
principal  instrument.  The  two  rituals  were  cast  into  the 
fire,  and  instead  of  the  single  miracle  which  was  expected, 
the  spectators  were  astonished  with  two ;  both  the  rituals 
were  taken  out  of  the  flames  unhurt.  Recourse  was  now 
had  to  the  judicial  combat,  and  two  warriors  fought  for  the 
two  forms  of  worship,  without  either  of  them  obtaining  the 
advantage.  Thus  the  two  rituals  were  declared  of  equal 
authority ;  mutual  toleration  was  sanctioned  by  the  double 
miracle  ;  and  the  Mo^arabian  ceremony  is  still  practised  in 
some  of  the  churches  of  Toledo. 

The  Musulman  princes  of  Andalusia,  terrified  by  the  con- 
quests of  the  Christians,  called  in  to  their  assistance  the 
Emperor  of  Morocco,  Yousouf,  the  son  of  Teschfin  the  Mora- 


144  ON    TIIK    LITERATUIIE 

bite,  who,  with  a  band  of  fresli  fanatics,  from  the  deserts  of 
Ai'rica,  restored  the  bahmce  of  the  war,  and,  giving  strength 
and  courage  to  the  Arabians  of  Spain,  arrested  the  progress 
of  tile  Castihans.  In  vain  did  Alfonso  VI.  attempt  to  sepa- 
rate tlie  Spani.sh  iVom  tlie  African  Moors,  even  marrying  the 
daughter  of  the  king  of  Seville,  by  way  of  strengthening  his 
alliance.  He  was  the  victim  of  his  own  policy ;  and  being 
defeated  in  several  great  battles,  he  with  dilliculty  preserved 
his  former  conquests.  From  this  time  it  became  apparent 
that  the  Spaniards,  when  by  their  admixture  with  the  Moors 
they  acquired  a  knowledge  of  their  arts  and  sciences,  had 
likewise  contracted  their  oriental  effeminacy.  A  century 
and  a  half  was  passed  in  disputes  with  the  Moors  of  Estra- 
madura,  without  any  im{)ortant  conquest  being  made  ;  v/hilst, 
on  the  other  side,  the  Castilians  in  1101  or  1102  evacuated 
the  kingdom  of  Valencia,  where  they  were  unable  to  maintain 
themselves  after  the  death  of  the  Cid.  The  talents  and  the 
bravery  of  Alfonso  VIII.,  and  of  Alfonso  IX.,  and  their 
brilliant  victories  at  Jaen  in  1157,  and  at  Tolosa  in  1212, 
scarcely  compensated  for  their  disastrous  minorities,  and  for 
the  evils  of  the  civil  wars  in  which  they  engaged.  Ulti- 
ma^tely,  however,  after  two  or  three  generations,  the 
Christians  again  assumed  all  their  superiority  over  the 
Moors.  Led  on  by  Ferdinand  III.  or  St.  Ferdinand  as  he 
was  called,  they  subdued  Cordova,  in  1236,  and  Seville  in 
1248,  and  achieved,  towards  the  latter  end  of  the  thirteenth 
century,  the  conquest  of  Estramadura  and  of  Andalusia. 
The  long  reign  of  Alfonso  X.  was  much  disturbed  by  civil 
commotions.  That  monarch  during  the  latter  part  of  the 
thirteenth  century  was  successively  engaged  in  war  with  his 
brothers  and  his  children,  and  was  perpetually  at  variance 
with  his  subjects,  whom  he  endeavoured  to  deprive  of  their 
privileges.  The  reigns  of  Ferdinand  IV.  and  of  Alfonso  XI. 
(129o-1350)  commenced  with  two  long  minorities,  and  fresh 
civil  wars  were  the  consequence.  During  the  last  ten  years 
of  this  period  the  efforts  of  the  King  of  Morocco  to  maintain 
the  IVIusulmans  in  Spain  revived,  notwithstanding  his  cele- 
brated defeat  at  Tarifa,  the  apprehensions  of  the  Christians. 
In  the  midst  of  these  internal  disorders  and  foreign  invasions, 
the  royal  authority  was  shaken.  The  ferocious  Peter  I. 
surnamed  the  C/ruel,  attempted  to  re-establish  his  power  by  a 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  145 

system  of  severity  ;  but  his  cruelties  drove  liis  brother  and 
his  subjects  into  rebellion,  and  he  perished  at  the  battle  of 
Montiel,  in  1369.     The  crown  of  Castile  now  devolved  upon 
a  bastard  branch.   Several  weak  and  feeble  princes,  Henry  III. 
John   II.   and  Henry  IV.   now    succeeded,    Avho  abandoned 
themselves  to  the  government  of  their  favourites ;   and  the 
last  of  these  sovereigns  was,  in  the  year  1465,  deposed  by  his 
subjects,  after  having  rendered  himself  contemptible  in  the 
eyes    of   all  Europe."     During    the    whole    of  this    century 
Grenada  was  the  home  of  luxury,  of  art,  and  of  gallantry. 
Its  population  was  prodigious  ;  and  the  land  was  kept  in  a 
state  of  the  highest  cultivation.     Love,  festivals,  and  games, 
Avere  the  occupation  of  the  Moorish  nobles.     No  entertain- 
ment was    complete    unless    attended  with  some   illustrious 
achievement  of  arms;  and  the  knights  of  Castile,  who  guarded 
the  frontiers,   gladly  presented  themselves  at  every  courtly 
festival,  to  shed  their  blood  in  the  tourney,  and  to  dispute  in 
serious  combat  the  prize  of  valour.     The  civil  wars  of  Castile 
and  those  of  Grenada,  between  the  Zegris  and  the  Abencer- 
rages,    prevented  every  project  of  extended  conquest ;  but 
without  the  carnage  consequent  upon  a  long  war,  and  even 
without  destroying  the  good  understanding  of  the  neighbour- 
ing states,  the  field  of  battle  was  always  open  to  the  two 
nations,  and  an  opportunity  was  thus  afforded  to  their  valiant 
youth  to  exercise  themselves  in  arms.     A  hundred  and  iifty 
years  had  now  elapsed  since  the  battle  of  Tarifa,  the  latest 
period  when  the  power  of  the    Musulmans  threatened  the 
existence  of  Castile,   when  Isabella,  who  had  ascended  the 
throne  in   1474,  achieved  in  1492  the  conquest  of  Grenada; 
a  project  suggested  to  her  by  her  confessor,  and  which  she 
pursued  with  the  blind  zeal  of  a  woman,  but  with  the  talents 
and  courage  of  a  man.     The  fall  of  this  great  city  terminated 
the  struggle  which  had  endured  for  nearly  eight  centuries 
between  the  Moors  and  the  Christians,   and  many  millions  of 
Musulmans  became  subjects  of  Castile.     The  population  of 
the  province  of  Grenada  had  been  augmented  by  refugees 
from  all  the  Moorish  states  of  Spain,  which  had  yielded  to 
tlie  Christians  two  centuries  and  a  lu\lf  before  the  fall    of 
Grenada. 

Previously   to   giving   an    account  of  the  writers  whom 
Castile  produced  during  that  period,  I  have  thought  it  expe- 


146  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

client  thus  to  present  to  the  reader  tlie  principal  events  which 
occurred  during  a  very  considerable  portion  ol"  the  history  of 
that  country,  and  to  pursue  the  progress  of  those  conquests, 
from  north  to  soutii,  which  flattered  the  national  pride  by 
daily  successes,  trained  the  inhabitants  to  tlie  use  of  arms,  and 
secured  to  tlie  brave  such  brilliant  and  immediate  rewards. 

The  first  distinguished  author  of  the  fourteenth  century,  is 
the  Prince  Don  Juan  IManuel,  a  cadet  of  the  royal  family, 
who  traced  his  descent  up  to  Saint  Ferdinand.  In  liim  we 
remark  that  union  of  letters  and  of  arms  which  reflected  such 
glory  upon  Spain,  and  by  which  the  reign  of  Charles  V.  was 
rendered  so  illustrious.  He  served  Alfonso  XI.,  a  prince  of 
jealous  feelings,  and  exceedingly  diflicult  to  please,  with  great 
fidelity,  and  was  by  him  named  governor  (adelantado  mayor) 
of  the  jNIoorish  frontiers.  For  twenty  3'ears  he  carried  on  a 
successful  war  against  the  Moors  of  Grenada,  and  died  in 
1362.  His  principal  composition  is  entitled  Count  Lucanor, 
and  is,  it  may  be  said,  the  first  prose  work  in  the  Castilian 
language,  as  was  the  Decameron,  which  appeared  about  the 
same  time,  in  the  Italian.  Count  Lucanor,  like  the  Deca- 
meron, is  a  collection  of  Novels,  but  in  every  other  respect 
the  works  are  entirely  different.  Lucanor  is  the  [)roduction 
of  a  statesman,  who  wishes  to  instruct  a  grave  and  serious 
nation  in  lessons  of  policy  and  morality,  in  the  shape  of 
apologues.  The  Decameron  is  the  lively  offspring  of  a  man 
of  taste,  but  of  dissipated  manners,  wliose  object  is  rather  to 
please  than  to  instruct.  Prince  Juan  Manuel  places  his  hero, 
Count  Lucanor,  in  very  difficult  circumstances,  with  regard 
both  to  morals  and  to  politics.  The  Count  asks  the  advice 
of  his  friend  and  Minister  Patronio,  who  answers  him  with  a 
little  tale,  which  is  related  with  much  grace  and  sim[)licity, 
and  applied  with  wit  and  ingenuity.  There  are  forty-nine 
of  these  tales,  and  the  moral  of  each  is  contained  in  two  little 
verses,  less  remarkable  for  their  poetical  merit  than  for  their 
precision  and  good  sense.  The  first  of  these  novels  is  trans- 
lated below.  When  we  are  engaged  in  discussing  the  merits 
of  productions  almost  entirely  unknown,  it  is  proper  to  pre- 
sent the  reader  rather  with  examples  than  with  opinions. 

One  day  Count  Lucanor  thus  bespoke  his  counsellor  Patro- 
nio. "Patronio,  thou  knowest  that  I  am  a  great  hunter, 
and  that  I  have  hunted  more  than  any  man  before  ;  and  that 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  147 

I  have  invented  and  added  to  the  hoods  and  jesses  of  my  falcons 
certain  contrivances  which  are  entirely  new.  Now  they  who 
are  maliciously  inclined  towai-ds  me  speak  of  me  in  derision. 
They  praise  the  Cid  Ruy  Diaz  or  Count  Fernando  Gonzales, 
for  the  battles  they  have  fought,  or  the  holy  and  blessed  king 
D.  Ferdinand,  for  all  the  conquests  which  he  achieved ;  but 
they  praise  me  for  having  accomplished  a  great  thing  in 
bringing  to  perfection  the  hoods  and  jesses  of  my  falcons. 
Now,  as  such  praise  is  rather  an  insult  than  an  honour,  I  pray 
thee  counsel  me  how  I  may  avoid  this  irony  upon  a  subject 
which,  after  all,  is  praiseworthy  enough.''  "  My  Lord  Count," 
said  Patronio,  "  that  you  may  know  how  to  conduct  yourself 
in  this  case,  I  will  relate  to  you  what  happened  to  a  Moor 
who  was  king  of  Cordova."  The  Count  bade  him  proceed, 
and  tlien  Patronio  thus  spoke : 

'•  There  was  once  a  Moorish  king  of  Cordova,  whose  name 
was  Al-Haquem.  He  governed  his  kingdom  with  tolerable 
discretion,  but  he  did  not  exert  himself  to  accomplish  any 
great  and  honourable  exploits,  as  kings  are  in  duty  bound. 
It  is  not  enough  in  them  barely  to  preserve  their  dominions. 
They  who  would  acquire  a  noble  fame,  should  so  act  as  to 
enlarge  their  territories  without  injustice,  and  thus  gain  the 
applause  of  their  subjects  during  their  life,  and  at  their  death 
leave  lasting  monuments  of  their  great  achievements.  But 
the  king  of  whom  we  ai'e  speaking  cared  nothing  about  all 
this  ;  he  thought  only  of  eating,  and  amusing  himself,  and 
spending  his  time  idly  in  his  palace.  Now  it  happened  one 
day  that  he  was  listening  to  the  music  of  an  instrument  of 
which  the  Moors  are  very  fond,  and  which  they  call  albogon. 
He  observed  that  it  did  not  sound  so  well  as  he  could  contrive 
to  make  it  ;  so  he  took  the  albogon,  and  made  a  hole  under- 
neath opposite  the  others.  Tiie  eflect  of  this  was  that  the 
albogon  yielded  a  much  finer  note  than  before.  This  was  a 
very  clever  invention,  but  net  exactly  suited  to  a  royal 
personage.  The  people  in  derision  pretended  to  praise  it. 
It  passed  into  a  proverb,  and,  when  speaking  of  any  useless 
improvement,  they  say  :  'It  is  worthy  of  king  Al-Haquem 
himself.'  This  saying  was  so  often  repeated,  that  it  came  at 
last  to  the  ears  of  the  king,  who  inquired  its  meaning,  and  in 
spite  of  the  silence  of  those  whom  he  questioned,  he  insisted 
so  pertinaciously  on  an  answer,  that  they  were  obliged,  to 


148  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

explain  it  to  him.  AVlioii  lie  knew  tlii.«,  the  king  grieved 
sorely,  as,  after  all,  he  was  in  trnth  a  very  good  king.  lie  in- 
flicted no  punishment  u[)on  those  who  had  thus  spoken  oT  him, 
but  he  made  a  resolution  in  his  own  heart  to  invent  some 
other  improvement  Avhich  should  compel  the  people  to  prai-se 
him  in  good  earnest.  He  set  his  people  to  work  to  finish  the 
great  mosque  of  Cordova.  He  supplied  every  deficiency,  and 
finally  completed  it,  and  made  it  the  most  beautiful,  noble, 
and  exquisite  of  all  the  Moorish  mosques  in  Spain.  Vraise  be 
to  the  Lord,  it  is  at  this  day  a  church,  and  is  called  St.  Mary's. 
It  was  dedicated  by  that  holy  Saint,  King  Ferdinand,  after 
he  had  taken  Cordova  from  the  Moors.  When  the  king 
had  finished  it,  he  said,  tliat  if  his  improvements  on  the 
albogon  had  hitherto  exposed  him  to  derision,  he  expected 
that  for  the  future  he  should  be  applauded  for  the  completion 
of  the  mosque  of  Cordova.  The  proverb  was  in  fact  changed, 
and  even  unto  this  day,  when  the  Moors  speak  of  an  addition 
superior  to  the  object  to  whicli  it  is  attached,  they  say  :  King 
Al-Haquem  has  mended  it." 

It  is  evident  that  Patronio  did  not  give  himself  much 
trouble  in  disguising  his  instructions.  The  apologue  is  little 
more  than  a  repetition  of  Lucanor's  own  story,  "  The  counsel 
is  sensible  and  just  enough,  but  it  must  be  confessed  that  it 
does  not  display  much  wit.  In  general  we  must  not  look  to 
the  writers  of  the  fourteenth  century  for  quickness,  precision, 
wit,  and  polish.  Those  qualities  are  only  produced  in  an 
age  of  high  civilization,  and  by  the  collision  of  intellect. 
The  education  which  was  bestowed  in  castles,  and  the  severe 
discipline  of  the  feudal  system,  acted  upon  the  imagination 
rather  than  upon  the  judgment.  The  writers  of  the  middle 
ages  are  most  valuable  when  they  give  us  pictures  of  tliem- 
selves  ;  for  human  nature,  which  in  every  state  is  worthy  of 
observation,  is  still  more  so  when  it  has  not  cast  off  its  native 
simplicity.  Of  the  various  compositions  of  those  writers, 
their  poetry  is  the  most  remarkable  ;  for  there  the  imagina- 
tion supplies  the  deficiencies  of  knowledge,  and  d^'pth  of 
feeling  the  want  of  variety.  In  matters  of  thought,  however, 
their  goal  has  been  our  starting-place,  and  we  can  only  look 
for  information  from  their  wi'itings,  so  far  as  regards  them, 
and  not  ourselves. 

Prince  Juan  Manuel  was  likewise  the  author   of  some 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  149 

didactic  pieces  on  the  duties  of  a  kniglit,  wliich  have  not 
come  down  to  us.  Some  of  his  romances  are,  however,  pre- 
served ;  they  are  written  with  a  simplicity  which  adds  to  the 
value  of  compositions  in  themselves  tender  and  touching. 
The  Spaniards  had  not  yet  renounced  tliat  natural  style  of 
expression,  which  at  once  proceeds  from  and  affects  the 
heart.  They  still  faithfully  preserved  it  in  their  romances, 
but  they  had  already  begun  to  deviate  from  it  in  their  lyrical 
poems  ;  and  some  amatory  poems  of  this  same  Prince  Juan 
Manuel  have  been  preserved,  in  whicli  this  deviation  may 
be  seen. 

A  short  time  after  Prince  Juan,  flourished  Pedro  Lopez  de 
Ayala,  who  was  born  in  Murcia,  in  1332,  and  died  in  1407, 
after  having  filled  the  offices  of  Grand  Chamberlain,  and 
Gi'and  Chancellor  of  Castile.  His  poems,  which  were 
promised  to  the  public  by  Sanchez,  have,  I  believe,  never  yet 
been  printed.  They  would  possess,  in  a  greater  degree  than 
the  poems  of  Prince  Juan,  that  interest  whicli  results  from 
the  exhibition  of  strong  political  passions,  and  from  the 
developement  of  a  character,  which  would  seem  to  forebode  to 
the  individual  a  stormy  and  troubled  life.  Ayala,  who  had 
previously  been  in  the  service  of  Peter  the  Cruel,  afterwards 
attached  himself  to  the  party  of  his  brother,  Henry  de 
Transtamare,  and  justified  the  revolt  of  the  Castilians  by 
his  writings,  as  he  had  aided  it  with  his  arms.  In  his 
chronicle  of  the  four  kings  under  whom  he  had  lived,  Peter, 
Henry  II.,  John  I.,  and  Henry  III.,  he  paints  in  the  blackest 
colours  the  ferocity  of  the  first,  and  it  is  chiefly  upon  his 
authority  that  the  accusations  rest  which  have  cast  such 
infamy  upon  the  memory  of  this  ancient  tyrant  of  Spain. 
Ayala,  who  first  translated  Livy  into  the  Castilian,  was  the 
first  likewise  to  lead  the  way  in  adapting  the  narrative  style 
of  the  ancients  to  modern  history.  Amongst  his  poems,  the 
most  celebrated  is  his  Itimado  de  ])alacto,  which  was  written 
in  prison,  for  the  express  purpose  of  rendering  Peter  odious 
to  his  subjects,  and  of  conciliating  their  good  will  towards 
his  bi'other.  He  fought  by  the  side  of  Henry  at  the  battle 
of  Naxera,  and  together  with  Duguesclin  was  taken  prisoner 
by  the  English,  the  allies  of  Peter  the  Cruel,  on  the  third  of 
April,  1367.  He  was  afterwards  carried  to  England,  and  he 
has  in  his  poems  drawn  a   terrible  picture  of  tlie  gloomy 


1^0  ON    THE    LITERATUKE 

prison  in  which  he  was  confined,  the  wounds  under  which  he 
was  suffering,  and  tlie  chains  Avith  which  ho  was  loaded.  His 
R'nnado  de  palario,  contains  sixteen  luindred  and  nineteen 
coplas  or  stanzas,  varying  in  the  metre  and  the  number  of 
their  lines.  Politics,  morals,  and  religion,  are  alternately  the 
subjects  of  Lopez  de  Ayala's  muse  ;  and  Saucliez  assures  us, 
that  his  writings  are  replete  with  profound  learning,  know- 
ledge of  the  world,  and  high  religious  feelings.  He  passes 
some  severe  censures  on  the  great  statesmen,  as  well  as  on 
the  ecclesiastics  of  his  day  ;  but  the  great  corruption  of  both 
classes  during  the  fourteenth  century  justifies  the  bitterness 
of  his  satire.  Lopez  de  Ayala,  after  his  release,  became  one  of 
the  counsellors  of  Henry,  and  his  ambassador  to  France  ; 
but  he  was  again  taken  prisoner  in  the  year  1385,  at  the 
battle  of  Aljubarrota,  which  was  fought  against  the  Portu- 
guese. This  double  captivity  made  liim  ieel  most  sensibly 
all  the  grievances  attached  to  the  loss  of  liberty,  and  tinctured 
his  poetry  with  a  solemnity  of  imagery  and  a  melancholy 
tone  of  sentiment,  wliicli  give  it  an  elevated  character.  Yet 
it  is  probable,  that  the  greater  part  of  the  poems,  which  he 
has  dated  from  his  prison,  were  in  fact  composed  when  he  had 
recovered  his  liberty,  and  after  he  liad  been  raised  by  John  I. 
to  the  highest  dignities  in  the  kingdom.  At  the  period  when 
Ayala  wrote,  the  other  poets  of  Spain  composed  little  else 
tlian  amatory  verses ;  but  in  all  his  numerous  productions 
there  is  scarcely  a  single  verse  to  be  found,  which  touches 
upon  a  profane  passion.  Many  of  them,  it  is  true,  are  filled 
with  that  divine  love  whicli  borrows  the  language  of  human 
passion,  and  are  evidently  the  production  of  a  man  devoted  to 
mysticism.* 

It  is  to  a  contemporary  of  Prince  Juan  that  we  owe  the 
Amadis  of  Gaul,  the  best  and  most  celebrated  of  the 
romances  of  chivalry.  Yasco  Lobeira,  whom  the  Spaniards 
acknowledge  to  be  the   author,  was  a  Portuguese,  who  was 

*  I  have  perused  the  poems  of  the  arch-priest  of  Hita,  •written  about 
the  year  1343,  which  Sauchez  has  i:>ublishcd  in  his  fouitli  volume  of  the 
Coleccion  de  Poesins  Castellanas.  Tlicy  may  perhaps  aitbrd  some  idea 
of  the  Rimado  de  Pnlacio,  as  they  are  written  in  irregular  stanzas,  and 
contain  all  the  politics  and  morality  of  the  author  and  of  the  age.  They 
are  none  of  theiu,  however,  sufficiently  interesting  to  merit  insertion  in 
this  work. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  151 

born  in  the  latter  part  of  the  thirteenth  century,  and  died 
in  the  year  1325.  He  wrote  the  four  first  books  of  the 
Amadis  in  Spanish ;  but  for  some  unexplained  reason  his 
work  did  not  become  generally  known  until  the  middle  of  the 
fourteenth  century.  This  celebrated  romance  was  certainly 
an  imitation  of  tlie  French  romances  of  chivalry,  which,  in 
the  preceding  century,  had  acquired  so  high  a  reputation 
throughout  Europe,  and  had  produced  such  important  effects 
on  its  literature.  The  French  have  even  some  pretensions 
to  the  first  invention  of  the  Amadis.  But  whatever  may  be 
the  truth  with  regard  to  that  fact,  the  work  became  natural- 
ized in  Spain  by  the  avidity  with  which  it  was  read  by  all 
classes,  the  enthusiasm  it  excited,  and  the  powerful  influence 
which  it  exerted  over  the  taste  of  the  Castilians.  The  per- 
petual errors  in  geography  and  history  escaped  the  attention 
of  readers,  who  were  utter  strangers  to  those  branches  of 
knowledge.  The  diffuse  and  yet  stiff  style  of  the  narrative, 
instead  of  being  a  reproach,  was  in  accordance  with  the 
manners  of  the  age.  It  seemed  to  present  a  stronger  picture 
of  those  Gothic  and  chivalric  virtues  which  the  Moorish 
wars  still  cherished  in  Spain,  and  which  the  Castilians  de- 
lighted to  attribute  to  their  ancestors  in  a  greater  degree 
than  the  truth  warranted.  The  brilliant  fairy  mythology  of 
the  East,  with  which  a  commerce  with  the  Arabians  had 
rendered  the  Spaniards  acquainted,  assumed  fresh  charms  in 
this  romance,  and  captivated  the  imagination.  Love,  also, 
was  painted  with  an  excess  of  devotion  and  of  voluptuous 
tenderness,  which  affected  the  people  of  the  south  much  more 
powerfully  than  the  same  sentiments  would  have  influenced 
the  French.  The  passion  of  love  thus  represented  was  so 
submissive,  so  constant,  and  so  religious,  that  it  almost 
seemed  a  virtue  to  entertain  it ;  and  yet  the  author  has 
denied  to  his  heroes  none  of  its  privileges.  He  has  effec- 
tually captivated  inflammable  imaginations,  by  confounding  the 
allurements  of  voluptuousness  with  the  duties  of  chivalry. 

The  celebrity  of  the  Amadis  de  Gaul,  and  its  numerous 
imitations,  together  with  the  frequent  translations  of  all  the 
French  romances  of  chivalry,  have  given  the  national  poetry 
of  Spain  a  very  animated  and  chivalric  character.  •  The 
spirit  of  these  popular  woi-ks  passed  to  the  romances,  which 
were  equally  popular,  and  it  is  to  the  fourteenth  century  that 


152  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

we  owe  those  poetical  talcs  for  wliicli  the  Spaniards  are  so  emi- 
nently distinguislied.  In  most  of  these  romances,  we  may 
remark  a  touching  simplicity  of  expression,  a  truth  of  paint- 
ing, and  an  excjuisite  sensibility,  which  invest  them  witii  the 
highest  charms.*  Some  of  them  are  still  more  distinguished 
by  the  powers  of  invention  which  they  display.  When  this 
is  the  case,  they  form  little  chivalric  romances,  the  effect  of 
which  is  lively  and  impressive  in  proportion  to  the  brevity 
of  the  poem.  The  author  strikes  at  once  into  the  middle  of 
his  subject,  and  thus  produces  a  powerful  effect  upon  the 
imagination,  and  avoids  long  and  useless  introductions.  The 
weakest  memory  was  able  to  retain  these  romances.  They 
were  sung  by  the  soldiers  on  their  march,  by  the  rustics  in 
their  daily  labours,  and  by  the  women  during  their  domestic 
occupations.  The  knowledge  of  their  ancient  history  and 
of  chivalry  was  in  this  manner  diffused  throughout  the 
whole  nation.     Feiv  individuals  were  able  to  read,  or  indeed 

*  The  Bomancero  general,  collected  by  Pedro  de  Florez,  and  printed 
at  Madrid  in  1614,  in  quarto,  was  probalily  only  a  bookseller's  specula- 
tion. It  is  a  confused  collection  of  all  the  popular  romances,  displaying 
neither  taste  nor  critical  acumen.  It  is  a  painful  task  to  wade  through 
this  immense  collection.  It  is  divided  into  thirteen  parts,  which,  in- 
stead of  distinguishing  the  contents,  render  the  whole  more  confused. 
But  the  reader  will  be  rewarded  for  his  labour,  should  he  have  the 
courage  to  undergo  it.  •  There  are  many  romances  as  simple  and  beau- 
tiful as  the  following,  in  which  we  recognize  in  an  European  language 
the  imagination  and  melancholy  sentiments  of  the  Arabians,  from  whom 
the  Spaniards  borrowed  many  of  their  popular  songs. 

Fonte  frida,  fonte  frida,  Malo  falso  enganador, 

Fonte  frida  y  con  amor,  (iue  ni  poso  en  ramo  verde 

Do  todas  las  a\ezicas  Ni  en  prado  que  tenga  flor, 

Van  tomar  consolacion,  Que  si  el  agua  hallo  clara 

Sino  es  la  tortolica  Turbia  la  bevio  yo. 

Que  esta  biuda  y  con  dolor ;  (^ue  no  quiero  aver  marido 

I'or  ay  fuera  a  pas.sar  Torque  hijos  no  aya  no, 

El  traydor  del  ruy  senor,  No  quiero  plazer  con  cUos 

Las  palabras  que  el  dezia  Ni  mcnos  consolacion  ; 

Llenas  son  de  traycion  :  Dexame  triste  encmigo 

Si  tu  quisisses  senora  Malo  falso,  mal  traydor, 

Yo  seria  tu  servidor;  Que  no  quiero  ser  tu  amiga 

A''cte  de  ay  cnemigo  Ni  easar  contigo  no. 

It  is  difficult  to  explain  in  what  consists  the  chanu  of  this  little 
romance,  unless  it  be  in  the  air  of  truth  and  the  absence  of  all  design 
for  which  it  is  so  remarkable.  It  was  certainly  highly  appreciated  ly 
the  Spaniards,  and  the  romance  has  been  annotated  upon,  by  Tapiu. 


OP    TUE    SPANIARDS.  153 

had  any  kind  of  literary  instruction  ;  and  yet  it  would  have 
been  difficult  to  have  found  amougst  them  one  who  was  not 
acquainted  with  the  brilliant  adventures  of  Bernard  do 
Carpio,  of  the  Cid,  of  Don  Gayferos,  of  Calaynos  the  Moor, 
and  of  all  the  knights  of  the  time  of  Araadis,  or  of  the 
court  of  Charlemagne.  The  people,  no  doubt,  derived  very 
little  real  instruction  from  indulging  in  these  pursuits  of  the 
imagination.  History  was  confounded  in  their  mind  with 
romance,  and  the  same  credit  was  given  to  probable  events, 
and  to  marvellous  adventures.  But  this  universal  acquaint- 
ance with  the  exploits  of  chivalry,  and  this  deep  interest  in 
characters  of  the  noblest  and  most  elevated  cast,  excited  a 
national  feeling  of  a  singularly  poetical  nature.  The  Moors, 
who  were,  in  almost  every  village,  intermingled  with  the 
Christians,  were  still  more  sensible  than  the  latter  to  the 
charm  of  these  romances,  and  still  more  attached  to  the  love 
of  music.  Even  at  the  present  day  they  can  forget  their 
labours,  their  griefs,  and  their  fears,  to  abandon  themselves 
wholly  to  the  pleasures  of  song.  They  are  probably  the 
authors  of  many  of  the  Castilian  romances,  and  others  have, 
perhaps,  been  composed  for  their  amusement.  The  Moorish 
heroes  were  certainly  as  conspicuous  in  those  works  as  the 
Christians  ;  and  the  admiration  which  the  writers  endea- 
voured to  excite  for  the  "  Knights  of  Gi-enada — gentlemen, 
although  Moors:"  Cahalkros  Granadinos — atmqne  3Ioros 
hijus  dalgo:  strengthened  the  ties  between  the  two  nations, 
and  by  cherishing  those  benevolent  feeUngs,  which  their 
priests  in  vain  attempted  to  destroy,  inspired  them  with 
mutual  affection  and  esteem.* 

*  The  Spanish  devotees  were  at  one  period  much  scandalized  at  the 
number  of  their  poets  who  had  sung  the  loves  and  exploits  of  the 
infidels.  In  the  Romancero  general  there  is  a  romance  against  this 
pretended  impiety. 

Renegaron  a  su  ley  Y  ofreeieron  a  Mahoma 

Los  romancistes  de  Espaiia ;  •  Los  primicios  de  sus  gracias. 

In  the  same  place  we  meet  with  a  more  liberal  poet,  who  is  unwilling 
that  the  Spaniards  should  abandon  this  portion  of  their  national  glory. 
Si  es  espaiiol  don  Rodrigo  Las  Zambras  tambien  lo  son 

Espanol  fue  el  fuerte  Audalla  Pues  es  Espana  Granada ; 

Y  entienda  el  misero  pobre 

*  Que  son  blazones  de  Espana 

Si  una  gallarda  espanola  Ganados  a  fuego  y  sangre 

Quiere  baylar,  dona  Juana,  No  (como  el  dize)  prestadas. 

VOL.  U  K 


154  ON    THE  LITERATURE 

Bernard  del  Carpio,  who  lias  been  celebrated  in  so  many 
romances  and  tragedies,  belonged  equally  to  both  nations. 
The  romantic  and  often  fabulous  adventures  of  this  Casti- 
lian  Hercules,  are  peculiarly  suited  to  poetry.  In  these 
romances  we  have  an  account  of  his  parentage,  being  the 
offspring  of  a  secret  marriage  between  Don  Sancho  Diaz, 
Count  of  Saldaiia,  and  Ximena,  the  sister  of  Alfonso  the 
Chaste,  a  marriage  whicli  tliat  king  never  pardoned  ;  of  the 
long  and  wretched  captivity  of  the  Count  of  Saldana,  whom 
Alfonso  threw  into  the  dungeons  of  the  Castlo  of  Luna, 
after  having  deprived  him  of  his  eyes ;  of  the  prodigious 
strength  and  prowess  by  which  Bernard,  who  had  been 
brought  up  under  another  name,  proved  himself  worthy  of 
the  royal  stock  from  which  he  sprang ;  of  his  efforts  to 
obtain  his  father's  liberty,  which  Alfonso  had  promised  him 
as  the  reward  of  his  labours,  and  wliich  he  afterwards  re- 
fused ;  of  that  king's  last  treacherous  act,  when,  after  all  the 
conquests  of  Bernard  had  been  surrendered  to  him  as  the 
ransom  of  the  Count  of  Saldana,  he  strangled  tlie  unfortu- 
nate old  man,  and  delivered  only  his  breathless  body  to  his 
son  ;  of  the  first  alliance  of  Bernard  with  the  Moors  to  avenge 
himself ;  of  his  second  alliance  with  them  in  order  to  defend 
the  independence  of  Spain  against  Cliarlemagne,  and  of  his 
victory  over  Orlando  at  Roncevalles.  Every  incident  of 
this  ancient  hero's  life  was  sung  with  transport  by  the  Casti- 
lians  and  the  Moors. 

Another  series  of  these  romances  relate  to  a  more  modern 
period  of  history,  and  comprise  the  wars  between  tlie  Zegris 
and  Abencerrages  of  Grenada.  Every  joust,  every  combat, 
and  every  intrigue  which  took  place  in  the  court  of  the  later 
Moorish  kings  was  recited  by  the  Castilians,  and  all  the  old 
romances  are  again  met  with  in  the  chivalric  history  of  these 
civil  conflicts. 

The  extreme  simplicity  of  these  romances,  which  are  not 
relieved  by  a  single  ornament,  would  seem  to  render  them 
peculiarly  easy  of  translation.  There  is,  however,  a  singular 
chiu-m  in  tlie  monotonous  harmony  of  the  Spanisli  redondilha, 
in  which  the  short  lines  of  four  trochees  each  follow  one 
another  with  great  sweetness,  as  well  as  in  that  imperfect  but 
reiterated  rhyme  with  which  the  second  line  in  each  stanza 
of  these  romances  terminates.    These  rlnmes,  which  preserve 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  155 

the  image  by  the  repetition  of  the  same  sound,  produce  a 
general  impression  in  unison  with  the  subject.  Thus  the 
assonants  are  generally  spirited  and  sounding  in  martial  songs, 
and  sweet  and  melancholy  in  the  amatory  and  elegiac  ro- 
mances. I  shall  attempt,  howevei",  to  give  the  reader  an  idea 
of  two  of  these  romances.  The  first  is  merely  a  relation  of  a 
simple  fact  in  the  history  of  Spain,  which  is  told  with  all  the 
melancholy  circumstances  attending  it.  The  subject  is  the 
destitute  condition  of  Roderic,  the  last  king  of  the  Goths, 
after  his  defeat.  The  great  battle  of  Xeres,  or  of  the  Guada- 
leta,  which,  in  the  year  711,  opened  Spain  to  the  Musulmans, 
is  deeply  impressed  upon  the  memory  of  all  the  Castilians, 
who  claim,  even  at  the  present  day,  to  be  the  heirs  of  the 
glory  of  the  Goths,  and  who  delight  in  tracing  back  their 
nobility  and  their  departed  power  to  these  semi-fabulous 
times. 

THE  LAMENTATION  OF  DON  RODERIC. 

The  hosts  of  Don  Rodrigo  were  scattered  in  dismay, 
AVhen  lost  was  the  eighth  battle,  nor  heart  nor  hope  had  they  ; 
He,  when  he  saw  that  field  was  lost,  and  all  his  hope  was  flown, 
He  turned  him  from  his  flying  host,  and  took  his  way  alone. 

His  horse  was  bleeding,  blind,  and  lame — he  could  no  farther  go  ; 
Dismounted  without  path  or  aim,  the  king  stepped  to  and  fro  : 
It  was  a  sight  of  pity  to  look  on  Roderic, 
For  sore  athirst  and  hungry,  he  stagger'd  faint  and  sick. 

All  stain'd  and  strew'd  with  dust  and  blood,  like  to  some  smouldering 

brand 
Pluck'd  from  the  flame  Rodrigo  shew'd  ;  his  sword  was  in  his  hand  : 
But  it  was  hack'd  into  a  saw  of  dark  and  purple  tint ; 
His  jewell'd  mail  had  many  a  flaw,  his  helmet  many  a  dint. 

He  clira'd  unto  a  hill-top,  the  highest  he  could  see  ; 

Thence  all  about  of  that  wide  route,  his  last  long  look  took  he  ;* 


» 


Las  huestes  de  don  Rodrigo  El  rey  va  tan  desmayado 
Desmayavan  y  huyan.  Que  sentido  no  tenia, 

Quando  en  la  octava  batalla  Muerto  va  de  sed  y  hambre 

Sus  enemigos  vencian.  Que  de  vello  era  manzilla. 

Rodrigo  dexa  sus  tierras  Yva  tan  tinto  de  sangre 
Y  del  real  se  salia.  Que  una  braza  parecia ; 

Solo  va  el  desventurado  Las  armas  lleva  aboUadas 

.    Que  non  lleva  compania.  Que  eran  de  gran  pedreria. 

El  cavallo  de  cansado  La  cspada  lleva  hecha  sierra 
Ya  mudar  no  se  podia,  De  los  golpes  que  tenia, 

Camina  por  donde  quiere  El  almete  de  abollado 

Que  no  le  estorva  la  via.  En  la  cabe5a  se  hundia. 

k2  ^^ 


156  ON  THE   LITERATURE 

He  saw  his  royal  banners,  where  they  lay  drench'd  and  torn  ; 
He  heard  the  cry  of  victory,  the  Arabs'  shout  of  scorn. 

He  look"d  for  the  brave  captains  that  had  led  the  hosts  of  Spain, 
But  all  were  fled,  except  the  dead, — and  who  could  count  the  slain  ? 
Where'er  his  eye  could  wander  all  bloody  was  the  plain ; 
And  while  thus  he  said  the  tears  he  shed  run  down  his  cheeks  like  rain. 

Last  night  I  was  the  king  of  Spain — to-day  no  king  am  I  : 
Last  night  fair  castles  held  my  train,  to-night  where  shall  I  lie! 
Last  night  a  hundred  pages  did  serve  me  on  the  knee. 
To-night  not  one  I  call  my  own ;  not  one  pertains  to  me. 

0  luckless,  luckless  was  the  hour,  and  cursed  was  the  day 
When  I  wai?  born  to  have  the  power  of  this  great  seignory  ! 
Unhappy  me,  that  I  should  see  the  sun  go  down  to-night  ! 

0  death,  why  now  so  slow  art  thou,  why  fearest  thou  to  smite  ?  * 

1  shall  confine  myself  to  giving  a  few  extracts  only  from 
another  and  much  longer  romance  ;  that  of  the  Count  Alarcos, 
upon  which  a  German  writer  of  tlie  present  day  has  founded 
a  tragedy.  It  commences  with  a  touching  description  of  the 
grief  of  the  Princess  Soliza,  the  royal  Infanta,  who  has  been 
secretly  betrothed  to  the  Count  Alarcos,  and  abandoned  by 
him.  The  Infanta  remains  in  retreat,  and  beholds  with  sorrow 
the  flower  of  her  days  consuming  away  in '  solitude,  for  the 

La  cara  llevava  hinchada  Ayer  era  rey  d'  Espaiia 

Del  trabajo  que  sufria ;  Oy  no  lo  soy  de  una  villa. 

Subiose  en  cima  de  un  cerro  ^       ^.j^^g     ^^^^^^11^, 

El  mas  alto  que  veya.  'q^,  ^^^^^^  p^,^,^.^  . 

Dende  alii  mira  su  gente  Ayer  tenia  criados 

Como  yva  do  vencida,  Y  gente  que  me  servia. 

Dalli  mira  sus  vauderas  q    ,^„  ^          ^„^  ^1^^^^^^ 

Y  estandartes  que  tenia.  -^Q^g  p^  =j^  ^^.^^^  ^^^  ^^  ^j^_ 

Como  estan  todos  pisados  Desdichada  fue  la  hora 

Que  la  tierra  los  cubria.  Dcsdichado  fue  aqucl  dia. 

Mira  por  los  capitanes  ^^         ^^^^     j^^j.^j^. 

Que  nmguno  parecia.  {^  ^an  grandc  senoria, 

Mira  el  campo  tinto  en  sangre  Pues  lo  avia  de  perder 

La  qual  arroyos  corria,  Todo  junto  y  en  un  dia. 

El  triste  de  vcr  aquesto  q  ^^^^              ^^  ^..^^^^^ 

Gran  manziUa  en  si  tenia.  y  llevas  esU  alma  mia 

Llorando  de  los  .sus  ojos  De  aqueste  cucrpo  mezquino 

Desta  manera  dezia  :  Puez  se  te  agradcccria  ? 

*  [The  spirited  translation  in  the  text  is  borrowed  from  Jlr.  Lock- 
hart's  Ancient  Spanish  Ballads.  The  Lamentation  of  Don  Roderic  is 
mentioned  in  tiie  second  part  of  Don  Quixote,  in  the  chapter  of  the 
puppet-show. — Tr.} 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  157 

Count  is  married  to  another  lady,  by  whom  he  has  several 
children.  After  concealing  her  grief  for  a  long  time,  the 
Princess  reveals  the  cause  of  her  unhappiness  to  her  fatlier. 
The  king  is  exceedingly  indignant,  and  thinks  his  honour  so 
deeply  wounded,  that  the  death  of  the  Count's  wife  can  alone 
wipe  out  the  stain.  He  summons  the  Count  to  his  pi-esence, 
and  treats  him  with  mingled  courtesy  and  dignity,  demanding 
from  him  at  the  same  time  on  his  obedience  as  a  subject,  that 
his  Countess  shall  be  put  to  death.  The  marriage,  in  his  eyes, 
is  illegal;  the  Countess  had  usurped  his  daughter's  rights,  and 
brought  dishonour  on  the  royal  house.  Alarcos,  who  had 
bound  himself  by  prior  vows  to  the  Princess  Soliza,  considers 
it  his  duty  as  a  man  of  honour  and  a  loyal  vassal,  to  grant  the 
satisfaction  which  the  king  demands.  He,  therefore,  promises 
to  execute  the  royal  orders,  and  proceeds  in  search  of  the 
Countess  : 

In  sorrow  he  departed,  dejectedly  lie  rode 

The  weary  journey  from  that  place,  unto  his  own  abode  ;  ' 

He  grieved  for  his  fair  Countess,  dear  as  his  life  was  she ; 

Sore  grieved  he  for  that  lady  and  for  his  children  three. 

The  one  was  yet  an  infant  upon  its  mother's  breast. 
For  though  it  had  three  nurses,  it  liked  her  milk  the  best. 
The  others  were  young  children  that  had  but  little  wit. 
Hanging  about  their  mother's  knee  while  nursing  she  did  sit.  * 

The  Countess  meets  her  husband  with  her  accustomed  ten- 
derness, but  vainly  endeavours  to  discover  the  cause  of  the 
grief  which  she  observes  in  his  countenance.  Alarcos,  how- 
ever, sits  down  at  table  with  his  family. 

The  children  to  his  side  were  led,  he  loved  to  have  them  so, 
Then  on  the  board  he  laid  his  head,  and  out  his  tears  did  flow  ; — 
"  I  fain  would  sleep — I  fain  would  sleep,"  the  Count  Alarcos  said  ; — 
Alas  !  be  sure  that  sleep  was  none  that  night  within  their  bcd.f 

*  Llorando  se  parte  el  Conde  El  uno  era  de  teta, 

Llorando  sin  alegria.  Que  la  Condesa  lo  cria, 

Llorando  a  la  Condesa  Que  no  queria  mamar 

Que  mas  que  a  si  la  queria.  De  tres  amas  que  tenia 

Lloraba  tambien  el  Conde  Si  no  era  de  su  madre. 
For  tres  hijos  que  tenia, 

[The  whole  ballad  of  the  Count  Alarcos  and  the  Infanta  Soliza  is 
translated  by  j\Ir.  Loekhart,  p.  202.  From  his  version  the  extracts  in 
the  text  are  borrowed. — Tr.] 

+  Sentose  el  Conde  a  la  mesa  Con  sus  hijos  al  costado. 

No  cenava  ni  podia  :  Que  muy  mucho  los  queria. 

Echo 


158  ON   THE   LITERATURE 

The  apparent  fatigue  of  the  Count  induces  the  Countess  to 
accompany  him  herself  to  his  chamber  ;  but  no  sooner  ai'e 
they  alone,  than  the  Count  fastens  the  door.  He  then  informs 
the  lady  that  the  King  has  discovered  their  union,  which  he 
considers  injurious  to  his  honour,  and  that  he  has  promised 
the  Princess  Soliza  to  avenge  her.  At  last  he  informs  the 
Countess  that  she  must  prepare  to  die  before  daybreak  : 

"  It  may  not  be,  mine  oath  is  strong  ;  ere  dawn  of  day  you  die."  • 

She  begs,  in  her  infant's  name,  that  he  will  spare  her ;  but 
the  Count  bids  her  for  the  last  time  to  press  to  her  heart  the 
child  which  was  clinging  to  her  bosom  : 

"  Kiss  him  that  lies  upon  thy  breast,  the  rest  thou  may'st  not  6ee."t 

She  then  submits  to  her  fate,  and  only  asks  time  to  repeat 
her  Ave  Maria.  This  the  Count  presses  her  to  do  with  speed, 
and  she  throws  herself  upon  her  knees  and  prays  briefly  but 
fervently.  She  still  begs  a  further  respite,  that  her  infant 
may  take  the  last  nourishment  it  will  ever  receive  from  her 
bosom  ;  but  the  Count  will  not  allow  her  to  waken  the  child. 
The  unfortunate  lady  tlien  pardons  her  husband,  but  predicts 
to  him  that  ere  thirty  days  shall  pass,  the  King,  the  Princess, 
and  himself,  must  appear  before  the  judgment-seat  of  God. 
The  Count  at  last  strangles  her  with  a  handkerchief  which  he 
throws  round  her  neck.  Tlie  prophecy  is  subsequently  ac- 
complished. On  the  twelfth  day  after  the  mui'der,  the  Prin- 
cess dies  suddenly.  On  the  twentieth  the  King  follows  her  ; 
and  on  the  thirtieth  the  Count  himself  is  called  away. 

This  romance  will  probably  recall  to  our  recollection  some 
of  our  common  ballads,  in  which  we  find  the  same  natural  and 
simple  sentiments,  together  with  the  same  improbability  of 
situation.  Thus  in  some  of  the  tales  of  our  infancy,  as  in  Blue- 
Beard  for  instance,  the  atrocious  conduct  of  the  hero  is  related 
with  the  utmost  simplicity,  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  very 
common  occurrence,  and  the  greatest  interest  is  excited  by  an 


Echo  se  sobre  los  hombros,  De  lagrimas  de  sus  ojos 

Hizo  como  se  dormia  :  Teda  la  mesa  cubria. 

*  De  morir  aveis,  Condesa, 
Antes  que  amauesca  el  dia. 
Abrazad  este  chiquito  Pesa  me  de  os,  Condesa, 

Que  aquesto  es  el  que  os  perdia,    Quauto  pesar  me  podia. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  159 

incident  whicli  appears  to  be  impossible.  In  fact,  the  Spanish 
romances,  like  our  popular  tales  and  ballads,  had  their  obscure 
birth  amongst  the  people.  We  remark  in  them  the  same  in- 
fantine imagination  which  appears  to  be  rich  in  proportion  to 
the  ignorance  of  the  world  which  it  displays,  and  which  heeds 
not  the  boundaries  of  the  possible  or  of  the  probable,  provided 
it  can  express  the  true  sentiments  of  the  heart.  In  poetry,  as 
well  as  in  religion,  faith  may  be  said  to  be  of  the  highest  im- 
portance. To  feel  deeply  we  must  believe  without  examining. 
The  most  poetical  ages  are  those  in  which  credit  is  given  to 
the  most  incoherent  fictions.  Amongst  the  Spaniards,  the 
credulous  imagination  of  the  earlier  ages  has  been  preserved 
in  greater  purity  than  amongst  us.  They  never  enquire  from 
their  poets,  their  romance  writers,  or  their  dramatists,  whether 
their  incidents  are  possible.  It  is  sufficient  that  they  are  af- 
fected by  the  images  and  feelings  which  are  presented  to  them. 
The  judgment  is  altogether  neglected.  Some  literary  men  in 
Germany  and  even  in  France,  who  prefer  poetry  to  every 
other  intellectual  pursuit,  have  exerted  themselves  to  revive 
this  credulity,  so  favourable  to  the  power  of  the  imagination. 
They  seize  upon  some  incoherent  or  improbable  subject,  by 
which  they  flatter  themselves  they  shall  render  their  work 
more  poetical ;  and  they  thus  lose  the  advantages  of  their  own 
age,  without  reaping  the  benefits  of  another.  Ignorance  must 
be  natural  and  not  assumed,  before  we  can  pardon  it  and  join 
in  its  prejudices.  If  a  knight  of  the  fourteenth  century  were 
to  relate  to  us  the  story  of  the  Count  Alarcos,  or  of  Blue- 
Beard,  we  might  give  him  our  serious  attention ;  but  we  could 
only  be  expected  to  smile  if  it  were  told  us  by  one  of  our 
contemporaries. 

During  the  commotions  which  incessantly  agitated  the 
reigns  of  the  descendants  of  Henry  de  Transtamare,  some 
men  of  high  character  appeared  amongst  the  proud  nobility 
of  Castile.  They  directed  the  Cortes,  they  placed  bounds  to 
the  royal  authority,  and  even  threatened  to  depose  the 
sovereigns.  But  while  their  minds  appeared  to  be  thus 
engrossed  with  politics  and  ambition,  we  behold  with  surprise 
the  same  individuals  passionately  attached  to  poetry,  and 
often,  in  the  midst  of  factions  and  carnage,  devoted  to  the 
interests  of  literature.  The  reign  of  John  11.  (1407-1454,) 
during  which  Castile  lost  all  its  power  and  nearly  all  its 


160  ON   THE   LITERATURE 

consideration  abroad,  is  one  of  the  most  brilliant  epochs  of 
Castilian  poetry.  That  f(;eble  monarch,  perpetually  menaced 
with  the  subversion  of  his  throne,  still  preserved  some  credit 
in  the  midst  of  the  continual  revolutions  which  harassed  him, 
by  his  taste  for  poetiy,  and  by  attaching  to  him  many  of  the 
first  men  of  his  kingdom,  who,  being  themselves  distinguished 
poets,  gladly  crowded  to  his  literary  court. 

One  of  the  first  of  these  poetical  courtiers  was  the  ISIarquis 
Henry  de  Yillena,  wliu,  on  the  paternal  side,  w-as  descended 
from  the  kings  of  Aragon,  and  on  the  maternal,  from  the 
kings  of  Castile.  His  reputation  had  extended  itself  into 
both  kingdoms.  Himself  a  poet  and  a  patron  of  poets,  he 
attempted  to  establish  in  Aragon  an  academy  of  Troubadours, 
for  the  cultivation  of  the  Proven5al  language,  on  the  model 
of  the  academy  of  the  Floral  Games  at  Toulouse.  He  at  the 
same  time  founded  a  similar  institution  in  Castile,  under  the 
name  of  Consistorlo  de  lu  Gnya  Cienchi,  devoted  to  Castilian 
poetry.  To  this  assembly  he  dedicated  a  poem,  entitled  La 
Gaya  Ciencia,  in  which  he  attempts  to  shew  how  essentially 
necessary  is  the  union  between  erudition  and  imagination, 
and  how  expedient  it  was,  in  the  cultivation  of  modern  litera- 
ture, to  profit  by  the  progress  which  had  been  made  in  classical 
pursuits.     He  died  in  1434. 

A  pupil  of  the  Marquis  de  Villena,  Don  Inigo  Lopez  de 
]Mendoza,  Marquis  de  Santillana,  was  one  of  the  first  nobles 
and  most  celebrated  poets  of  the  court  of  John  II.  He  was 
born  on  the  first  of  August,  1398,  and  died  on  the  twenty- 
fifth  of  March,  1458.  Eminent  by  his  political  and  military 
virtues,  as  well  as  by  his  rank  and  riches,  he  was  destined  to 
acquire  no  small  influence  in  the  state.  The  severity  and 
purity  of  his  manners  contributed  no  less  to  his  reputation 
than  his  love  for  literature  and  science.  It  is  asserted  that 
strangers  were  in  the  habit  of  visiting  Castile  solely  for  the 
purpose  of  beholding  this  accomplished  cavalier.  During  the 
internal  commotions  of  that  kingdom,  lie  did  not  invariably 
attach  himself  to  the  fortunes  of  King  John,  though  that 
monarch  fre<^iuently  attempted  to  regain  the  friendship  of  a 
man  whom  he  highly  esteemed,  and  to  whom  he  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  confiding  the  most  important  affairs.  A  letter 
by  him  to  the  Prince  of  Portugal,  on  the  ancient  poets  of 
Spain,  is  still  preserved  ;  a  little  work  renuukable  for  the 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  161 

eradition  and  the  sound  criticism  which  it  contains.  Sanchez 
lias  reprinted  it  and  added  a  commentary  ;  and  in  many  of 
the  preceding  pages  we  have  been  mucli  indebted  to  this 
volume.  In  the  midst  of  the  revolutions  at  court,  and  of  his 
victories  over  the  Moors,  Santillana  found  time  to  compose 
some  little  poems  full  of  that  martial  ardour  and  gallant 
feeling  which  at  that  period  distinguished  the  Spanish  nation. 
It  was  on  occasion  of  his  exploits  at  the  battle  of  Olmedo  in 
1445,  in  Avhich  the  king  of  Castile  vanquished  the  king  of 
Navarre,  that  Mendoza  was  created  Marquis  de  Santillana. 
The  first  marquisate  in  Castile  had  been  created  in  favour  of 
the  house  of  Villena,  but  it  had  already  reverted  to  the 
crown.     Santillana  was  the  second. 

The  works  of  the  Mai-quis  de  Santillana  owe  their  prin- 
cipal reputation  to  that  which,  in  our  eyes,  is  now  their 
greatest  defect,  their  learning,  or  rather  their  pedantry.  The 
passionate  attachment  to  learning,  which  reigned  in  Italy  in 
the  fifteenth  century,  had  also  become  prevalent  in  Spain, 
The  allegories  which  the  Marquis  frequently  borrows  from 
Dante,  and  the  numerous  citations  for  which  beseems  to  have 
put  all  antiquity  under  contribution,  render  his  poems  dull 
and  fatiguing.  His  Centiloquio,  or  Collection  of  a  himdred 
maxims  on  morals  and  politics,  each  inculcated  in  eight  short 
verses,  was  composed  for  the  instruction  of  the  Pi-ince  Roj'al, 
afterwards  Henry  IV.  of  Castile,  and  has  enjoyed  a  high 
reputation.  It  has  been  printed  several  times  in  Spain  and 
in  other  countries,  and  commentaries  have  been  added  to  it. 
But  several  other,  little  poems,  of  which  I  know  only  the 
titles,  more  powerfully  excite  my  curiosity  ;  such  are  The 
Prayer  of  the  Nobles,  The  Tears  of  Queen  Margaret,  and 
La  Coniedieta  de  Ponza.  Under  the  latter  title,  the  Mar- 
quis de  Santillana  described  the  battle  of  Ponza,  in  which 
Alfonso  V.  of  Aragon,  and  the  King  of  Navarre,  were  made 
prisoners  by  the  Genoese,  on  the  fifteenth  of  August,  1435. 
Another  curious  work  is  the  dialogue  between  Bias  and 
Fortune,  which  the  Marquis,  at  the  time  when  he  was  detained 
in  prison  on  account  of  his  opposition  to  the  arbitrary  mea- 
sures of  the  king,  composed  and  placed  at  the  commencement 
of  a  Life  of  the  Greek  philosopher.  By  the  side  of  these 
productions,  which  are  evidently  the  composition  of  a  man 
who  has  mingled  in  important  affiiirs  of  state,  we  find  some 


162 


ON    THE    LITERATURE 


light  pooms  possessing  all  the  simplicity  and  sweetness  of  the 
most  pleasing  pastorals.* 

Juan  (le  Mena,  who  was  born  at  Cordova  in  1412,  and 
died  in  14o6,  was  another  of  the  poets  of  the  court  of  John 
II.,  and  was  patronised  by  that  monarch,  and  by  the  Slarquis 
de  Santillana.     He  is  called  by  the  Spaniards,  the  Ennius  of 

*  As  for  example,  the  following  serrana,  or  serenade,  to  the  shep- 
herdesa  de  la  Finojosa.  [The  English  version  subjoined  has  been 
kindly  communicated  by  Mr.  WifFen,  to  whose  elegant  pen  the  Editor 
will  have  more  than  one  opportunity,  in  the  course  of  this  work,  of 
acknowledging  his  obligations. —  Tr.] 


Moza  tan  fermosa 
Non  vi  en  la  frontera, 
Como  una  vaquera 
Do  la  Finojosa. 

Faciendo  la  via 
De  Calateveno 
A  santa  Maria, 
Vencido  del  sucno 
Por  tierra  fragosa 
Perdi  la  carrera, 
Do  vi  la  vaquera 
De  la  Finojosa. 

En  un  verde  prado 
De  rosas  y  flores, 
Guardando  ganado 
Con  otros  pastorcs. 
La  vi  tan  fermosa 
Que  apenas  creyera 
Que  fucse  vaquera 
De  la  Finojosa. 

Non  crio  las  rosas 
De  la  primavera 
Sean  tan  fermosas 
Nin  de  tal  mauera; 
Fablando  sin  glosa. 
Si  anies  supiera 
Da  quel  la  vaquera 
Do  la  Finojosa. 

Non  tanto  mirara 
Su  mucha  beldad 
Porque  me  dejara 
En  mi  liberdad ; 
Mas  dixe,  donosa, 
Por  saber  quien  era 
Aquella  vaquera 
De  la  Finojosa. 


I  ne'er  on  the  border 

Saw  girl  fair  as  llosa, 
The  charming  milk-maiden 

Of  sweet  Finojosa. 

Once  making  a  journey 

To  Santa  Maria, 
Of  Calataveflo, 

From  weary  do  ire 
Of  sleep,  down  a  vallej' 

I  strayed,  where  young  Rosa 
I  saw,  the  milk-maiden 

Of  lone  Finojosa. 

In  a  pleasant  green  meadow, 

Midst  roses  and  grasses, 
Her  herd  she  was  tending, 

With  other  fair  lasses; 
So  lovely  her  aspect, 

I  could  not  suppose  her 
A  simple  milk-maiden 

Of  rude  Finojosa. 
I  think  not  primro.ses 

Have  half  her  smile's  sweetness, 
Or  mild  modest  beauty  ; 

(I  speak  with  discreetness.) 

0  had  I  beforehand 

But  known  of  this  Rosa, 
Tlie  handsome  milk-maiden 
Of  far  Finojosa ; 

Her  very  great  beauty 

Had  not  so  subdued. 
Because  it  had  left  me 

To  do  as  I  would. 

1  have  said  more,  oh  fair  one  ! 

By  learning  'twas  Ro.sa, 
The  charming  milk-maiden 
Of  .sweet  Finojosa. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  163 

Castile.  From  his  education  at  Salamanca  he  had  derived 
much  more  pedantry  than  learning  ;  and  a  journey  which  he 
made  to  Rome,  and  during  which  he  became  acquainted  with 
the  writings  of  Dante,  instead  of  inflaming  his  poetical  zeal, 
seems  to  have  fettered  his  taste,  and  converted  him  into  a 
frigid  imitator.  His  great  work  is  entitled  El  Lahyrbitho,  or 
las  tresdento  Coplas ;  an  allegorical  composition  in  tetradac- 
tylic  verses  of  eight  lines  each,  descriptive  of  human  life. 
His  object  is  to  describe  every  aera  of  history,  to  honour 
virtue,  to  punish  crimes,  and  to  represent  the  power  of 
destiny.  Implicitly  following  the  allegories  of  Dante,  he  com- 
mences by  wandering  in  a  desert,  where  he  is  pursued  by 
voracious  wild  beasts.  Here  a  beautiful  woman  takes  him 
under  her  protection.  This  is  Providence.  She  shews  him 
the  three  wheels  of  destiny,  which  distribute  men  into  the 
past,  the  present,  and  the  future,  according  to  the  influence  of 
the  seven  planets.  Numerous  pedantic  descriptions,  conveyed 
in  tiresome  allegories,  form  the  bulk  of  this  work,  which  still 
finds  admirers  in  Spain,  on  account  of  the  patriotic  enthu- 
siasm with  which  Juan  de  Mena  speaks  of  the  celebrated  men 
of  his  country.* 

*  I  have  seen  an  edition  of  the  tresdento  Coplas  of  Juan  de  Mena, 
printed  at  Toledo  iu  1547,  folio,  lit.  goth.  accompanied  with  a  very 
diffuse  and  affected  commentary.  Few  works  appear  to  me  more 
difficult  to  read,  or  more  tiresome.  In  order  to  give  an  idea  of  the 
versification  of  this  celebrated  poet,  who  little  deserves  his  reputation, 
I  have  extracted  two  stanzas  in  which  he  describes  the  machinery  of 
his  poem. 

Bolvieudo  los  ojos  a  do  me  mandava, 

Vi  mas  adentro  muy  grandes  tres  ruedas ; 

Las  dos  eran  firmes,  immotas  y  quedas, 

Mas  la  del  medio  boltar  no  cessava. 

Vi  que  debaxo  de  todas  estava 

Cayda  por  tierra  gran  gente  infinita. 

Que  avia  en  la  frente  cada  qual  escrita 

El  nombre  y  la  suerte  por  donde  passava. 

Y  vi  que  en  la  una  que  no  se  movia. 
La  gente  que  en  ella  avia  de  ser, 

Y  la  que  debaxo  esperava  caer. 
Con  turbido  velo  su  morte  cubria ; 

Y  yo  que  de  aquello  muy  poco  sentia 
Fiz  de  mi  dubda  complida  palabra, 
A  mi  guiadora,  rogando  que  me  abra 

Aquesta  figura  que  yo  no  entendia.        St.  5C  and  57. 

The 


164  ON   TUE   LITERATURE 

The  S})anish  poets  of  the  fifteenth  century,  however,  rarely 
undertook  works  of  any  len^jjth.   Their  poems  in  general  Vv'ere 
merely  the  expression  of  a  single  sentiment,  a  single  image, 
or  a  single  witty  idea,  conveyed  with  an  air  of  gallantry. 
These  fugitive  pieces,  usually  of  a  lyrical  nature,  in  many 
respects  resemble  the  songs  of  tlie  ancient  Troubadours,  and 
have  been  united  in  a  work  wliieh  may  be  regarded  as  a  com- 
plete collection  of  the  Spanish  poetry  of  the  fifteenth  century. 
This  work  is  entitled  the  Cancioncro  General,  or  Collection 
of  Songs.     It  was  commenced  in  the  reign  of  John  II.  by 
Alfonso  de  Baena,  and  was  continued  by  Fernando  del  Cas- 
tillo, who  published  it  in  the  early  part    of  the    sixteenth 
century.      Since  tliat  period  it  has  had  many  additions  made 
to  it,  and  has  been  frequently  reprinted.*  The  earlier  editions 
contain  the  songs  and  lyrical  poems  of  a  hundred  and  thirty- 
six  writers  of  the  fifteenth  century,    besides    a   number  of 
anonymous  pieces.    In  this  Cuncionero,  the  devotional  poems 
are  placed  at  the  commencement  of  the  volume.    Boutterwek, 
Avith  whose  opinion  I  am  happy  to  corroborate  my  own,  has 
expressed  his  surprise  at  the  absence  of  feeling  and  enthusiasm 
which  these  compositions  betray.    They  contain,  for  the  most 
part,  wretched  attempts  to  play  upon  words,  and  even  upon 
letters  ;  as  for  instance,  upon  the  letters  composing  the  name 
of  Mary.    Scholastic  definitions  and  personifications  still  more 
frigid,  are  found  in  others  of  these  poeras.f     The  amatory 
pieces  which  fill  the  greater  part  of  this  work  are  very  mono- 

Thc  only  portion  of  the  whole  poem  which  possesses  any  interest,  is 
the  episode  of  the  Count  de  Buelna,  overwhelmed  together  with  hi.s 
soldiers  by  the  flowing  of  the  tide,  at  the  siege  of  Gibraltar.  But  as 
there  was  neither  allegory  nor  enigma  to  be  explained  in  this  part  of 
the  volume,  the  commeutors  have  neglected  it,  considering  ituiiworliiy 
of  their  notice. 

*  Tesoro  de  los  Roman5eros  y  Can9ioneros  Espanoles.  8vo.  Paris, 
Baudry,  1838. 

f  It  was  regarded  as  a  high  effort  of  the  poetic  art,  to  describe  the 
most  incomprehensible  mysteries  in  a  few  verses,  whicli  thus  formed  a 
mass  of  contrailiction.     The  following  cancion  of  Soria  is  an  instauce  : 

El  sy,  sy,  cl  eomo  no  sfc  Ser  un  scr,  estrenios  dos, 

Desta  tan  ardua  cpiistion,  Y  en  un  ser  no  ser  ygual, 

Que  no  alcanya  la  ra/.on  Es  sicmpre,  sera,  no  fue. 

Adonde  sube  la  fo.  Sicmpre  fue,  y  siempre  son, 

Ser  Dios  ombre,  v  ombre  Dies,  Siempre  son,  mas  no  son  due, 

Ser  mortal  y  no  mortal,  ^  ^'l"i  1=^  ""^^on  es  te. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  165 

tonous  and  f:iti,;?uing.  The  Castilian  poets  of  this  period 
appear  to  liuve  thought  it  necessary  to  dwell  upon,  and  to 
draw  out  their  subject,  as  long  as  they  could  give  a  new  turn 
to  the  preceding  ideas  and  expressions.  To  this  they  fre- 
quently sacrificed  truth  and  feeling.  If  we  sometimes  discover 
in  them  the  same  poverty  of  thought  which  we  remark 
amongst  the  Troubadours,  we  may  likewise  observe  the  same 
simplicity,  together  with  a  pomp  and  power  of  expression 
peculiar  to  the  Spanish  writers.  It  was  not  any  imitation  of 
the  Troubadours  which  produced  this  resemblance,  the  cause 
of  which  may  be  traced  to  that  spirit  of  romantic  love  which 
pervaded  the  whole  South  of  Europe.  In  Italy,  after  the  time 
of  Petrarch,  that  spirit  yielded  to  the  purer  taste  which  an 
acquaintance  with  the  classical  authors  introduced  ;  but  in 
Spain  the  writers  of  love-songs  were  by  no  means  so  refined, 
and  were  rather  passionate  than  tender  in  the  expression  of 
their  feelings.  The  sighs  of  the  amorous  Italians  were  con- 
verted amongst  the  Spaniards  into  cries  of  grief.  Burning 
passions  and  despair,  the  stormy  feelings,  and  not  the  ecstasies 
of  the  heart,  are  the  subjects  of  the  Spanish  love-songs.  One 
very  characteristic  peculiarity  of  these  songs  is  the  perpetually 
recurring  description  of  the  combats  between  reflection  or 
reason,  and  passion.  The  Italians,  on  the  contrary,  interested 
themselves  much  less  in  displaying  the  triumphs  of  reason. 
The  Spaniards,  whose  habits  were  more  serious,  endeavoured 
to  preserve,  even  amidst  their  follies,  an  appearance  of  philo- 
sophy; but  their  philosophy,  thus  strangely  and  unseasonably 
introduced,  is  productive  of  a  most  incongruous  effect. 

Perhaps  no  poets  have  ever  equalled  the  Spanish  in  de- 
scribing the  power  of  love,  when  the  heart  is  abandoned  to 
its  impetuosity.  Thus  in  some  stanzas,  by  Alonzo  of  Car- 
thagena,  afterwards  archbishop  of  Burgos,  we  meet  with  a 
storm  of  passion,  to  which  the  now  neglected  measure  of  the 
versos  de  arte  mayor,  which  is  well  adapted  to  describe  the 
emotion  of  the  heart,  adds  great  trutli  and  nature. 

Oh  !  fierce  is  this  flame  that  seizes  my  breath, 
My  body,  my  soul,  my  life,  and  my  death  ;* 


*  La  fuei-9a  del  fuego  que  alumbra  que  ciega 
Mi  cuerpo,  mi  alma,  mi  muerte,  mi  vida, 
Do  entra,  do  hiere,  do  toca,  do  llega, 
Mata  y  no  muere  su  llama  encendida. 


Fues 


166  ON    THE   LITERATDRE 

It  burns  in  its  fury,  it  kindles  desire, 

It  consumes,  but  alas  !  it  will  never  expire. 

How  wretched  my  lot !     No  respite  I  know. 

My  heart  is  indittereut  to  joy  or  to  woe  ; 

For  this  flame  in  its  anger  kills,  burns,  and  destroys, 

My  grief  and  my  pleasures,  my  sorrows  and  joys. 

In  the  midst  of  such  perils,  all  methods  I  try 
To  escape  from  my  fate — I  weep,  laugh,  and  sigh ; 
I  would  hope,  I  would  wish  for  some  respite  from  grief, 
But  have  not  a  wish,  to  wish  for  relief. 

If  I  vanquish  this  foe,  or  if  vanquish'd  I  be, 

Is  alike  in  the  midst  of  my  torments  to  me ; 

I  would  please,  and  displease,  but,  between  me  and  you, 

I  know  not,  alas  !  what  1  say  or  I  do. 

Many  of  the  amatory  poems  of  the  Spaniards  are  pai'a- 
phrases  of  prayers  and  devotional  pieces.  This  mixture  of 
divine  and  human  love,  which  was  not  the  result  of  any  im- 
proper feeling,  may  well  be  regarded  at  the  present  day  as 
highly   profane.     Thus  Rodriguez    del   Padron    wrote  The 

Pues  que  hare  triste,  que  todo  me  ofende  1 
Lo  bueno  y  lo  malo  mc  causan  congoxa, 
Quemandome  el  fuego  que  mata,  qu'enciende, 
Su  fucr^a  que  fuer9a,  que  ata,  que  prende, 
Que  prende,  que  suclta,  que  tira  que  afloxa. 

A  do  yre  triste,  que  alegrc  me  halle, 
Pues  tantos  peligros  me  tiencn  en  medio, 
Que  llore,  que  ria,  que  grite,  que  calle, 
Ni  tengo,  ni  quiero,  ni  cspero  remedio. 
Ni  quiero  que  quiere,  ni  quiero  querer, 
Pues  tanto  mc  quiere  tan  raviosa  plaga, 
Ni  ser  yo  vencido,  ni  quiero  veneer, 
Ni  quiero  pesar,  ni  quioro  plazer, 
Ni  se  que  me  diga,  ni  se  que  me  haga. 

Pues  que  hare  triste  con  tanta  fatiga  ? 
Aquien  me  mandays  que  mis  males  quexe  ] 
A  (pie  me  mandays  que  siga  que  diga. 
Que  sicnta,  que  haga,  que  tome,  que  dcxe  ? 
Dadme  remedio  que  yo  no  lo  hallo 
Para  este  mi  mal  que  no  es  escondido  ; 
Que  muestro,  que  encubro,  que  sufro,  que  callo, 
Por  donde  de  vida  ya  soy  despedido. 

These  three  stanzas  are  amongst  the  most  celebrated  specimens  of 
ancient  Spanish  poetry ;  as  we  may  gather  from  the  numerous  com- 
mentaries of  which  they  have  been  the  subject.  The  tirst  in  date  is  by 
Carthagena  himself,  who  has  extended  the  same  thoughts  into  twenty 
stanzas. 


OP    THE    SPANIARDS.  167 

Seven  Joys  of  Love,  in  imitation  of  The  Seven  Joys  of  the 
Virgin  lilary.  He  likewise  published  The  Ten  Cummand- 
ments  of  Love.  On  the  other  hand  Sanchez  de  Badajoz 
wrote  the  Testament  of  Love,  in  which  he  has  whimsically 
imitated  the  style  of  the  notaries  in  making  the  final  dis- 
position of  his  80ul.  He  occasionally  borrows  passages  from 
Job  and  other  parts  of  the  Old  Testament,  in  order  to  give 
his  Testament  a  scriptural  character.*  , 

In  the  works  of  the  Spanish  poets  we  find  regular  forms 
of  composition,  which  are  peculiarly  adapted  to  lyrical 
poetry,  as  the  Italians  had  their  sonnets,  and  tlie  Provencals 
their  retrouanges.  In  the  first  rank  must  be  placed  the 
cancioni,  properly  so  called,  which  resemble  ei>igrams  or 
madrigals  in  twelve  lines.  The  four  first  lines  present  the 
idea,    and   the   eight  which  follow  develope  and  apply  it.f 

*  Amongst  the  profane  productions  of  these  very  pious  individuals 
the  following  appears  to  me  to  be  one  of  the  most  highlj'  wrought : 
El  Pater  nosier  de  las  mugeres,  hacho  por  Salazar: 

llcy  alto  a  quien  adoramos,  Y  algunas  damas  que  van 

Aluuibra  mi  entemlimicnto,  Sobre  intcresse  de  aver, 

A  loar  en  lo  que  cuento  Dizien  con  mucho  plazer 

A  ti  que  todos  Uamamos  Si  cosa  alguna  las  dan 
Pater  noster.  Adveniat.    . 

Torque  diga  el  dissavor  Y  con  este  dessear 

Que  las  crudas  damas  hazen,  Locuras,  pompas  y  arreos,  " 

Como  nunca  nos  eomplazen,  Por  cumplir  bien  sus  desseos 

La  suplico  a  ti  senor  No  se  curan  de  buscar 
Qui  es  in  coelis.  Regnum  tuum. 

Porque  las  beziste  belas,  Y  estas  de  quien  no  se  escondc 

Dizien  solo  con  la  Icngua,  Bondad  que  en  ellas  se  cuida, 

Porque  no  caygan  en  meugua  A  cosa  que  se  les  pida 

De  mal  devotas  donzellas,  Jamas  ninguna  responde 
Sanctijicetur.  Fiat. 

Pero  por  su  vana  gloria  Mas  la  que  mas  alto  esta 

Vieudose  tan  estimadas,  Miraldo  si  la  hablays. 

Tan  queridas,  tan  amadas,  Si  a  darle  la  combidays 

No  les  cabe  en  la  memoria  Sereys  cierto  que  os  dira 

Nomen  tuum.  Voluntas  tua,  ti-c. 

t  The  following  cancion,  likewise  by  Carthagena,  is  very  much  in  the 
Spanish  spirit  and  taste  : 

No  se  para  que  nasci,  De  la  muerte,  pues  no  quiere 

Pues  en  tal  estremo  esto  A  mi,  querieudo  yo  a  ella. 

Que  1  morir  no  quiere  a  mi,  Que  tin  cspcro  de  aqui, 

Y  el  bivir  no  quiero  yo.  Pues  la  muerte  me  nego ; 

Todo  el  tiempo  que  biviere  Porque  claramcnte  vio 

Tere  muy  justa  querella  Q"*^  ^^^  vida  para  mi. 


168  ox    THE    LITERATURE 

The  Villandcos  contum  a  single  sentiment,  expressed  in  two 
or  three  lines,  and  enlarged  upon  in  two  or  three  little 
couplets.*  The  comments,  which  Boutterwek  happily  com- 
pares to  musical  variations  of  a  well-known  air,  are  founded 
upon  a  distich  or  a  quatrain  from  some  other  author,  each 
verse  of  which  is  the  theme  of  a  couplet,  and  forms  tlie  last 
line.f 

The  poetry  of  Spain  up  to  the  reign  of  Charles  V.  may 
be  divided  into  various  classes.  First,  the  romances  of 
Chivalry,  which  amount  in  number  to  upwards  of  a  thousand, 
and  which  were  at  once  the  delight  and  instruction  of  the 
people.  These  compositions,  wliich  in  fact  possess  more 
real  merit,  more  sensibility,  and  more  invention  than  any 
other  poetry  of  that  remote  period,  have  been  regarded  by 
the  learned  with  disdain,  while  the  names  of  their  authors 
have  been  entirely  forgotten.  The  lyrical  poems  are  ani- 
mated with  great  warmth  of  passion  and  richness  of  imagi- 
nation ;  but  they  frequently  display  traces  of  too  great  study 
and  refinement,  so  that  the  bcntiment  suffers  by  the  attempt 
at  fine  writing,  and  concetti  usurp  the  place  of  true  poetical 
expression.  The  allegorical  pieces  were  then  placed  in  the 
first  rank,  and  are  those  upon  which  the  authors  founded 
their  chief  claims  to  glory.       From  the   versification  alone 

"  A  viUancico,  by  Escriva,  is  here  given  : 

Que  sentis  cora9oii  mio  No  dezis, 

No  dozis,  Doude  estays  que  no  venis  ? 

Que  mal  es  cl  que  sentis  ?  Q^.^g  j^  ^^^^  ^^-^^  ^i  ^o  jj^H^^ 

Que  sentistc.  aqucl  dia  Cora9on,  quien  os  agena  ? 

Quando  mi  sonora  vistcs,  ?,"  ""^  ^"^  vos  que  aunque  callo 

Que  perdistcs  alegria  ?  ^  ''^'^"'  ">^J    =",'^'"';'"  "^"^  P^^^  '■ 

Y  des  quando  despedistes,  ^^/"^"  ."^  '^^^  ^^^'  ^'^'^^i^^ 

Como  a  mi  nunca  bolvistcs  ?  ,^°    ^'"'f'       ,  ,.   . 

Que  mal  es  el  que  sentis  ; 

f  The  following  motto  was  the  device  of  a  knight : 

Sin  vos,  y  sin  Dios,  v  mi.  ^ .'^*"»  ^^'^^  P"'"*!"'^ ''''  ^^^  a^«™' 

"  '  <St«  vos  pues  no  me  quercys, 

Glosa  de  don  Jorge  Manrique.        Pues  sin  mi  ya  esta  decoro, 

„  •      Ti  .  Que  vos  sovs  quien  me  teneys. 

Yo  soy  quien  fibre  me  v.,  ^^^j         t ^^^^1  ^^^.j 

\o  quicn  pudiera  olvidaros,  Pues  que  pudicra  olvidaros, 

^  0  soy  el  que  per  amaros  yo  sov  el  que  por  amaros 

Lstoy  dcsquc  os  conoci  _  ^^^^  j^    ^^^  os  conoci 

Sin  Dios  y  sin  vos  y  mi.  gj^^  ^.^^^    ^i^  ^^^j^ 


OP    THE    SfAJflARDS.  169 

we  may  perceive  the  high  estimation  in  which  this  style 
of  writing  was  held  by  the  poets  themselves,  since  the  versos 
de  arte  mayor  (the  highly  artificial  verse)  were  always  made 
use  of.  These  poems  are  generally  frigid  and  high-flown  imi- 
tations of  Dante,  as  little  qualified  to  rival  the  Divina  Co- 
raedia  as  the  Dettamondo  of  Fazio  de'  Uberti,  or  any  other 
of  the  allegories  of  his  Italian  imitators.  In  the  course  of 
four  centuries  the  poetry  of  Castile  made  no  perceptible 
progress.  If  the  language  had  become  more  polished,  and 
the  versification  a  little  more  smooth,  and  if  the  literary 
productions  of  that  period  had  been  enriched  from  the  stores 
of  foreign  countries,  these  advantages  were  more  than  out- 
weighed by  the  introduction  of  pedantry  and  false  taste. 

The  art  of  prose  composition  had  likewise  made  a  very 
slow  progress.  Some  writers  of  this  period  have  been  trans- 
mitted to  us,  particularly  the  chroniclers  ;  but  their  style  is 
overloaded  and  tiresome.  Facts  are  heaped  upon  facts,  and 
related  in  involved  sentences,  the  monotony  of  which  equals 
their  want  of  connexion.  Notwithstanding  this,  they  attempt, 
in  imitation  of  the  classical  authors,  to  give  the  speeches  of 
their  heroes.  These  orations,  however,  have  nothing  of 
the  spirit  of  antiquity  about  them,  no  simplicity,  and  no 
truth.  We  seem  as  if  we  were  listening  to  the  heavy  and 
pedantic  speeches  of  the  chancellors,  or  to  the  oriental  pomp 
of  the  Scriptures. 

Boutterwek,  however,  discovers  considerable  merit  in  some 
of  the  biographical  writers,  and  mentions  with  praise  Gutierre 
Diez  de  Garaez,  who  wrote  tlie  Life  of  Count  Pedro  Nino 
de  Buelna,  one  of  the  most  valiant  knights  of  the  court  of 
Henry  III.  The  following  is  the  desci'iption  given  by 
Gamez  of  the  French,  after  the  expedition  of  Du  Guesclin 
against  Peter  the  Cruel  had  given  hira  an  opportunity  of 
observing  tliat  people.  "  The  French  are  a  noble  nation  ; 
they  are  wise,  prudent,  and  discreet  in  all  that  appertains  to 
a  good  education,  to  courtesy,  and  to  good  manners.  They 
bestow  much  pains  upon  their  garments,  and  dress  richly  ; 
they  attach  themselves  strongly  to  every  thing  which  is 
proper  for  them  ;  they  are,  besides,  frank  and  liberal ;  they 
delight  in  giving  pleasure  to  every  one ;  they  honour 
strangers  much  ;  they  are  skilful  in  giving  praise,  and  they 
bestow  it  freely  on  noble  actions.     They  are  not  suspicious  ; 

TOL.  II.  L 


170  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

they  do  not  allow  their  pique  or  anger  to  e?idure  long,  and  they 
never  attack  another's  honour,  in  word  or  deed,  unless, 
perhaps,  their  own  be  exposed  to  danger.  They  are  cour- 
teous and  graceful  in  speech  ;  they  have  much  gaiety,  and 
take  great  pleasure  in  lively  conversation,  which  they  much 
encourage.  Both  they  and  the  French  ladies  are  of  an 
amorous  complexion,  upon  which  they  pride  themselves." 

The  Spaniards  were  thus  initiated  in  every  species  of  com- 
position, in  epic,  lyric,  and  allegorical  poetry,  in  history,  and 
in  philosophy.  They  advanced  in  these  various  pursuits  by 
their  own  exertions,  opening  their  own  way,  without  the 
assistance  of  strangers.  Their  progress,  however,  was  neces- 
sarily slow  ;  and  until  the  period  when  Charles  V.  united  the 
rich  provinces  of  Italy  to  his  empire,  they  derived  little  as- 
sistance from  the  advanced  state  of  literature  in  other  parts  of 
Europe.  They  thus  became  proud  of  what  they  owed  to  their 
own  intellectual  exertions.  They  felt  attached  to  these  na- 
tional objects,  and  their  poetiy  has,  therefore,  preserved  its 
own  strong  and  original  colours.  The  drama  thus  arose 
amongst  them  before  they  had  intermingled  with  other  na- 
tions, and  being  formed  on  the  ancient  Castilian  taste,  and 
suited  to  the  manners,  the  habits,  and  the  peculiarities  of  the 
people  for  whom  it  was  intended,  it  was  much  more  irregular 
than  the  drama  of  the  other  nations  of  Europe.  It  did  not 
display  the  same  learning,  nor  was  it  formed  upon  those  in- 
genious rules  to  wliich  the  Greek  philosophers  had  subjected 
the  art  of  poetry.  Its  object  was  to  aflfect  the  hearts  of  the 
Spaniards,  to  harmonize  with  their  opinions  and  customs,  and 
to  flatter  their  national  pride.  It  is  on  this  account,  therefore, 
that  neither  the  satirical  remarks  of  other  nations,  nor  the 
criticisms  of  their  own  men  of  letters,  nor  the  prizes  of  their 
academies,  nor  the  favours  of  their  princes,  have  ever  suc- 
ceeded in  persuading  them  to  adopt  a  system  which,  at  the 
present  day,  is  predominant  in  the  rest  of  Europe. 

The  Spaniards  refer  the  origin  of  their  drama  in  the  fif- 
teenth century,  to  three  works  of  a  very  dissimilar  kind  :  the 
mysteries  represented  in  the  churches,  the  satirico-pastoral 
drama  entitled  Mingo  Rehulgo,  and  the  dramatic  romance  of 
Calixtus  and  Melllxca,  or  la  Celestina.  Tlie  3Ti/stefies  with 
which  their  religious  solemnities  were  accompanied,  and  in 
which  the  most  gross  buflboneries  were  introduced  into  the 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  171 

representations  of  saci'ed  writ,  had  incontestablj  a  considera- 
ble influence  on  the  Spanish  drama.  The  Autos  saci'amen- 
tales  of  the  most  celebrated  authors  are  formed,  for  the  most 
part,  on  the  model  of  these  pious  farces.  The  text,  however, 
has  not  been  preserved,  and  we  cannot  compare  them  with 
subsequent  attempts.  The  MiiifjO  Itchidgo,  which  was  written 
in  the  early  part  of  the  fifteenth  century,  during  the  reign  of 
John  II.  in  order  to  ridicule  that  monarch  and  his  court,  is 
rather  a  political  satire  in  dialogue,  than  a  drama.  La  Celes- 
tiiia,  however,  merits  the  attention  of  all  who  wish  to  trace 
the  true  origin  of  the  drama  amongst  the  moderns  at  a  period 
when  the  Parisians  were  passionately  fond  of  the  Mysteries 
and  Moralities  which  were  represented  by  the  Fraternity  of 
the  Passion,  and  the  clerks  De  la  Bazoche,  but  long  before 
any  attempt  was  made  at  dramatic  composition  in  any  other  of 
the  modern  languages.  This  singular  production,  the  first  act  of 
which  was  written  by  an  anonymous  author  towards  the  mid- 
dle of  the  fifteenth  century,  may  be  considered  the  first  essay 
of  the  Spaniards  in  the  kind  of  historic  comedies  which  they 
pursued  with  so  much  ardour.  In  fact  we  meet  with  the 
same  chivalric  characters  in  the  lover,  the  heroine,  and  all 
her  relations ;  the  same  wit  in  painting  low  and  vicious  cha- 
racters, the  same  intrigues,  and  abundance  of  wild  and  im- 
probable adventures :  often  the  same  spirit  in  the  dialogue, 
and  original  representation  of  manners  and  opinions.  The 
reputation  of  this  romance  in  Spain,  its  influence  on  the  lite- 
rature of  ditferent  countries,  for  it  was  soon  generally  trans- 
lated, and  the  difliculty  of  meeting  with  it,  now  induce  me 
to  think  that  a  detailed  analysis  will  afford  pleasure :  I  shall 
confine  it,  however,  to  the  first  act.  Fernand  de  Rojas,  who 
published  the  entire  work,  about  the  year  1510,  pretends  that 
this  first  act,  extending  over  more  than  fifty  pages,  was  writ- 
ten towards  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth  century  by  Juan  de 
Mersa,  or  Rodrigo  Cota,  while  he  himself  had  added  the 
twenty  acts  that  follow.  This  assertion  has  not  been  disputed, 
and  if  true,  the  first  act  presents  a  singular  picture  of  the 
manners  and  opinions  of  Castile  in  that  age.* 

*  I  have  met  with  an  ediliou  of  La  Celestina,  printed  at  Venice,  in 
Spanish,  and  black  letter,  12mo.  1534  ;  another  at  Madrid,  24mo. 
1619 ;  and  a  French  translation,  printed  at  Paris,  1527,  12mo.,  from  an 
Italian  version. 

l2 


172  ON   THE   LITERATURE 

The  stage  is  supposed  to  represent  a  garden,  in  which 
Calixtus,  a  young  and  handsome  cavalier,  enters  in  pursuit 
of"  a  falcon,  and  where  he  linds  Melibcca,  daughter  of  a  great 
lord  of  the  country  ;  the  piece  commences  with  these  words. 

Calixtus. — I  recognise  clearly  in  this,  oh  Meliboea,  the  greatness  of 
God  ! 

JIelibcea. — Tn  what,  Calixtus? 

Cal. —  In  what  ?  That  he  has  given  nature  the  power  of  arraying  thee 
in  such  perfect  beauty,  and  in  according  me,  so  little  worthy,  so  high  a 
favour  as  to  behold  thee  ;  in  a  place,  too,  so  convenient  for  my  acquaint- 
ing you  with  my  secret  grief.  Doubtless  such  a  favour  is  incomparably 
greater  than  all  services,  sacrifices,  devotion  offered  to  God,  in  order 
that  he  might  permit  me  to  come  here.  What  man  was  ever  so  glorified 
in  this  life,  as  I  am  to-day  !  I  am  quite  sure  the  glorious  saints,  who 
take  such  delight  in  the  divine  vision,  cannot  possess  more  bliss  than  1 
do  now  in  contemplating  thee. 

But,  alas  !  .see  what  a"  diiierence  1  Whilst  they  are  being  glorified, 
they  are  in  no  fear  of  falling  from  so  high  a  state  ;  whilst  my  joy  is 
alloyed  with  the  torment  which  thy  absence  must  soon  cause  me. 

Mel. — Do  you,  then,  estimate  this  meeting  at  so  high  a  price  ? 

Cal. — Truly,  it  is  so  great,  that  if  God  were  to  offer  me  the  most  pre- 
cious earthly  blessings,  1  should  esteem  them  of  far  less  worth.. 

Mel. —  However,  if  you  j)ersevere,  I  will  give  you  a  yet  greater 
reward. 

Cal. — Oh  !  my  lucky  ears,  which,  vile  as  they  are,  have  heard  a  word 
so  sweet ! 

Mel. — Unlucky,  rather,  as  they  will  soon  hear ;  for  the  puni.shment 
will  be  as  severe  as  thy  insensate  boldness,  and  the  tone  of  thy  speech 
well  merit.  How  dare  a  fellow  like  you  think  that  a  woman  like  I 
would  so  trifle  with  her  virtue?  liegone,  begone,  wretch  !  It  is  not  in 
patience  to  bear  the  idea  of  seeing  a  man  so  far  inflated,  as  to  express 
t-o  me  the  delirium  of  an  illicit  amour. 

After  this  reprimand  Meliboea  withdraws  and  appears  no 
more  during  the  lirst  act.  Calixtus  remains  on  the  stage 
witli  Sempronio,  his  valet,  to  whom  he  communicates  his 
despair,  gets  into  a  pa.ssion  with  him,  chases  him  oil',  calls  him 
back  again;  to  whom  he  describes  his  beloved,  pouring  a 
torrent  of  theological  and  fabulous  lore,  jind  everything  which 
we  may  regard  as  the  invariable  character  of  this  dramatic 
romance. 

Sempronio  endeavours  to  enliven  the  scene  by  his  pleasant- 
ries, lie  accuses  his  master  of  being  a  heretic,  and  verily  the 
accusations  seem  well  merited.  Probably  the  author's  object 
is  to  prepare  in  this  way  the  catasti-ophe. 

Semi'ronio. — For  my  part  I  protest  that  what  you  have  just  said  is 
downright  heresy  ! 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  173 

CAL.-Whyl 

Semp.— Because  it  is  against  the  Christian  religion. 
Gal. — And  what  care  1 1 
Semp. — Are  you  not  a  Christian,  then? 

Cal. — I  ]  I  am  a  Meliboean  ;  it  is  Melibcea  whom  I  adore.  I  believe 
in  Meliboea,  and  I  love  Melibcea. 

After  an  intolerably  tedious  scene,  and  sallies  of  wit 
at  least  as  indecent  as  profane,  Sempronio  at  last  tries 
to  console  his  master  by  representing  that  his  adored  is  still 
but  a  woman,  that  all  women  are  frail,  that  all  have  capitu- 
lated, and  that  Melibcea  will  yield  in  her  turn.  He  even 
pledges  himself  to  bring  the  matter  about. 

Cal. — And  how  do  you  think  of  contriving  this  notable  exploit. 

Semp. — I  am  going  to  tell  you.  Some  time  past,  I  have  known  an  old 
hag  with  aboard,  called  S.  Celestina,  who  lives  near  here.  She  is  crafty 
and  subtle,  is  an  adept  in  sorcery  and  all  kinds  of  wickedness.  I  am 
assured  that  in  this  town  only  there  are  five  thousand  young  women 
whose  reputations  she  has  cither  destroyed  or  restored ;  nay,  if  she 
liked  she  could  make  the  very  rocks  themselves  go  mad  with  love  ! 

Calixtus  orders  Sempronio  to  go  in  search  of  her.  Sempro- 
nio visits  Celestina,  and  meets  his  own  mistress,  Elise,  who 
had  deceived  him,  in  the  company  of  another  man.  Though 
his  jealousy  was  momentarily  excited,  Celestina  contrived  to 
soothe  him,  and,  to  prevent  his  declaring  himself  by  his  looks, 
persuaded  him  to  set  out  with  her  immediately  to  join  Calix- 
tus. The  latter  was  attended  by  Parmenio,  another  of  his 
valets.  They  see  the  hag  approaching,  and  Parmenio  gives 
free  vent  to  the  horror  and  contempt  her  sight  inspires. 
Calixtus  asks  him  the  reason. 

Pakmenio. — That  fine  lady  possesses,  at  the  far  end  of  the  to\\'n,  close 
to  a  stream,  a  solitary  house,  half  m  ruins,  of  ugly  aspect,  and  vilely 
furnished.  She  there  follows  six  different  ti-ades — those  of  a  laundress, 
perfumeress,  dealer  in  love-philters  and  charms,  a  botcheress  of  lost 
reputations,  a  go-between,  and,  finally,  a  bit  of  a  witch.  The  first  trade 
was  a  blind  for  all  the  others;  under  that  pretence  you  .saw  going  to  her 
house  numbers  of  young  feninies-de-chambres  with  linen.  She  had 
means  of  communicating  with  the  most  scrupulous  women  to  gain  her 
ends;  she  chose  the  most  favourable  hours — at  early  mass,  at  night 
processions,  at  confessionals,  and  all  other  devotional  appointments.  I 
have  frequently  seen  women  in  veils  go  into  her  house,  followed  by  bare- 
footed fellows,  penitents,  men  in  hoods,  who  doubtless  went  thither  to 
bewail  their  sins. 

Celestina  meanwhile  is  introduced  to  Calixtus,  who  hastens 
to  bring  her  the  golden  bribe.      She  remains  with  Parmeno, 


174  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

tries  to  corrupt  him,  and  the  dialogue  is  conducted  with  in- 
finite spirit,  displaying  the  skill  of  Celestina,  and  her  insinua- 
ting character.  She  talks  of  her  attachment  to  his  mother, 
declares  that  she  had  entrusted  her  with  money  for  him  which 
she  kept  quite  safe.  She  makes  him  laugh  with  her  licentious 
rihaldry  ;  advises  him  to  attach  himself  to  Sempronio  rather 
than  his  master,  because  the  great  have  never  any  affection 
for  the  poor.  Lastly,  she  promises  her  good  offices  with 
Arethusa,  a  cousin  of  Elise's,  whose  love  he  shall  possess. 
After  these  bye  scenes  Calixtus  returns,  gives  her  the  money, 
and  the  act  closes.  The  ancient  author  stopped  there,  his 
production  being  already  the  length  of  an  ordinary  comedy, 
though  hardly  begun.  Tlie  new  Avriter  added  twenty  acts,  so 
long  that  a  whole  day  would  not  suffice  for  their  representa- 
tion. I  can  perceive  no  difference  in  the  style,  in  the  spirit 
of  dialogue,  and  painting  of  the  characters,  any  more  than  in 
the  degree  of  license  or  wit,  or  the  tableaux  presented  to  the 
view  of  the  spectators ;  it  is  extreme.  Events  are  precipitated; 
on  one  side  we  see  the  amours  of  the  two  valets  for  Elise 
and  Arethusa  ;  on  the  other,  Celestina's  insinuating  art  with 
Meliboea  first  extorting  an  innocent  favour,  next  an  interview. 
She  ends  it  by  receiving  Calixtus  into  her  apartment  by  night: 
but  then  the  valets  wish  to  constrain  Celestina  to  divide  the 
bribe  she  has  received  from  their  master  with  them.  She 
refuses  ;  they  beat  her,  they  kill  her  ;  justice  pursues  them, 
and  the  next  morning  they  are  beheaded,  after  having  con- 
fessed their  guilt  and  its  motives,  in  the  public  place.  Elise 
and  Arethusa  vow  to  avenge  the  deaths  of  Celestina  and  the 
two  valets  on  the  head  of  Calixtus.  They  apply  to  some 
bandits  smitten  with  their  charms,  and  bring  them  to  the 
house  of  Meliboea.  Calixtus  is  assassinated  as  he  is  leaving  it  ; 
and  the  lady,  on  learning  the  tidings,  after  confessing  her  fault 
to  her  parents,  throws  herself  from  the  top  of  a  tower. 

Few  works  have  had  a  success  so  brilliant  as  this  drama. 
The  author  boasted  that  it  was  composed  with  a  perfectly 
moral  view,  to  warn  the  young  against  the  snares  of  love,  and 
especially  of  its  female  panders.  No  assertion  is  made  as  to  its 
representation,  but  it  was  read  by  every  class  of  people  ; 
relished,  perhaps,  more  for  the  evil  examples  it  exhibited 
to  view,  than  for  the  lessons  it  supplied  witli  which  to  resist 
them.    "Widely  diffused  by  the  armies  of  Charles  V.  which 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  175 

inundated  Europe,  as  the  chef  d'oeuvre  of  Spanish  books ; 
printed  in  the  Spanish  in  other  countries  to  promote  the  study 
of  that  tongue  ;  transferred  to  the  Italian  and  the  French  ; 
commented  on  by  Ecclesiastics,  though  last  of  all  condemned 
on  the  score  of  Celestina's  immoralities  ;  it  is  a  work  in  which 
the  Spanish  literati  still  take  pride  for  its  nationality,  and  for 
its  opening,  they  assert,  the  way  to  the  dramatic  career  of 
other  nations. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

AGE   OF   CHARLES    V.       THE    CLASSICS   OF   SPAIN  :    BOSCAN  J    GARCILASO  ; 
MENDOZA;    MIRANDA;    JI0NTE3IAY0R. 

The  Spanish  nation  had,  for  a  long  period,  dissipated  its 
strength  in  internal  contests.  It  had  for  four  centuries  at- 
tempted to  expel  its  most  industrious  inhabitants  from  its 
bosom,  while  it  had  prodigally  expended  its  blood  in  aggran- 
dizing alternately  the  sovereigns  of  Castile  or  of  Aragon,  of 
Navarre,  or  of  Portugal  ;  or  in  struggles  against  their  prero- 
gative. This  nation,  unknown  it  may  almost  be  said  in 
Europe,  and  which  had  taken  no  part  in  European  politics, 
became  at  length  united  under  one  crown  at  the  commence- 
ment of  the  sixteenth  century.  Spain  now  turned  against 
other  nations  the  prodigious  power  which  had  been  hitherto 
confined  within  her  own  bosom.  While  she  menaced  the 
liberties  of  all  the  rest  of  Europe,  she  was  deprived  of  her 
own,  perhaps  without  remarking  the  loss,  in  the  agitation  of 
her  many  victories.  Her  character  sustained  an  entire 
change ;  and  at  the  period  when  Europe  was  gazing  with 
astonishment  and  terror  on  this  phenomenon,  her  literature, 
which  she  formed  in  the  schools  of  the  vanquished  nations, 
shone  out  in  its  full  brilliancy. 

The  power  of  the  Spanish  nation,  at  the  end  of  the 
fifteenth  century,  had  received  accessions  fully  sufiicient  to 
shake  the  equilibrium  of  Europe.  Alfonso  V.  of  Aragon, 
after  having  completed  the  conquest  of  Naples,  had,  it  is 
true,  left  that  kingdom  to  his  natural  son  ;  and  it  was  not 
until  the  year  1504,  that  Ferdinand  the  Catholic,  by  the  most 
revolting  treachery,  recovered  those  dominions.     Sicily,  Sar- 


176  ox    THE    LITEUATURE 

dinia,  and  the  Balearic  L^les,  had  been  already  united  to  the 
crown   of    Aragon.     The  marriage  of   Ferdinand  with  the 
queen  of  Castile,  without  consolidating  the  two  monarchies, 
^ave  that  ambitious  prince  the  command  of  all  the  armies  of 
Spain,  of  which  he  speedily  availed  himself  iu  Italy.      Gre- 
nada was  conquered  from  the  Moors  in  the  year  1492,  by  the 
united  troops  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella.     In  the  same  year 
Christopher  Columbus    discovered  those  vast  countries,    so 
remarkable  for  their  riches  and  for  their  happy  situation,  in 
which  the  Spaniards  found  a  new  home,  and  from  whence 
they  drew   treasures  with  which  they  flattered   themselves 
they  should  subdue   the  world.      In    1512,    Ferdinand,    as 
regent  of  Castile,  conquered  Navarre  ;  and  the  whole  of  that 
extensive  peninsula,  with  the  exception  of  Portugal,  yielded 
to  the   same  power.     When,  in   1516,  Charles  V.  added  to 
this  monarchy,  the    rich    and  industrious  provinces  of  the 
Low  Countries,  his   paternal  dominions,   and   in  1519,  the 
Imperial  Crown,  with  the  territoi-ies  inherited  from  Maxi- 
milian, in  Austria,  Hungary,  and   Bohemia,  the   novelty  of 
this  extraordinary  power,  which  so   greatly  exceeded   the 
authority  of   any  European   potentate    since   the   reign  of 
Charlemagne,  was  certainly  sufficient  to  turn  the  head  of  a 
youthful  sovereign,  and  to  inspire  him  with  the  fatal  project 
of  founding  an  universal  monarchy.      The  reputation  which 
Charles  V.  acquired  by  his  victories,  the  respect  and  fear 
with  which  he  impressed  all  the  other  nations  of  Europe,  the 
glory  of  the  Spanish  arms,  which  he  triumphantly  led  into 
Italy,    France,   and    Germany,   into    countries    whither    the 
standard  of  Castile  had  never  penetrated,  all  tended  to  de- 
ceive the  Spanish  nation,  and  to  inspire  them  with  an  enthu- 
siastic attachment  to  him  whom  they  regarded  as  their  hero, 
but  who  was,    in  fact,    studiously  endeavouring   to  subvert 
their  laws  and  their  constitution.       Tlie  dreams  of  ambition 
in  which  the  king  and  the  nation  equally  indulged,  were  fatal 
to  both.     Charles  V.  in  the  midst  of  his  victories,  and  not- 
withstanding   the  immense    extent    of    his    teri'itories,   was 
always,  in  proportion  to   his  situation,  weaker  and  poorer 
than  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  his  immediate  predecessors.     In 
every  enterprise    he  was    deprived  of  tlie    fruits  which    he 
should  have  gathered,  by  the  want  of  soldiers  and  of  money; 
a  want  unknown  to  the  former  monarclis.     The  taxes  col- 


OF    THE    SPAXIAKDS.  177 

lected  from  Italy,  Spain,  Flanders,  and  Germany,  together 
with  all  the  treasures  of  the  new  world,  were  not  sufficient 
to  prevent  his  troops  from  disbanding  for  want  of  pay.  _  The 
prodigious  levies,  which  were  perpetually  making  in  all 
the  subject  states,  never  enabled  him  to  meet  the  enemy  with 
superior  numbers  in  the  open  field ;  and,  although  he  liad 
succeeded  as  heir  to  very  large  territories,  and  had  acquired 
others  by  union  with  the  imperial  crown,  he  did  not  add  a 
single  province  to  his  states  by  the  sword  ;  but  was,  on  the 
contrary,  compelled  to  contract  his  hereditary  territories  on 
the  Turkish  frontier.  The  Spanish  nation,  the  only  one 
amongst  the  states  subject  to  him,  which  he  was  enabled  to 
preserve  from  foreign  invasion,  was,  in  his  minority,  de- 
spoiled by  Cardinal  Ximenes  of  a  portion  of  its  privileges. 
Intoxicated  with  the  victories  of  their  sovereign,  they,  day 
by  day,  surrendered  more.  The  brave  knights,  who  had 
been  accustomed  to  fight  only  for  the  interests  of  their 
country,  and  to  make  war  as  long  and  in  such  manner  as  it 
pleased  them,  now  conceived  it  a  point  of  honour  to  display 
the  most  implicit  obedience  and  devotion.  Perpetually  com- 
bating in  quarrels  which  they  little  understood,  and  in  which 
they  took  not  the  slightest  interest,  tliey  entirely  reduced 
their  duties  to  the  observance  of  the  most  severe  discipline. 
In  the  midst  of  nations  with  whose  language  they  Avere 
unacquainted,  and  whom  they  regarded  Avith  contempt,  they 
signalized  themselves  by  their  inflexibility  and  their  cruehy. 
The  first  of  European  soldiers,  they  united  no  other  qualifi- 
cations to  that  character.  To  the  enemy,  the  Spanish  in- 
fantry presented  a  front  of  iron  ;  to  the  unfortunate,  an  iron 
heart.  They  were  invariably  selected  for  the  execution  of 
any  cruel  project,  from  an  assurance  that  no  sympathies 
would  stay  them  in  the  performance  even  of  the  most  rigo- 
rous commands.  They  conducted  themselves  in  a  ferocious 
manner,  during  the  wars  against  the  Protestants  in  Germany, 
and  they  displayed  equal  cruelty  towards  the  Catholics  in  the 
sacking  of  Rome.  At  the  same  period,  the  soldiers  of 
Cortes  and  Pizarro,  in  the  New  World,  gave  proofs  of  a 
ferocity  which  has  been  the  opprobrium  of  the  Castilians  ; 
but  of  which  no  instance  is  to  be  found  in  the  whole  history 
of  Spain  before  the  reign  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella. 
Cruelty  seemed  to  become  the  characteristic  of  the  Spanish 


178  ON   THE   LITERATURE 

soldiery,  as  duplicity,  of  their  chiefs.  The  most  celebrated 
men  of  this  age  sullied  themselves  with  acts  of  treachery, 
unequalled  in  history.  The  great  Captain,  Gonsalvo  dc 
Cordova,  Piero  Navarro,  the  Duke  de  Toledo,  Antonio  de 
Leva,  and  the  most  illustrious  Castilians,  who  served  under 
Ferdinand  the  Catholic  and  Charles  V.,  made  light  of  their 
word,  and  even  of  the  most  sacred  oaths.  So  frequently 
are  they  accused  of  assassinating  and  poisoning  their  adver- 
saries, that,  though  we  should  suspend  our  belief  in  each 
individual  case,  yet,  when  we  consider  how  numerous  the 
accusations  are,  they  necessarily  tarnish  the  characters  of 
these  pretended  heroes.  At  the  same  period,  the  clergy 
gained  in  power,  in  proportion  as  morality  lost  its  influence. 
The  Inquisition  was  established  in  1478,  in  Castile,  by  the 
united  authority  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella.  It  was  armed 
with  extraordinary  powers  in  order  to  repress  the  Moors, 
against  whom  there  was  not  the  slightest  necessity  for  adopt- 
ing such  rigorous  measures,  even  in  the  height  of  their 
power  ;  and  at  this  period,  they  had  long  ceased  to  be  formi- 
dable.* Ferdinand,  who  was  the  most  crafty  of  kings, 
although  his  zeal  for  the  Inquisition  had  procured  him  the 
title  of  the  Catholic,  did  not  in  fact  take  any  interest  in  reli- 
gion, lie  would  never  have  devoted  himself  so  eagerly  to 
the  establishment  of  the  Inquisition,  had  he  not  regarded  it 
as  a  powerful  political  engine,  by  which  he  might  be  able  to 
terrify  the  nobles,  and  to  reduce  the  people  to  dependence. 
It  was  necessary  that  a  generation  should  pass  away  before 
the  Spaniards  could  become  inured  to  the  sanguinary  pro- 
ceedings of  the  Inquisition,  and  that  infernal  system  had 
scarcely  been  firmly  established,  when  Charles  V.  commenced 
his  reign.  The  revolting  spectacles  of  the  autos  dafe  pro- 
bably inspired  the  Spanish  soldiers  with  that  singular  fero- 
city for  which  they  were  remarkable  at  this  period,  and 
which  was  so  foreign  to  their  national  character.  The  Jews, 
against  whom  the  people  were  much  exaspei'ated  by  jealousy 

*  Juan  de  Torquemada,  a  Dominican,  the  confessor  of  Isabella,  whom 
he  induced  before  her  marriage  to  take  an  oath,  that  if  ever  she  ascended 
the  throne,  she  woidd  emphiy  all  her  power  in  persecuting  heretics  and 
infidels,  was  the  first  (Jrand  ln(|uisitor.  In  the  space  of  fourteen  years 
he  summoned  before  the  holy  tribunal,  a  hundred  thousand  persons,  and 
condemned  six  thousand  to  the  flames. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  179 

of  tlieir  commercial  prosperity,  were  the  first  victims  of  the 
Inquisition.  Though  they  formed  a  hxrge  proportion  of  the 
population,  they  were  almost  entirely  extirpated.  The 
Moors  were  next  abandoned  to  the  fury  of  the  holy  tribunal. 
The  severities  to  which  they  were  exposed  drove  them  to 
resistance,  and  their  resistance  drew  upon  them  fresh  suffer- 
ings. The  ancient  ties,  which  had  formerly  connected  the 
two  people,  were  broken,  and  a  spirit  of  irreconcileable 
hatred  sprang  up  between  them.  The  Inquisition  never 
remitted  its  labours,  until,  having  converted  one  portion  of 
the  Moors,  devoted  another  to  the  faggot,  and  reduced  still 
greater  numbei-s  to  absolute  ruin,  Philip  III.  was  at  last 
prevailed  upon  to  expel  from  their  homes  six  hundred  thou- 
sand of  these  unfortunate  creatures,  the  relics  of  a  numerous 
and  powerful  nation.  The  Inquisition  then  turned  its 
watchful  eye  upon  the  Christians  themselves  ;  anxious  that 
no  error  or  dissent  in  matters  of  faith  should  exist  within 
tlie  Spanish  territories.  At  the  period  of  the  Reformation, 
■when  the  intellect  of  all  Europe  was  occupied  with  religious 
controversies,  the  holy  office  succeeded  in  preventing  the 
establishment  in  Spain  of  any  of  the  reformed  opinions.  All 
who  attempted  to  introduce  them  were  no  sooner  discovered, 
than  they  were  committed  to  the  flames.  Terrified  by  this 
example,  the  rest  of  the  nation  anxiously  avoided  all  meta- 
physical studies  and  religious  speculations  ;  and  with  them 
they  abandoned  every  intellectual  pursuit  whicli  might  lead 
them  into  such  frightful  dangers  upon  earth,  while  they  ex- 
posed them,  according  to  their  instructors,  even  to  more  fatal 
perils  in  another  state  of  existence. 

•Thus  it  appears  that  the  reign  of  Charles  V.,  notwithstand- 
ing the  blaze  of  glory  by  which  it  is  surrounded,  was  no  less 
destructive  to  Spain  than  to  Italy.  The  Spaniards  were  at 
once  despoiled  of  their  civil  and  religious  liberty,  of  their 
private  and  public  virtues,  of  humanity  and  of  good  faith,  of 
their  commerce,  of  their  population,  and  of  their  agriculture. 
In  return  for  these  losses  they  acquired  a  military  reputation, 
and  the  hatred  of  the  nations  amongst  whom  they  had  carried 
their  arms.  But,  as  we  have  had  occasion  to  observe  in  speak- 
ing of  Italy,  it  is  not  at  the  moment  when  a  nation  loses  its 
political  privileges  that  the  progress  of  the  intellect  is  stayed. 
It  requires  the  lapse  of  half  a  century  before  the  spirit  of 


180  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

literature  declines,  or  becomes  extinct.  Whilst  Charles  V.  v/as 
layinjr  the  foundation  for  the  false  wit,  the  tumid  style,  and 
the  affectation  which,  with  other  defects,  distinguish  Gongora 
and  his  school  in  the  succeeding  age,  he  produced  an  entirely 
contrary  effect  upon  his  contemporaries.  He  roused  their  en- 
thusiasm, by  placing  before  their  eyes  their  national  glory  ; 
and  he  developed  their  genius,  while,  by  the  mixture  of 
foreigners  with  Castilians,  he  matured  their  taste. 

After  the  union  of  Aragon  and  Castile,  the  superior  im- 
portance of  the  latter  country  induced  the  Spanish  monarch 
to  transfer  the  seat  of  government  to  Madrid.  The  Castilian 
now  began  to  be  considered  as  the  language  of  all  Spain.  The 
Limousin,  or  Provencal,  which  was  still  preserved  in  tlie  legal 
proceedings  of  the  Aragonese,  and  amongst  the  common 
people,  had  been  abandoned  by  authors  and  poets  for  the 
language  of  the  court.  It  was,  however,  from  amongst  those 
who  thus  abandoned  the  native  language  of  Aragon  for  that  of 
Castile,  that  an  individual  proceeded,  who,  in  the  reign  of 
Charles  V.,  produced  an  entire  revolution  in  Castilian  poetry. 
He  had  never  become  attached  by  early  association  to  the 
harmony  of  Castilian  verse,  or  to  the  spirit  of  Castilian  poetry, 
and  he  probably  found  the  poetry  of  Italy  more  analogous  to 
the  Proven9al,  to  which  he  had  been  from  his  infancy  accus- 
tomed. He  was,  in  fact,  endowed  with  a  graceful  delicacy  of 
style  and  a  richness  of  imagination,  which  enabled  him  to  in- 
troduce a  purer  taste,  and  to  give  his  own  personal  feelings  an 
ascendancy  over  those  of  a  whole  nation. 

The  name  of  this  author  Avas  Juan  Boscan  Almogaver  ;  he 
was  born  about  the  close  of  the  fifteenth  century,  and  was  of 
a  noble  family  at  Barcelona.  He  had  served  in  his  youth. 
and  afterwards  devoted  himself  to  travelling  ;  but  on  his 
return  to  Spain  in  1.526,  he  became  acquainted  at  Grenada 
with  Andrea  Navagero,  then  ambassador  from  the  Venetians 
to  the  Emperor,  and  a  celebrated  poet  and  historian,  who  in- 
spired him  with  the  classical  taste  which  then  reigned  in  Italy. 
His  friend  Garcilaso  de  la  Vega  associated  himself  with  him 
in  the  project  of  effecting  a  reformation  in  Spanish  poetry. 
Both  of  these  writers  were  distinguished  by  their  correct  and 
graceful  style,  and  both  despised  the  accusations  of  their  ad- 
versaries, who  reproached  them  with  endeavouring  to  introduce 
into  a  valiant  nation  the  effeminate  tastes  of  the  people  whom 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  181 

it  had  subdued.  They  went  so  far  as  to  overthrow  all  the  laws 
of  Castilian  versification,  in  order  to  introduce  new  canons, 
founded  upon  a  system  diametrically  opposite  to  that  which 
had  hitherto  prevailed.  In  this  attempt  they  succeeded.  The 
ancient  Castilian  metre  consisting  of  short  lines,  which  was 
the  true  national  measure,  was  always  composed  of  a  long  syl- 
lable preceding  a  short  one.  In  fact  four  trochees  succeeded 
one  another.  Boscan  introduced  iambics  instead  of  trochees, 
as  in  Italian,  and  the  lines  were  thus  composed  of  short  syl- 
lables preceding  long  ones.  In  the  redondUhas  they  seldom 
made  use  of  more  than  six  or  eight  syllables,  and  in  the  verses 
da  arte  mayor  of  twelve.  Boscan  abandoned  both  these  forms, 
and  adopted  the  heroic  Italian  verse  of  five  iambics,  or  ten 
syllables,  and  the  mute.  When  we  remember  that  the  greater 
part  of  the  ancient  Spanish  romances  were  never  rhymed, 
but  merely  terminated  with  assonants,  and  that  in  determining 
the  verse,  the  ear  was  guided  only  by  the  quantity,  it  is  curious 
to  see  a  nation  consenting  to  the  loss  of  an  harmonious  metre, 
in  which  they  had  always  found  delight,  and  adopting  a 
measure  directly  contrary  to  that  which  they  had  before 
employed. 

Boscan,  who  was  one  of  the  instructors  of  the  too  celebrated 
Duke  of  Alva,  ended  his  days  in  a  pleasant  retreat,  in  the 
bosom  of  his  family  and  his  friends.  lie  died  belbre  the  year 
1544. 

Tiie  first  volume  of  Boscan's  poems  contains  his  youthful 
compositions  in  the  ancient  Castilian  taste.  The  second  con- 
sists of  sonnets  and  songs  in  the  Italian  style.  Although  in 
the  latter  poems  we  easily  trace  an  imitation  of  Petrarch,  yet 
they  exhibit  much  of  the  spirit  of  a  Spaniard.  Boscan  has 
happily  caught  the  precision  of  Petrarch's  language,  but  he 
has  rarely  preserved  the  sweetness  of  his  melody.  His  colours 
are  stronger,  and  his  warmth  is  more  impassioned,  but  it  does 
not  affect  us  so  much  as  the  deep  and  sweet  feelings  of  the 
Tuscan  poet.  The  perpetually  recurring  conflicts  between  the 
reason  and  the  passions,  so  favourite  a  theme  with  the  Spanish 
poets,  fatigue  us  by  their  monotony.  The  merit  of  lyrical 
poetry,  and  more  especially  of  sonnets,  depends  so  much  upon 
the  expression  and  the  harmony  of  the  language,  that  I  have 
no  hopes  of  being  able  to  give  any  idea  of  the  charm  of  Bos- 
can's poetry  to  those  who  are  not  acquainted  with  the  Spanish. 


182  ON    THE    LITERATUKE 

Indeed,  that  precision  of  style  and  that  rare  judgment  which 
constitute  his  chief  merits,  Avill,  when  he  is  compared  with 
the  other  Spanish  poets,  give  his  compositions  an  air  of 
studious  refinement  and  affectation,  if  they  are. judged  by  our 
own  rules  of  criticism.  * 

*  I  sulijoin  a  specimen  of  the  poems  of  Boscan  for  the  benefit  of  the 
Spanish  scholar,  but  I  have  not  ventured  upon  a  translation.  The 
sonnet  is  of  a  melancholy  cast,  and  cannot  be  wholly  freed  from  the 
charge  of  alfectation  : 

Ann  bien  no  fuy  salido  do  la  cuna, 
Ni  de  I'ama  la  leche  huve  dexado, 
(^uando  el  amor  me  tuvo  condennado 
A  ser  de  los  que  siguen  su  fortuna  ; 

Diome  lucgo  miserias,  de  una  en  una, 
For  hazernie  costumbre  en  su  cuydado, 
Despues,  en  mi  d'un  golpe  ha  descargado 
Quanto  mal  hay  debaxo  de  la  luna. 

En  dolor  fuy  criado  y  fuy  nascido, 

Dando  d'un  triste  passo  en  otro  amargo, 
Tanto  que  si  hay  mas  passo  es  de  la  muerte. 

0  cora^on,  que  siempre  has  padecido, 
Dime,  tan  fuerte  mal  como  es  tan  largo, 

Y  mal  tan  largo,  di,  como  es  tan  fuerte  ] 

The  following  is  the  conclusion  of  his  poem  of  Hero  and  Leandcr, 
which,  as  it  contains  about  2,800  verses,  may  be  considered  his  principal 
work  : 

Canta  con  boz  suave  y  dolorosa, 

O  Musa,  los  amores  lastimeros 

Que  en  suave  dolor  fucron  criados. 

Canta  tambien  la  triste  mar  en  medio, 

Y  a  Sesto  de  una  parte,  y  de  otra  Abydo, 

Y  amor  aca  y  alia  yendo  y  viniendo. 

Y  aquella  diligcnte  lumbrezilla 
Testigo  fiel  y  dulce  mcnsagera 
De  los  fieles  y  dulccs  amadores. 

Pero  comien9a  ya  de  cantar  Musa, 

El  jnoceso  y  el  fin  de  estos  amantes, 

Kl  mirar,  el  hablar,  el  entcnderse, 

El  yr  del  uno,  el  csperar  del  otro. 

El  dessear  y  el  acudir  conforme. 

La  lumbre  muerta,  y  a  Lcandro  muerto. 

Boscan,  who  survived  Garcilaso  by  five  or  six  years,  was  desirous  of 
publishing  his  own  works  in  conjunction  with  those  of  his  friend.  He 
announced  four  volumes  of  poems,  three  by  himself,  and  the  fourth  by 
the  poet,  who,  in  concert  with  him,  had  reformed  the  tastes  of  the 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  183 

The  third  voiume  of  Boscan's  poems  consists  of  a  transla- 
tion or  imitation  of  the  poem  of  Hero  and  Leander,  usually 
attributed  to  Musaeus.  The  language  is  pure  and  elegant,  the 
versification  natural,  and  the  style  of  the  narrative  at  once 
pleasing  and  noble.  In  the  same  volume  we  find  an  elegy 
under  the  name  of  Capitulo,  and  two  Epistles,  one  of  which, 
addressed  to  Diego  de  Mendoza,  gives  us  a  pleasing  picture 
of  the  poet  enjoying,  in  his  country  retreat  and  in  the  bosom 
of  his  family,  the  happiness  of  domestic  life. 

I  cannot  conclude  without  mentioning  a  fragment  by  Boscan, 
in  stanzas  of  eight  lines  each,  giving  a  description  of  the 
Kingdom  of  Love,  which  was  probably  designed  to  form  part 
of  an  epic  poem.  The  verses  are  remarkable  for  the  harmony 
of  their  style  and  for  their  elegance  of  expression,  which 
enable  us  to  comprehend  the  praises  which  the  Spaniards  have 
bestowed  upon  a  writer  whom  they  regard  as  their  first  clas- 
sical poet.  But  the  ideas,  the  sentiments,  and  the  thoughts, 
are  all  that  can  be  transferred  from  one  language  to  another. 
Wiien  the  beauty  of  poetry  consists  merely  in  its  harmony 
and  its  colouring,  it  is  in  vain  to  hope  that  it  can  ever  be 
appreciated  by  foreigners. 

Garcilaso  de  la  Vega  was  born  in  1500,  or,  according  to 
others,  in  1503,  at  Toledo,  of  a  noble  family.  lie  was  the 
friend  and  rival  of  Boscan,  the  disciple  of  Petrarch  and  of 
Virgil,  and  the  man  who  contributed  most  towards  the  intro- 
duction of  Italian  taste  into  Spain.  He  was  a  younger  son  of 
Garcilaso  de  la  Vega,  counsellor  of  state  to  Ferdinand  and 
Isabella  ;  who,  according  to  the  romances  and  the  history  of 
the  wars  of  the  Moors  of  Grenada,  displayed  great  bravery  in 
single  combat  against  a  Moor,  on  the  Vega,  or  plain  of 
Grenada.  In  remembrance  of  this  act  of  heroism  Ferdinand 
bestowed  upon  his  family  the  surname  of  Vega.  Although 
designed  by  nature  for  a  rural  life,  and  although  his  poems 
invariably  manifest  the  benevolence  and  the  extreme  mildness 
of  his  chai-acter,  his  brilliant  but  troubled  life  was  passed 
amidst  the  turmoils  of  a  camp.  In  1529,  he  was  attached  to 
a  Spanish  corps  which  valiantly  repulsed  the  Turks  in  Austria. 
A  romantic  adventure  with  one  of  the  ladies  of  the  court,  in 

Spaniards.  He  did  not  live  to  finish  this  work,  and  his  poems,  together 
with  those  of  Garcilaso,  appeared  after  his  death.  I  am  only  acquainted 
with  the  edition  of  Venice,  1553,  8vo. 


18-4  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

wliich  lie  was  engaged  at  the  instigation  of  one  of  his  relatives, 
<lrfw  upon  him  the  displeasure  of  the  Emperor.  lie  was 
banished  to  one  of  the  islands  on  the  Danube,  where  he  em- 
ployed himself  in  the  composition  of  some  melancholy  poems. 
In  lo3o,  he  accompanied  Charles  V.  in  his  hazardous  expedi- 
tion against  Tunis.  He  returned  from  thence  to  Sicily  and 
Naples,  where  he  wrote  several  pastorals.  In  the  following 
year,  upon  the  invasion  of  Provence  by  Charles  V.  he  had  the 
command  of  a  body  of  eleven  companies  of  infantry.  Being 
despatclied  by  the  Emperor  to  attack  a  fortified  tower,  he  was 
the  first  to  mount  tlie  breach,  when  he  was  mortally  wounded 
on  the  head.  He  died  a  few  weeks  afterwards  at  Nice,  whither 
he  had  been  conveyed,  in  1536.* 

The  poems  of  this  writer  present  few  traces  of  his  active 
and  troubled  life.  His  delicacy,  his  sensibility,  and  his  ima- 
gination, remind  us  of  Petrarch  more  tlian  even  the  works 
of  Boscan.  Unfortunately,  he  occasionally  abandons  himself 
to  that  refinement  and  false  wit  which  tiie  Spaniards  mistook 
for  the  language  of  passion.  Amongst  tlie  thirty  sonnets 
which  Garcilaso  has  left,  there  are  several  in  which  we  re- 
mark that  sweetness  of  language  and  that  delicacy  of  ex- 
pression which  so  completely  captivate  the  ear,  together  with 
a  mixture  of  sadness  and  of  love,  of  the  fear  and  the  desire 
of  death,  which  powerfully  expresses  the  agitation  of  the 
soul.  The  translation  of  one  of  these  sonnets  of  Garcilaso, 
although  it  should  give  only  a  faint  idea  of  his  poetry,  will 
afford  a  picture  of  the  singular  nature  of  Castilian  love  ;  a 
passion  which  even  in  the  fiercest  warriors  assumed  so  sub- 
missive and  so  languishing  a  character  : 

SOXNET  XIII. 

If  lamentations  and  complaints  could  rein 

The  course  of  rivers  a:<  they  roll'd  along, 

And  move  on  desert  hills,  attird  in  song. 
The  savage  forests  ;  if  they  could  constraint 


*  It  -was  another  Garcilaso  de  la  Vega,  but  of  the  same  family, 
although  his  mother  was  a  Peruvian,  who  wrote  the  Historj'  of  Peru 
and  of  I'^lorida. 

f  Si  quexas  y  lamentos  pucden  tanto 
Que  enfrenaron  el  curso  dc  los  rios, 
Y  en  los  deserlos  monies  y  sombrios 
Los  arbolcs  movicron  con  su  canto  ; 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  185 

Fierce  tygers  and  chill  rocks  to  entertain 

The  sound,  and  with  less  urgency  than  mine, 
Lead  tyrant  Pluto  and  stern  Proserpine, 

Sad  and  subdued  with  magic  of  their  strain  ; 

Why  will  not  my  vexations,  being  spent 
In  misery  and  in  tears,  to  softness  soothe 
A  bosgm  steel'd  against  me  1  with  more  ruth 

An  ear  of  rapt  attention  should  be  lent 

The  voice  of  him  that  mourns  himself  for  lost, 
Than  that  Avhicli  sorrow'd  for  a  forfeit  ghost  ! 

But  the  most  celebrated  of  Garcihiso's  poems  is  tliat  in 
which  he  lias  given  a  model  to  the  Spanish  writers,  whicli 
has  been  imitated  by  numbers  who  have  never  been  able  to 
equal  the  original.  Tliis  poem  is  the  first  of  his  three 
Eclogues.  It  was  written  at  Naples,  where  he  felt  inspired 
at  once  with  the  spirit  of  Virgil  and  of  Sanazzaro.  Two 
shepherds,  Salicio  and  Nemoroso,  meeting  one  another, 
mutually  express  in  verse  the  torments  which  they  have 
suffered  ;  the  one  from  the  infidelity,  the  other  from  the 
death,  of  his  shepherdess.  In  the  complaints  of  the  former 
there  is  softness,  delicacy,  and  submission,  and  in  those  of 
the  lattei-,  a  depth  of  grief;  while  in  both  we  find  a  purity  of 
pastoral  i'eeling  which  appears  more  remarkable  when  we 
I'eraember  that  the  author  was  a  warrior,  destined  a  few 
months  afterwards  to  perish  in  battle. 

The  shadow,  at  all  events,  of  a  pastoral  is  capable  of 
being  preserved  in  a  translation  ;  whilst  an  ode  or  a  sonnet 
is  frequently  lost.  In  order  to  produce  its  full  effect,  an  eclogue 
has,  however,  need  of  all  the  ornaments  peculiar  to  that  style 

Si  convertieron  a  escuchar  su  llanto 
Los  ficros  tigres,  y  penascos  fries. 
Si  en  fin  con  menos  cases  que  los  mios 
Baxaron  a  los  reynos  del  espanto  ; 

Porque  no  ablandarii  mi  trabajosa 
Vida,  en  mlseria  y  lagrimas  passada, 
Un  cora9on  comigo  endurecido  1 

Con  mas  piedad  devria  ser  escuchada 
La  voz  del  que  se  llora  por  perdido. 
Que  la  del  que  perdio  y  llora  otra  cosa. 

[The  above  translation,  as  -well  as  that  which  follows  from  the  Eclogue, 
is  borrowed  from  Mr.  WiiFen's  very  elegant  and  spirited  translation  of 
the  works  of  Garcilaso ;  to  which  he  has  prefixed  an  able  Essay  on 
Spanish  Poetry Tr.] 

VOL.  II.  M 


186  ON   THE   LITERATURE 

of  composition.  If  it  is  deprived  of  even  one  of  the  illu- 
sions with  which  it  is  invested,  its  defects  become  visible,  and 
we  are  struck  with  its  insipid  monotony.  The  translation  is 
injurious  to  the  poet,  even  from  its  apparent  fidelity,  which 
exposes  the  feebleness  of  the  composition,  whilst  it  suffers 
the  charm  to  evaporate.  On  the  other  hand,  we  should  com- 
municate a  very  vague  idea  of  the  early  poets  of  Spain  did 
we  only  give  the  opinions  of  their  critics  without  presenting 
a  single  example  of  their  own  sentiments  and  thoughts. 
The  following  are  a  few  stanzas  from  this  celebrated  eclogue  : 

Salicio. 
Through  thee  the  silence  of  the  shaded  glen. 

Through  thee  the  horror  of  the  lonely  mountain 

Pleased  me  no  less  than  the  resort  of  men  ; 

The  breeze,  the  summer  wood,  and  lucid  fountain. 

The  purple  rose,  white  lily  of  the  lake. 

Were  sweet  for  thy  sweet  sake  ; 

For  thee  the  fragrant  primrose,  dropt  with  dew. 

Was  wish'd,  when  first  it  hlew. 

Oh,  how  completely  was  I  in  all  this 

Myself  deceiving  !  Oh,  the  ditfcrent  part 

That  thou  wert  acting,  covering,  with  a  kiss 

Of  seeming  love,  the  traitor  in  thy  heart ! 

This  my  severe  misfortune  long  ago 

Did  the  soothsaying  raven,  sailing  by 

On  the  black  storm,  with  hoarse  sinister  cry, 

Clearly  presage  ;  in  gentleness  of  woe, 

Flow  forth,  my  tears,  'tis  meet  that  ye  should  flow  ! 

How  oft  when  slumbering  in  the  forest  brown, 
(Deeming  it  fimcy's  mystical  deceit,) 
Have  I  beheld  my  fate  in  dreams  foreshewn. 
One  day  methought  that  from  the  noontide  heat,* 

*  Salioio. 

For  ti  el  silcncio  de  la  sclva  umbrosa. 
For  ti  la  esquividad  y  apartamiento 
Del  solitario  monte  me  agrabada. 
For  ti  la  verde  hierba,  cl  fresco  vicnto. 
El  bianco  lirio  y  colorada  rosa 

Y  dulce  primavera  deseaba. 
Ay  I  quanto  mc  enganaba  1 
Ay  !  quan  difercnte  era, 

Y  quan  do  otra  manera 

IjO  que,  en  tu  false  pecho,  se  eseondia  ! 

Bien  claro  con  su  voz  me  lo  dccia 

La  siniestra  corncja  repitiendo 

La  desventura  mia. 

Salid  sin  duelo  higrimas  corriendo. 

See  GarcUaso  de  la  Vega,  Ohras  Poeticas. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  187 

I  drove  my  flocks  to  drink  of  Tagus'  flood, 
And,  under  curtain  of  its  bordering  wood, 
Take  my  cool  siesta,  but  arrived,  the  stream, 
I  know  not  by  v/hat  magic,  changed  its  track, 
And  in  new  channels,  by  an  unused  way, 
RoU'd  its  warp'd  waters  back  : 
Whilst  I,  scorch'd,  melting  with  the  heat  extreme. 
Went  ever  following  in  their  flight,  astray. 
The  wizard  waves  :  in  gentleness  of  woe. 
Flow  forth,  my  tears,  'tis  meet  that  ye  should  flow. 
*  *  *  *  .t 

But  though  thou  wilt  not  come  for  my  sad  sake. 
Leave  not  the  landscape  thou  hast  held  so  dear  ; 
Thou  may'st  come  freely  now  without  the  fear 
Of  meeting  me,  for,  though  my  heart  should  break. 
Where  late  forsaken,  I  will  now  forsake. 
Come,  then,  if  this  alone  detains  thee,  here 
Are  meadoAvs  full  of  verdure,  myrtles,  bays. 
Woodlands,  and  lawns,  and  running  waters  clear, 
Belov'd  in  other  days ; 
To  which,  bedew'd  with  many  a  bitter  tear, 
I  sing  my  last  of  lays. 

These  scenes,  perhaps,  when  I  am  far  remov'd. 
At  ease  thou  wilt  frequent 
With  him  who  rifled  me  of  all  I  lov'd. 
Enough  !  my  strength  is  spent ; 
And  leaving  thee  in  his  desir'd  embrace. 
It  is  not  much  to  leave  him  this  sweet  place. 
***** 

Nemokoso. 
As  at  the  set  of  sun  the  shades  extend. 
And  when  its  circle  sinks,  that  dark  obscure 
Rises  to  shroud  the  world,  on  which  attend 
The  images  that  set  our  hair  on  end. 
Silence,  and  shapes  mj'sterious  as  the  grave  : 
Till  the  broad  sun  sheds,  once  more,  from  the  wave 
His  lively  lustre,  beautiful  and  pure  ; 
Such  shapes  were  in  the  night,  and  such  ill  gloom 
At  thy  departure  ;  still  tormenting  fear 
Haunts,  and  must  haunt  me,  until  death  shall  doom 
The  so  much  wish'd  for  sun  to  re-appear, 
Of  thine  angelic  face,  my  soul  to  cheer, 
Resurgent  from  the  tomb. 

*         *         *         St         * 

Poor  lost  Eliza  !  of  thy  locks  of  gold 
One  treasured  ringlet  in  white  silk  I  keep 
For  ever  at  my  heart,  which  when  unroU'd, 
Fresh  grief  and  pity  o'er  my  spirit  creep, 
And  my  insatiate  eyes,  for  hours  untold, 
O'er  the  dear  pledge  will  like  an  infant  weep  : 

m2 


188  ox    THE    LITERATURE 

With  sighs  Inore  warm  tlian  fire,  anon  I  dry 
The  tears  from  oil"  it,  number,  one  \>y  cue, 
The  radiant  hairs,  and  with  a  love-knot  tie  ; 
Mine  eyes,  this  duty  done, 
Give  over  weeping,  and  with  slight  relief, 
I  taste  a  short  forgclfulness  of  grief. 

The  two  other  eclogues  of  Garcihtso  are  regarded  as 
inferior  to  the  first.  They  are  all  three  of  considerable  length. 
He  has  likewise  written  a  few  elegies,  of  which  one  was 
composed  at  the  foot  of  Etna.  His  poems,  when  collected, 
form  only  a  single  small  volume,  but  such  is  the  power  of 
harmonious  language  when  accompanied  by  harmony  of 
thought,  that  the  few  poems  of  Garcilaso  de  la  Vega  have 
secured  him  an  immortal  reputation,  and  gained  him  the  first 
rank  amongst  the  lyric  and  pastoral  poets  of  his  nation. 

Don  Diego  Hurtado  de  Mendoza,  the  third  of  the  Spanish 
classical  poets,  was  one  of  the  celebrated  politicians  and 
generals  who  distinguished  the  brilliant  reign  of  Charles  V. 
He  acted  a  princij)al  part  in  the  important  events  of  that 
period ;  but  the  extreme  severity  of  his  character  has  left  an 
unfavourable  impression  of  him  on  the  minds  of  those  who 
know  him  only  in  the  pages  of  history.  He  was  born  at 
Grenada  about  the  commencement  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
of  an  illustrious  family.  To  the  study  of  the  classics  he 
united  that  of  the  Hebrew  and  Arabic  tongues.  Scholastic 
philosophy,  theology,  and  the  civil  law,  likewise  shared  his 
attention.  "While  still  a  student  at  Salamanca,  he  wrote 
the  Life  of  Lazarillo  de  Tormes,  the  first  and  pleasantest  of 
those  memoirs  of  i-ogues,  for  which  the  Spaniards  have  mani- 
fested a  peculiar  taste.  Being  distinguislied  by  Cliarles  V. 
as  a  man  well  qualified  to  be  employed  in  the  most  impor- 
tant transactions,  he  was  appointed  Ambassador  to  Venice 
soon  after  he  had  left  the  university.  From  thence  he  was 
despatched  to  the  Council  of  Trent,  to  i)rotect  the  interest  of 
the  Emperor,  and  his  speech  to  this  assembly  in  the  year 
1545  excited  the  admiration  of  all  Clu-istendom.  In  1547, 
he  proceeded  with  the  title  of  Ambassador  to  the  Papal 
Court,  where  he  directed  the  movements  of  the  imperial 
part\',  throughout  Italy  ;  endeavouring  to  ruin  all  who  were 
attached  to  the  French  cause,  or  who  preserved  any  love  for 
the  ancient  liberties  of  their  country.      He  was,  at  the  same 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS,  189 

time,  named  Captain-general  and  Governor  of  Sienna.  In 
concert  with  Cosmo  de'  Medici  he  succeeded  in  enslavino- 
this  last  of  the  Republics  of  the  Middle  Ages,  and,  with  a 
sceptre  of  iron,  he  cruslied  the  spirit  of  liberty  wliich 
still  animated  the  Tuscans.  Detested  by  Paul  III.,  wliom 
he  was  directed  to  humble  even  in  his  own  court,  hated  by 
all  the  friends  of  liberty,  governing  only  by  severity,  and 
incessantly  exposed  to  the  knives  of  assassins,  he  still  re- 
tained his  power  till  the  reign  of  Julius  III,  by  whom  he 
was  appointed  Gonfaloniere  of  the  Church,  It  was  not 
until  the  year  15o4  that  Charles  V.,  yielding  to  the  in- 
stances of  all  his  Italian  subjects,  recalled  to  his  Court  this 
detested  minister.  During  his  residence  in  Italy,  amidst 
the  agitations  of  his  life  and  the  severities  of  his  government, 
he  was  still  actively  occupied  in  the  encouragement  of  letters. 
Since  the  time  of  Petrarch,  no  one  had  devoted  himself 
with  equal  adour  to  the  collection  of  Greek  manusci'ipts, 
while  he  at  the  same  time  attempted  to  preserve  from  the 
injuries  of  time  those  woi-ks  of  art  which  reflect  such  glory 
on  antiquity.  In  furtherance  of  this  design,  he  caused  the 
convent  of  Mount  Athos  to  be  examined,  making  use  of  the 
public  character  with  which  he  was  invested,  and  employing 
the  credit  which  he  enjoyed  even  at  the  Court  of  Soliman, 
to  promote  the  interests  of  literature.  Neither  his  public 
duties,  nor  his  studies,  nor  the  ruggedness  of  his  character, 
preserved  him  from  the  influence  of  love.  During  his  stay 
at  Rome,  his  gallantry  and  intrigues  procured  him  almost  as 
many  enemies  as  his  severity.  After  the  death  of  Charles 
V,,  in  a  dispute  which  he  had  at  the  Court  of  Philip  II,  with 
one  of  his  rivals,  the  latter  drew  a  poniard,  but  Mendoza, 
seizing  liis  adversary,  threw  him  over  a  balcony  into  the 
street.  We  are  not  told  whether  the  consequences  of  the 
fall  were  fatal,  but  Mendoza  was  committed  to  prison. 
During  his  captivity  the  aged  minister  employed  himself  in 
composing  love-verses,  and  complaints  :  RedondiUtas,  estando 
preso  por  una  pendencia  que  tuvo  enpalacio.  Being  banished 
to  Grenada,  be  was  an  attentive  observer  of  the  progress  of 
the  Moorish  revolt  in  the  Alpuxari-a,  of  which  he  afterwai'ds 
wrote  an  account  ;  a  work  esteemed  one  of  the  masterpieces 
of  Spanish  history.  He  occupied  himself  during  the  rest  of 
his  life  in  literary  pursuits,  and  in  translating  and  comment- 


190  ON    TIIIi;    LITERATURE 

ing  upon  a  work  of  Aristotle,  lie  died  at  Valladolid  in 
1575.  His  libniry,  which  he  bequeathed  to  the  King,  forms 
one  of  the  most  valuable  portions  of  the  collection  of  the 
Escurial. 

The  Spanish  have  placed  Mendoza  only  in  the  third  rank  of 
their  poets,  Boscan  and  Garcilaso  de  la  Vega  occupying  the 
two  first  places  ;  because,  on  a  comparison  between  hira  and 
them,  they  discover  considerable  harshness  in  his  verses. 
Boutterwek,  on  the  other  hand,  considers  his  Epistles  to  be 
equal  to  those  of  Horace.  He  was  the  first  to  give  perfect 
jnodels  of  this  kind  of  composition  to  his  countrymen. 
With  tiie  exception  of  two,  which  are  somewhat  fatiguing 
love-complaints,  the  rest  are  all  didactic  ;  and  though  full 
of  philosophical  discussion,  they  are  yet  written  in  a  neat 
and  easy  style.  Tiie  happy  mixture  of  opinion  and  descrip- 
tion preserves  them  i'rom  the  charge  of  monotony.  Great 
correctness  of  judgment,  and  a  thorough  knowledge  of 
the  world,  form  the  principal  merit  of  the  thoughts.  In  his 
epistle  to  Boscan  he  describes  domestic  life  very  delightfully. 
The  first  verses  contain  a  beautiful  picture  of  the  wife  of 
Boscan.  AVe  are  astonished  to  discover  in  the  tyrant  of 
Sienna  so  much  delicacy  and  so  much  sensibility.* 

*  Tu  la  veras,  Boscan,  y  yo  la  veo, 

Que  los  que  amamos,  vemos  mas  tcmprano. 
Hela,  en  cabello  negro  y  bianco  arreo. 

Ella  te  cogera  eon  blanca  mano 
La3  raras  ubas,  y  la  fruta  cana, 
Uulces  y  frescos  clones  del  verano. 

Mira,  que  diligencia,  con  que  gana 
Vicne  al  nuevo  servicio,  que  pomposa 
Esta  con  el  trabajo,  y  quan  ufana. 

En  blanca  leche  colorada  rosa 
Nunca  para  su  amiga  vi  al  pastor 
Mczclar,  que  pareciesse  tan  licrmo-a. 

El  verde  arrayan  tucrcc  en  derredor, 

J)e  tu  sagrada  frente,  con  las  flores 

;Mezclando  oro  immortal  a  la  labor. 
Tor  cima  van  y  vicneu  los  amores, 

Con  las  alas  en  vino  remojadas, 

Suenan  en  el  carcax  los  passadorcs. 

Remedie  quicn  quisicrc  las  pissadas 

Dc  los  grandes,  que  el  muudo  governaron, 
Cuyas  obras,  quiza,  cstau  olvidadas. 

Desvclcse 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  191 

Nor  are  we  less  surprised  at  finding  tliis  ferocious  man 
entertaining  in  the  midst  of  his  ambitious  career  a  wish  for 
retirement,  and  for  the  happiness  and  repose  of  domestic  life. 
In  his  epistle  to  Don  Luys  dc  Zuaiga  he  thus  expresses 
himself : 

Another  world  I  seek,  a  resting  i>lace, 

Sweet  times  and  seasons,  and  a  hajjpy  home, 

Wkere  1  in  peace  may  close  my  mortal  race; 
There  shall  no  evil  passions  dare  presume 

To  enter,  turbulence,  nor  discontent ; 

Love  to  my  honour'd  king  shall  there  find  room  ; 
And  if  to  me  his  clemency  be  sent. 

Giving  me  kindly  wherewithal  to  live, 

I  will  rejoice  ;  if  not,  will  rest  content. 
My  days  shall  pass  all  idly  fugitive, 

Careless  my  meals,  and  at  no  solemn  hour  ; 

My  sleep  and  di'eams  such  as  content  can  give. 
Then  will  I  tell  how,  in  my  days  of  power, 

Into  the  East,  Spain's  conquering  flag  I  led. 

All  undismay'd  amid  the  fiery  shower  ; 
AVhile  young  and  old  around  me  throng  in  dread, 

Fair  dames,  and  idle  monks,  a  coward  race. 

And  tremble  while  they  hear  of  foes  that  fled. 
And  haply  some  ambassador  may  gracj 

My  humble  roof,  resting  upon  his  way  ; 

His  route  and  many  dangers  he  will  trace 
Upon  my  frugal  board,  and  much  will  say 

Of  many  valiant  deeds,  but  he'll  conceal 

His  secret  purpose  from  the  light  of  day  ; 
To  mortal  none  that  object  he'll  reveal ; 

His  secret  mission  you  shall  never  find. 

Though  you  should  search  his  heart  with  pointed  steel. 

The  sonnets  of  Mendoza  are  deficient  in  that  grace  and 
harmony  Avhich  form  the  charm  of  Boscan's  style.  In  all  of 
them,  however,  the  language  is  correct  and  noble.     The  fol- 


Dcsvelese  en  lo  que  ellos  no  alcan9aron, 
Duerma  descolorido  sobre  el  oro, 
Que  no  les  quedara  mas  que  llevaron. 

Yo  Boscan  no  procuro  otro  tesoro 
Sino  poder  vivir  medianamente, 
Ni  escondo  la  riqueza,  ni  la  adoro. 

Si  aqui  hallas  algun  inconveniente, 
Como  discrete  y  no  como  yo  soy, 
5Ie  desengana  luego  incontinente  , 

Y  sino  ven  con  migo  adonde  voy. 


192  ON'    THE    LITERATURE 

lowing  is  a  very  characteristic  specimen,  as  it  exhibits  the 
national  taste  and  the  prevailing  spirit  of  gallantry,  together 
with  some  traces  of  those  troubled  scenes  through  wiiich  the 
author  had  passed. 

SONNET. 

Now  by  the  Muses  won,  I  seize  my  lyre  ; 

Now  roused  by  valour's  stern  and  manly  call, 
I  grasp  my  flaming  sword,  in  storm  and  lire, 

To  plant  our  banner  on  some  hostile  wall  .  ' 
Now  sink  my  wearied  limbs  to  silent  rest, 

And  now  I  wake  and  watch  the  lonely  night ; 
But  thy  fair  form  is  on  my  heart  imprcs.s'd, 

Through  every  change,  a  vision  of  delight  ! 
AVhere'er  the  glorious  planet  sheds  his  beams. 

Whatever  lands  his  golden  orb  illumes, 
Thy  memory  ever  haunts  my  blissful  dreams. 

And  a  delightful  Eden  round  me  blooms  : 
Fresh  radiance  clothes  the  earth,  the  sea,  and  skies. 
To  mark  the  day  that  gave  thee  to  mine  eyes.* 

The  canzoni  partake  of  the  same  character.  They  are 
blamed  for  their  obscurity :  a  common  defect  in  Spanish 
poetry,  arising  from  the  too  great  study  bestowed  by  the 
writer.  Mendoza  did  not  confine  himself  to  compositions  on 
the  Italian  modeh  The  ancient  Castilian  style  attracted  his 
attention,  and  he  endeavoured  to  carry  it  to  a  higher  state  of 
polish  and  perfection.  His  redondUlias,  in  little  stanzas  of 
four  verses,  his  qitini ill/is,  in  stanzas  of  live  verses,  and  his 
villancicos,  are  more  finislied  tlian  those  of  the  ancient  school, 
while  they  are  at  the  same  time  Tnore  suited  to  his  genius 
tlian  tlie  poems  which  he  has  written  in  the  Italian  metre. 


Aora  en  la  dulcc  ciencia  embevecido, 
Ora  en  el  uso  de  la  ardiente  espada, 
Aora  con  la  mano  y  el  sentido 
Pucsto  cu  seguir  la  pla9a  levantada. 

Ora  el  pesado  cuerpo  estii  dormido, 
Aora  el  alma  atenta  y  desvelada  ; 
Siompre  en  el  cora^on  tendre  csculpido 
Tu  ser,  y  hermosura  entretallada. 

Entre  gentcs  eslranas,  do  se  encierra 
El  sol  fuera  del  mundo,  y  se  desvia, 
Durare  y  permanecere  deste  arte. 

En  el  mar  en  el  eielo  su  la  tierra 
Contemplare  la  gloria  dc  aquol  dia 
Que  tu  vista  figura  en  todo  parte. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  193 

He  left  many  satirical  poems  under  burlesque  names^  but  the 
Inquisition  forbade  them  to  be  printed. 

Mendoza,  however,  acquired  a  higher  reputation  by  his 
prose  compositions,  which  form  an  epoch  in  the  history  of 
Spanish  literature.  The  comic  romance  of  Lazarillo  de 
Tormes,  the  first  of  its  kind,  has  been  translated  into  all 
languages,  and  read  in  every  nation  of  Europe.  It  v/as  cor- 
rected and  enlarged  by  the  addition  of  a  second  part,  by  a 
writer  named  de  Luna,  who  is  otherwise  unknown  ;  and  it  is 
in  this  altered  form  that  it  is  now  known  to  the  public.  The 
wit  of  every  nation  has  in  it  something  peculiar,  and  in  Laza- 
rillo de  Tormes  we  find  the  genuine  Spanish  vein.  It  seems 
that  the  grave  dignity  of  the  Castilians  would  not  permit 
persons  of  rank  to  be  made  the  subject  of  laughter,  and  the 
romance-writers  therefore  chose  for  their  heroes  persons  in- 
sensible to  all  shame.  The  humour  of  these  works  consisted 
in  contrasting  all  kinds  of  ignoble  vices  with  the  reserve  and 
dignity  of  the  national  manners.  Lazarillo  de  Tormes  is  an 
unfortunate  youth,  who  was  born  in  tlie  bed  of  a  torrent,  was 
educated  by  the  mistress  of  a  negro,  and  who  afterwards 
became  the  guide  of  a  blind  beggar.  He  recounts  all  the 
tricks  and  thefts  of  which  he  was  guilty  until  he  arrived  at 
the  high  honour  of  espousing  the  housekeeper  of  a  clergyman. 
It  is  surprising  to  find  Mendoza,  still  a  student  at  Salamanca, 
so  early  and  so  well  acquainted  with  the  vices  and  manners 
of  the  lower  orders,  and  painting  beggars  and  rogues  with  all 
the  liveliness  and  satirical  power  which  Fielding  only  acquired 
by  long  experience  of  the  world.  The  description  of  Cas- 
tilian  manners  which  Lazarillo  gives  us  is  highly  curious, 
from  the  period  at  which  it  was  written.  It  must  be  dated 
about  the  year  1520,  towards  the  commencement  of  the  reign 
of  Charles  V.,  before  the  wars  in  which  that  monarch 
engaged,  or  the  mania  of  emigrating  to  America,  had  impo- 
verished Castile,  and  changed  its  ancient  manners  ;  and  before 
that  sumptuous  parsimony,  that  stateliness  united  to  extreme 
poverty,  and  that  proud  spirit  of  idleness  which  distinguish 
the  Castilians  from  the  Aragonese  and  the  Catalonians,  had 
deprived  Castile  of  its  agriculture,  its  manufactures,  and  its 
commei'ce.  Lazarillo  is  perpetually  tormented  with  hunger, 
and  never  receives  from  his  master  a  sufficiency  even  of  dry 
bread  to  satisfy  his  craving  appetite.     He  is  even  compelled 


194  ox    TUE    LITERATURE 

to  employ  a  thousand  artifices  to  break  off  the  corners  of  the 
loaves,  and  he  then  persuades  his  master  that  the  rats  have 
done  the  mischief.  At  leni^tli  he  enters  the  service  of  a 
noble  esquire,  who  passes  a  portion  of  the  day  at  church,  and 
tlie  remainder  in  lounging,  arranging  his  mustachios,  and 
striking  his  sword  against  the  pavement.  Dinner-time, 
however,  never  arrives  in  this  gentleman's  establishment ; 
and  Lazarillo  is  compelled  to  support  ins  master  by  the  bread 
which  he  has  stolen  in  the  streets.  He  next  becomes  gentle- 
man-usher to  seven  ladies  at  once.  The  wives  of  the  baker, 
the  slioemaker,  the  tailor,  and  the  mason,  are  ashamed  of 
walking  the  streets  and  going  to  mass  without  an  attendant 
to  follow  them  in  respectful  style,  with  a  sword  by  his  side. 
A.S  none  of  these  ladies  are  able  alone  to  support  such  an 
establishment,  they  arrange  the  matter  amongst  themselves  ; 
and  Lazarillo  by  turns  attends  upon  them  all.  Other  scenes, 
no  less  amusing,  follow,  all  exhibiting  the  national  failing  of 
the  Castilians,  who  are  ashamed  of  their  actual  condition, 
and  desirous  of  appearing  what  they  are  not,  haughtily  pre- 
ferring dependence  and  misery  to  the  degradation  of  labour. 
Numberless  romances  have  been  written  in  imitation  of 
Lazarillo  de  Tormes.  This  style  of  writing  has  been  called 
by  the  Spaniai'ds  El  Gusto  Pirarexro;  and  if  we  may 
believe  them,  no  beggars  of  any  country  liave  ever  equalled 
theirs  in  artifice,  roguery,  and  subordination  to  their  own 
private  police,  which  always  acts  in  opposition  to  tliat  of 
society.  The  romances  of  Guzman  d'Alfarache,  and  of 
Picara  Justhia,  together  with  many  others,  have  been  trans- 
lated into  almost  all  languages,  and  were  the  models  of  Gil 
Bias.  The  father  of  this  large  family  possessed,  without  doubt, 
a  large  fund  of  comic  talent,  since  he  has  found  so  many 
imitators.  In  him  we  may  remark  qualities  in  which  his 
successors  have  been  unable  to  equal  him,  a  soundness  of 
intellect,  a  just  and  solid  judgment,  together  with  those  pro- 
found views  of  society  which  indicated  that  Mendoza  was 
destined  for  a  statesman.  Lazarillo  de  Tormes  is  the  last 
Spanish  work  in  which  the  Inquisition  is  attacked  as  odious 
and  ridiculous.  The  holy  office  afterwards  acquiied  the  art 
of  making  even  those  whom  it  was  destroying  commend  its 
proceedings. 

The  second  work  in  prose  by  Mendoza,  which  was  written 


OP    THE    SPANIARDS.  196 

in  his  old  age,  and  after  he  had  retired  from  public  life,  The 
History  of  the  War  of  Grenada,  has  conferred  upon  him 
more  real  fame.  Talking  Sallust  and  Tacitus  alternately  as 
his  models,  he  may  be  said  to  have  assumed  a  station  near 
those  colossal  authors  of  antiquity.  His  style,  which  is  ex- 
ceedingly elegant,  may  perhaps  occasionally  betray  the  study 
of  the  writer  ;  but  the  simplicity  of  the  narrative  is  the  more 
remarkable,  inasmuch  as  tlie  art  of  presenting  the  subject  to 
the  eye  of  the  reader,  and  of  interesting  his  feelings,  appears 
almost  to  be  carried  to  perfection.  The  statesman  appears  in 
almost  every  page.  We  immediately  perceive  that  Mendoza 
was  fully  aware  of  tlie  errors  of  Philip,  who  by  his  extreme 
severity  and  imprudence  drove  the  Moors  into  rebellion.  He 
does  not,  indeed,  pronounce  any  direct  opinion,  but  the  reader 
easily  collects  it ;  and  so  sensible  of  this  was  the  Spanish 
government,  that  the  work  Avas  not  permitted  to  be  printed 
until  the  year  1610,  thirty-five  years  after  the  death  of  the 
autlior,  and  then  not  without  great  alterations.  The  edition 
of  1776  alone  is  complete. 

The  revolt  of  the  Moors  of  Grenada,  the  subject  of  this 
liistory,  broke  out  in  tlie  year  1568,  in  consequence  of  the 
cruelties  and  fanaticism  of  Philip  II.  In  the  preceding  reign 
the  public  exercise  of  their  religion  had  been  interdicted  ;  and 
they  had  been  compelled,  under  pain  of  death,  to  make  an 
external  profession  of  Christianity.  A  fragment  from  Men- 
doza respecting  the  fresh  rigours  of  Philip  will  enable  us  to 
estimate  at  once  the  style  of  the  historian,  and  the  policy  of 
the  Spanish  court.  "  Tiie  Inquisition,"  says  he,  "  now 
began  to  torment  them  more  than  had  been  usual.  The 
King  ordered  them  to  abandon  the  Moorish  tongue,  and  with 
it  all  commerce  and  communication  amongst  themselves.  He 
deprived  them  of  their  negro  slaves,  whom  they  treated  with 
the  same  tenderness  as  their  own  children.  He  compelled 
them  to  throw  aside  tlieir  Arabian  habits,  in  the  purchase  of 
which  they  had  spent  considerable  sums,  constraining  them 
to  adopt  the  Castilian  dress  at  a  gi'eat  expense.  He  forced 
the  women  to  walk  abroad  with  their  faces  unveiled,  and 
compelled  them  to  open  all  their  houses  which  they  had  been 
accustomed  to  keep  closed,  both  which  commands  appeared 
an  intolerable  violence  to  this  jealous  nation.  It  was  an- 
nounced to  them  also,  that  the  King  was  desirous  of  taking 


196  OK    THE    LITKHATURE 

from  them  their  children,  in  order  that  thoy  might  be  educated 
in  Castile.  Tliey  were  interdicted  from  the  use  of  their 
baths,  whicli  wci-e  at  once  nec(^ssary  and  delightfid  to  them  ; 
and  at  the  same  time  their  music,  tiieir  songs,  their  festivals, 
nil  their  usual  amusements,  all  their  cheerful  assemblies,  were 
forbidden.  All  these  new  orders  were  promulgated  without 
any  addition  to  the  guards,  without  despatching  any  fresh 
troops,  and  without  any  reinforcement  of  the  old,  or  establish- 
ment of  new  garrisons."  The  Moors  soon  began  to  collect 
arras  and  ammunition  in  the  rugged  mountains  of  the  Alpux- 
arra.  They  chose  as  their  king  the  young  Fernando  de  Valor, 
a  descendant  of  their  ancient  sovereigns,  who  assumed  the 
name  of  Aben-IIumeya.  Grenada  was  too  strong  to  be  sur- 
prised ;  and  they  had  received  only  very  inefHcient  succours 
from  the  Turkish  Emperor  Selim.  Notwithstanding  their 
weakness,  they  defended  themselves  for  eight  months  in  the 
moiuitains,  with  unconquerable  valour,  against  a  liumerous 
army,  commanded  by  Don  John  of  Austria.  The  ferocity 
of  the  Spaniards  displayed  itself  in  a  frightful  manner  during 
this  war.  Not  only  were  prisoners  without  number  put  to 
the  sword,  but  the  inhabitants  of  whole  villages  in  the  plains, 
who  had  taken  no  part  in  the  insurrection,  were  massacred  on 
suspicion  of  holding  intelligence  with  the  rebels.  Aben- 
IIumeya  and  his  successor  Aben-Boo,  were  botli  assassinated 
by  jNIoors,  to  whom  the  Spaniards  had  promised  an  indemnity 
at  that  price.  The  rest  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  Alj)uxarra 
were  sold  into  slavery,  while  those  of  the  plains  were  dragged 
from  their  homes,  and  driven  in  troops  into  the  interior  of 
Castile,  where  they  perished  miserably.  Philip,  that  he 
might  act  with  perfect  justice  in  this  affair,  consulted  a  theo- 
logian on  the  conduct  which  it  behoved  him  to  pursue  Avith 
regard  to  the  Moors.  The  latter,  whose  name  was  Oradici, 
answered  tliat  "the  more  enemies  he  destroyed,  the  fewer 
would  remain." 

The  great  reform  which  was  wrought  in  the  poetry  of 
Castile,  by  the  example  of  the  Italians,  was  not  without  its 
partizans  in  Portugal.  In  this  new  school,  we  must  grant  the 
first  rank  to  two  Portuguese,  INIiranda  and  Montemayor,  who 
distinguished  themselves  by  their  compositions  in  both  lan- 
guages. Saa  INIiranda,  who  was  born  in  1494,  and  died  in 
1558,  may  be  more  especially  claimed   by  tlie  Portuguese  5 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  197 

and  in  treating  of  the  literature  of  that  country,  we  shall 
again  have  occasion  to  mention  him.  In  Castilian,  lie  wrote 
only  a  few  pastorals,  which  resemble  Theocritus  much  more 
than  the  pastorals  of  Garcllaso  de  la  Vega.  He  was  passion- 
ately attached  to  the  country,  nor  could  he  bear  a  residence 
elsewhere.  It  is  evident  that  he  wrote  without  art,  abandon- 
ing himself  to  his  feelings,  and  despising  the  rules  which 
separate  one  style  of  composition  from  another,  llis  pastorals, 
thei'efore,  sometiines  resemble  the  Italian  canzoni,  at  others 
the  Latin  ode,  while  they  occasionally  approach  the  epic. 
This  mixture  of  style  has  drawn  down  upon  him  the  wrath 
of  the  critics,  and  none  of  his  eclogues  are  considered  as  mo- 
dels, though  in  many  of  them  may  be  found  very  beautiful 
specimens  of  the  various  styles  of  composition.  The  follow- 
ing lines,  from  the  first  eclogue,  appear  to  me  to  contain  that 
melancholy  sensibility  whicli  constitutes  the  chief  charm  of 
the  Northern  poets,  but  which,  with  the  exception  of  the 
Portuguese,  is  seldom  found  amongst  the  writers  of  the 
South" 

Then  fliro  thee  well  !  for  on  this  earthly  scene 
The  pleasures  of  to-day  fly  ere  the  morrow, 
And  all  is  frail  and  fugitive  save  sorrow  ; 
But  in  that  region,  where  thou  sitt'st  serene, 
That  vision  vain  shall  meet  thine  eyes  no  more 
Which  wari'd  with  thee  upon  this  mortal  shore. 
Burning  that  breast  which  nov,'  lies  still  and  cold. 
What  thy  clear  eyes  behold. 
Amid  those  regions  bright, 
Are  not  the  vain  shews  of  a  false  delight. 
Such  as  erewhile  thou  knew'st  in  this  dim  hound  ; 
.  But  such  as  aye  shed  peace  and  light  around  ; 
While  calm  content  thy  bosom  fills, 
Free  from  the  ills 
Which  ever  in  these  stranger  realms  are  found.* 


*  Vete,  buen  Diego,  en  paz,  que  en  esta  tierra 
El  plazer  de  oy  no  dura  hasta  a  manana, 
y  dura  mucho  quanto  desaplaze. 
Alia  aora  no  ves  la  vision  vana, 
Que  aca  viviendo  te  hizo  tanta  guerra, 
Ardiendo  el  cuerpo  que  ora  frio  yaze. 
Lo  que  alia  satisfaze 
A  tus  ya  claros  ojos, 
No  son  vanos  antojos 
De  que  ay  por  esto  cerros  mucliedumbrc  ; 

Mas 


198  ox    THE    LITEUATURE 

George  de  Montemayor  was  born  at  Montemor,  in  Portu- 
gal, about  the  year  1520.  As  his  laniily  was  very  obscure, 
he  translated  into  Castilian  the  name  of  the  village  at  which 
he  was  born,  and  he  assumed  it  as  his  own.  lie  had  received 
no  education,  and  served  as  a  common  soldier  in  tlie  Portu- 
guese army.  On  account  of  his  love  of  music  and  his  fine 
voice,  he  was  attached  to  the  chapel  of  the  Infant  Don 
Philip,  afterwards  Philip  II.,  during  his  progresses  through 
Italy,  Germany,  and  the  Low  Countries.  He  thus  became  ac- 
quainted with  the  world  and  tlie  Court,  and  familiarized  him- 
self with  the  Castilian  dialect,  which  he  adopted  in  preference 
to  the  Portuguese.  His  attachment  to  Spain  was  increased  by 
his  passion  for  a  beautiful  Castilian  lady,  to  whom  he  has 
given  in  his  poems  the  name  of  IMarfida.  This  Marfida  was 
the  divinity  of  his  verses  ;  but  upon  his  return  to  Spain  from 
a  journey  on  which  lie  had  accompanied  the  Count,  he  found 
her  married.  He  now  endeavoured  to  dissipate  his  chagrin 
by  devoting  himself  to  a  romantic  composition,  in  which  he 
represented  the  faithless  fair  one  as  a  shepherdess,  under  the 
name  of  Diana,  whilst  he  bestowed  upon  himself  the  appella- 
tion of  Syrenus.  This  tedious  pastoral,  which  reached  the 
seventh  book,  ought  i-ather  to  be  considered  as  a  vehicle  for 
the  expression  of  the  writer's  feelings  and  for  the  amatory 
effusions  of  his  muse,  than  as  a  romance.  No  work  in  Spain, 
since  the  Amadis,  had  been  so  successful.  As  the  Amadis 
had  bei^i  the  progenitor  of  a  numerous  family  of  chivalric 
romances,  so  a  crowd  of  pastoral  romances  succeeded  the 
Diana,  Montemayor  returned  home  by  the  command  of  the 
Queen  of  Portugal  ;  but  the  rest  of  his  history  is  unknown. 
He  dieda  violent  death  in  Spain  or  in  Italy,  about  the  year 
1.561  or  1562. 

The  prose  writings  of  INIontemayor  have  more  harmony 
and  elegance,  and  in  general  more  simplicity,  than  those  of 
his  predecessors  ;  nor  does  he  forsake  this  style  of  writing, 
except  in  his  philosophical  disquisitions  on  the  nature  of  love. 
There,  and  indeed  wherever  he  attempts  to  be  subtle  or  pro- 
found, he  becomes  pedantic.     It  is  evident  from  his  admira- 

Mas  sicmpre  una  paz  biicna  en  c'lara  himbre, 

Contentamicnto  cicrto  to  acompana, 

No  tanta  pcsadumbrc, 

Como  aea  va  por  esta  tierra  cstraua. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  199 

tion  of  the  scliolastic  rules  that  he  is  a  novice  in  them.  The 
grace,  harmony,  and  deUcacy  of  his  writings  have  placed  him 
in  the  first  rank  of  Spanish  poets. 

The  scene  of  Montemayor's  pastoral  is  laid  at  the  foot  of 
the  mountains  of  Leon.  The  period  is  more  difficult  to  de- 
termine. Tiie  geography,  the  names,  and  every  reference  to 
real  manners  and  customs,  are  modern.  The  mythology, 
hovv^ever,  is  pagan.  The  shepherds  and  shepherdesses  dance 
together  on  Sundays;  but  they  invoke  Apollo  and  Diana,  the 
Nymphs  and  the  Fauns.  The  shepherdess  Felismena  is 
brouo-Iit  up  by  her  aunt,  the  abbess  of  a  nunnery;  and  her 
chambermaid,  when  she  is  endeavouring  to  excuse  herself, 
calls  upon  the  name  of  Jesus.  Yet  she  accounts  herself  under 
the  protection  of  the  pagan  divinities.  Venus,  who  has  been 
irritated  against  her  mother,  has  condemned  her  from  her 
birth  to  be  unfortunate  in  love,  while  Minerva  has  endowed 
her  with  a  most  martial  spirit,  and  given  her  the  superiority 
over  the  bravest  warriors.  The  adventures  of  Abindarraes 
and  Xarifa,  who  were  contemporary  Avith  Ferdinand  the 
Catholic,  are  related  as  having  occurred  in  early  times;  but 
when  the  heroes  visit  the  court,  or  meet  with  any  prince,  the 
names  which  are  introduced  are  entirely  fictitious.  Indeed 
the  Diana  of  Monteraayor  is  laid  in  so  poetical  a  world,  and 
is  so  far  removed  from  all  reality,  that  it  is  perfectly  useless 
to  notice  anaclu-onisms  or  improbabilities.  With  regard  to 
the  mixture  of  the  ancient  mythology  with  modern  fictions, 
it  was  the  error  of  the  age.  Learning,  after  degenerating  into 
pedantry,  had  become  so  intimately  connected  with  the  crea- 
tions of  poetry,  that  it  would  have  been  deemed  an  offence 
both  against  taste  and  imagination,  to  have  deprived  the  fa- 
bulous deities  of  antiquity  of  their  empire. 

Diana  was  a  shepherdess  on  the  borders  of  the  river  Ezla, 
in  the  kingdom  of  Leon.  She  was  beloved  by  two  shepherds, 
Syrenus  and  Sylvanus;  the  former  of  whom  possessed  her 
heart,  while  the  suit  of  the  latter  had  been  rejected.  These 
three  personages,  who  were  poetical  as  well  as  pastoral,  all 
played  delightfully  upon  the  harp  and  the  pipe,  to  which  they 
sang  their  loves,  their  hopes,  and  their  resignation.  In 
elegance,  beauty,  and  virtue,  they  were  models  for  all  shep- 
herds. No  gross  desire  ever  stained  their  chaste  attachments; 
no  impetuous  passions  ever  overwhelmed  the  hearts  that  were 


200 


ON    THE    LITEUATUKE 


filled  with  tendcrnoss  alone.  Syrcnu?,  far  from  feeling  to- 
wards Sylvanus  either  distrust  or  jealous}^  pitied  his  unfor- 
tiinatc  friend,  whose  sighs  were  breathed  to  an  inexorable 
mistress.  Sylvanus,  on  tlie  other  hand,  found  some  consola- 
tion in  his  sorrow,  when  he  beheld  the  happiness  of  his  friend. 
Sjrenus  was  at  length  summoned  to  a  distant  part  of  the 
country,  in  order  to  give  to  the  sovereign  of  the  territory  an 
account  of  the  Hocks  which  liad  been  committed  to  his  charge. 
'J'iie  despair  of  tlie  two  lovers  at  this  se])aration  was  extreme, 
and  they  vowed  by  the  most  sacred  oaths  to  preserve  an 
eternal  lidelitv.  Scarcely,  however,  had  Syrcnus  departed, 
when  the  parents  of  Diana  compelled  her  to  marry  Delio,  a 
rich  shej)herd  of  Leon,  but  little  worthy,  from  his  uncouth 
figure  and  the  dulness  of  his  wit,  of  being  united  to  the  fair- 
est of  the  shepherdesses.  Syrenus  returns,  and  the  romance 
opens  with  his  despairing  songs.* 

Sylvanus  seeks  Syrenus,  and  his  rival  is  the  first  to  offer 
him  sympathy  and  consolation.  In  fact,  Sylvanus,  resigning 
himself  to  all  the  pains  of  despised  affection,  exhibits  both 
in  his  conversation  and  in  his  verses  a  detrree  of  sul)mission 


*  In  order  to  give  some  idea  of 
I  have  given  in  this  note  the  fi 
ringlet  of  Diana's  hair,  which  lie  w 

Cahellos,  quanta  miidanza 
He  visto  despiies  que  oa  vi, 

Y  quau  inal  parcee  ahi 
Esa  color  de  csperanza. 
IMcn  pcnsaba  yo,  cabellos, 
Aunquc  con  algun  temor. 
Que  no  fucra  algun  pastor 
Digno  de  verse  cabe  ellos. 

Ay  cabellos,  quantos  dias 
La  mi  Diana  mirava, 
Si  OS  traya,  o  si  os  dcxava, 

Y  otras  cicn  mil  ninerias  : 

Y  quaiitas  vezes  llorando 
(A3'  lagrinias  engafiosas) 
I'edia  celos  de  cosas 

De  que  yo  cstava  burlando. 

Los  ojos  que  me  mataban 
Decid,  dorados  capellos, 
(,)uo  culpa  tuve  en  creellos, 
Pues  ellos  me  aseguraban  1 


the  poetical  talents  of  Montcmayor, 
rst  song  addressed  by  Syrenus  to  a 
ears  in  his  bosom  : 

No  vistes  vos  que  algun  dia 
M'i\  lagrimas  derraniaba, 
Hasta  que  yo  Ic  juraba 
Que  sus  palabras  creia? 

Quien  vido  tanta  hermosura 
l^n  tan  mudable  sujeto  ? 

Y  en  aniador  tan  perfctto 
Quien  vio  tanta  desvcntura  1 
O  cabellos  no  os  correis 
Por  venir  de  ado  venistcs, 
Viendomc  como  inc  vistes, 
En  vcrme  como  me  veis  1 

Sob  re  el  arena  scntada 
De  aquel  rio  la  vi  yo 
Do  con  el  dcdo  escribio  : 
Antes  mucrta  que  mudada. 
]\Iira  el  amor  lo  que  ordena, 
Que  OS  vicne  a  liacer  crcer 
Cosas  dichas  por  muger, 

Y  escritas  en  el  arena  ! 


OF    XUE    SPANIARDS.  201 

a  horror  of  murmuring,  and  a  scrupulosity  of  love,  which  are 
truly  extraordinary. 

Never  belov'd,  but  still  to  love  a  slave, 

Still  shall  I  love,  though  hopeless  is  my  suit ; 
I  sutler  torments,  which  I  never  gave. 

And  my  unheeded  sighs  no  ear  salute  ; 
Complaint  is  sweet,  though  we  no  favour  have  ; 

I  reap'd  but  shame  in  shunning  love's  pursuit  ; 
Forgetfulness  alone  I  suffer  not — 

Alas  !  unthought  of,  can  we  be  forgot  ?  * 

He  concludes  by  saying  that  he  who  is  not  beloved  has  no 
right  to  complain. 

Their  conversation,  together  with  that  of  the  shepherdess 
Selvagia,  who  joins  them,  makes  the  i-eader  acquainted  with 
the  story.  Selvagia,  who  is  a  Portuguese  shepherdess,  in 
her  turn  relates  her  adventures,  which,  like  the  former,  turn 
on  the  torments  of  love.  Her  history  is  remarkable  for  tiiat 
confusion,  that  intreccio  of  attachments,  which  is  peculiarly 
suited  to  the  taste  of  the  Spaniards,  and  which  is  as  far  re- 
moved from  nature  as  it  is  rich  in  imagination.  The  coquet- 
ries of  both  shepherds  and  shepherdesses  have  created  such 
a  chain  of  attachments,  that  Montano  loves  Selvagia,  the 
latter  loves  Alanio,  Alanio  loves  Ismenia,  and  Ismenia  loves 
Montano.  This  confused  love-plot  gives  rise  to  an  abundance 
of  delicate  sentiments  and  verses,  though  not  without  a  con- 
siderable display  of  mannerism.  At  length,  deserting  her 
country,  where  love  rendered  her  too  unhappy,  Selvagia 
arrives  at  the  banks  of  the  Elza,  where  she  meets  witli 
Syrenus  and  Sylvanus.  She  immediately  enters  into  a 
sentimental  discourse  with  them  on  coquetry,  and  on  the  in- 
constancy of  women  and  men.  These  questions  of  gallantry, 
the  ancient  property  of  the  poetical  shepherds,  which  is  now 
happily  lost,  are  treated  of  by  her  in  the  most  profound 
style.  Suddenly,  three  shepherdesses,  who  were  refreshing 
themselves  at  the  fountain,  are  attacked  by  three  clowns  who 

*  Amador  soy,  mas  nunca  fuy  amado, 
Quise  bien  y  querre,  no  soy  querido, 
Fatigas  passo,  y  las  he  dado, 
Sospiros  di,  mas  nuuca  fuy  oydo  ; 
Quexarme  quise,  y  no  fuy  escuchado  ; 
Huyr  quise  de  amor,  quede  corrido  : 
De  solo  olvido  no  podre  quexarme, 
Porque  aun  no  se  acordaroa  de  olvidarme. 
VOL.  II.  N 


202  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

are  in  love  witli  them,  and  wlio  have  clothed  and  armed 
themselves  like  savages.  Syrenus  and  Sylvanus  in  vain 
attempt  to  rescue  them  ;  the  combat  is  too  unequal,  and 
indeed  their  languishing  songs  do  not  pr(!pare  us  to  find  in 
them  very  valorous  warriors.  The  shepherdess  Felismena, 
however,  whom  Pallas  has  endowed  with  unequalled  bravery, 
unexpectedly  arrives  to  succour  them.  She  successively 
slays  all  the  savages,  and  restores  her  companions  to  liberty. 
She  then  relates  her  adventures  with  Don  Felix  de  Van- 
dalia,  who  had  conducted  her  to  the  court  of  the  Princess 
Augusta  Cesarina.  Other  shepherdesses  are  introduced  in 
a  similar  manner,  and  we  are  entertained  with  the  loves  of 
Belisus,  and  Arsilea  ;  of  Abindarraes,  one  of  the  Abencer- 
rages  of  Grenada,  and  tlie  beautiful  Xarifa;  and  of  Dauteo 
and  Duarda,  two  Portuguese,  together  with  the  verses  which 
they  composed  in  tlieir  own  language.  Tlie  groundwork  of 
many  other  plots  is  laid,  which  the  author  never  finished, 
though  before  the  conclusion  of  the  seventh  book  the  wishes 
of  several  of  the  lovers  are  fulfilled.  Felicia,  who  is  a  shep- 
herdess, and  a  witcli  at  the  same  time,  infiuences  the  hearts 
of  some  of  the  lovers  by  her  potions.  Syrenus  and  Sylvanus 
both  forget  Diana.  The  latter  falls  in  love  with  Selvagia, 
who  returns  his  i)assion,  and  they  are  happily  married. 
Syrenus  becomes  indifiei-ent  to  the  charms  of  his  former 
mistress,  and  Diana,  who  does  not  re-appear  upon  the  scene 
until  very  late,  is  seized  with  a  deep  melancholy  on  beholding 
herself  abandoned  by  him  to  whose  affections  slie  had  herself 
been  faithless.  Here  Montemayor  concluded  the  work. 
Several  persons,  amongst  whom  the  most  distinguished  is 
Gil  Polo,  have  taken  up  the  Diana  at  this  place,  and  made 
that  shepherdess  the  heroine  of  innumerable  romances,  less 
rich  in  adventures  than  in  high-wrought  sentiments  and  in 
elegant  verses. 

These,  then,  are  the  men  who  are  properly  called  the 
classics  of  vSpain  ;  who,  during  the  brilliant  reign  of  Charles 
v.,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  disturbances  which  tlie  ambitious 
policy  of  tliat  prince  created  in  Europe,  change<l  the  versi- 
fication, tlie  national  taste,  and  almost  the  language,  of 
Castile  ;  who  gave  to  the  poetry  of  that  country  its  most 
graceful,  its  most  elegant,  and  its  most  correct  form  ;  and 
who  have  been  the  models  of  all  who,  from  that  period,  have 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  203 

had  any  pretensions  to  classical  purity.  It  is  certainly  a 
matter  of  surprise  to  find  so  few  traces  of  a  warlike  reign  in 
their  compositions ;  to  hear  them,  amidst  all  the  intoxicating 
excitements  of  ambition,  singing  only  their  sweet  pastoral 
fancies,  their  tender,  their  delicate,  and  tlieir  submissive 
love.  "Whilst  Europe  and  America  were  inundated  with 
blood  by.  the  Spaniards,  Boscan,  Garcilaso,  Mendoza,  and 
Monteniayor,  all  of  them  soldiers,  and  all  of  them  engaged 
in  the  wars  which  at  this  period  shook  the  foundations  of 
Christendom,  describe  themselves  as  shepherds  weaving  gar- 
lands of  flowers,  or  as  lovers  tremblingly  beseeching  the 
favour  of  a  glance  from  their  mistresses,  while  they  stifle 
their  complaints,  suppress  all  the  feelings  of  nature,  and  even 
renounce  jealousy,  lest  it  should  render  them  not  sufficiently 
submissive.  There  is  in  these  verses  a  Sybaritic  softness, 
u  Lydian  luxury,  -whicli  we  might  expect  to  meet  with 
in  the  effeminate  Italians,  whom  servitude  has  degraded, 
but  which  astonishes  us  in  men  like  the  warriors  of 
Charles  V. 

■  There  exists,  undoubtedly,  a  moral  cause  for  this  discord- 
ance. If  Garcilaso  de  la  A^cga  and  Montemayor  have  not 
exhibited  their  own  feelings  in  their  poetry ;  if  they  have 
abandoned  the  habits,  the  manners,  and  the  sentiments  to 
which  they  were  accustomed,  in  search  of  a  poetical  world, 
it  was  because  they  were  disgusted  with  the  realities  around 
them.  Poetry  was  attempting  its  first  flight,  when  the 
Spanish  nation  lost  every  thing  but  the  glory  of  its  arms ; 
and  even  this  glory,  soiled  as  it  was  by  so  many  horrors, 
and  prevented  by  the  severity  of  discipline  from  becoming 
an  individual  feeling,  was  voiceless  to  the  heart  of  the 
poet. 

There  was  a  noble  spirit  of  martial  enthusiasm  in  the 
ancient  poem  of  the  Cid,  in  the  old  romances,  and  in  the 
warlike  poems  of  the  Marquis  of  Santillana ;  in  short,  the 
same  inspiration  appeared  wherever  the  national  honour  was 
concerned.  The  Grand  INIaster  of  Calatrava,  Don  Manuel 
Ponce  de  Leon,  who  in  all  the  Moorish  festivals  appeared 
upon  the  Vega,  or  plain  of  Grenada,  accompanied  by  a 
hundred  knights,  and  after  a  courteous  salutation  to  the  king, 
offered  to  contend  in  single  combat  with  the  noblest  and 
bravest  of  the  Saracens,  that  he  might  thus  contribute  by  a 

n2 


204:  ox    THE    LITERATURE 

feat  of  arms  to  tlie  pleasures  of  the  day,  upheld  in  these 
combats  the  honour  of  the  Castilians  ;  and,  indeed,  his  poeti- 
cal bravery  was  a  fit  subject  for  romance.  In  a  war  which 
was  really  national,  tlie  rivalry  in  glory  was  sufficient  to  keep 
alive  the  ardour  of  the  combatants,  while  reciprocal  esteem 
was  the  consequence  of  the  length  of  the  contest.  But 
Garcilaso  de  la  Vega,  Mendoza,  and  their  compeers  were 
perfect  strangers  to  the  French,  tlie  Italians,  and  tlie  Ger- 
mans, against  whom  they  marched.  The  army,  of  which 
they  formed  a  part,  had  already  begun  to  delight  in  blood,  in 
order  that  tliey  might  supply,  by  the  excitement  of  ferocity, 
the  absence  of  national  interest.  When,  therefore,  they  left 
the  field  of  battle,  they  attempted  to  forget  the  lierce 
and  cruel  feelings  which  they  blushed  to  acknowledge,  and 
they  cautiously  abstained  from  introducing  them  into  their 
poems. 

The  effeminate  languor  and  the  luxurious  enjoyment  of 
life  and  love,  which  peculiarly  characterise  the  Spanish 
poetry  of  this  age,  are  discoverable  in  an  equal  degree  in  the 
Latin  and  Greek  poets  Avho  wrote  after  the  extinction  of 
their  national  liberties.  Propertius  and  Tibullus,  as  well  as 
Theocritus,  sometimes  indulge  in  a  degree  of  languor  and 
tenderness,  which  often  approaches  to  insipidity.  They 
appear  proud  of  exhibiting  their  effeminacy,  as  if  for  the 
purpose  of  demonstrating  that  they  have  voluntarily  adopted 
it,  and  that  they  have  not  yielded  to  it  from  the  influence  of 
fear.  The  enervated  poetry  of  the  Spanish  classics,  was, 
perhaps,  suggested  to  them  by  similar  motives,  and  by  their 
desire  to  preserve  the  dignity  of  their  character  ;  but  for  this 
very  reason  the  Castilian  poetry  of  the  reign  of  Charles  V. 
was  of  a  transitory  nature,  and  at  the  higliest  i)itch  of  its 
reputation  the  symptoms  of  its  approaching  decay  miglit  be 
distinctly  seen. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

SPANISH    LITERATURE    OF    THE    SIXTEENTH    CENTURT    CONTINUED. IIERRERA  ; 

PONCE    DE    LEON  ;    CERVANTES ;    HIS    DON   QUIXOTE. 

"When  we  consider  to  what  extent  genius  and  talent  are 
individual  qualities,  and  how  such  qualities  are  modified  by 
difference  of  opinion,  of  character,  and  of  circumstances,  we 


OF    THE    SPANIAKDS.  205 

feel  surprised  at  the  uniformity  in  the  progress  of  the  human 
mind,  whether  we  compare  with  one  another  the  distinguished 
individuals  of  the  same  period,  and  remark  how  they  all 
partake  of  the  spirit  of  the  age  ;  or  wliether  we  observe  the 
progressive  advance  of  literature  and  taste  in  different  nations, 
and  the  successive  epochs  when  epic,  and  lyric,  and  dramatic 
poetry  have  flourished.  Tlie  reign  of  Charles  V.,  to  whicli 
Ave  devoted  the  last  chapter,  and  with  which  our  attention 
will  be  occupied  during  a  portion  of  the  present,  was  the  age 
of  lyric  poetry  in  Castile.  That  inventive  spirit,  that  love 
of  the  marvellous,  and  that  active  curiosity  which  had,  in  the 
preceding  century,  produced  so  many  romances  to  celebrate 
the  heroes  of  Spain,  and  so  many  chivalrous  tales  in  imitation 
of  the  Araadis  to  astonish  tlie  imagination  by  super-human 
exploits,  suddenly  deserted  all  the  Spanish  authors.  Tiie  art 
of  conceiving  new  characters,  of  endowing  them  with  senti- 
ments, of  placing  thera  immediately  before  our  eyes,  and  of 
giving  reality  to  imaginary  incidents,  was  not  yet  discovered, 
for  the  drama  had  not  yet  been  introduced.  The  reign  of 
Charles  V.  was  rich  in  gi-eat  poets,  but  a  sameness  is  obser- 
vable in  them  alh  Their  object  was  merely  to  express,  in 
harmonious  numbers,  the  most  noble  and  delicate  feelings  of 
the  soul.  .  Tlie  taste  for  pastoral  poetry,  which  was  adopted 
by  all  of  them,  added  still  more  to  this  uniformity ;  for  not 
only  did  it  induce  them  to  confine  the  action  of  their  poems 
within  stricter  bounds,  and  to  indulge  only  in  sentiment,  but 
it  even  made  them  reject  all  sentiment  not  conformable  to  the 
pastoral  character.  The  poets  of  Spain,  during  the  reign  of 
Charles  V.,  are  therefore  very  indistinctly  known,  even  to 
those  who  are  best  acquainted  with  the  literature  of  that 
country.  They  leave  an  impression  on  the  mind  of  an  har- 
monious kind  of  musing,  of  an  extreme  delicacy  of  sentiment, 
and  of  a  languid  and  intoxicating  softness  ;  but  the  thoughts 
to  which  they  give  rise  speedily  fade  from  the  memory,  like 
the  strains  of  sweet  music,  which  leave  no  traces  on  the  ear. 
When  once  the  sounds  have  ceased  and  the  charm  is  fled, 
we  in  vain  attempt  to  recall  thera.  It  would  be  a  difficult 
task  to  convey  an  idea  of  these  lyric  poets  in  a  few  desultory 
translations  ;  and,  indeed,  I  am  myself  but  imperfectly 
acquainted  with  thera.  I  have  searched  for  many  of  them 
in  vain,  in  the  libraries  to  which  I  have  had  access  ;  and 


206  ON    THE    LITEIlATCnE 

were  they  before  me,  there  would   still  remain  tlie  impossi- 
bility of  adequately  translating  tlieni. 

It  is  therefore  to  historical  notices,  to  a  few  rapid  analyses, 
and  to  criticisms,  for  the  most  part  original,  but  occasionally 
borrowed,  tliat  we  must  conGne  ourselves  upon  the  present 
occasion,  as  we  have  hitherto  been  compelled  to  do,  until  we 
arrive  at  the  nobh'st  ornaments  of  Spain,  Cervantes,  Lope  de 
Vega,  and  Calderon,  whose  fame  belongs  to  all  nations,  and 
whose  genius  has  pierced  into  every  language. 

Amongst  the  lyrical  poets  of  the  age  of  Charles  V.  there 
still  remain  two  to  be  mentioned,  whom  the  people  of  Castile 
regard  as  classical,  Ilerrera  and  Ponce  de  Leon.  Upon  these 
writers  we  must  not  consume  much  time.  Ferdinand  de 
Herrera,  who  received  the  surname  of  the  Divine,  and  who 
has  been  placed  at  the  head  of  the  lyric  poets  of  Spain  more 
from  party-spirit,  than  from  any  just  appreciation  of  his 
merits,  passed  his  life  in  obscurity.  All  that  is  known  of  him 
is,  that  he  was  born  at  Seville  about  the  year  1500,  and  that 
after  having  very  fully  experienced  the  power  of  love,  he 
entered  into  the  church  at  an  advanced  age,  and  died  about 
1578.  Ilerrera  was  a  poet  of  vigorous  talents,  and  full  of 
ardour  to  launch  into  a  new  career  in  contempt  of  the  critics 
of  his  age  ;  but  the  new  style  of  composition,  which  he  was 
so  desirous  of  introducing  into  Spanish  poetry,  was  modelled 
in  his  own  mind  on  a  predetermined  plan.  His  expressions 
are  never  suggested  by  his  feelings,  and  in  the  midst  of  his 
greatest  beauties  we  cannot  avoid  observing  the  artifice  of 
the  poet.  His  language  is  extraordinary,  and  its  attempt  at 
elevation  renders  it  often  affected.  Herrera  thought  the 
poetical  diction  of  the  Spaniards,  even  in  their  best  attempts, 
much  too  common-place  ;  it  appeared  to  him  to  resemble 
prose  too  nearly,  and  to  be  far  beneath  the  dignity  of  clas- 
sical poetry.  With  these  ideas,  he  attempted  to  compose  a 
new  language.  He  separated,  according  to  his  own  concep- 
tions, the  noble  from  the  ignoble  words  ;  he  changed  the 
signification  of  some  to  suit  them  to  poetical  purposes  ;  he 
used  repetitions  which  seemed  to  him  to  give  additional 
energy  ;  he  introduced  transpositions  more  analogous  to  the 
genius  of  the  Latin  language  than  of  his  own  ;  and  he  even 
formed  several  new  words,  either  by  the  union  of  other 
Spanish  words,  or  by  adoption  from  the  Latin.      These  inno- 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  207 

vations  wtire  considered  by  the  party  who  patronized  Herrera 
as  foraiing  tlie  perfection  of  true  poetry,  while  at  the  present 
day  they  are  rather  an  object  of  reproach  to  him.  The  real 
dignity  of  liis  language,  the  harmony  of  his  verse,  and  the 
elevatioia  of  his  ideas,  must,  Iiowever,  be  acknowledged. 
Herrera  is  the  most  truly  lyrical  poet  of  Spain,  as  Chiabrera 
is  of  Italy  ;  his  flight  is  completely  Pindaric,  and  he  soars  to 
the  loftiest  heights.  Perhaps  to  a  genius  so  rapid  and  so 
impetuous  as  his,  the  ancient  form  of  the  ode,  with  its  short 
and  regular  measure,  would  have  been  better  fitted,  than  the 
long  stanzas  of  the  Italian  canzone  which  he  has  adopted,  and 
which  are  more  suited  to  rounded,  harmonious,  and  somewhat 
eifeminate  periods. 

Amongst  the  canzoni  of  Herrera,  those  which  were  com- 
posed on  the  battle  of  Lepanto  must  be  placed  in  the  first 
rank.  This  battle  was  not  only  the  most  glorious  victory 
which  the  Spanish  arms  had  achieved  during  that  century, 
but  while  it  promised  the  most  happy  consequences  in 
securing  the  stability  of  the  monarchy  at  home,  and  the  per- 
manency of  its  Italian  possessions,  it  fully  gratified  the  reli- 
eious  enthusiasm  of  the  nation.  Herrera  himself  was  ani- 
mated  by  this  feeling,  and  for  once  his  poetry  is  the  expres- 
sion of  his  real  sentiments.  It  breathes  a  confidence  in  the 
protection  of  the  God  of  armies,  a  pride  in  the  triumph  over 
such  redoubtable  enemies,  and  a  hatred  of  those  enemies  as 
poetical  as  it  is  unchristian.  The  language,  which  is  occa- 
sionally borrowed  from  the  Old  Testament,  gives  majesty  to 
the  verse.* 

*  El  sobervio  tirano,  confiado 
En  cl  grande  aparato  de  ^iis  naves, 
Que  de  los  nue.stros  la  cerviz  cautiva, 

Y  las  inauos  aviva, 

Al  ministerio  injusto  de  su  estado  ; 
Deniljo  con  los  brazos  suyos  graves 
Los  cedros  mas  excelsos  de  la  cima ; 

Y  el  arbol,  que  mas  j'ci'to  se  sublima 
Bebio  agcuas  aguas,  y  atrevido 
Piso  el  vaudo  uucstro  y  defendido. 

Temblaron  los  perquenos,  confundidos 
Del  impio  furor  suyo,  alzo  la  frente 
Contra  tt>,  scnor  Dioz  ;  y  con  semblante, 

Y  con  peeho  arrogante, 

Y  los  armados  brazos  estendidos, 
MoviO  el  ayrado  cuello  aquel  potente  : 


208  ox    THE    LITERATURE 

An  ode  of  Hi.'rrcra  to  Sleep  possesses  a  very  different  kind 
of  merit  ;  grace  of  language,  a  pictorial  talent,  and  great 
delicacy  of  composition.  Though  all  these  may  escape  in  the 
translation,  the  truth  of  the  sentiments  must  at  all  events 
remain. 

ODE   TO    SLEEP. 

Sweet  Sleep  !  that  through  the  starry  path  of  night, 

Witli  dewy  poppies  crowu'd,  jjurtiuest  thy  flight, 

Stiller  of  human  woes  ! 

That  shed'st  o'er  nature's  breast  a  soft  repose ; 

Oh  !  to  these  distant  climates  of  the  West 

Thy  slowly  wandering  pinions  turn  ; 

And  with  thy  influence  blest, 

Bathe  these  love  burthen'd  eyes  that  ever  burn 

And  find  no  moment's  rest ; 

While  my  unceasing  grief 

Refuses  all  relief  ! 

O  hear  my  prayer  !     I  ask  it  by  thy  love. 

Whom  Juno  gave  thee  in  the  realms  above.* 


Cerco  su  corazon  de  ardientc  saiia 
Contra  las  dos  Esperias,  que  el  mar  banti. 
Porque  en  ti  confiadas  le  resisten, 

Y  de  armas  de  tu  fe  y  amor  se  visten. 

Dixo  aquel  insolente  y  desdenoso. 
No  conocen  mis  iras  estas  tierras, 

Y  de  mis  padres  los  ilustres  hechos  ? 
0  valieron  sus  pechos 

Contra  ellos  con  el  Ungaro  medroso, 

Y  de  Dalmacia  y  Rodas  en  his  guerras  1 
Quien  las  pudo  librur  I     Quicn  de  sus  manos 
I'udo  salvar  los  de  Austria  y  los  Gcrnianos) 
Podra  su  Dios,  podra  por  sucrte  ahora 
Guardallas  de  mi  diestra  venccdora. 

*  Soave  sueiio,  tii  que  en  tarde  buelo. 
Las  alas  perczosas  l)landamente 
Bates,  de  adormidcras  coronado. 
Por  el  puro,  adormido  y  vago  cielo  ; 
Yen  a  la  tiltima  parte  de  Ocidente, 

Y  de  licor  sagrado 

Bana  mis  ojos  tristos,  que  cansado, 

Y  renditlo  al  furor  de  mi  tormento. 
No  aduiito  algun  sosiego  ; 

Y  el  dolor  dcsconorta  al  sufrimiento. 
A'en  a  mi  huniilde  ruego, 

Yen  a  mi  ruego  humilde,  o  amor  do  aquella 
Que  .Juno  te  ofrecio  tu  ninfa  bella. 

Yidc  Herrera,  in  Parnaso  Espanol. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  209 

Sweet  Power,  that  dost  impart 

Gentle  oblivion  to  the  suffering  heart, 

Beloved  sleep,  thou  only  canst  bestow 

A  solace  for  my  woe  ! 

Thrice  happy  be  the  hour 

My  weary  limbs  shall  feel  thy  sovereign  power  ! 

Why  to  these  eyes  alone  deny 

The  calm  thou  pour' st  on  Nature's  boundless  reign  1 

Why  let  thy  votary  all  neglected  die, 

Nor  yield  a  respite  to  a  lover's  pain  ] 

And  must  I  ask  thy  balmy  aid  in  vain  1 

Hear,  gentle  Power,  oh  hear  my  humble  prayer. 

And  let  my  soul  thy  heavenly  banquet  share. 

In  this  extreme  of  grief,  I  own  thy  might ; 

Descend  and  shed  thy  healing  dew  ; 

Descend,  and  put  to  flight 

Th'  intruding  dawn,  that  with  her  garish  light 

My  sorrows  would  renew. 

Thou  heai-'st  my  sad  lament,  and  in  my  face 

My  many  griefs  may'st  trace  ! 

Turn  then,  sweet  wanderer  of  the  night,  and  spread 

Thy  wings  around  my  head  ; 

Haste,  for  th'  unwelcome  morn 

Is  now  on  her  return  ! 

Let  the  soft  rest  the  hours  of  night  denied. 

Be  by  thy  lenient  hand  supplied. 

Fresh  from  my  summer  bowers, 

A  cro^vn  of  soothing  flowers. 

Such  as  thou  lov'st,  the  fairest  and  the  best, 

I  offer  thee ;  won  by  their  odours  sweet 

Th'  enamour'd  air  shall  greet 

Thy  advent ;  oh  then,  let  their  hand 

Express  their  essence  bland. 

And  o'er  my  eye-lids  pour  delicious  rest. 

Enchanting  Power  !  soft  as  the  breath  of  Spring 

Be  the  light  gale  that  steers  thy  dewy  wing  ; 

Come,  ere  the  sun  ascends  the  purple  East, 

Come,  end  my  woes ;  so,  crown'd  with  heavenly  charms, 

May  fair  Pasithea  take  thee  to  her  arms. 

Luis  Ponce  de  Leon  is  the  last  of  the  great  poets  who 
rendered  illustrious  the  age  of  Charles  V.,  and  wiio  shed 
such  splendour  upon  that  new  epoch  of  Spanish  literature. 
Differing  from  those  whom  we  have  hitherto  noticed,  his 
inspiration  is  entirely  of  a  religious  cast.  Indeed,  his  whole 
life  was  consecrated  to  piety.  He  was  born  at  Grenada,  in 
1527,  of  one  of  the  most  illustrious  families  of  Spain,  and 
manifested  in  his  early  youth  that  religious  enthusiasm  and 


210  ON    THE    LITKRATURE 

disposition  to  retirement,  whicli  rendered  liim  indifferent  to 
funic  and  to  worldly  pleasures.  Ilis  lieart,  which  was  mild 
and  tender,  was  never  a  prey  to  tin;  dark  fanaticism  of  the 
monks  ;  moral  and  religious  coTitcniplations  formed  his  only 
delight,  without  inducing  a  contempt  lor  others,  or  a  spirit 
of  persecution.  At  sixteen  years  of  age,  he  entered  into  the 
Order  of  St.  Augustine  at  Salamanca,  and  applied  himself 
with  ardour  to  tiieological  studies,  in  which  his  writings 
gained  him  considerable  reputation.  Poetry  was  to  him  a 
relaxation,  while  the  exquisite  sensibility  to  harmony,  wliich 
nature  had  bestowed  npon  him,  and  his  fine  imagination, 
were  exercised  by  the  study  of  the  classics  and  of  Hebrew 
poetry.  He  was  cruelly  punished  for  having  made  a  trans- 
lation of  the  Song  of  Solomon.  Not  that  he  was  sup[)osed  to 
have  sought  for  improper  images  in  that  mystical  composition, 
or  to  have  attempted  to  present  in  a  worldly  light  the  amours 
of  the  king  of  Jerusalem,  which  he  regarded  as  purely  alle- 
gorical, but  because  the  Inquisition  had  prohibited  in  the 
strictest  manner  the  translation  of  any  portion  of  tlie  Bible, 
without  special  permission.  Ponce  de  Leon  confided  his 
version,  under  an  injunction  of  secrecy,  to  a  single  friend, 
who  indiscr(!etly  shew(;d  it  to  others.  The  author  was  in 
consequence  denounced  to  tiie  holy  office,  and  immediately 
cast  into  prison,  where  he  passed  five  years  separated 
from  human  society  and  deprived  of  light.  Even  in  this 
situation,  he  experienced,  in  the  purity  of  his  conscience  and 
in  the  strength  of  his  religious  principles,  that  serenity  and 
repose  which  innocence  alone  can  confer.  lie  was  ultimately 
restored  to  his  dignities,  and  re-establislied  in  his  monastery. 
His  talents  raised  him  to  the  rank  of  Vicar  general  of  the 
province  of  Sakmanca,  which  he  continued  to  fill  until  tlie 
period  of  his  deatii  in  1591. 

No  Spaniard,  it  is  said,  ever  expressed  in  poetry  the  inti- 
mate sentiments  of  the  heart  witli  a  more  liappy  mixture  of 
elegance  and  of  sensibility.  lie  is,  without  exception,  the 
most  correct  of  all  the  Spanish  writers,  and  yet  the  poetical 
form  which  his  thoughts  assumed,  was  with  him  a  matter  of 
oidy  secondary  consideration.  The  classical  simjdicity  and 
dignity  of  expression,  for  which  the  ancient  authors,  and 
more  especially  Horace,  whose  works  he  hud  deeply  studied, 
are   remarkaV)le,    were   the    olyects   of  his    emulation.      His 


OF    TIIK    SPANIARDS.  211 

resemblance,  however,  to  Horace  was  the  I'esult  of  too  deep 
a  feeling  evei"  to  give  him  the  appearance  of  an  imitator.  In 
his  versification  he  substituted  a  short  rhymed  measure  for 
the  long  stanzas  of  the  canzoni,  and  by  that  means  also  he 
approaclied  more  nearly  to  the  poetry  of  tlie  ancients.  But 
whilst  the  compositions  of  Horace  generally  breathe  only  the 
Epicurean  i)hilosophy,  those  of  Ponce  de  Leon  unfold  the 
love  of  God  in  mystical  verse,  and  the  whole  world  of  moral 
and  religious  feelings.  The  sentiments  adopted  by  Ponce  de 
Leon  are  so  very  different  from  my  own,  and  I  have  such  an 
imperfect  comprehension  of  religious  ecstasies  and  allegories, 
that  I  am  unable  properly  to  appreciate  the  merit  which  is 
attributed  to  him.  I  sliall  content  myself  with  giving,  in  a 
note,  the  most  celebrated  of  his  odes  on  the  Life  of  the 
Blessed.  To  despoil  it  of  its  versification,  and  of  its  correct 
and  harmonious  language,  would  be  doing  an  injustice  to  the 
poet.* 

There  are  three  books  of  Ponce  de  Leon's  works.  The  first 
contains  his  original  compositions  ;  the  second,  his  translations 
from  the  Classics  ;  the  third,  his  translations  of  the  Psalms 
and  of  the  book  of  Job.  In  these  vex'sions  his  object  has  been 
to  make  the  ancients  speak  as  they  would  have  spoken,  had 

"  Alma  region  luciente,  Y  dc  sii  csfera  quando 

Prado  de  bieu  andanya,  que  ni  al  A  cumbre  toca  altissimo  subsido 

hielo,  El  sol,  el  sesteando, 

Ni  con  el  rayo  ardiente  De  su  hato  cenido, 

Fallece,  fertil  suelo,  Con  dulce  son  deleytael  santo  oido. 

Producidor  eteruo  de  consuelo. 

.  Toca  cl  rabel  sonoro 

De  purpura  y  de  nieve  y  el  immortal  dulyor  al  alma  passa, 

Florida  la  cabeya  coronado,  q^^         invilcce  el  oro, 

A  dulces  pastos  muevc  y  ardiendo  se  traspassa 

S  m  lionda  ni  cayado  y  ^       .^  ^j^  ,^    ,^1 1^^^^  iJbj.Q  jg  t^ssa. 
El  buen  pastor  en  ti  su  hato  amado. 

El  va,  y  empos  dichosas  0  son,  o  voz  si  quiera 

Le  siguen  sus  ovejas,  do  las  pace  Pequena  parte  alguna  decendiesse 

Con  inmortales  rosas,  En  mi  seutido,  y  tuera 

Con  flor  que  siempre  nace,  I*e  si  el  alma  pus<esse 

Y  quanto  mas  se  goza,  mas  renace.  Y  toda  en  ti,  o  amor,  la  convertiera. 

Y  dentro  a  la  montaiia  Conoceria  donde 

Del  alto  bien  las  guia,  y  en  la  vena  Sesteas  dulec  esposo,  y  deaatada 

Del  gozo  fiel  las  bana,  Desta  prisioa  adonde 

Y  les  da  mesa  llena,  Padece,  a  tu  manada 
Pastor  y pasto  el  soloy  suertebuena.  Yivira  junta,  sin  vaga  errada. 


212  ON    Till-:    LITEUATURE 

tliry  lived  at  his  time  and  had  their  language  been  the  Cas- 
tilian.  Pursuing  this  principle,  he  was  more  properly  an 
unitator  than  a  copyist,  and  has  only  given  an  imperfect  idea 
of  tlie  ancient  autiiors.  His  example  was  generally  foUowed  ; 
and  all  tlie  translations  from  tlie  ancients  into  Spanish  verse 
are  executed  upon  the  same  principle. 

These,  then,  are  the  celebrated  men,  who  during  the  reign 
of  Charles  V.,  gave  a  new  character  to  Castilian  poetry.  A 
few  others,  though  of  minor  reputation,  deserve  to  be  men- 
tioned. Fernando  d'Acuna  made  an  elegant  translation  of 
some  portions  of  Ovid,  and  has  been  celebrated  for  the  grace 
and  feeling  which  he  lias  displayed  in  his  elegies,  his  sonnets, 
and  his  canzoni.  Gutiere  de  Cetina  was  the  first  happy 
imitator  of  Anacreon  in  tlie  Spanish  language.  Pedro  de 
Padilla,  a  knight  of  St.  James,  was  tlie  rival  of  Garcilaso  in 
pastoral  poetry ;  and  Gaspar  Gil  Polo  continued  the  romance 
of  Montemayor,  under  the  name  of  Diana  enanwrada,  with 
so  much  talent,  that  the  continuation  has  been  regarded  as 
superior  to  the  work  itself,  in  the  brilliancy  and  polish  of  the 
versification. 

Although  this  was  the  period  at  which  Ariosto  had  attained 
the  height  of  his  fame,  and  Italy  was  inundated  with  chivalric 
epics  in  imitation  of  the  Orlando  Furioso,  Spain,  which  still 
respected  and  paid  serious  liomage  to  the  spirit  of  chivalry, 
never  encouraged  an  imitation  of  a  style  so  fashionable  in  the 
country  which  she  had  taken  as  her  model.  Ariosto  had  only 
been  translated  into  careless  and  fatiguing  prose  ;  and  under 
this  disguise,  his  poem  became  a  mere  romance  of  chivalry. 
No  Castilian  poet  would  have  suffered  himself  to  adopt  the 
half-jocular  tone  of  the  original.  There  were  during  the  age 
of  Charles  V.  many  attempts  amongst  the  Spaniards  to  pro- 
duce an  epic  poem,  but  they  all  failed.  These  were  the  com- 
positions of  the  king's  flatterers,  and  Charles  was  invariably 
their  hero.  Thus  we  have  a  Carlos  Famoso  by  Louis  Zapata, 
C'arlus  Vitonoso  by  Jerome  de  Urrea,  and  a  Carolea  by 
Jerome  Samper,  all  which  are  now,  as  they  deserve  to  be, 
forgotten. 

On  the  other  hand,  a  man  of  considerable  talents,  D.  Chris- 
toval  de  Castillejo,  devoting  himself  to  the  ancient  style  of 
Spanish  poetry,  gave  the  preference  to  the  redondilhas,  or 
verses  composed  of  four  trochees,  over  the  Italian  models, 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  213 

He  had  travelled  to  Vienna  with  Charles  V.,  and  in  that  city 
he  remained  as  secretary  of  state  to  Ferdinand  I.  His  verses 
exhibit  spirit,  grace,  and  ease,  together  with  no  small  share 
of  humour.  But  notwithstanding  the  enthusiastic  admiration 
which  those  who  are  attached  to  the  early  literature  of  Spain 
express  for  him,  he  cannot  be  classed  amongst  the  poets  who 
are  celebrated  for  their  creative  genius.*  Disgusted  with  the 
world,  he  returned  in  his  old  age  to  Spain,  where  he  died  in 
a  monastery,  in  1596. 

Hitherto  the  attention  of  the  reader  has  only  been  called 
to  the  works  of  poets  and  of  scholars,  with  whom,  however 
celebrated  tliey  may  be  in  their  own  country,  he  was  probably 
unacquainted ;  but  we  are  now  about  to  introduce  one  of 
those  individuals  whose  celebrity  is  bounded  by  no  language, 
and  by  no  country,  and  whose  names,  not  confined  to  men  of 
learning,  to  men  of  taste,  or  to  any  one  class  of  society,  are 
spread  throughout  th(3  world.  It  will  readily  hi  supposed 
that  Miguel. Cervantes  is  here  alluded  to,  the  celebrated 
author  of  Don  Quixote.  He  stands  foremost  in  that  band  of 
classic  authors  who  cast  such  glory  on  the  reigns  of  the  three 


*  As  a  specimen  of  the  style  of  this  celebrated  writer,  I  have  selected 
the  following  little  song,  v.hich  appears  to  me  to  possess  all  the  grace  of 
Anacreon,  with  all  the  gallantry  of  a  Castilian  : 

Por  unas  huertas  hermosas  Pero  vicndo  la  blancura 

Vagando,  muy  linda  Lida,  Que  sus  tetas  descubrian, 

Texio  do  lyrios,  y  rosas  Como  leche  fresea  y  piira, 

Blancas  frescas  y  olorosas  Que  a  su  madre  en  hermosura 

Una  guirnalda  florida ;  A'entaja  no  conocian  ; 

Y  andando  en  esta  labor,  Y  su  rostro  que  encendcr 
Yiendo  a  deshora  al  amor  Era  bastante,  y  mover 
En  las  ro.sas  cscondido,  Con  su  mucha  lo^ania 
Con  las  que  cUa  avia  texido,  Los  mismos  Dioses  ;  pedia 
Le  prendio  como  a  traydor.  Para  dexarse  veuccr. 

El  muchacho  no  domado,  Buelto  a  Yenus,  a  la  hora 

Que  nunca  penso  prenderse,  Hablandole  desde  alii, 

Yiendose  preso  y  atado,  Dixo,  madre,  Emperadora, 

Al  principio  muy  ayrado  Desde  oy  mas,  busca  senora 

Pugnava  por  defenderse.  Un  nuevo  amor  para  ti. 

Y  en  sus  alas  estrivando  Y  esta  nueva  con  oylla, 
Eorcejava  peleando,  No  te  mueva,  o  dh  manzilla  ; 

Y  tentava,  (aunque  desnudo)  Que  aviendo  yo  de  reyuar, 
De  desatarse  del  iiudo,  Estc  es  el  propio  lugar 
Para  valcrse  bolando.  En  que  se  pouga  mi  silla. 


214  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

Pliilips,  during  the  latter  part  of  the  sixte<^nth,  and  tlie  com- 
mencement of  the  seventeenth  century. 

Miguel  de  Cerv^antes  Sauvedra  was  born  in  poverty  and 
obscurity,  in  1549,  at  Alcula  de  llenares.  He  assumed  the 
title  o^  Hidalgo,  or  gentleman,  but  nothing  is  known  of  his 
family  or  early  education.  '1  lie  only  circumstance  relative  to 
this  with  which  we  are  acciuainted  is,  that  he  was  sent  to  a 
scliool  in  Madrid,  where  he  acquired  some  knowledge  of  the 
classics.  During  this  period,  he  read  with  extreme  avidity  all 
the  poets  and  romance-writers  of  Spain,  and  set  the  highest 
value,  even  at  this  early  period  of  his  life,  on  elegance  of 
diction  and  on  the  purity  of  the  Castilian  language.  He  wrote 
in  his  youth  a  number  of  jioems  and  romances,  as  well  as  a 
pastoral  romance  entitled  FUena,  which  has  been  lost.  The 
entire  want  of  fortune  compelling  him  to  travel  in  search  of  a 
li\elihood,  which  he  was  unabh;  to  find  at  home,  he  attached 
himself  to  the  person  of  the  Cardinal  Aquaviva,  with  whom 
he  visited  Home.  A  love  of  glory  and  the  activity  of  his 
mind  soon  induced  him  to  al)aiidon  the  servile  office  which  he 
had  accepted  from  the  prelate.  He  now  entered  into  the 
army,  and  served  under  Marc-Antonio  Colonna.  He  was 
also  present  under  the  banners  of  Don  John  of  Austria  at  the 
battle  of  Lepanto,  where  he  lost  his  left  hand  by  a  wound 
from  an  arquebuss.  Being  obliged  to  renounce  the  profession 
of  arms,  probably  without  having  ever  risen  above  the  rank 
of  a  common  soldier,  lu;  embarked  for  Spain  ;  but  the  vessel 
in  which  he  was  sailing  being  captured  by  a  Barbary  corsair, 
he  was  carried  to  Algiers.  He  remained  there  five  years  and 
a  lialf  in  slavery,  and  was  ransomed  in  1581. 

Tlius  did.Cervantes  return  to  his  country,  maimed,  ruined, 
and  friendless,  without  prospects,  and  without  resources  ;  but 
such  was  the  strength  of  his  mind,  the  liveliness  of  his  temper, 
and  the  fire  of  his  imagination,  that  he  not  only  soon  gained 
the  means  of  livelihood,  but  acquired  a  high  reputation  by  his 
dramatic  genius,  which  he  exercised  in  the  composition  of 
comedies  and  tragedies,  all  of  which  were  received  with  loud 
ajiprobation  by  the  public.  It  was  in  the  year  1584,  and 
consequently  Avhen  he  was  thirty-five  years  of  age,  that  he 
published  his  Galatea,  and  about  the  same  time  he  gave  to 
the  theatre  about  thirty  comedies  which  have  not  been  pre- 
served.    The  rivalry  of  Lope  de  Vega,  avIio,  about  the  same 


i 
OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  215 

period,  met  with  prodigious  success,  humiliated  him  a  Httle, 
and  induced  him  for  some  time  to  hiy  aside  his  pen.  He  had 
married,  and  he  was  then,  probably,  living  on  the  dowry 
which  his  wife  had  brought  him.  It  likewise  appears  that  he 
obtained  at  Seville  some  little  office,  which  preserved  him 
from  absolute  want,  during  the  life  of  Philip  II.  The  death 
of  this  monarch,  in  1598,  liberated  the  minds  that  had  been 
Aveighed  down  by  his  despotism.  Cervantes,  who  had  not 
appeared  before  the  public  for  one-and-twenty  years,  gave  to 
tlie  world,  in  1605,  the  first  part  of  his  Don  Quixote.  The 
success  of  this  work  was  incredible  :  thirty  thousand  copies 
are  said  to  have  been  struck  off  in  the  author's  lifetime.  It 
was  translated  into  all  languages,  and  was  loudly  praised  by 
all  classes  of  readers.  Philip  III.  himself  seeing,  from  his 
balcony,  a  student  walking  along  the  banks  of  the  Man9anares, 
and  as  he  read  bursting  into  involuntary  fits  of  laughter, 
exclaimed  to  his  courtiers,  that  the  man  was  mad,  unless  he 
was  reading  Don  Quixote.  Neitlier  Philip  III.,  however, 
nor  any  of  his  courtiers,  thought  fit  to  grant  any  assistance  to 
an  indigent  author,  who  was  the  glory  of  Spain,  and  who  had 
written  a  work  so  lull  of  comic  talent  within  the  walls  of  a 
prison,  where  he  was  confined  for  debt. 

A  contemporary  writer,  assuming  the  name  of  Avellaneda, 
undertook  a  continuation  of  Don  Quixote,  which  he  published 
in  1614,  at  Saragossa,  but  this  attempt  is  very  inferior  to  the 
original.  Cervantes  was  highly  indignant  at  this  literary 
thefr.  In  1615,  he  published  a  second  volume  of  Don  Quixote, 
in  which  he  frequently  turns  into  ridicule  the  Aragonese  con- 
tinuation of  his  romance  ;  and  the  Don  himself  is  made  to 
complain  of  the  contemptible  impostures  which  have  been 
circulated  to  his  prejudice.  In  1613,  his  twelve  novels 
appeared  ;  in  1614,  his  Journey  to  Parnassus ;  and  in  1615, 
eight  comedies  and  eight  interludes,  which  being  rejected  by 
the  theatre,  were  sold  to  a  bookseller  for  a  veiy  inconsiderable 
sum.  He  likewise  bestowed  much  time  upon  a  romance 
Avhich  he  entitled  tlie  Labours  of  Pevsiles  and  Sigismunda  ; 
but  which  he  was  unable  to  complete  in  his  lifetime.  It  was 
published  after  his  death  by  his  widow,  Catherine  de  Salazar, 
in  the  year  1617.  The  preface,  which  was  written  a  little 
time  before  the  authors  deatli,  exhibits  the  philosophy  and 
the  gaiety  and  energy  of  mind  which  he  preserved  even  in  his 


216  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

last   moments.     The  following   is  an  extract  from  the  pre- 
face : 

"  It  happened  afterwards,  dear  reader,  that  as  two  of  my 
friends    and   myself  were  coming   from    Esquivias,  a  place 
famous  for  twenty  reasons,  more  especially  for  its  illustrious 
families  and  for  its  excellent  wines,  I  heard  a  man  behind  me 
whipping    his  nag  with   all   his  might,  and   seemingly  very 
desirous  of  overtaking  us.     Presently  he  called  out  to  us,  and 
begged  ns  to  stop,  which  we  did  ;  and  when  he  came  up,  he 
turned  out  to  be  a  country  student,  dressed  in  brown,  with 
spatterdashes  and  round-toed  shoes.     Pie  had  a  sword  in  a 
huge  sheath,  and  a  band  tied  witli  tape.      He  had  indeed  but 
two  tapes,  so  tliat  liis  bund  got  out  of  its  place,  whieli  he  took 
great  pains  to  rectify.     '  Doubtless,'  said  he,    '  Senors,  you 
are  in  quest  of  some  office  or   some  prebendal  stall  at  the 
court   of  my  Lord  of  Toledo,  or  from  the  king,   if  I  may 
judge  from  the   celerity  with  which  you  journey  ;    for,    in 
good    truth,   my   ass  has  hitherto  had   the  fame  of  a  good 
trotter,  and  yet   he  could  not  overtake   yon.'     One   of  my 
companions  answered  :   'It  is  the  stout  steed  of  Senor Miguel 
Cervantes  that  is  the  cause  of  it,  for  he  is  very  quick  in  his 
paces.'      Scarcely  bad  the  student  heard  the  name  of  Cer- 
vantes, than  throwing  himself  off  his  ass,  whilst  his  cloak-bag 
tumbled  on  one  side  and  his  portmanteau  on  the  other,  and 
his  bands  covered  Ids  face,  he  sprang  towards  me,  and  seizing 
me  by  the  left  hand,  exclaimed  :   '  This,  then,  is  the  famous 
one-handed  author,  the  merriest  of  writers,  the  favourite  of 
the  Muses!'     As  forme,  when  I  heard  him  pouring  forth  all 
these  praises,  I  thouglit  myself  obliged  in  politeness  to  answer 
him  ;  so  embracing  liis  neck,  whereby  I  contrived  to  pull  off 
his  bands  altogether,  I  said  :   '  I  am  indeed  Cervantes,  Senor, 
but  not  the  favourite  of  the  IMuses,  nor  any  other  of  those 
fine   things  which  you  have   said  of  me.     I'ray,  sir,  mount 
your  ass  again,  and  let   us  converse  together  for  the  small 
remainder  of  our  journey.'  The  good  student  did  as  I  desired. 
We  then  drew  bit,  and  proceeded  at  a  more  moderate  pace. 
As  we  rode  on,  we  talked  of  my  illness,  but  the  student  gave 
me  little  hope,  saying  :   '  It  is  an  hydropsy,  wliich  all  the  water 
in  tlie  ocean,  if  you  could  drink  it,  would  not  cure  ;  you  must 
drink  less,  Senor  Cervantes,  and  not  neglect   to  eat,  i'or  this 
alone  can  cure  you.'     '  JNIany  otlier  people,'  said  I,  '  have  told 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  217 

me  the  same  thing;  but  it  is  as  impossible  for  me  not  to 
drink,  as  it"  I  had  been  born  for  nothing  but  drinking.  My 
life  is  pretty  nearly  ended,  and  to  judge  by  the  quickness  of 
my  pulse,  I  cannot  live  longer  than  next  Sunday.  You  have 
made  acquaintance  with  me  at  a  very  unfortunate  time,  as  I 
fear  that  1  shall  not  live  to  shew  my  gratitude  to  you  for  your 
obliging  conduct.'  Such  was  our  conversation  when  we 
arrived  at  the  bridge  of  Toledo,  over  which  I  was  to  pass, 
while  he  followed  another  route  by  the  bridge  of  Segovia. 
'  As  to  my  future  history,  I  leave  that  to  the  care  of  fame. 
My  friends  will  no  doubt  be  very  anxious  to  narrate  it,  and 
I  should  have  great  pleasure  in  hearing  it.'  I  embraced  him 
anew,  and  repeated  the  offer  of  my  services.  He  spurred  his 
ass  and  left  ine  as  ill  inclined  to  prosecute  my  jouimey,  as  he 
was  well  disposed  to  do  so.  He  had,  however,  supplied  my 
pen  with  ample  materials  for  pleasantry.  But  all  times  are 
not  the  same.  Perhaps  the  time  may  yet  arrive  when,  taking 
up  the  thread  which  I  am  now  compelled  to  break,  I  may 
complete  what  is  now  wanting,  and  what  I  fain  would  tell. 
But,  adieu  to  gaiety,  adieu  to  humour,  adieu,  my  pleasant 
friends  !  I  must  now  die,  and  I  wish  for  nothing  better  than 
speedily  to  see  you  well  contented  in  another  world." 

In  the  calm  gaiety  with  which  Cervantes  contemplated  his 
approaching  fate,  we  recognize  the  soldier  who  fought  so 
valiantly  at  Lepanto,  and  who  so  firmly  supported  his  five 
years'  captivity  in  Algiers.  A  few  days  afterwards,  Cer- 
vantes dedicated  this  work  to  the  Count  de  Lemos,  who,  in 
his  old  age,  had  granted  him  protection  and  assistance.  The 
dedication  is  dated  the  nineteenth  of  April,  1G16.  "I  could 
have  wished,"  says  he,  '•  not  to  have  been  called  upon  to  make 
so  close  an  application  of  those  ancient  verses,  which  com- 
mence with  the  words  :  With  foot  already  in  the  stirru})  : 
for  with  very  little  alteration  I  may  truly  say,  that  with  my 
foot  in  the  stirrup,  and  even  now  experiencing  the  pains  of 
dissolution,  I  address  to  you,  Senor,  this  letter.  Yesterday 
I  received  extreme  unction.  To-day  I  have  again  taken  up 
my  pen  ;  the  time  is  short ;  my  pains  increase  ;  my  hopes 
diminish  ;  yet  do  I  greatly  wish  that  my  life  might  be  ex- 
tended, so  that  I  might  again  behold  you  in  Spain."  The 
Count  de  Lemos  was  then  on  his  road  from  Naples,  and  was 
expected  at  home.     Cervantes  died  on  the  twenty-third  ot" 

VOL.  II.  o 


218  ON   THE   LITERATUUE 

April,  1616,  aged  sixty-seven  years,  four  days  after  he  had 
written  this  dedication. 

To  Don  Quixote  Cervantes  owes  his  immortality.  No 
work  of  any  language  ever  exhibited  a  more  exquisite  or  a 
more  sprightly  satire,  or  a  happier  vein  of  invention  worked 
with  more  striking  succsss.  Every  one  has  read  Don  Quixote; 
and,  indeed,  the  work  cannot  be  analysed,  or  given  in  frag- 
ments. Every  one  is  acquainted  with  the  Knight  of  La 
Mancha,  who,  losing  his  reason  over  his  books  of  chivalry, 
imagines  that  he  lives  in  the  times  of  Paladins  and  enchanters; 
who,  resolved  to  imitate  Aniadis  and  Orlando,  whose  histoi-ies 
he  has  read  with  such  delight,  mounts  his  lean  and  ancient 
steed,  braces  on  his  rusty  armour,  and  traverses  woods  and 
fields  in  search  of  adventures.  PIvery  common  object  is 
transformed  by  his  poetical  imagination.  Giants,  Paladins, 
and  enchanters,  meet  him  at  every  step,  and  all  his  misfor- 
tunes are  not  sufficient  to  undeceive  him.  But  the  Don, 
with  his  faithful  Rosinante  and  his  squire  vSancho  Panza, 
have  already  taken  their  places  in  our  imagination  ;  every 
one  is  as  well  acquainted  with  them  as  I  am  myself.  There 
is  nothing  left  for  me  to  say  on  their  character  or  history, 
and  I  must,  therefore,  confine  myself  to  a  few  observations 
on  the  views  wliich  the  author  entertained,  and  on  the  spirit 
which  animated  him  in  the  composition  of  this  work. 

This  diverting  tissue  of  laughable  and  original  adventures 
will,  therefore,  only  furnish  us  with  serious  reflections.  If 
we  wish  to  taste  all  the  humour  which  is  afforded  by  the 
heroism  of  the  knight,  and  the  terror  of  the  squire,  when,  in 
the  middle  of  a  dark  night,  they  hear  the  sound  of  a  fulling- 
mill,  we  must  read  Don  Quixote  itself  No  extract  could 
give  any  idea  of  the  adventures  at  the  inn,  which  Don 
Quixote  mistook  for  an  enchanted  castle,  and  where  Sancho 
was  tossed  in  a  blanket.  It  is  in  the  work  itself,  and  there 
only,  that  we  can  enjoy  the  wit  of  the  fine  contrast  between 
the  gravity,  the  measured  language,  and  the  manners  of  Don 
Quixote,  and  the  ignorance  and  vulgarity  of  Sancho.  We 
must  leave  it  to  Cervantes  alone  to  sustain  both  the  interest 
and  the  humour  of  his  work  ;  to  unite  the  liveliness  of  ima- 
gination, wliich  results  from  the  variety  of  adventures,  with 
the  liveliness  of  wit,  which  displays  itself  in  the  delineation 
of  character.     Those  who  have  read  the  work  itself  would 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  219 

hot  for  a  moment  be  contented  M'ith  an  extract ;  and  with 
regard  to  those  who  have  not  read  it,  I  can  only  congratulate 
them  on  the  pleasure  which  they  have  yet  in  store. 

The  most  striking  feature  in  the  composition  of  Don 
Quixote  is  the  perpetual  contrast  between  what  may  be 
called  the  poetical  and  the  prosaic  spirit.  The  imagination, 
the  feelings,  and  all  the  generous  qualities,  tend  to  raise  Don 
Quixote  in  our  esteem.  Men  of  elevated  minds  make  it  the 
object  of  their  lives  to  defend  the  weak,  to  aid  the  oppressed, 
to  be  the  champions  of  justice  and  innocence.  Like  Don 
Quixote,  they  everywhere  discover  the  image  of  those 
virtues  which  they  worship.  They  believe  that  disinterested- 
ness, nobility,  coui-age,  and  chivalry,  are  still  in  existence. 
Without  calculating  upon  their  own  powers,  they  expose 
themselves  in  the  service  of  the  ungrateful,  and  sacrifice 
themselves  to  laws  and  principles  altogetlier  imaginary.  The 
devotion  of  heroism  and  the  illusions  of  virtue  are  the  noblest 
and  most  affecting  themes  in  the  history  of  the  human  race. 
They  are  the  true  subjects  of  the  highest  species  of  poetry, 
which  is  nothing  but  the  representation  of  disinterested  feel- 
ings. A  character,  however,  which  excites  our  admiration, 
when  viewed  from  an  elevated  situation,  is  often  ridiculous 
when  seen  from  the  level  of  the  earth.  Error  is  a  fertile 
source  of  laughter  ;  and  a  man  who  sees  nothing  around  him 
but  heroism  and  chivalry,  is  certainly  sufficiently  prone  to 
error.  Next  to  such  errors  as  these,  striking  contrasts  are, 
perhaps,  most  productive  of  risible  effects,  and  nothing  can 
be  more  powerfully  contrasted  than  poetry  and  prose  ;  the 
romance  of  the  imagination,  and  the  petty  details  of  social 
life  ;  the  valour  and  the  great  appetite  of  the  hero;  the  palace 
of  Armida  and  an  inn  ;  the  enchanted  princesses  and  Mari- 
torna. 

These  considerations  may  account  for  the  fact,  that  some 
persons  have  considered  Don  Quixote  to  be  the  most  melan- 
choly book  that  was  ever  written.  The  groundwork  and 
moral  of  the  romance  are,  in  fact,  of  a  mournful  character. 
Cervantes  has,  in  some  degree,  exhibited  the  vanity  of  noble 
feelings  and  the  illusions  of  heroism.  He  has  described  in 
Don  Quixote  an  accomplished  man,  who  is,  notwithstanding, 
the  constant  object  of  ridicule  ;  a  man,  brave  beyond  all  that 
history  can  boast  of;  who  affronts  the  most  terrific,  not  only 

O  2 


220  ON    TEE    LITERATURE 

of  mortal,  but  of  supernatural  perils  ;  a  man  whose  high 
sense  of  honour  permits  him  not  to  hesitate  for  a  single 
moment  in  the  accomplishment  of  his  promises,  or  to  deviate 
in  the  slightest  degree  from  truth.  As  disinterested  as  brave, 
he  combats  only  for  virtue  ;  and  when  he  covets  a  kingdom, 
it  is  only  that  he  may  bestow  it  upon  his  faithful  squire.  He 
is  the  most  constant  and  most  respectful  of  lovers,  the  most 
humane  of  warriors,  the  kindest  master,  the  most  accom- 
plished of  cavaliers.  "With  a  taste  as  refined  as  his  intellect 
is  cultivated,  he  surpasses  in  goodness,  in  loyalty,  and  in 
bravery,  the  Amadises  and  the  Orlandos,  whom  lie  has  chosen 
for  his  models.  His  most  generous  enterprises,  however, 
end  only  in  blows  and  bruises.  His  love  of  glory  is  the 
bane  of  those  around  him.  The  giants,  with  whom  he 
believes  he  is  fighting,  are  only  windmills  ;  the  ladies,  whom 
he  delivers  from  enchanters,  are  harmless  women,  whom  he 
terrifies  upon  their  journey,  and  whose  servants  he  maltreats. 
AVhile  he  is  thus  repairing  wrongs  and  redressing  injuri'es, 
the  bachelor,  Alonzo  Lopez,  very  properly  tells  him  :  "  I  do 
not  precisely  understand  your  mode  of  redressing  wrongs  ; 
but  as  for  myself,  you  have  made  me  crooked  when  I  was 
straight  enough  before,  and  have  broken  my  leg,  which  will 
never  be  set  right  all  the  days  of  my  life  ;  nor  do  I  under- 
stand how  you  repair  injuries,  for  that  which  I  have  received 
from  you  will  never  be  repaired.  It  was  the  most  unfortu- 
nate adventure  that  ever  happened  to  me,  when  I  met  you  in 
search  of  adventures."*  The  conclusion  which  we  draw  from 
the  perusal  of  Don  Quixote  is,  that  a  high  degree  of  enthu- 
siasm is  not  only  prejudicial  to  the  individual  who  nourishes 
it,  and  who  is  thus  resolved  to  sacrifice  himself  to  others,  but 
that  it  is  equally  dangerous  to  society,  the  spirit  and  institu- 
tions of  which  it  counteracts  and  throws  into  disorder. 

Although  a  work  which  treated  this  question  seriously  and 
logically,  would  be  as  melancholy  as  degrading  to  humanity, 
yet  a  satire,  written  without  bitterness,  may  still  be  a  gay  and 
lively  production,  because  it  is  evident  that  not  only  the 
author  of  the  ridicule,  but  those  against  w^hom  the  ridicule  is 
directed,  are  themselves  susceptible  of  generosity  and  high 
feeling.     It  is  amongst  such  persons  that  we  ought  to  look 

*  Don  Quixote,  book  ill.  c.  19. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  221 

for  a  Don  Quixote.  There  was,  in  fiict,  a  sort  of  knight- 
errantry  in  the  chai'acter  of  Cervantes.  It  was  the  love  of 
glory  Avhich  led  him  to  desert  his  studies  and  the  enjoyments 
of  life,  for  the  banners  of  Marc- Antonio  Colonna  ;  which 
prompted  him,  though  never  raised  above  the  rank  of  a  com- 
mon soldier,  to  rejoice  in  having  lost  an  arm  at  tlie  battle  of 
Lepanto,  tliat  in  his  own  person  lie  might  exhibit  a  monu- 
ment of  the  noblest  military  achievement  in  Christendom  ; 
which  excited,  by  the  hardy  bravery  which  he  displayed 
during  his  captivity  at  Algiers,  the  astonishment  and  respect 
of  the  Moors  ;  and  which  at  last,  after  he  had  received  ex- 
treme unction,  and  with  the  knowledge  that  he  could  not 
live  until  the  next  Sunday,  enabled  him  to  look  upon  death 
with  that  gay  indifference,  which  is  manifested  in  the  preface 
and  dedicatory  epistle  of  Persiles  and  Sigismunda.  In  these 
latter  writings,  it  appears  to  me  that  we  may  discover  a 
resemblance  between  himself  and  the  undeceived  hero,  who 
becomes  conscious  of  the  vanity  of  glory,  and  the  illusion  of 
that  career  of  ambition,  which  was  always  impeded  by  mis- 
fortunes. If  it  be  true  that  "  to  ridicule  oneself  is  the 
highest  effort  of  good  taste,"  we  find  much  in  Cervantes  to 
display  the  ridicule  which  might  attach  even  to  his  most 
generous  attempts.  Every  enthusiastic  mind,  like  his,  readily 
joins  in  pleasantry  which  does  not  spare  the  individual  him- 
self, nor  that  which  he  most  loves  and  respects,  if  at  the 
same  time  it  does  not  degrade  him. 

This  primitive  idea  in  tlie  Don  Quixote,  this  contrast 
between  the  heroic  and  the  vulgar  world,  and  this  ridicule  of 
enthusiasm,  are  not  the  sole  objects  which  Cervantes  had  in 
view.  There  is  another  more  apparent  still,  and  of  more 
direct  application,  but  which  is  now  entirely  forgotten.  The 
literature  of  Spain,  at  the  period  when  Don  Quixote  appeared, 
was  overrun  with  books  of  chivalry,  for  the  most  part  misera- 
ble compositions,  by  which  the  national  spirit  was  misdirected, 
and  its  taste  corrupted.  We  have  done  ample  justice  in  the 
preceding  chapters  to  the  sublimity  of  that  poetical  invention 
in  which  knight-errantry  had  its  origin.  This  chivalric 
mythology  probably  contributed  more  than  any  other  to 
impress  the  imagination  with  notions  of  morality  and  honour, 
and  thus  to  produce  a  benefical  effect  on  the  character  of 
modern  nations.  Love  was  purified  by  this  spirit  of  romance, 


222  ON    THK    LITERATUnR 

and  it  is  probably  to  the  authors  of  Lancelot,  of  Amadis,  and 
of  Orlando,  that  we  owe  that  spirit  of  gallantry  which  dis- 
tinguishes the  nations  of  modern  Europe  from  the  people  of 
antiquity,  as  well  as  that  homage  towards  women,  and  that 
respect,  bordering  upon  adoration,  with  which  the  Greeks 
were  perfectly  unacquainted.  Briseis,  Andromache,  and  Pene- 
lope, humbly  and  tremblingly  resign  themselves  to  the  arms 
of  the  cuncjueror,  at  once  his  mistress  and  his  slave.  Good 
faith  in  modern  times  became  the  handmaid  of  force,  and 
dishonour  was  then,  for  the  first  time,  attached  to  falsehood  ; 
which,  tliough  looked  upon  as  immoral  by  the  ancients,  was 
never  considered  to  be  shameful.  The  sentiment  of  honour 
was  connected  with  our  very  existence;  disgrace  was  rendered 
worse  than  death  ;  and  to  conclude,  courage  was  made  a 
necessary  quality,  not  only  to  the  soldier  but  to  man  in  every 
rank  of  society. 

But  if  the  genuine  romances  of  chivalry  had  so  happy  an 
influence  on  national  manners,  the  imitations  of  them  were 
no  less  fatal  to  the  public  taste.  The  imagination,  when  it 
has  no  foundation  of  reality  upon  which  to  rest,  and  no 
reference  to  the  congruity  of  things,  is  a  quality  not  only 
frequent,  but  even  vulgar.  There  have  been,  it  is  true,  a  few 
nations  oi*  a  few  ages  to  which  it  has  been  denied  ;  but,  when 
it  does  exist,  it  is  endemic  throughout  a  whole  nation.  The 
Spaniards,  the  Italians,  the  Provencals,  and  the  Arabians, 
have  all  their  own  peculiar  cast  of  imagination,  which  is  dis- 
tinguishable in  every  individual,  from  the  poet  to  the  peasant. 
If  this  imagination  is  not  subjected  to  the  restriction  of  rules, 
it  is  astonishing  to  observe  the  number  and  variety  of  the 
extravagancies  into  which  writers  are  hurried.  In  the  ex- 
amination of  Don  Quixote's  library,  by  the  Curate  and  the 
Barber,  they  mention  many  hundred  chivalrous  romances 
which  Cervantes  condemns  to  the  flames.  It  does  not  appear 
that  the  fault,  even  of  the  worst,  was  that  they  were  destitute 
of  imagination.  There  was  imagination  in  Esplandian,  in 
the  continuation  of  the  Amadis  of  Gaul,  in  the  Amadis  of 
Greece,  and  indeed  in  all  the  Amadises.  There  was  imagi- 
nation in  Florismart  of  Hircania,  in  Palmerin  d'Oliva,  and  in 
Palmerin  of  England  ;  for  all  these  books  were  rich  in  en- 
chantments and  giants  and  battles,  in  extraordinary  amours 
and  marvellous  adventures.     In  the  vast  field  through  which 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  223 

the  romance  writers  might  Avander  without  encountering 
a  single  obstacle,  it  was  always  in  their  power  to  tread  a  new 
path.  Many  of  them,  however,  did  not  submit  to  be  guided 
by  nature,  who  ought  to  be  our  mi.>tress  even  in  works  of 
fiction.  The  consequence  is,  that  we  continually  meet  with 
causes  disproportioned  to  the  effects,  characters  without 
unity,  incidents  without  connexion,  and  a  spirit  of  exaggera- 
tion, which,  at  the  first  view,  seems  to  be  the  result  of  the 
imagination,  but  which  in  fact  chills  it,  and  by  its  absurdity 
disgusts  the  reader.  There  is  thus  no  probability  in  these 
compositions  ;  not  only  not  the  probability  of  nature,  which 
we  do  not  look  for,  but  not  even  the  probability  of  fiction. 
Even  in  prodigies  and  in  fairy-tales,  a  certain  probability 
nuist  be  preserved,  without  which  miracles  cease  to  be  ex- 
traordinary and  striking. 

The  facility  of  inventing  these  productions,  and  the  cer- 
tainty of  such  strange  adventures  being  read,  opened  the 
field  of  literature  to  a  crowd  of  inferior  writers,  unacquainted 
with  all  that  an  author  ought  to  know,  and  more  especially 
with  everything  which  tends  to  form  a  graceful  style.  Tlie 
Spaniards,  already  addicted  to  far-fetched  and  antithetical 
expressions,  and  imitating  in  this  the  taste  of  the  Africans 
and  of  the  Arabians,  passionately  devoted  themselves  to  a 
puerile  play  upon  words,  and  to  that  tortured  and  inflated 
style  which  seems  to  be  the  result  of  a  diseased  imagination, 
and  which,  when  it  is  considered  to  be  a  perfection,  is  in  the 
power  of  the  meanest  intellects.  This  is  the  style  which 
Cervantes  touches  upon  in  his  FeUciano  dc  Sylva  :  "  The 
reason  of  the  unreasonableness  which  you  impute  to  my 
reason  so  weakens  my  reason,  that  it  is  with  reason  that  I 
complain  of  your  beauty  ;  "  and  again  :  "  The  high  heavens 
which  divinely  fortify  your  divinity  by  their  stars,  and  which 
make  you  merit  the  mercy  which  your  greatness  merits." 

Whilst  the  fashionable  writers  thus  overthrew  all  the  rules 
of  probability,  of  taste,  and  of  composition,  the  multiplicity 
of  the  books  of  chivalry  had  the  worst  influence  on  the  feelings 
and  the  judgment  of  the  readers.  The  Spaniards  began  to 
esteem  nothing  but  bombast  and  inflation,  both  in  conversa- 
tion and  in  action.  They  devoted  themselves  entirely  to  the 
perusal  of  these  empty  authors,  who  fed  the  imagination 
without   employing    any  other  of  the  faculties  of  the  soul. 


224  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

History  became  dull  and  tiresome  when  compared  with  these 
extravagant  fables.  They  lost  that  lively  sense  of  truth  which 
distinguishes  it  wherever  it  is  met  with.  They  were  anxious 
that  their  historians  should  mingle  in  their  gravest  narratives, 
and  even  in  the  annals  of"  their  own  country,  circumstances 
only  worthy  of  figuring  in  an  old  woman's  tale.  Of  this  the 
General  Chronicle  of  Spain  by  Francis  de  Guevara,  Bishop 
of  Mondonedo,  affords  a  sufficient  instance.  The  romances  of 
chivalry  were,  it  is  true,  the  inventions  of  men  of  an  elevated 
character,  and  they  inspired  a  taste  for  noble  sentiment ;  but 
of  all  books  these  are  the  last  to  convey  any  instruction. 
Strangers  as  the  authors  were  to  tlie  world,  it  is  impossible  to 
apply  any  of  the  matter  which  we  there  meet  with  to  the 
concerns  of  real  life,or,  if  we  do  so,  it  is  at  the  risk  of  violating 
all  propriety  and  correctness  of  feeling  and  opinion. 

It  was  therefore  a  useful  and  patriotic  design  in  Cervantes 
to  exhibit,  as  he  has  done  in  Don  Quixote,  the  abuse  of  the 
books  of  chivalry,  and  to  overwhelm  with  ridicule  those  ro- 
mances which  are  the  creations  of  a  diseased  imagination, 
giving  birth  to  incidents  and  characters  which  could  never 
have  existed.  In  this  attempt  Cervantes  was  completely 
successful.  The  romances  of  chivalry  ended  with  Don 
Quixote.  It  was  in  vain  for  subsequent  writers  to  contend 
against  so  witty  and  ingenious  a  satire,  and  to  expose  them- 
selves to  the  chance  of  finding  that  they  had  been  caricatured 
even  before  they  made  their  appearance.  It  would  be  very 
desirable  if  in  every  style  of  composition,  after  we  have 
once  secured  the  masterpieces,  we  could  thus  place  a  barrier 
against  the  crowd  of  succeeding  imitators. 

The  vigorous  talents  which  Cervantes  possessed  are  power- 
fully manifested  in  his  comic  productions,  in  which  v.'e  never 
find  him  trespassing  against  either  religion,  or  law,  or  morals. 
The  character  of  Sancho  Panza  is  an  admirable  contrast  to 
that  of  his  master.  The  one  is  full  of  poetry ;  the  other,  of 
prose.  In  Sancho  are  displayed  all  the  qualities  of  the 
vulgar  ;  sensuality,  gluttony,  idleness,  cowardice,  boasting, 
egotism,  and  cunning,  all  of  them  mingled  with  a  certaiu 
degree  of  worth,  fidelity,  and  even  sensibility.  Cervantes 
was  aware  that  he  could  not  place  on  the  lore  ground,  more 
especially  in  a  comic  romance,  an  odious  character.  In  spitQ 
of  all  his  ridicule,  he  wishes  Sancho  as  well  as  Don  Quixote 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  225 

to  attract  the  affections  of  the  reader;  and  though  he  has  in- 
variably pUiced  the  two  characters  in  contrast,  he  has  not  given 
virtue  to  tlie  one  and  vice  to  the  other.  Whilst  the  madness 
of  Don  Quixote  consists  in  pursuing  too  far  that  lofty  philo- 
sophy which  is  the  offspring  of  exalted  minds,  Sancho  errs  no 
less  in  taking  for  his  guide  that  practical  and  calculating 
jjhilosophy  on  which  the  proverbs  of  all  nations  are  founded. 
Both  poetry  and  prose  are  thus  turned  into  derision ;  and  if 
enthusiasm  suffers  in  the  person  of  the  knight,  egotism  does 
not  escape  in  that  of  his  squire. 

The  general  plot  of  the  Don  Quixote,  and  the  chain  of  in- 
cidents which  it  contains,  are  absolutely  prodigies  of  wit  and 
imagination.  The  province  of  the  imagination  is  to  create. 
If  it  were  admissible  to  make  a  profane  application  of  the 
words  of  the  Evangelist,  the  imagination  represents  the 
things  which  are  not  as  the  things  which  are  ;  and  indeed 
the  objects  which  have  been  once  j^resented  to  us  by  a  pow- 
erful imagination,  remain  impressed  upon  tlie  memory  as 
though  they  possessed  an  actual  existence.  Their  form,  their 
qualities,  their  habitudes,  are  so  marked  out  and  determined, 
they  have  been  so  clearly  exhibited  to  the  eye  of  the  mind, 
they  have  so  palpably  assumed  their  place  in  the  creation,  and 
they  form  so  distinct  a  link  in  the  general  chain  of  being,  that 
we  couid  with  greater  facility  deny  existence  to  real  objects, 
than  to  these  creatures  of  our  imagination.  Thus  Don 
Quixote  and  Sancho,  the  Governante  and  the  Curate,  have 
taken  a  place  in  our  imaginations  from  which  they  can  never 
be  removed.  We  become  familiar  with  La  Mancha  and 
the  solitudes  of  the  Sierra  Morena.  All  Spain  lies  before  our 
eyes.  The  manners  and  customs  and  spirit  of  its  inhabitants 
are  painted  in  this  faithful  mirror.  We  derive  a  more  accu- 
rate knowledge  of  this  singular  nation  from  the  pages  of  Don 
Quixote,  than  from  the  narratives  and  observations  of  the 
most  inquisitive  traveller. 

Cervantes,  however,  did  not  devote  himself  to  wit  alone. 
If  his  principal  hero  was  not  calculated  to  excite  dramatic 
interest,  he  has  yet  proved  by  the  episodes  which  he  has  in- 
troduced into  his  romance,  that  he  was  able  to  excite  a 
livelier  interest  by  the  exhibition  of  tender  and  passionate 
sentiments  and  the  ingenious  disposition  of  romantic  incidents. 
The  different  stories  of  the  shepherdess  Marcella,  of  Cardenio, 


226  OK   THE   LITERATURE 

of  the  Captive,  and  of  the  Curious  Impertinent,  form  almost 
half  the  work.  These  episodes  are  infinitely  varied  both  in 
the  nature  of  the  incidents,  in  character,  and  in  language. 
They  may,  perhaps,  be  blamed  for  some  degree  of  tediousness 
at  the  commencement,  and  for  an  occasional  pedantry  in  the 
opening  narrative  and  the  dialogue.  As  soon,  however,  as 
the  situation  of  the  characters  becomes  animated,  they  imme- 
diately rise  and  develope  themselves,  and  the  language  becomes 
proportionably  pathetic.  The  tale  of  the  Curious  Impertinent, 
which  is  perhaps  more  faulty  than  any  of  the  others  in  its 
tedious  commencement,  terminates  in  the  most  touching 
manner. 

The  style  of  Cervantes  in  his  Don  Quixote  possesses  an 
inimitable  beauty,  which  no  translation  can  approach.  It 
exhibits  the  nobleness,  the  candour,  and  the  simplicity  of  the 
ancient  romances  of  chivalry,  together  with  a  liveliness  of 
colouring,  a  precision  of  expression,  and  a  harmony  in  its 
periods,  which  have  never  been  equalled  by  any  other  Spanish 
writer.  The  few  passages  in  which  Don  Quixote  harangues 
his  auditors,  have  gained  great  celebrity  by  their  oratorical 
beauty.  Such,  for  example,  are  his  observations  on  the 
marvels  of  the  Age  of  Gold,  which  he  addresses  to  the  shep- 
herds, who  are  offering  him  nuts.  In  this  dialogue  the 
language  of  Don  Quixote  is  lofty  and  sustained  :  it  has  all 
the  pomp  and  grace  of  antiquity.  His  words,  like  his  person, 
seem  always  surrounded  with  cuirass  and  morion  ;  and  this 
style  becomes  more  amusing  when  contrasted  with  the  ple- 
beian language  of  Sancho  Panza.  lie  promises  the  latter  the 
government  of  an  island,  which  he  always  denominates,  ac- 
cording to  the  ancient  language  of  the  romance  writers,  ?».'!?//('/, 
and  not  hla.  Sancho,  who  repeats  this  word  with  much 
emphasis,  does  not  exactly  comprehend  its  meaning;  and  the 
mysterious  language  which  his  master  employs  raises  his 
expectation  in  proportion  to  his  ignorance. 

The  most  extensive  learning,  and  an  intellect  at  once 
various  and  refined,  are  exhibited  in  the  Don  Quixote,  It 
was  the  casket  which  Cervantes  delighted  to  store  with  all  his 
most  ingenious  tlioughts.  The  art  of  criticism  appears  to  have 
occupied  a  great  share  of  his  attention.  This  observation  will 
apply  to  many  authors  ;  and,  indeed,  the  art  of  composition  is 
a  subject  to  which  every  writer  ought  to  devote  the  most 


OF    THE    SPANIA.RDS.  227 

mature  reflection.  The  examination  of  the  library  of  Don 
Quixote  by  the  Curate,  furnishes  us  with  a  little  treatise  on 
Spanish  literature,  full  of  refinement  and  correct  judgment  ; 
but  this  is  not  the  only  occasion  upon  wliich  the  subject  is 
introduced.  The  prologue,  and  many  of  the  discourses  of  Don 
Quixote,  or  of  the  other  characters  who  are  introduced,  abound 
in  critical  remarks,  sometimes  serious,  sometimes  playful,  but 
always  correct,  novel,  and  interesting.  It  was,  doubtless,  in 
order  to  obtain  pardon  for  the  severity  with  which  he  had 
treated  others,  that  he  was  by  no  means  sparing  upon  himself. 
In  the  library  of  Don  Quixote,  the  Curate  aslvS  the  Barber  : 
"  What  is  the  book  placed  side  by  side  with  the  Cancionero 
of  Maldonado?  "  "  It  is  the  Galatea  of  Miguel  Cervantes,"  said 
the  Barber.  "  This  Cervantes  has  long  been  my  friend," 
rejoined  the  Curate,  "  and  I  know  he  has  much  more  to  do 
with  misfortunes  than  with  poetry.  His  book  does,  indeed, 
display  a  little  power  of  invention  ;  it  aims  at  something,  but 
it  reaches  notliing.  We  must  wait  for  the  second  part  which 
he  promises  (which  Cervantes  never  published)  ;  who  knows 
whether,  when  it  is  corrected,  tlie  author  may  not  obtain  the 
mercy  which  we  are  now  compelled  to  I'efuse  him?" 

Cervantes,  three  years  before  his  death,  wrote  another 
work  more  immediately  devoted  to  criticism  and  literary  satire: 
it  was  a  poem  in  terza  riina,  in  eiglit  cantos,  of  about  three 
hundred  verses  each,  and  entitled  A  Journey  to  Parnassus. 
Cervantes,  tired  of  his  state  of  poverty,  and  impatient  to 
obtain  the  name  of  a  poet,  though  he  asserts  that  heaven  has 
refused  him  the  requisite  talents,  departs  on  foot  from  Madrid 
for  Carthagena  :  "  A  white  loaf  and  a  few  pieces  of  cheese, 
which  I  placed  in  my  wallet,  were  all  my  provision  for 
the  journey;  a  weight  not  too  heavy  for  a  pedestrian  traveller. 
Adieu,  said  I  to  my  humble  habitation;  adieu  Madrid  !  Adieu, 
meadows  and  fountains,  from  whence  flow  nectar  and  ambro- 
sia !  Adieu  society,  where,  for  one  truly  happy  man,  we  find 
a  thousand  lost  pretenders  to  happiness  !  Adieu,  agreeable 
and  deceitful  residence!  Adieu,  theatres,  honoured  by  well- 
I)raised  ignorance,  wliere  day  after  day  a  thousand  absurdities 
are  repeated!"  The  poet  on  his  arrival  at  Carthagena  is 
reminded,  by  a  view  of  the  sea,  of  the  glorious  exploits  of  Don 
John  of  Austria,  under  whom  he  had  served.  While  he  is 
seeking  for  a  vessel,  he  sees  a  light  boat  approach,  propelled 


228  ON    THE    LITEUATUnE 

both  by  sails  and  oars,  to  the  sound  of  the  most  harmonious 
musical  instruments.  Mercury,  with  his  winged  feet,  and  his 
Caduceus  in  his  hand,  invites  Cervantes  in  the  most  flattering 
manner  to  embark  for  Parnassus,  whither  Apollo  has  sum- 
moned all  his  faithful  poets,  to  protect  himself  by  tlieir  assist- 
ance against  the  invasion  of  bad  taste.  At  the  same  time  he 
exhibits  to  him  the  extraordinary  construction  of  the  vessel, 
into  which  he  invites  him  to  enter.  From  prow  to  poop  it  is 
composed  entirely  of  verses,  the  various  styles  of  which  are 
ingeniously  represented  by  the  different  purposes  to  which 
they  are  applied.  The  spars  are  made  of  long  and  melancholy 
elegies  ;  the  mast,  of  a  prolix  song  ;  and  the  other  parts  of 
the  vessel  are  formed  in  a  similar  manner. 

Mercury  then  presents  to  Cervantes  a  long  catalogue  of 
Spanish  poets,  and  asks  his  advice  as  to  the  propriety  of  admit- 
ting or  rejecting  each  individual.  This  question  gives  Cer- 
vantes an  opportunity  of  characterising  the  contemporary 
poets  in  a  few  brief  verses,  which  at  the  present  day  are 
exceedingly  obscure.  It  is  often  very  diilicult  to  determine 
whether  his  praises  are  ironical  or  sincere.  The  poets  now 
arrive  by  enchantment,  and  crowd  into  the  vessel,  but  a 
violent  tempest  overtakes  them.  In  the  adventures  which 
succeed,  the  marvellous  is  mingled  with  the  satirical.  The 
names  introduced  are  all  of  them  of  unknown  personages,  and 
the  production  is  obscure,  and  to  my  apprehension  fatiguing. 
A  few  passages,  indeed,  notwithstanding  the  frequent  satirical 
allusions  which  are  scattered  through  them,  still  display  many 
poetical  charms.  The  commencement  of  the  third  canto  may 
be  cited  as  an  instance  : 

Smooth-gliding  verses  were  its  oars  :  l)y  these 

ImpcU'd,  the  royal  galley,  fast  aud  light, 

Won  her  clear  course  o'er  unresisting  seas. 
The  sails  were  spread  to  the  extremest  height 

Of  the  tall  masts.     Of  the  most  delicate  thought, 

Woven  by  Love  himself,  in  colours  hright, 
The  various  tissue  of  those  sails  was  wrought. 

Soft  winds  upon  the  poop,  with  amorous  force, 

Breath'd  sweetly  all,  as  if  they  only  sought 
To  waft  that  bark  on  her  majestic  course. 

The  Syrens  sport  around  her,  as  she  holds 

Her  rapid  voyage  through  the  waters  hoarse, 
Which,  like  some  snowy  garment's  flowing  folds, 

Roll  to  and  fro  ;  and  on  the  expanse  of  green 

Bright  azure  tints  the  dazzled  eye  bchoUls. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  229 

Upon  the  deck  the  passengers  are  seen 

In  converse.     These  discuss  the  arts  of  verse, 
Arduous  and  nice  ;  those  sing  ;  and  all  between. 

Others  the  dictates  of  the  muse  rehearse.* 

Cervantes  pleads  his  own  cause  before  Apollo,  and  sets 
forth  the  merits  of  his  different  works  with  a  degree  of  pride 
which  has  sometimes  been  censured.  But  who  will  not  pardon 
the  proud  feeling  of  conscious  superiority,  which  sustains 
genius  when  sinking  beneath  the  pressure  of  misfortune  ? 
"Who  will  insist  upon  humility  in  a  man,  who,  whilst  he 
formed  the  glory  of  his  age,  found  himself,  in  old  age  and  in 
sickness,  exposed  to  absolute  want?  Was  it  not  just  that 
Cervantes,  to  whom  his  country  had  denied  all  recompense, 
should  appropriate  to  himself  that  glory  which  he  felt  that  he 
Lad  so  truly  merited  ? 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

ON    THE    DRAMAS   OP    CERVANTES. 

The  comic  powers  which  Cervantes  had  manifested  in  his 
Don  Quixote  seemed  eminently  to  qualify  him  for  dramatic 
attempts.  We  have  already  seen  that  his  first  literary  com- 
positions were  of  this  class  ;  but,  although  he  had  conside- 
rable success  in  this  career,  he  likewise  experienced  some 
mortifications.  He  did  not  at  that  time  conceive  that  his  dra- 
matic talent  was  proportioned  to  the  superiority  which  he 
afterwards  manifested  in  other  branches.  Thus,  when  com- 
pared with  Lope  de  Vega,  whose  fertility  is  so  wonderful,  his 
dramas  are  but  few  in  number.  This  might,  perhaps,  have 
afforded  a  reason  for  commencing  our  notice  of  the  Spanish 
Theatre  by  examining  the  works  of  Lope  before  those  of 
Cervantes,  had  we  not  wished  to  present  to  the  reader,  from 
the  mouth  of  Cervantes  himself,  a  history  of  the  early  progress 
of  the  dramatic  art  in  Spain.  The  extract  is  taken  from  tlie 
preface  to  his  comedies  : 

"  I  must  entreat  your  pardon,  dear  reader,  if  you  should 
see  me  in  this  prologue   a  little  overstep    my   accustomed 


*  Cervantes,  Viage  al  Pamaso,  8vo.  Madrid,  17S4. 


230 


ON    THE    LITKRATURK 


modesty.  Some  time  since  I  happened  to  find  myself  in 
company  witli  a  few  friends  wlio  were  discoursing  about 
comedies,  and  otiier  matters  relating  thereto,  and  they  treated 
this  subject  with  so  much  subtilty  and  refinement,  that  they 
appeared  to  me  almost  to  approacli  perfection.  They  spoke 
of  the  man  who  was  the  first  in  Spain  to  free  the  Drama 
from  its  swathing  bands,  and  to  clothe  it  in  pomji  and  mag- 
nificence. As  the  oldest  of  the  company,  I  remarked  that  I 
had  frequently  heard  the  great  Lope  de  Kueda  recite,  a  man 
equally  celebrated  as  an  actor  and  a  scholar.  •  He  was  born 
at  Seville,  and  was  by  trade  a  gold-beater.  As  a  pastoral  poet 
he  had  great  merit ;  and,  in  that  species  of  composition,  no 
one.  either  before  or  since  his  time,  has  surpassed  him. 
Altliongh  I  could  not  judge  of  the  excellence  of  his  poems, 
for  I  was  then  but  a  cliild,  yet  some  of  them  still  remain  in 
my  memory  ;  and  recalling  these  at  a  riper  age,  they  appear  to 
me  to  be  worthy  of  their  reputation.  In  the  time  of  tliis 
celebrated  Spaniard,  all  the  apparatus  of  a  dramatist  and  a 
manager  was  contained  in  a  bag,  and  consisted  of  four  white 
cloaks,  bordered  with  gilt  leather,  for  sliepherds,  four  beards 
and  wigs,  and  four  crooks,  more  or  less.  Tlie  dramas  were 
mere  dialogues,  or  eclogues  between  two  or  three  shepherds 
and  a  sheplierdess ;  and  these  conversations  were  enlivened 
and  prolonged  by  two  or  tlu'ee  interludes,  in  which  negresses 
were  introduced  as  confidantes,  or  go-betweens ;  and,  occa- 
sionally, some  clowns  and  Biscayans  made  their  appearance. 
At  this  time  there  was  no  scenery ;  no  combats  between 
Moors  and  Christians,  on  horseback  and  on  foot ;  no  trap- 
doors, by  which  figures  might  appear  to  rise  from  the  centre 
of  the  earth.  The  stage  was  merely  composed  of  four  square 
blocks  of  wood,  upon  which  resteil  five  or  six  planks,  so  as 
to  elevate  the  actors  a  foot  or  two  above  the  ground.  No 
angels  or  spirits  descended  in  clouds  from  heaven.  The  sole 
ornament  of  the  theatre  was  an  old  curtain,  supported  at 
both  ends  by  strings,  which  separated  the  dressing-room  from 
the  audience.  At  the  back  were  placed  the  musicians,  who 
sang  without  any  guitar  some  ancient  ballad.  Lope  de 
Rueda  at  last  died,  and  on  account  of  his  celebrity  and  excel- 
lence was  buried  between  the  two  choirs  in  the  great  church 
at  Cordova,  where  he  died,  in  the  same  place  where  that 
renoAvned    madman    Luis    Lopez    is    interred,      Naharro..   a 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  231 

native  of  Toledo,  succeeded  Lope  de  Rueda.     He  attained 
great  celebrity,  more   especially  in  his  representation  of  a 
meddling  poltroon,     Naharro  added  something  to  the  scenic 
decorations,  and  changed  the  bag,  in  which  the  wardrobe  was 
contained,  for  trunks  and  portmanteaus.      He  introduced  the 
music  upon  the  stage,  which  had  been  formerly  placed  in  the 
background,  and  he  took  away  the  beards  from  the  actors  ; 
for  until  his   time  no  actor    ever   appeared  without  a  false 
beard.      He  wished  all  his  actors  to  appear  undisguised,  with 
the  exception  of  those  who  represented  old  men,  or  changed 
their    characters.       He    invented    scenes,    clouds,    thunder, 
lightning,  challenges,  and  combats  ;  but  nothing  of  this  kind 
was  carried  to  the  perfection  which  at  this  day  we  behold, 
(and  it  is  here  that  I  must  trespass  upon  my  modesty,)  until  the 
time  when  the  theatre  of  Madrid  exhibited  the   Captives  of 
Algiers,  which  is  my  own  composition,  Numantia,  and  the 
Naval  Engagement.     It  was  tliere  that  I  made  an  attempt 
to  reduce  the  comedies  of  five  acts  into  three.     I  was  the 
first   to  repi-esent  the  phantoms  of  the  imagination,  and  the 
hidden  thoughts  of  the  soul,  by  introducing  figures  of  them 
upon  the  stage,  with  the  universal  applause  of  the  spectators. 
I  composed  during  this  period  from  twenty  to  thirty  dramas, 
all  of  which  were  represented  without  a  single  cucumber  or 
orange,  or  any  other  missile  usually  aimed  at  bad  comedians, 
being   thrown  at  the  actors.     They  proceeded  through  their 
parts  without  hisses,  without  confusion,  and  without  clamour. 
I  was  at  length  occupied  with  other  matters,  and  I  laid  down 
my  pen  and  forsook  the  drama.     In  the  mean  time  appeared 
that  prodigy.  Lope  de  Vega,  who  immediately  assumed  the 
dramatic   crown.      He  reduced  under  his  dominion  all  the 
farce-writers,  and   filled   the  world  with  excellent  and  well- 
contrived  comedies,  of  which   he  wrote  so  many,  that  they 
could  not  be  comprised  in  ten  thousand   pages.     What  is  no 
less  surprising,  he  liimself  saw  them  all  represented,  or  was 
credibly  assured  that  they  had   been  so.     All  his   rivals  to- 
gether have  not  written  a  moiety  of  what  he  himself  achieved 
alone.     Notwithstanding  this,  as  God    grants  not  all  things 
to  every  one,  the  labours  of  Doctor  Ramon,   w^ho  was   the 
most  laborious  writer  after  the  great  Lope,  have  been  much 
esteemed.      The   ingenious   plots    of  the   licentiate    Miguel 
Sanchez,  and  the  gravity  of  Doctor   Jlira  de  Mescua,  have 


232  ON    THE    LITERATURK 

likewise  met  with  applause,  which  has  also  been  granted  to 
the  wisdom  aud  prodigious  power  of  invention  of  the  Canon 
Tarraga,  to  the  sweetness  of  Guillen  de  Castro,  to  the  refine- 
ment of  Aguilar,  to  the  sonorous  pomp  and  grandeur  of  the 
comedies  of  Luis  Velez  de  Guevara,  to  the  polished  wit  of 
D.  Antonio  de  Galarza,  whose  dramas  are  written  in  a  pro- 
vincial dialect ;  and,  last!}-,  to  the  love-plots  of  Gaspard 
d'Avila ;  i'or  these,  as  well  as  some  others,  assisted  the  great 
Lope  in  the  creation  of  the  Spanish  drama." 

Such,  then,  was  the  first  age  of  the  Spanish  theatre,  and, 
if  we  may  believe  Schlegel  and  Bontterwek,  dramatic  poetry 
never  assumed  in  Spain  more  than  two  diiferent  characters. 
They  consider  the  first  age,  that  of  Cervantes  and  Lope  de 
Vega,  as  one  of  barbarian  grandeur  ;  the  second,  that  of 
Calderon,  as  the  perfection  of  romance.  They  scarcely  con- 
cede the  title  of  poets  to  those  writers,  who  in  the  last  century 
abandoned  the  example  of  their  predecessors  to  become  sub- 
ject to  the  theatrical  laws  of  the  French.  I  do  not  share  in 
the  admiration  which  the  German  critics  profess  for  the 
romantic  theatre  of  Spain  ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  I  am 
not  inclined  to  despise  a  branch  of  literature  to  which  we 
owe  the  great  Corneille.  As  it  is  ray  object  ratlier  to  enable 
the  reader  to  judge  for  himself,  than  to  offer  my  own 
opinions,  I  shall  present  such  extracts  from  Cervantes,  from 
Lope  de  Vega,  and  from  Calderon,  as  will  afford  some  idea 
of  their  respective  merits  and  defects. 

The  fragment  of  Cervantes,  Avliich  we  have  just  translated, 
represents  the  Spanish  drama  as  still  in  a  state  of  uncultivated 
barbarism,  even  after  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century.  If 
we  compare  these  pastoral  dialogues,  diversified  witli  indecent 
interludes,  witii  the  comedies  of  Ariosto  and  Machiavelli,  or 
with  the  tragedies  of  Trissino  and  Rucellai,  it  must  be  acknow- 
ledged that  the  Italians  were  at  least  half  a  century  before  the 
Spaniards  in  all  the  mechanical  parts  of  the  dramatic  art.  In 
Italy,  indeed,  it  must  be  remembered  that  men  of  the  highest 
g-mius,  seconded  by  the  munificence  of  their  princes,  attempted 
to  revive  the  dramatic  representations  of  the  ancients  ;  whilst, 
in  Spain,  mountebanks  and  pretenders  composed  and  recited 
their  own  dramas,  frequently  without  committing  them  to 
writing,  and  without  any  other  object  than  that  of  amusing 
the  populace,  and  rendering  the  representation  a  source  of 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  233 

proSt  to  themselves.  Cervantes  himself  could  not  accurately 
tell  whether  he  had  written  twenty  or  thirty  comedies.  Those 
published  by  him  in  his  old  age  are  not  the  same  which  were 
rej^resented  on  the  stage,  which,  with  the  exception  of  two, 
have  been  lost.  This  very  dissimilar  origin  has  impressed  an 
indelible  character  on  the  drama  of  the  two  countries.  The 
Italian  dramatists  wrote  to  please  the  learned  ;  the  Spanish, 
to  please  the  people.  The  former,  influenced  by  an  imitation 
of  the  ancients,  while  they  possessed  more  method,  refinement, 
and  taste,  manifested  something  of  a  pedantic  spirit,  and  ser- 
vilely adopted  the  rules  of  composition  by  which  the  ancients 
were  governed.  The  latter,  on  the  contrary,  i-ecognized  no 
rule  but  that  of  conforming  themselves  to  the  spirit  of  the 
nation  and  to  the  taste  of  the  populace.  Tiieir  dramas,  there- 
fore, exhibited  more  vigour  and  more  nature,  and  were  more 
in  harmony  with  the  spirit  of  the  people  for  whom  they  were 
composed,  than  the  productions  of  the  Italian  dramatists.  By 
their  absolute  neglect,  however,  of  the  ancients,  these  writers 
deprived  themselves  of  all  the  advantages  of  experience,  and 
the  dramatic  art  amongst  them  was,  consequently,  as  inferior 
to  that  of  the  Greeks,  as  the  population  of  Madrid  and  Seville, 
from  whom  the  laws  of  the  drama  emanated,  were  inferior  in 
point  of  intelligence,  taste,  and  polish,  to  the  people  of  Athens, 
whei'e  every  citizen  received  some  degree  of  education. 

The  conclusion  of  the  sixteenth  and  the  commencement  of 
the  seventeenth  century  was  a  very  learned  epoch.  The 
Spanish  scholars  of  this  period,  becoming  disciples  of  the 
classical  authors,  upheld  with  as  much  fervour  as  La  Harpe 
and  Marmontel,  amongst  the  French,  the  poetical  system  of 
Aristotle  and  the  rules  of  the  three  unities.  The  dramatic 
writers,  while  they  recognized  the  authority  of  these  rules, 
neglected  to  act  upon  them,  for  they  were  compelled  to  follow 
the  taste  of  tlie  public.  None  of  them  were  acquainted  with 
the  nature  of  the  independence  which  they  possessed,  or  of 
that  system  of  romantic  poetry  which  has  been  only  in  our 
own  days  developed  by  the  Germans.  On  the  contrary,  the 
Spanish  dramatists  confessed  in  a  curious  manner  the  su- 
periority of  the  laws  which  they  neglected.  Lope  de  Vega, 
in  some  verses  addressed  to  the  Academy  of  Poetry  at  Madrid, 
exculpates  himself  from  this  charge  in  the  following  man- 
ner : 

VOL    II.  p 


234  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

I  write  a  jilay  !  Then,  ere  I  pen  a  line, 
Under  six  locks  and  kcy.s  let  me  confine 
All  rules  of  art — Next,  Vlautus  !  'tis  thy  doom. 
And,  Terence,  thine,  to  quit  forthwith  the  room, 
Lest  ye  upbraid  me. — Books  can  speak,  though  dumb, 
And  tell  unwelcome  truths.     By  other  laws 
I  write,  laid  down  by  those  who  seek  applause 
From  vidgar  mouths  ;  what  then  ]  the  vulgar  pay ; 
They  love  a  fool — and  let  them  have  their  way.* 

Cervantes  in  the  first  part  of  his  Don  Quixote  (ch.xlviii.) 
introduces  a  canon  of  Toledo,  wlio,  after  blaming  the  Spa- 
niards with  some  asperity  for  having  perpetually  violated  the 
laws  of  the  dramatic  art,  regrets  that  the  government  has  not 
established  a  censor  for  the  drama,  who  might  have  power  to 
prevent  the  representation  of  pieces,  not  only  when  they  are 
injurious  to  morals,  but  likewise  when  they  offend  against  the 
laws  of  classical  i)oetry.  The  censor  would  be  sufficiently 
ridiculous  who  should  maintain  upon  the  stage  the  three 
unities  of  Aristotle  ;  and  those  authors  have  a  strange  idea  of 
authority  who  imagine  that  a  censor  must  possess  a  more  just 
and  correct  taste  than  the  public,  and  that  a  king  can  bestow 
upon  his  favourite  the  power  of  discriminating  between  the 
good  and  the  bad  in  literature,  while  the  academies  of  the 
learned,  and  the  assemblies  of  the  ignorant,  have  not  yet 
been  able  to  agree  on  the  subject  of  abstract  beauty  and 
excellence. 

If  the  magistrate  thus  proposed  by  Cervantes  had  been 
instituted,  and  had  he  been,  though  it  be  a  most  improbable 
supposition,  inaccessible  to  intrigue,  to  favour,  and  to  preju- 
dice, he  would  in  all  probability  have  forbidden  the  represent- 
ation of  the  dramas  of  Cervantes,  since  they  are  by  no  means 
constructed  upon  those  classical  rules,  the  neglect  of  which 
the  poet  so  deeply  regrets.     The  tragedy  of  Numantia  and 

*  Lope  de  Vega,  Arte  nuevo  de  hncer  C'omedias  en  este  tiempo  : 

Y  quando  he  de  escribir  una  eomedia 
Encicrro  los  perceptos  eon  seis  Haves  ; 
Saco  a  Tercncio  y  Plauto  de  mi  estudio. 
Para  que  no  me  den  voces,  que  suele 
Dar  gridos  la  verdad  an  libros  mudos  ; 

Y  escribo  por  el  arte  que  invcntaron 
Los  que  el  vulgar  aplauso  pretendieron  ; 
Por  que  como  las  paga  cl  vulgo,  es  justo 
llablarle  en  necio,  para  darle  gusto. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  23.") 

tlie  comeclj  of  Life  in  Alfjiers,  whicli  we  are  about  to  analyse, 
are  the  only  two  which  liiive  been  preserved  out  of  twenty  or 
thirty  dramas,  written  in  1582,  soon  after  the  author's  release 
from  captivity.  Those  wliich  he  published  in  1615  were 
never  represented,  and  therefore  merit  less  attention  ;  thou;^ii 
it  is  from  the  preface  to  the  latter  that  we  have  drawn  the 
history  of  the  dramatic  art  already  presented  to  the  reader. 
When  Cervantes  speaks  of  tliis  work  of  his  old  age,  his  sim- 
plicity and  gaiety  have  in  them  something  touching,  for  it  is 
evident  that  he  was  suffering  an  inward  mortification,  more 
severe  in  jaroportion  as  his  poverty  rendered  success  desirable 
to  him. 

f  ,  "  Some  years  since,"  says  he,  "I  returned  to  the  ancient 
occupation  of  my  leisure  hours  ;  and  imagining  that  the  age 
had  not  passed  away  in  which  I  used  to  hear  the  sound  of 
praise,  I  again  began  to  write  comedies.  The  birds,  how- 
ever, had  flown  from  their  nest.  I  could  find  no  manager  to 
ask  for  my  plays,  though  they  knew  that  I  had  written  them. 
I  threw  them,  therefore,  into  the  corner  of  a  trunk,  and  con- 
demned them  to  eternal  obscurity.  A  bookseller  then  told 
me,  that  he  would  have  bought  them  from  me  had  he  not  been 
told  by  a  celebrated  author  that  much  dependence  might  be 
placed  upon  my  prose,  but  none  upon  my  poetry.  To  say 
the  truth,  this  information  mortified  me  much.  I  said  to 
myself  :  Certainly,  I  am  either  changed,  or  the  world,  con- 
trary to  its  custom,  has  become  much  wiser,  for  in  past  time 
I  used  to  meet  with  praise.  I  read  my  comedies  anew,  toge- 
ther with  some  interludes  which  I  had  placed  with  them.  I 
found  that  they  were  not  so  bad  but  that  they  might  pass 
from  what  this  author  called  darkness  into  what  others  may 
perhaps  term  noon-day.  I  was  angry,  and  sold  them  to  the 
bookseller  who  has  now  printed  them.  They  have  paid  me 
tolerably,  and  I  have  pocketed  my  money  with  pleasure,  and 
without  troubling  myself  about  the  opinions  of  the  actors.  I 
was  willing  to  make  them  as  excellent  as  I  could  ;  and  if, 
dear  reader,  thou  findest  any  tiling  good  in  them,  I  pray  thee, 
when  thou  meetest  any  other  calumniator,  to  tell  hiui  to 
amend  his  manners,  and  not  to  judge  so  severely,  since,  after 
all,  the  plays  contain  not  any  incongruities  or  striking 
faults." 

I  must  beg  the  same  kind  indulgence  towards  the  dramas 

v2 


236  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

of  Cervantes,  which  the  author  himself  entreated  from  his 
readers.  In  order  to  be  just  towards  him  we  must  commence 
by  rejecting  all  our  theatrical  prepossessions  ;  remembering 
that  he  wrote  before  any  of  those  authors  whom  we  regard 
as  the  legislators  of  the  drama,  upon  a  different  system,  and 
with  another  object  in  view.  Let  us  consider  his  dramas  as 
a  series  of  pictures,  all  connected  by  the  chain  of  historical 
interest,  though  varying  in  siibjcet.  In  some  he  has  endea- 
voured to  excite  the  noblest  sentiments  of  the  heart  :  in  his 
Nnynanfia,  patriotism  ;  in  his  Life  in  Algiers,  zeal  for  the 
redemption  of  captives.  Such  are  the  only  unities  lor  which 
we  must  seek  in  his  dramas.  Let  us  abandon  ourselves  to 
his  eloquence,  without  endeavouring  to  resist  the  feelings  of 
terror  or  of  j^ity  which  he  seeks  to  awake  ;  and  let  us  forget, 
if  it  be  in  our  power,  those  rules  which  our  own  dramatists 
obey,  but  which  to  him  are  entirely  inapplicable.  When  we 
analyse  even  the  models  of  antiquity,  we  do  not  apply  to  all 
of  them  rules  equally  severe.  We  do  not  forget  that 
^schylus,  like  Cervantes,  was  in  the  van  of  his  art.  Per- 
haps, if  we  compared  the  Numantia  with  the  Persians,  or 
with  the  Prometheus,  many  points  of  resemblance  between 
these  two  celebrated  authors  would  strike  us.  We  should 
probably  find,  that,  in  the  grandeur  of  the  incidents,  in  the 
depth  of  feeling,  in  the  nature  and  language  of  the  allegorical 
personages  introduced  upon  the  stage,  and  lastly  in  the 
patriotic  sentiments  of  the  compositions,  the  oldest  of  the 
Spanish  dramatists  has  approached  nearer  to  the  most  ancient 
of  the  Greek  tragedians,  than  any  voluntary  imitation  could 
have  accomplished. 

There  is  a  strong  feeling  of  patriotism  manifested  by  Cer- 
vantes in  his  Numantia.  lie  has  taken  as  the  subject  of  his 
tragedy,  the  destruction  of  a  city  which  valiantly  opposed  the 
Romans,  and  wliose  inhabitants,  rather  than  surrender  them- 
selves to  the  enemy,  preferred  perishing  beneath  the  ruins  of 
their  homes,  slaughtering  one  another,  and  precipitating 
themselves  into  the  flames.  This  terrible  subject  is  not  one 
which  would  be  considered,  at  the  present  day,  as  suitalde  to 
the  purposes  of  the  drama.  It  is  too  extensive,  too  public, 
too  little  adapted  to  the  display  of  individual  passions,  and  of 
those  motives  which  operate  upon  persons  and  not  upon 
nations.   A  certain  degree  of  admiration,  however,  cannot  be 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  237 

refused  to  this  poetical  attempt  of  Cervantes,  which  seems 
like  an  expiatory  sacrifice  offered  up  to  the  manes  of  a 
great  city. 

The  tragedy  opens  with  a  dialogue  between  Scipio  and 
Jugurtha.  This  scene,  like  the  greatest  part  of  the  drama, 
is  written  in  octave  stanzas  of  the  heroic  Italian  verse.  In  a 
few  scenes  only,  iij  which  the  dialogue  is  more  lively,  is  the 
Spanish  Redondilha  of  four  trochees,  rhymed  in  quatrains, 
employed.  Cervantes  has  never  made  use  of  the  assonants, 
which  by  later  writers  were  almost  constantly  adopted  for  the 
dialogues. 

Scipio  declares  to  Jugurtha  the  repugnance  which  he  feels 
to  continue  a  war,  which  has  already  cost  the  Roman  people 
so  much  blood,  and  in  which  he  has  at  the  same  time  to  con- 
tend against  the  obstinate  valour  of  the  enemy,  and  the  want 
of  discipline  which  his  own  army  betrays.     He  then  gives 
orders  for  all  the  troops  to  be  assembled,  that  by  haranguing 
them   he  may  recall  them  to  a  sense  of  their  duty.     The 
novelty  of  these  dramatic  representations  is  curiously  mani- 
fested in  the  stage  directions,  which  Cervantes  has  added  to 
his  dramas.      Thus,  in  one  scene  it  is  said  ;   "  Here  enter  as 
many  soldiers  as  the  stage  will  hold,  and  Caius  Marius  with 
them  :  they  must  be  arm.ed  in  the  ancient  fashion,  without 
musquets.      Scipio,  ascending  a  little  rock  upon  the  stage, 
gazes  on  the  soldiery  before  he  addresses  them."    The  speech 
of  Scipio  is  too  long  to  be  given  entire,  and  indeed  too  long 
for  representation.    It  is,  however,  full  of  elevated  feeling  and 
of  martial  eloquence.     He  thus  commences  : 
Well,  by  your  pride  of  feature,  noble  friends, 
And  splendour  of  your  martial  decorations, 
I  recognize  in  you  the  sons  of  Rome, 
Yea,  brave  and  valiant  sons  !     But,  by  your  bauds, 
Fair  and  efFeiuinate,  by  the  glossy  shew 
Of  your  smooth  faces,  rather  should  I  deem  you 
Of  Britain  born,  or  Belgium.     You  yourselves. 
By  your  neglect,  your  reckless  disregard 
Of  all  your  duties,  you  yourselves  have  raised 
Your  foe,  already  vanquish'd,  from  the  ground. 
And  wrong'd  at  once  your  valour  and  your  fame. 
Behold  these  walls,  that  yet  unshaken  stand 
Firm  as  the  rocks  on  which  they  rest !     These  walls 
Bear  shameful  witness  to  your  weak  attempts, 
That  boast  of  nothing  Roman  but  the  name. 
What !  when  the  whole  world  trembles  and  bows  down 


238  ox    THE    UTEUAXUKK 

Before  the  name  of  Komo,  will  you  alone 
Betray  her  claims  to  einpirc,  aiui  eclipse 
Her  univei-sal  glory  here  iu  Spain  ? 

Scipio  then  directs  various  reforms.  lie  orders  the  women, 
to  be  removed,  and  tliat  nothin;f  shall  be  introduced  into  the 
army  which  can  be  productive  oi"  luxury  and  effeminacy  ;  and 
he  then  expresses  his  confidence  tliat,  as  soon  as  disciphne  is 
re-established  witliin  the  camp,  it  will  be  an  easy  task  to 
vanquish  the  handful  of  Spaniards  who  have  shut  themselves 
up  within  the  walls  of  Numantia.  Caius  Marius  answers  in 
the  name  of  the  rest,  and  promises  that  the  soldiers  shall  shew 
tlieraselves  true  Romans,  and  submit  cheerfully  to  the  most 
rigorous  discipline. 

Two  Numantian  ambassadors  now  present  themselves 
before  the  general  and  the  army.  They  declare  that  it  was 
to  the  severity,  avarice,  and  injustice  of  the  generals  who 
had  hitherto  commanded  in  Spain,  that  the  revolt  of 
Numantia  was  owing  ;  that  the  ai'rival  of  Scipio,  with  whose 
virtues  they  are  acquainted,  and  in  whom  they  place  the 
fullest  confidence,  had  now  induced  them  to  sue  as  ardently 
for  peace  as  they  had  before  courageously  sustained  the  war. 
Scipio,  however,  demands  a  higher  satisfaction  for  the  insults 
offered  to  the  majesty  of  the  Roman  people.  He  refuses  all 
overtures  for  peace,  and  dismisses  the  ambassadors  with  an 
exhortation  to  look  well  to  their  defence.  He  then  informs 
his  brother,  tliat,  instead  of  exposing  his  army  in  fresh 
engagements,  and  moistening  the  soil  of  Spain  witli  Roman 
blood,  he  has  determined  to  surround  Numantia  with  a  deep 
fosse,  and  to  reduce  the  place  by  famine.  He  therefore 
orders  the  army  to  commence  the  circumvallations. 

In  the  second  scene  (and  between  each  scene  some  time  is 
supposed  to  have  elapsed,)  Spain  is  introduced  in  the  figure 
of  a  woman,  crowned  with  towers,  and  bearing  in  her  hand 
a  castle,  as  a  symbol  of  those  castles  fi'om  whieh  are  derived 
the  name  and  arms  of  Castile.  She  invokes  the  mercy  and 
favour  of  heaven,  and  complains  bitterly  of  her  state  of  per- 
petual bondage.  She  has  seen  her  riches  alternately  the  prey 
of  the  Pluenieian  and  of  the  Greek  ;  and  her  most  valiant 
sons  divided  amongst  themselves,  combating  with  one  another, 
when  they  should  have  united  their  arms  against  the  common 
enemy. 


OK    THE    SPANIARDS.  239 

Numaiitia  only,  careless  of  her  blood, 

Has  dared  to  draw  lier  shining  sword,  and  strike 

For  that  old  liberty  she  long  has  cherish'd. 

But  now,  oh  grief  !  her  time  of  doom  is  near  ; 

Her  fatal  hour  approaches,  and  her  life 

Is  waning  to  its  close  ;  but  her  bright  fame 

Shall  still  survive,  and,  like  the  Phoenix,  burst 

More  glorious  from  her  aslies. 

The  circumvallation  being  now  accomplished,  the  Numan- 
tians  have  to  contend  against  hunger,  without  any  oppor- 
tunity of  engaging  with  the  enemy.  One  side  of  the  city  is 
washed- by  the  Douro,  and  the  Spaniards  therefore  address 
themselves  to  that  river,  beseeching  him  to  favour  the  people 
of  Numantia,  and  to  swell  his  watero,  so  as  to  prevent  the 
Romans  from  erecting  towers  and  machines  on  its  banks. 
The  Douro,  followed  by  three  tributary  streams,  advances 
upon  the  stage,  and  declares  that  he  has  made  the  greatest 
efforts  to  remove  the  Romans  from  the  walls  of  Numantia, 
but  in  vain  ;  that  the  fatal  hour  is  arrived,  and  that  the  only 
consolation  he  has  left  is  derived  fi-om  Proteus,  who  has  re- 
vealed to  him  the  future  glories  reserved  for  the  Spaniards, 
and  the  humihations  to  which  the  Romans  are  destined.  He 
predicts  the  victories  of  Attila  and  the  conquests  of  the  Goths, 
which  are  to  renovate  Spain  ;  the  title  of  "  Most  Catholic" 
which  will  be  bestowed  upon  her  kings  ;  and  lastly,  the  glory 
of  Philip  II.  who  will  unite  the  territories  of  Portugal  to  the 
two  kingdoms  of  Spain. 

In  the  second  act  the  Numantians  are  seen  assembled  in 
council.  Theogenes  enquires  from  his  countrymen  by  what 
means  they  can  escape  from  the  cruel  vengeance  of  their 
enemies,  who,  without  daring  to  combat  with  them,  have 
reduced  them  to  perish  by  hunger.  Corabino  proposes  that 
an  offer  shall  be  made  to  the  Romans  to  decide  the  fate  of 
the  two  nations  by  single  combat,  and  that  if  this  is  refused, 
they  should  try  tlie  effect  of  a  sortie  through  the  fosse,  and 
attempt  to  open  a  passage  through  the  enemy.  Otliers  present 
support  this  proposition,  and  at  the  same  time  describe  their 
despair,  and  the  sufferings  which  they  endure  from  famine. 
They  likewise  propose  sacrifices  to  appease  the  gods,  and 
auguries  to  ascertain  their  wishes. 

The  scenes  in  the  dramas  of  Cervantes  are  as  distinct  as 
the  acts.     They  seem  intended  in  the  Numantia  to  exhibit 


240  ox    THE    LITERATURE 

the  sentiments  and  ideas  of  a  whole  people,  under  the  various 
aspects  of  public  affairs.  To  accomplish  this  design  we  are 
sometimes  introduced  into  the  assemblies  of  the  nobles ;  at 
others,  simple  citizens  appear  upon  the  stage,  and  occasion- 
ally allegorical  personages  come  forward.  The  second  scene 
of  this  act  is  between  two  Numantian  soldiers,  Morandro  and 
Leoncio  ;  the  former,  the  lover  of  Lira,  a  young  damsel  of 
Numantia,  was  on  the  eve  of  marriage,  when  the  nuptials 
were  deferred  on  account  of  the  war  and  the  public  misfor- 
tunes. Leoncio  accuses  him  of  forgetting,  in  his  passion  for 
his  mistress,  the  dangers  of  his  country.  Morandro  thus 
replies : 

Never  did  love  teach  lover  cowardice  : 
Have  I  o'er  been  a  truant  from  my  post 
To  visit  her  I  love]     Have  I  e'er  closed 
My  eyes  iu  slumber  when  my  captain  watch'd  ? 
Have  I  e'er  fail'd  when  duty  call'd  on  me, 
Because  my  heart  Avas  fiU'd  with  her  sweet  image  ? 
If,  then,  t.hese  things  be  not  objected  to  me. 
Why  will  you  blame  me  for  my  passionate  love  ] 

The  dialogue  is  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  the  people 
and  the  priests,  with  the  victim  and  the  incense  for  the  sacri- 
fice to  Jupitei".  As  the  priests  proceed  in  the  sacrificial 
ceremonies,  the  most  terrible  presages  present  themselves. 
The  torches  will  not  light  ;  the  smoke  curls  towards  the 
"West,  and  the  invocations  are  answered  with  thunder.  It 
is  curious  to  remark  the  expedients  by  which  the  author 
proposes  to  imitate  thunder  :  "  Here,"  saj-s  he,  "  a  noise 
must  be  made  by  rolling  a  barrel  full  of  stones,  and  fire-works 
must  be  let  off."  In  the  air,  eagles  are  seen  pouncing  upon 
vultures,  and  tearing  them  in  their  talons.  At  last  the  vic- 
tim is  carried  away  by  an  infernal  spirit,  at  the  moment  when 
it  is  about  to  be  slain. 

Marquino,  a  magician,  then  endeavours  in  his  turn  to  dis- 
cover the  will  of  heaven  by  enchantment.  He  approaches  a 
tomb  where,  three  hours  previously,  a  young  Numantian  had 
been  buried  who  had  died  of  hunger,  and  he  invokes  his 
spirit  from  the  infernal  regions.  His  address  to  the  spirits  of 
darkness  is  singularly  poetical.  He  speaks  in  that  command- 
ing style,  and  at  the  same  time  with  that  contempt  and 
anger,  with  which  the  poets  have  gifted  those  magicians  who 
have  not  allowed  themselves  to  become  the  slaves  of  Lucifer. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  241 

The  tomb  opens  ;  the  dead  rises,  but  moves  not.  Marquino 
by  fresh  enchantment  bestows  animation,  and  compels  the 
body  to  speak.  The  corpse  announces  that  Numantia  will 
neither  be  the  conquered,  nor  the  conqueror  ;  but  that  her 
citizens  shall  destroy  one  another.  The  corpse  then  sinks 
again  into  the  tomb,  and  Marquino  in  despair  stabs  himself, 
and  falls  into  the  same  grave. 

The  third  act  again  leads  us  into  the  Roman  camp.  Scipio 
congi-atulates  himself  on  having  reduced  Numantia  to  the  last 
extremity,  without  finding  it  necessary  to  expose  his  soldiers. 
In  the  mean  time  a  solitary  trumpet  is  heard  from  within  the 
walls.  Corabino  then  appears  with  a  white  flag  in  his  hand. 
He  proposes  to  terminate  the  quarrel  by  single  combat,  on 
condition  that  if  the  Numantian  champion  is  vanquished,  the 
gates  of  the  city  shall  be  opened  ;  if,  on  the  contrary,  the 
Roman  combatant  is  overcome,  that  the  siege  shall  be  raised. 
At  the  same  time  he  flatters  the  Romans,  by  assuring  them 
that  from  the  valour  of  their  champions,  they  may  count  upon 
a  victory.  Scipio  rejects  with  ridicule  a  proposal  which 
would  place  him  on  equal  terms  with  the  enemy,  at  a  time 
when  he  is  assured  of  the  conquest. 

'Corabino,  left  alone  on  the  walls,  overwhelms  the  Romans 
with  vitupei'ation.  They,  however,  hear  him  not,  and  he  re- 
tires. The  next  scene  repi'esents  the  intei-ior  of  Numantia. 
The  council  of  war  is  assembled,  and  Theogenes  having  given 
an  account  of  the  failure  of  the  sacrifices,  of  the  enchantments, 
and  of  the  challenge,  pi-oposes  again  to  make  a  sally.  The 
warriors  dread  the  opposition  of  their  wives,  whom  they  will 
be  compelled  to  abandon.  The  women,  informed  of  the  pro- 
posed sortie,  crowd  ai'ound  the  council-chamber  with  their 
infants  in  their  arms,  and  each,  in  eloquent  language,  de- 
mands to  share  the  fortunes  of  her  husband  : 

What  is  it  that  you  wish,  brave  warriors? 

Have,  then,  your  sorrowful  fancies  work'd  on  you   , 

To  fly  us  and  forsake  us  ]    Do  ye  think 

To  leave  the  virgins  of  Numantia 

A  spoil  to  arrogant  Romans,  and  your  sons. 

Your  free-born  sons,  in  bondage  to  the  foe  ] 

Were  it  not  better  that  your  own  right  hand 

At  once  should  take  the  life  which  ye  have  given  1 

Would  you,  then,  feed  the  Roman  avarice  ? 

Would  you,  then,  suffer  them  in  unjust  pride 


242  0\    THE    LITEUATURE 

To  triumph  o'er  us,  while  with  foreigu  hands 

They  pillage  all  our  mansious  ? 
*  *  *  » 

If  you  are  well  resolved  to  attempt  the  sortie. 
Then  take  us  with  you.     It  will  be  life  to  us 
To  perish  by  your  sides.     Nor  will  ye  thus 
Shorten  our  way  to  death,  for  famine  ever 
Threatens  to  cut  the  thread  of  life  in  twain.** 

Another  woman  then  presents  lier  children  to  the  senators 
of  Nuraantia,  and  thus  speaks  : 

Oh,  children  of  most  desolate  mothers,  why, 

Why  speak  ye  not,  and  why  with  moving  tears 

Do  ye  not  supplicate  your  cruel  sires 

Not  to  desert  you  ]     Doth  it  not  suffice 

That  terrible  famine  should  oppress  your  lives, 

But  must  you  also  .prove  the  bitterness 

Of  Roman  rigour  !     Tell  them  that  ye  were 

Begotten  free,  free  born,  and  that  your  mothers, 

Your  wretched  mothers,  nurs'd  you  still  in  freedom : 

And  tell  them,  if  our  fate  so  adverse  is, 

They  who  have  given  you  life  should  take  it  back. 

O  walls  !  if  ye  can  speak,  exclaim  aloud, 

A  thousand  times  repeat,  "  Numantiaus  ! 

Numantians  !  Liberty  I" 

After  several  of  the  women  have  spoken,  Theogenes  an- 
swers their  comphiints  with  great  tenderness.  He  swears 
that  they  shall  not  be  abandoned  by  their  husbands,  but  that 
living  or  dying  tliey  shall  still  be  protected.  Lastly,  he  en- 
deavours to  persuade  the  Numantians  to  adopt  a  still  more 
desperate  course,  and  not  to  leave  within  the  walls  of 
Numantia  a  single  relic  of  their  persons  or  their  property  to 
adorn  the  triumphs  of  the  enemy.  He  proposes  that  in  the 
middle  of  the  great  square  of  the  city  a  pile  should  be  raised, 
upon  which  the  citizens  should  themselves  cast  all  their  riches, 
and  that  to  mitigate  for  a  few  hours  at  least  the  hunger  which 
consumes  them,  the  Roman  prisoners  should  be  .<lain,  and 
eaten  by  the  soldiery.  The  people  immediately  adopt  this 
frightful  resolution,  and  separate  in  order  to  put  it  into  exe- 
cution. JNIorandro  and  Lira  remain  alone  upon  the  stage, 
and  a  terrific  scene  of  love,  struggling  with  famine,  succeeds. 
Lira,  to  the  passionate  exclamations  of  her  lover,  only  answers 
that  her  brother  had  died  of  hunger  on  the  preceding  day,  that 

'  La  Numancia,  Tragcdia,  (con  y  el  Viage  al  Pamaso,)  Madrid,  1784. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS-  243 

on  that  very  day  her  mother  had  perished,  and  that  she  her- 
self is  on  the  verge  of  death.  Morandro  determines  to  pene- 
trate into  the  Roman  camp  in  search  of  food  to  prolong  the 
life  of  his  mistress.  Leoncio,  his  friend,  notwithstanding  his 
remonstrances,  resolves  to  accompany  him,  and  the  two  friends 
wait  till  the  obscurity  of  night  shall  afford  them  an  oppor- 
tunity to  make  their  attempt. 

Two  citizens  now  announce  that  the  pile  is  lighted,  and 
that  the  inhabitants  are  eagerly  heaping  upon  it  all  the  re- 
mains of  their  property.  Men,  loaded  with  burthens  of  rich 
and  precious  articles,  are  seen  passing  over  the  stage  towards 
the  pile.  One  of  the  Numantians  then  declares  that  as  soon 
as  their  riches  are  consumed,  the  women,  the  children,  and 
the  old  men,  will  be  all  massacred  by  the  soldiery,  to  save 
them  from  the  conquerors.  A  Numantian  mother  is  then 
introduced,  leading  by  the  hand  her  little  son,  who  bears  a 
valuable  packet.     She  holds  an  infant  at  her  breast : 

iloTHEK.  Oh  life,  most  cruel  and  most  hard  to  bear  ! 

Oh  agony,  most  deep  and  terrible  ! 
Boy.         Mother  !  will  no  one  give  me  a  little  morsel 

Of  bread,  for  all  these  riches  1 
Mother.  No,  my  son  ! 

No  bread,  nor  aught  to  nourish  thee,  my  child. 
BoT.         Must  I  then  die  of  hunger!  mother,  mother, 

I  ask  one  morsel  only,  nothing  more. 
Mother.  My  child,  what  pain  thou  giv'st  me  ! 
Bor.  Do  you  not 

Wish  for  it,  then  1 
Mother.  I  wish  for  it,  but  know  not 

Where  I  may  seek  it. 
Boy.  Why  not  buy  it,  mother] 

If  not,  I'll  buy  it  for  myself,  and  give 

To  the  first  man  1  meet,  even  all  these  riches — 

Ay,  for  one  single  morsel  of  dry  bread. 

My  hunger  pains  me  so. 
Mother   (to  her  infant).  And  thou,  poor  creature, 

Why  cling'st  thou  to  my  breast ']  dost  thou  not  know 

That  in  my  aching  breast  despair  has  changed 

The  milky  stream  to  blood  ]     Tear  oft"  my  flesh, 

And  so  content  thine  hunger,  for  my  arms 

Are  weak,  and  can  no  longer  clasp  thee  to  me. 

Son  of  my  soul,  with  what  can  I  sustain  thee  ] 

Even  of  my  wasted  flesh,  there  scarce  remains 

Enough  to  satisfy  thy  craving  hunger. 

Oh  hunger,  hunger  !  terrible  and  tierce. 

With  what  most  cruel  pangs  thou  takst  my  life  ;  :■ 


244  ON    THE  LITERATDRE 

Oh  war,  wliat  death  dost  thou  prepare  for  mo  ! 
Boy.         My  mother  !  let  us  hasten  to  the  phace 

We  seek,  for  Avalking  seenjs  to  make  me  worse. 
Mother.  My  child,  the  house  is  near  us,  where  at  length 

Upon  the  hurning  pile  thou  may'st  lay  down 

The  burthen  that  thou  bearcst. 

I  almost  repent  of  having  introduced  tliis  terrible  scene,  so 
full  of  cruel  sufferings.  It  is  the  prison  of  Ugolino  rendered 
ten  times  more  horrible.  The  calamity  being  extended  over 
a  whole  city,  famine  contends  with  the  most  tender,  as  well  as 
the  most  passionate,  feelings.  It  is  because  sufferings  like 
these  have  really  existed,  because  the  very  name  of  war  recalls 
them  to  our  minds,  tliat  such  scenes  ought  not  to  be  repre- 
sented. The  misfortunes  of  Oedipus  have  passed  away  ;  the 
feast  of  Thyestes  will  never  again  be  celebrated  ;  but  who  can 
say  that  in  some  city  exposed  to  the  horrors  of  a  siege,  a 
nameless  mother  may  not,  like  the  Numantian  matron,  be 
nourishing  her  infant  with  blood  instead  of  milk,  struggling 
against  the  excess  of  suffering  which  human  nature  was  not 
formed  to  support  ?  If,  indeed,  we  could  succour  or  save  her, 
it  would  be  weakness  to  fear  the  shock  which  so  frightful  a 
picture  produces  ;  but  if  eloquence  and  poetry  are  employed 
without  object  to  give  effect  to  such  descriptions,  how  can  we 
experience  any  pleasure  in  emotions  which  border  upon  so 
terrible  a  reality  ? 

At  the  commencement  of  the  fourth  act  the  alarm  is 
sounded  in  the  Roman  camp,  and  Scipio  demands  the  cause  of 
the  tumult.  He  learns  that  two  ISumantians  Iiave  broken 
tlu'ough  the  barriers,  and,  after  killing  several  seldiers, 
have  carried  off  some  biscuit  from  a  tent  ;  that  one  of  them 
again  passed  the  wall,  and  gained  the  city,  but  that  the  other 
had  been  slain.  In  the  following  scene  we  find  Morandro 
again  entering  Numantia,  wounded  and  bleeding.  He  is 
weeping  over  his  friend's  fate,  and  the  bread  which  he  is  car- 
rying to  Lira,  is  moistened  with  his  tears.  He  lays  before 
her  this  last  offering  of  affection,  and  expires  at  her  feet. 
Lira  refuses  to  touch  the  sustenance  which  has  been  so  dearly 
bought  ;  while  her  little  brother  seeks  refuge  in  her  arms, 
and  dies  in  convulsions.  A  soldier  now  appears  uj)on  the 
stage  pursuing  a  woman  whom  he  is  endeavouring  to  kill,  for 
an  order  has  been  issued  by  the  senate  of  Numantia,  that  all 


OP   THE    SPANIARDS.  245 

the  women  should  be  put  to  the  swoi-d.  He,  however,  refuses 
to  shiy  Lira,  and  bears  away  with  him  to  the  funeral  pile  the 
tAVO  bodies  which  lay  before  her. 

War,  Famine,  and  Sickness  now  appear,  and  dispute  for 
tlie  ruins  of  Numantia.  Their  description  of  the  calamities 
which  the  city  has  suffered,  is  cold,  when  compared  with  the 
preceding  frightful  scenes,  Theogenes  then  passes  over  the 
stage  with  his  wife,  his  two  sons,  and  his  daughter,  conducting 
them  to  the  pile,  where  they  are  to  die,  lie  informs  them 
that  they  are  to  perish  by  his  own  hand,  and  his  children 
submit  to  their  fate.  Two  youths,  Viriatus  and  Servius, 
flying  before  the  soldiers,  cross  the  stage  ;  the  first  endea- 
vours to  reach  a  tower  which  will  afford  him  a  refuge,  but 
the  latter,  being  overcome  by  famine,  can  proceed  no  farther. 
Theogenes,  who  has  despatched  his  wife  and  children,  returns 
and  beseeches  a  citizen  to  put  him  to  death  ;  the  two,  how- 
ever, determine  to  fight  near  the  pile,  upon  which  the  survivor 
is  to  cast  himself.  The  Romans  perceiving  the  stillness  which 
reigns  in  Numantia,  Caius  Marius  mounts  upon  the  wall  by 
a  ladder  ;  and  is  shocked  to  see  the  city  one  lake  of  blood, 
and  the  streets  all  filled  with  the  dead.  Scipio  fears  that  this 
universal  massacre  will  deprive  him  of  all  the  honour  of  a 
triumph.  If  a  single  Numantian  captive  could  be  found 
alive  to  be  chained  to  his  car,  that  honour  would  be  his  ;  but 
Caius  Marius  and  Jugurtha,  who  have  traversed  all  the 
streets,  have  met  with  nothing  but  gore  and  corpses.  At  last, 
however,  they  discover  Viriatus,  the  young  man  who  has 
taken  refuge  at  the  top  of  a  tower.  Scipio  addresses  him, 
and  invites  him,  with  kind  words  and  promises,  to  deliver 
himself  up.  Viriatus  rejects  these  offers  with  indignation. 
He  is  unwilling  to  survive  his  country  ;  and  after  heaping 
curses  upon  the  Romans,  he  precipitates  himself  from  the 
tower,  and  falls  lifeless  at  the  feet  of  Scipio.  Renown,  with 
a  trumpet  in  her  hand,  terminates  the  tragedy  by  promising 
eternal  glory  to  the  Numantians. 

■  The  Numantia  was  acted  several  times  in  the  earher  part 
of  the  life  of  Cervantes,  whilst  the  nation  was  still  warm  with 
the  enthusiasm  which  the  victories  of  Charles  V.  had  pro- 
duced ;  and  whilst  the  reverses  which  they  began  to  expe- 
rience under  Philip  II.  made  them  doubly  resolute  not  to 
stain  their  ancient  glories.     We  may  imagine  the  effect  which 


246  ox    THE    I.ITICRATURK 

the  Numantia  must  liave  produced  if  it  was  represented  in 
Saragossa,  as  it  has  been  asserted,  during  tJic  siege  of  that 
city  ;  we  may  conceive  how  deeply  the  Spaniards  must  have 
felt  the  sentiments  of  national  glory  and  independence 
which  breathe  throughout  the  drama,  and  with  what  anima- 
tion they  must  have  prepared  for  new  dangers  and  new 
sacrifices.  We  thus  see  tliat  the  theatre,  which  we  have 
denominated  barbarous,  did  in  fact  approach  much  nearer 
than  our  own,  to  that  of  the  Greeks,  in  the  energetic  in- 
fluence Avhich  it  exerted  over  the  people,  and  in  the  empire 
with  which  the  poet  ruled  his  audience.  We  cannot,  at  the 
same  time,  avoid  being  struck  in  the  Numantia  with  the 
ferocity  which  reigns  throughout  the  whole  drama.  The 
resolution  of  the  Numantians,  the  details  of  their  situation, 
the  progress  of  the  plot,  and  the  catastrophe,  are  all  terrific. 
The  tragedy  does  not  draw  tears,  but  the  shuddering  horror 
which  it  induces  becomes  almost  a  punishment  to  the  spec- 
tator. It  is  one  symptom  of  the  change  which  Philip  II. 
and  the  autos  da  fi  had  wrought  in  the  cliaracter  of  the 
Castilians ;  and  we  shall  soon  have  occasion  to  notice  others. 
When  the  soldiers  of  fanaticism  had  acquired  these  fero- 
cious qualities,  literature  itself  did  not  wholly  escape  the 
infection. 

There  is  still  another  drama  by  Cervantes,  JJfe  hi  Ahjlers: 
Kl  Trato  de  Arcjcl :  which  has  been  called  a  comedy  ;  but 
neither  that  title,  nor  the  name  of  Cervantes,  must  lead  us 
to  expect  in  this  piece  the  same  humour  which  reigns 
throughout  Don  Quixote.  To  the  gloomy  picture  whicli  is 
represented  in  this  drama,  no  relief  is  afibrded  either  by 
liveliness  of  plot,  or  l>y  amusing  delineation  of  character. 
Cervantes  did,  indeed,  in  his  interludes  condescend  to  excite 
laughter  ;  but  the  object  both  of  his  comedies  and  of  his 
tragedies  was  to  awaken  terror  and  pity.  All  his  composi- 
tions were  adapted  to  excite  popular  feeling  on  the  topics  of 
politics  or  religion  ;  to  strengthen  the  pride,  the  indepen- 
dence, or  the  fanaticism  of  the  Spaniards.  His  dramas  were 
distinguished  into  tragedies  and  comedies  according  to  the 
rank  of  the  characters  and  the  dignity  of  the  action,  and  not 
from  any  reference  to  the  liveliness  or  the  gravity  of  their 
subjects. 

Cervantes,  as  we  have  already  stated,  had  been  detained 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  247 

foi"  five  years  and  a  half  a  captive  at  Algiers,  and  his  own 
sufferings  and  those  of  his  companions  iiad  made  a  deep  im- 
pression upon  him.  lie  returned  to  Spain  with  feelings  of 
violent  liatred  against  the  Moors,  and  with  an  ardent  desire 
to  contribute  towards  the  redemption  of  those  prisoners  who 
had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  Musulmans.  His  comedy  of 
Life  in  Algiers;  another  drama  wliich  he  published  towards 
the  close  of  his  life,  entitled,  Los  Banos  de  Argel  ;*  his  tale 
of  the  Captive  in  Don  Quixote,  and  that  of  the  Generous 
Lover,  were  not  mere  literary  works,  but  charitable  en- 
deavours to  serve  his  brother  captives,  and  to  excite  public 
opinion  in  their  favour.  His  object  was  to  rouse  the  nation 
and  the  king  himself  against  the  Musulmans,  and  to  preach 
a  kind  of  crusade  for  tlie  deliverance  of  all  Christian 
captives. 

To  accomplish  this  end  he  proposed  merely  to  give  to  the 
public  a  sketch  of  the  life  of  the  captives  in  Algiers,  and  a 
description  of  the  interior  of  their  habitations.  He  there- 
fore employed  no  dramatic  action,  no  plot,  and  no  catastrophe; 
nor  did  he  pay  the  least  regard  to  the  law^s  of  the  unities. 
He  only  collected  into  one  point  of  view  the  various  suflfer- 
ings,  pains,  and  humiliations  which  weVe  consequent  upon 
slavery  amongst  the  Moors.  The  truth  of  the  picture,  the 
proximity  of  the  scene,  and  the  immediate  interest  of  the 
spectators,  supplied  the  want  of  art,  which  is  visible  in  this 
drama,  and  exerted,  it  may  easily  be  believed,  a  more  power- 
ful influence  over  the  audience. 

Life  in  Algiers  contains  various  adventures,  unconnected 
with  one  another,  except  in  the  community  of  suffering. 
The  principal  characters  are  Aurelio  and  Sylvia,  an  affection- 
ate pair  who  are  ^xposed  to  the  solicitations  of  their  mistress 
and  master.  The  religion  and  conjugal  fidelity  of  Aurelio 
having  induced  him  to  repress  all  the  advances  of  his  mis- 
tress, Zara,  he  is  at  last  tempted  Avith  enchantments;  but 
the  demons  soon  perceive  that  they  have  no  power  over  a 
Christian.  He  is  then  exposed  to  the  seductive  influence  of 
Occasion  and  Necessity,  who  are  personified  by  the  dramatist, 
and  Avho  make  various  suggestions  to  the  captive,  which  he 

*  El  Trato  de  Argel,  Comedia,  {puh.  con  el  Viage  al  Parnaso.)  8vo. 
Madrid,  1784. 


248  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

at  last  succeeds  in  expelling  from  his  mind.  At  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  piece,  both  Aurelio  and  Sylvia  are  sent  home  by 
the  Dey  on  the  promise  of  a  large  ransom. 

Another  captive  of  the  name  of  Sebastian  relates,  with 
extreme  indignation,  a  spectacle  of  which  he  had  been  a 
witness  ;  the  reprisals  exercised  upon  the  Christians  by  the 
Musulmans.  The  conduct  of  the  Moors,  however,  at  which 
the  captive  expresses  such  horror,  appears  only  to  have  been 
a  just  retaliation.  A  Moor,  wlio  luid  been  forced  to  submit 
to  the  ceremony  of  baptism  at  Valencia,  being  afterwards 
exiled  with  his  countrymen,  had  taken  up  arms  against  the 
Christians.  Being  made  prisoner  in  an  engagement,  he  was 
recognized  as  having  been  baptized,  and  was  delivered  over 
to  the  Inquisition,  who  condemned  him  to  be  burnt  as  a  re- 
lapsed inlidel.  His  relations  and  friends,  eager  to  avenge 
him,  bought  a  Valencian  captive  of  the  same  class  of  In- 
quisitors, from  amongst  whom  his  judges  had  been  appointed, 
and  inflicted  upon  tlieir  captive  a  similar  death.  If  the 
rigour  of  such  reprisals  could  have  suspended  the  frightful 
proceedings  of  the  Inquisition,  this  attempt  to  terrify  the 
Spaniards  with  the  consequences  of  their  own  barbarity 
would  have  been  grounded  upon  good  reason.  The  retaliation 
in  this  case  did  not  inflict  the  punishment  of  the  guilty  upon 
the  innocent,  for  every  Inquisitor  was  bound  to  particii)ate 
in  the  same  crime.  Tiie  anecdote  is  founded  on  lact,  and  the 
Inquisitor  burnt  by  the  Algerines  was  the  monk  Miguel  de 
Aranda. 

One  of  the  most  affectino;  scenes  in  the  drama  is  the  Slave- 
market.  The  public  crier  oflers  to  sale  a  father  and  mother 
and  their  two  children,  who  are  to  be  sold  in  separate  lots. 
The  resignation  of  the  father,  who  in  this  dreadful  calamity 
does  not  forget  to  confide  in  the  goodness*of  God,  the  tears 
of  the  mother,  and  the  childish  conviction  of  the  younger 
captives,  that  no  power  upon  earth  can  dispose  of  them  con- 
trary to  the  will  of  their  parents,  altogether  form  a  frightful 
picture,  the  truth  of  which  is  the  more  impressive  from  the 
circumstance  that  the  characters  are  anonymous,  and  that  in 
the  present  age  such  scenes  may  happen  daily  at  Algiers  or 
in  our  colonics.  Tlie  merchant  who  is  about  to  buy  one  of 
the  children  makes  him  open  his  mouth,  in  order  that  he 
may  see  whether  he  is  in  good  health.     The  unhappy  child, 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS. 


249 


unconscious  that  it  is  possible  for  him  to  suffer  greater  griefs 
than  those  which  he  has  ah-eady  experienced,  imagines  that  the 
merchant  is  going  to  extract  a  decayed  tooth,  and  assuring 
liim  that  it  does  not  ache,  begs  him  not  to  pull  it  out.  These 
little  incidents  more  forcibly  describe  the  horrors  of  slavery 
than  the  most  laboured  eloquence  could  do.  In  the  child  is 
exhibited  a  touching  ignorance  of  the  destiny  which  awaits 
him  ;  in  the  merchant  a  cold  and  calculating  interest  con- 
trasted with  a  sensibility  which  he  beholds  without  any 
emotion.  We  suffer  in  common  with  the  whole  human  race, 
which  we  here  see  degraded  to  the  condition  of  the  brutes. 
The  merchant,  who  is  in  other  respects  a  worthy  man,  after 
giving  130  piastres  for  the  youngest  of  the  children,  thus 
addresses  him : 

Merchakt.  Come  hither,  child,  'tis  time  to  go  to  rest. 
JcAN.  Signer,  I  will  not  leave  my  mother  here, 

To  go  with  any  one. 
Mother.      Alas  !  my  child,  thou  art  no  longer  mine, 

But  his  who  bought  thee. 
Juan.  What !  then,  have  you,  mother. 

Forsaken  me  1 
Mother.      0  Heavens  !  how  cruel  are  ye  ! 
Merchant.  Come,  hasten,  boy. 
Juan.  Will  you  go  with  me,  brother? 

Francisco.    I  cannot,  Juan,  'tis  not  in  my  power, — 

May  Heaven  protect  you,  Juan  ! 
Mother.      Oh,  my  child. 

My  joy  and  my  delight,  God  won't  forget  thee  ! 
Juan.  0  father  !  mother  !  whither  will  they  bear  mo 

Away  from  you  ? 
Mother.      Permit  me,  worthy  Signer, 

To  speak  a  moment  in  my  infant's  ear. 

Grant  me  this  small  contentment ;  very  soon 

I  shall  know  nought  but  grief. 
Merchant.  What  you  would  sa}-. 

Say  now ;  to-night  is  the  last  time. 
Mother.      To-night 

Is  the  first  time  my  heart  e'er  felt  such  grief. 
Juan.  Pray  keep  me  with  you,  mother,  for  I  know  not 

Whither  he'd  carry  me. 
Mother.      Alas,  poor  child  ! 

Fortune  forsook  thee  even  at  tliy  birth  ; 

The  heavens  are  overcast,  the  elements 

Are  turbid,  and  the  very  sea  and  winds 

Are  all  combin"d  against  me.     Thou,  my  child, 

Know'st  not  the  dark  misfortunes  into  which 

Thou  art  so  early  pluug'd,  but  happily 
VOL.  1],  Q 


2.50  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

Lackest  the  power  to  comprehend  thy  fate. 

What  1  would  crave  of  thee,  my  life,  since  1 

Must  never  more  be  bless'd  with  seeing  thee, 

Is  that  thou  never,  never  wilt  forget 

To  say,  as  thou  wert  wont,  thy  Ave  Marij  j 

For  that  bright  queen  of  goodness,  grace  and  virtue, 

Can  loosen  all  thy  bonds  and  give  thee  freedom. 

Aydar.        liehold  the  wicked  Chi'istian,  how  she  counsels 

]Ier  innocent  child.    You  wish,  then,  that  your  child 
Should,  like  yourself,  continue  still  in  error. 

Juan.  O  mother,  mother,  may  I  not  remain  ] 

And  must  these  Moors  then  carry  me  away  1 

MoTHEK.      With  thee,  my  child,  they  rob  me  of  my  treasures. 

Juan.  Oh  I  am  much  afraid  ! 

Mother.  'Tis  I,  my  child, 

Who  ought  to  fear  at  seeing  thee  depart. 
Thou  wilt  forget  thy  God,  me,  and  thyself. 
What  else  can  I  expect  from  thee,  abandoned 
At  such  a  tender  age,  amongst  a  people 
Full  of  deceit  and  all  iniquity  1 

Criek.  Silence,  you  villainous  woman,  if  you  would  not 

Have  your  head  pay  for  what  your  tongue  has  done. 

In  the  fifth  act  Juan  is  introduced  as  a  renegade.  He  has 
been  seduced  by  the  dainties  and  rich  clothing  which  his 
master  has  given  him.  He  is  proud  of  his  turban,  and  dis- 
dains the  other  captives,  saying,  that  it  is  a  sin  in  a  Musul- 
man  to  remain  in  conversation  with  Christians.  Cervantes 
has  inserted  a  scene  between  Juan  and  his  mother,  who  is  in 
despair  at  his  apostasy.  The  motlier,  however,  does  not  again 
appear ;  her  grief  must  have  been  too  poignant  for  repi'esentation. 

The  escape  of  Pedro  Alvarez,  one  of  the  captives,  who 
being  unable  any  longer  to  bear  the  horroi's  of  slavery, 
resolves  to  cross  the  desert,  and  endeavour  to  reach  Oran  by 
following  the  line  of  the  coast,  forms  another  independent 
plot.  He  prepares  ten  pounds  of  biscuit,  made  of  eggs,  flour 
and  honey;  and  with  tliis  stock  of  provisions  and  three  pair 
of  shoes  he  enters  upon  a  journey  of  sixty  leagues,  through 
an  unknown  country,  and  over  a  burning  desert  infested  with 
wild  beasts. 

In  one  scene  the  captive  is  introduced  consulting  with 
Saavedra,  under  which  name,  in  all  probability,  tlie  dramatist 
intended  to  represent  himself.  In  another,  we  find  him  in 
the  midst  of  the  desert,  where  he  is  wandering  after  having 
lost  his  way  ;  his  provisions  are  exhausted,  his  clothes  are  iu 
tatters,  his  shoes  are  worn  out,   and  he   is  tormented  with 


OF    TUE    SPANIARDS.  251 

hunger,  and  reduced  to  such  an  extreme  of  weakness,  that  he 
caii  with  difficulty  walk.  In- this  state  of  distress  he  invokes 
the  Virgin  of  Montserrat,  and  presently  a  lion  appearing 
crouches  down  at  his  feet.  The  captive  finds  his  strength 
restored  ;  the  lion  becomes  his  guide  ;  he  recommences  his 
joui'ney,  and  when  he  appears  upon  the  stage  the  third  time, 
he  has  nearly  arrived  at  Oran. 

Towards  the  conclusion  of  the  fifth  act  the  arrival  of  a 
monk  of  the  order  of  the  Trinity  is  announced,  bearing  wath 
him  a  sum  of  money  lor  the  redemption  of  the  captives.  The 
prisoners  throw  themselves  on  their  knees  in  prayer,  and  the 
curtain  falls,  leaving  the  spectators  to  conclude  that  they  are 
all  redeemed. 

Such  are  the  two  dramas  which  alone  remain,  of  the  twenty 
or  thirty  which  were  composed  by  Cervantes  in  his  youtli. 
They  are  curious  specimens  of  the  character  which  that  great 
genius  gave  to  the  national  drama  of  Spain,  at  a  period  when  it 
was  in  his  power  to  model  it  according  to  his  will.  The  theatre 
of  the  ancients  was  not  unknown  to  Cervantes,  for,  in  addition 
to  the  opportunities  he  had  enjoyed  of  becoming  acquainted 
with  it  in  the  learned  languages,  he  was  very  familiar  with 
the  Italian,  and  consequently  with  the  efforts  which  had  been 
made  at  the  court  of  Leo  X.  to  revive  the  scenic  I'epresenta- 
tions  of  Greece  and  Rome.  In  Spain,  indeed,  during  the 
reign  of  Charles  V.  Perez  de  Oliva  had  translated  the  Electra 
of  Sophocles,  and  the  Hecuba  of  Euripides  ;  Terence  also  had 
been  rendered  into  Spanish  by  Pedro  Simon  de  Abril,  and 
Plautus  had  appeared  in  a  Castilian  dress.  Cervantes,  how- 
ever, thought  that  the  moderns  ought  to  possess  a  drama, 
which  should  represent  their  own  manners,  opinions,  and 
character,  and  not  those  of  antiquity.  He  formed,  indeed,  his 
idea  of  tragedy  upon  the  models  of  the  ancients  ;  but  that 
which  he  beheld  was  not  what  we  discover  in  their  dramas. 
The  dramatic  art  appeared  to  him  to  be  the  art  of  transporting 
the  audience  into  the  midst  of  events  calculated,  from  their 
political  or  religious  interest,  to  make  the  most  profound  im- 
pression upon  the  mind  ;  tragedy,  the  art  of  making  the 
spectators  sharers  in  the  most  brilliant  historical  incidents  ; 
and  comedy,  of  introducing  them  into  the  houses  of  indivi- 
duals, and  of  laying  bare  their  vices  or  their  virtues.  He 
attached  little  importance  to  that  which  has  become  a  matter 

q2 


252  ox  Tin:  literature 

or"  such  consequence  in  our  eyes,  the  space  of  time  which  is 
supposed  to  C'hipse  between  each  scene,  and  tlie  power  of 
transferring  tlie  actors  from  phicc  to  phice.  He  paid  the 
greatest  attention,  on  tlie  contrary,  to  that  which  we  have 
considered  as  a  defect  in  tlie  ancient  dranin,  the  poetical  and 
religious,  or  lyrical  portion,  which  amongst  the  Greeks  was 
the  province  of  the  chorus,  and  which  Cervantes  wished  to 
reproduce  by  tlie  aid  of  allegorical  personages. 

Tiie  ancients,  who  made  religious  sjiectacles  of  their  trage- 
dies, always  aimed  at  representing  the  course  of  Providence, 
or  Fate,  as  linked  with  human  actions.  The  choruses,  which 
during  the  progress  of  the  drama,  shock  our  ideas  of  propriety, 
appeared  to  them  to  be  necessary  for  the  purpose  of  interpret- 
ing the  will  of  the  Divinity,  of  recalling  the  thoughts  I'rom 
terrestrial  to  higher  ol)jects,  and  of  re-establishing  the  tran- 
quillity of  the  soul  by  the  delights  of  lyrical  poetry,  after  the 
passionate  excitement  of  theatrical  eloquence.  Such  likewise 
was  the  end  which  Cervantes  proposed  to  himself,  in  the  crea- 
tion of  his  allegorical  personages,  lie  did  not  allow  them 
to  mingle  in  the  action  like  supernatural  beings,  nor  did  he 
make  any  of  the  incidents  depend  upon  their  agency.  Indeed, 
like  the  choruses  of  the  ancients,  they  might  be  rejected  from 
his  dramas  altogetlier  without  any  void  being  perceived.  His 
aim  was  to  give  us  an  idea,  through  their  means,  of  the  cor- 
responding progress  of  the  universe,  and  of  the  designs  of 
Providence.  He  wished  to  enable  us  to  behold  in  his  dramas 
tlie  things  invisible,  as  though  they  were  material.  Pie  wished 
to  transport  his  drama  from  the  real  world  into  the  realm  of 
poetry  ;  and  he  endeavoured  to  accomplish  tiiis  object  by  the 
assistance  of  the  most  elevated  language,  which  he  could  put 
into  the  mouths  of  these  unearthly  beings,  by  the  magic  of 
lyrical  poetry,  and  by  the  emiiloyment  of  the  boldest  figures. 
These  objects,  which  are  altogether  excluded  from  our  drama, 
but  wliicli  w(!re  much  considered  by  the  ancients,  have  beers 
but  imperfectly  attained  by  Cervantes.  Perhaps  he  did  not 
possess  in  a  high  degree  the  lyrical  talent.  If  there  are  any 
sublime  passages  in  his  plays,  they  are  to  be  found  in  the  dia- 
logues, and  not  in  the  rhapsodi(>s  of  his  allegorical  characters. 
Moreover,  the  iiitroduetiun  of  allegorical  personages  upon  th.e 
stage  appears  to  be  directly  contrary  to  the  essence  of  the 
drama,  which,  as  it  ap{)eals  as  well  to  the  eye  as  to  the  ear, 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  253 

ouglit  not  to  admit  of  objects  vvliich  never  can  have  a  visible 
existence.  Wlien  Famine  oi*  Sickness  ajipears  in  tlieNiiman- 
tia,  and  Occasion  or  Necessity  in  the  Life  in  Algiers,  the 
action  of  the  drama  is  arrested.  These  metaphysical  abstrac- 
tions destroy  at  once  tlie  illusion,  the  vivacity,  and  the  interest 
of  the  drama,  and  the  attention  is  confused  by  these  varying 
appeals  to  the  intellect  and  to  the  senses. 

In  the  Numantia  Cervantes  has  scrupulously  observed  the 
unity  of  action,  the  unity  of  interest,  and  the  unity  of  passion. 
No  episode  is  mingled  with  the  terrible  plot.  The  whole 
people  are  animated  with  one  idea,  and  partake  of  the  same 
suffering.  Individual  wretchedness  is  swallowed  uj)  in  the 
general  calamity,  which  it  only  serves  to  render  more  striking. 
The  story  of  Morandro  and  Lira  presents  us  with  a  picture  of 
what  every  lover  in  Numantia  must  have  suffered  ;  and 
instead  of  detracting  from  the  interest,  serves  to  concentrate 
it.  There  are  no  ti-aces  either  in  this  play,  or  in  the  Life  in 
Algiers,  of  that  insipid  spirit  of  gallantry  which  has  infested 
the  French  theatre  from  its  birth,  and  which  has  been  errone- 
ously attributed  to  the  Spanish.  In  Cervantes,  and  generally 
in  the  Spanii^h  dramas,  we  never  see  a  hero  in  love,  but  when 
he  ought  to  be  so  ;  and  their  language,  figurative  and  hyper- 
bolical as  it  is,  according  to  the  bad  taste  of  the  nation,  is  still 
passionate  and  not  gallant.  Tlie  unity  which  was  so  rigor- 
ously observed  in  the  Numantia,  was  completely  abandoned 
by  Cervantes  in  his  Life  in  Algiers.  It  is  strange  that  he  did 
not  perceive  that  it  is  that  quality  alone  which  is  the  basis  of 
harmony  ;  which  preserves  the  relation  of  the  various  parts  ; 
which  distinguishes  the  productions  of  genius  from  real  life, 
and  the  dialogue  of  the  drama  from  the  conversations  of 
society.  Life  in  Algiers  is  consequently  a  tiresome  play,  and 
loses  its  interest  as  we  advance  in  it,  notwithstanding  it  pos- 
sesses some  beautiful  scenes. 

Hitherto  we  have  only  animadverted  upon  the  errors  of  the 
art  ;  in  other  points  of  view,  we  may  perceive  that  it  was  in 
its  infancy.  Thus  Cervantes  has  formed  a  false  idea  of  the 
patience  of  his  audience.  Supposing  that  a  line  speech  must 
produce  the  same  effect  upon  the  stage  as  before  an  academi- 
cal assembly,  he  has  frequently  made  his  characters  trespass 
beyond  every  boundary,  both  of  natural  dialogue  and  of  the 
reader's  patience.     He  who  in  his  narrative  style  was  so  ex- 


254  ON    TIIK    LlTiCUATURE 

ccUent,  who  in  his  romances  and  novels  so  completely  possessed 
the  art  of  exciting  and  of  sustaining  interest,  of  saying  pre- 
cisely what  was  proper  ami  stopping  exactly  wliere  lie  should, 
yet  knew  not  liow  much  the  pul)lic  would  be  willing  to 
hear  from  the  mouth  of  an  actor.  Many  of  the  Spanish  dra- 
matists appear  to  have  been  equally  ignorant  upon  tliis  point. 
The  two  dramas  of  Cervantes  occupy  an  insulated  station  in 
the  literature  of  Spain.  We  discover  not  after  him  any 
instance  of  that  terrible  majesty  which  reigns  throughout  the 
Numantia,  of  that  simplicity  of  action,  that  natural  dialogue, 
and  that  truth  of  sentiment.  Liope  de  Vega  introduced  new 
plays  upon  the  stage,  and  the  public,  captivated  by  the  plea- 
sure of  pursuing  an  intrigue  tlirough  its  thousand  windings, 
became  disgusted  with  the  representation  of  powerful  and 
deep  emotions,  which  produced  not  the  effect  of  surprise. 
Cervantes  himself  gave  way  to  the  national  taste,  without 
satisfying  it,  in  the  eight  plays  which  he  publislied  in  ids 
declining  years ;  and  the  Castilian  ^schylus  may  be  said  to 
have  left  us  only  one  real  specimen  of  his  dramatic  genius. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

NOVELS  AND  ROMANCES  OF  CERVANTES;  THE  ARAUCANA  OF  DON  ALONZO 

DE  ERCILLA. 

Cervantes  was  eminently  gifted  with  the  narrative  talent, 
a  quality  which  seems  to  be  intimately  connected  witli 
dramatic  powers,  since,  in  order  to  possess  it,  an  author  must 
be  capable  of  understanding  and  adhering  to  the  unity  of  liis 
narrative.  That  unity  is  the  central  point  to  whieli  all  the 
other  portions  of  the  work  have  reference,  and  upon  which 
tliey  all  depend.  The  (q)isodes  are  thus  connected  with  tlie 
main  action,  and  never  fatigue  the  mind;  the  plot  excites  the 
attention ;  and  the  catastrophe  clears  away  all  the  mysteries 
at  once.  It  is  moreover  reciuisite,  as  in  the  dramatic  art,  to 
be  capable  of  giving  the  colours  of  truth  and  nature  to  every 
object,  and  the  appearance  of  completeness  and  probability  to 
every  character  ;  to  bring  events  before  the  reader  by  words, 
as  the  dramatist  does  by  action  ;  to  say  exactly  what  ought  to 
be  said,  and  nothing  farther.  It  is  in  fact  this  talent  that 
lias  conferred  upon  Cervantes  his  immortality.     His  most 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  255 

celebrated  works  are  tliose  romances  in  which  the  richness  of 
his  invention  is  relieved  by  the  charms  of  his  style,  and  by 
his  happy  art  of  arrranging  the  incidents  and  bringing  them 
before  the  eye  of  the  readei-.  We  liave  already  spoken  of 
Don  Quixote,  which  merited  a  separate  examination,  and  we 
must  content  ourselves  with  bestowing  less  time  on  the  pas- 
toral romance  of  Galatea,  on  that  of  Persiles  and  SIr/istmmda, 
and  on  the  collection  of  little  tales  w^hich  Cervantes  has  called 
his  Exemplary  Novels.  In  giving  an  idea  of  the  literature 
of  a  country,  it  seems  proper  to  detail  all  the  works  of  cele- 
brated authors,  and  to  pass  rapidly  over  those  Avho  have  not 
attained  the  first  rank.  By  studying  the  former,  we  are 
enabled  to  observe  not  only  the  intellectual  progress  of  the 
nation,  but  likewise  its  peculiar  taste  and  spirit,  and  fre- 
quently even  the  manners  and  history  of  the  people.  It  is 
much  more  agreeable  to  contemplate  the  Castilians  as  they 
are  painted  in  the  works  of  Cervantes,  than  to  attempt  a 
picture  of  our  own,  wliich  must  necessarily  be  less  faithful 
than  the  native  delineation. 

Cervantes  had  reached  his  sixty-fifth  year  wlien  he  pub- 
lished, under  the  name  of  Exemplary  or  Instructive  Novels, 
twelve  beautiful,  tales,  which  though  they  have  been  translated 
into  French,  are  not  generally  known.*  This  species  of 
composition  was,  before  the  time  of  Cervantes,  unknown  in 
modern  literature  ;  for  he  did  not  take  Boccacio  and  the 
Italian  Novelists  as  his  models,  any  mors  than  Marmontel 
has  done  in  his  Contes  JMoraux.  These  tales  are,  in  fact, 
little  romances,  in  which  love  is  delicately  introduced,  and 
wliere  the  adventures  serve  as  a  vehicle  for  passionate 
sentiments. 

The  first  novel  is  entitled.  La  Gitanilla,  or  Tlce  Gipsy 
Girl,  and  contains  an  interesting  picture  of  that  race  of 
people,  who  were  formerly  spread  over  all  Europe,  though 
they  nowhere  submitted  themselves  to  the  laws  of  society. 
About  Jhe  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century  this  wandering 
race  first  appeared  in  Europe,  and  were  by  some  considered 
to  be  a  caste  of  Farias  who  had  escaped  from  India,  and  were 

[There  is  an  English  translation  of  the  Exemplary  Novels  by  Shelton, 
which  was  republished  in  1742.  A  new  translation  has  lately  appeared 
in  two  vols.  12mo.  London,  1822.  The  extract  from  y/te  (?i>s;/-C?/W, 
given  in  the  text,  has  been  transcribed  from  these  volumes. — Tr.'\ 


256  ON    THK    LITERATURE 

called  indifferently  I<]gyptians  and  Boliemi.ins.  From  that 
period  down  to  the  present  day  they  have  continued  to 
wander  through  the  various  countries  of  Europe,  subsisting 
by  petty  thefts,  by  levying  contributions  on  the  superstitious, 
or  by  the  share  which  they  often  took  in  festivals.  They 
have  now  almost  entirely  disappeared  from  many  of  the 
nations  of  the  continent.  The  j-igorous  police  of  France, 
Italy,  and  Germany,  docs  not  suffer  the  existence  of  a  race 
of  vagabonds  who  pay  no  regard  to  the  rights  of  property  and 
who  de.-pise  the  laws.  Tliere  are  still,  however,  numbers  of 
these  people  to  be  found  in  England,  where  the  legislature 
formerly  sanctioned  such  cruel  enactments  against  them  that 
it  was  found  impossible  to  put  them  into  execution.  Many, 
likewise,  still  exist  in  Russia,  and  some  in  Spain,  where  the 
mildness  of  the  climate  and  the  wild  features  of  the  country 
are  highly  favourable  to  that  uneonfined  and  wandering  life, 
for  which  the  Bohemians  seem  to  have  derived  a  taste  from 
the  eastern  nations.  The  description  of  the  community  which 
they  formed  in  the  time  of  Cervantes  is  more  curious  from 
the  circumstance  of  their  numbers  at  that  period  being 
greater,  and  their  liberty  more  complete,  than  at  any  subse- 
quent time ;  while  the  superstition  of  the  people  aflfbrded 
them  a  readier  support.  Their  manners,  their  laws,  and 
their  characters,  were  consequently  at  that  period  developed 
with  much  more  truth  and  simplicity. 

The  heroine  of  the  first  tale,  who  is  called  Preciosa,  accom- 
panied by  three  young  girls  of  about  fifteen  years  of  age,  like 
herself,  frequents  the  streets  of  Madrid  under  the  superin- 
tendence of  an  old  woman,  for  the  purpose  of  amusing  the 
public  in  the  cofTce-houses  and  other  public  places,  by  dancing 
to  the  sound  of  the  tambourine,  which  she  sometimes  accom- 
panies by  songs  and  verses  occasionally  of  her  own  extempo- 
raneous composition,  or  else  obtained  from  poets  who  were 
employed  by  the  gipsies.  The  noblemen  used  to  invite  them 
into  their  houses,  that  they  might  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
them  dance,  and  the  ladies  in  order  to  have  their  fortunes  told 
them.  Preciosa,  who  was  modest  and  much  respected,  yet 
possessed  that  vivacity  of  mien  and  that  gaiety  and  promj)ti- 
tude  of  repartee  which  so  remarkably  distinguished  her 
race.  Even  in  religious  festivals  she  would  appear  and  chaunt 
songs  in  honour  of  the  saints  and  the  Virgin.     In  all  proba- 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  257 

bility,  tliis  apparent  devotion  of  the  Bohemians,  who  never 
take  any  part  in  public  worship,  protected  them  in  Spain, 
where  they  were  called  Christianas  Nuevos,  from  the  anim- 
adversion of  the  Inquisition.  Tlie  delicacy  and  beauty  of 
Preciosa  gained  the  heart  of  a  cavalier,  not  more  distinguished 
by  his  fortune  than  by  his  figure ;  but  she  refused  to  accept 
his  hand,  unless  he  consented  to  pass  a  probation  of  two 
years  by  residing  amongst  the  gipsies,  and  sharing  their 
mode  of  life.  The  address  of  one  of  the  oldest  gipsies  to  the 
cavalier,  who  assumes  the  name  of  Andres,  is  remarkable  for 
that  purity  and  elegance  of  language  and  that  eloquence  of 
thought  which  are  peculiar  to  Cervantes.  The  gipsy  takes 
Preciosa  by  the  hand,  and  presents  her  to  Andres  : 

"  We  appropriate  to  you  the  companionship  of  this  young 
girl,  who  is  the  flower  and  ornament  of  all  the  gipsies  to  be 
found  throughout  Spain.  It  is  now  virtuously  placed  within 
your  own  power  to  consider  her  either  as  your  wife,  or  as 
your  mistress.  Examine  her  thoroughly,  weigh  maturely 
whether  she  is  pleasing  to  you,  find  out  whetlicr  she  has  any 
defect,  and  should  you  fancy  that  you  are  not  calculated  for 
each  other,  throw  your  eyes  around  upon  all  the  other  gipsy 
girls,  and  you  shall  have  the  object  of  your  selection.  But 
we  warn  you  that  when  once  you  have  made  your  choice,  you 
cannot  retract,  and  must  be  contented  with  your  fate.  No 
one  dares  to  encroach  upon  his  friend,  and  hence  we  are 
shielded  from  the  torments  of  jealousy.  Adultery  is  never 
committed  amongst  us  ;  for  if  in  any  instance  our  wives  or 
our  mistresses  ai'e  detected  in  infringing  our  laws,  we  inflict 
punishment  with  the  utmost  severity.  You  must  also  be 
apprised  that  we  never  have  resort  to  courts  of  justice  ;  we 
have  our  own  jurisdiction,  we  execute  judgment  ourselves, 
we  are  both  judges  and  executioners,  and  after  regular  con- 
demnation, we  get  rid  of  the  parties  by  burying  them  in  tlie 
mountains  and  deserts,  and  no  person  whatsoever,  not  even 
their  parents,  can  obtain  information  of  them,  or  bring  us  to 
account  for  their  deaths.  It  is  the  dread  of  this  summary 
jurisdiction  which  preserves  chastity  within  its  natural 
bounds  ;  and  thence  it  is,  as  I  have  already  stated,  that  we 
live  in  perfect  tranquillity  on  this  score,  so  dreadfully  mis- 
chievous and  annoying  in  other  societies.  There  are  few 
things  which  we  possess,  that  we  do  not  possess  in  common  ; 


"258  ON    THE  LITERATURE 

but  wives  and  mistresses  are  a  sacred  exception.     We  com- 
mand the  whole  universe,  the  fields,  the  fruits,  the  herbage, 
the  forests,  tlie  mountains,  the  rivers,  and  the  fountains,  the 
stars  and  all  the  elements  of  nature.     Early  accustomed  to 
liardship,  we  can  scarcely  be  said  to  be  sufferers  ;  we  sleep 
as  soundly  and  as  comfortably  upon  the  ground  as  upon  beds 
of  down  ;  and  the  parched  skin  of  our  bodies  is  to  us  equal 
to  a  coat  of  mail,  impenetrable  to  the  inclemencies  of  the 
iveather.    Insensible  to  grief,  the  most  crnel  torture  does  not 
afflict  us,  and  under  whatever  form  they  make  us  encounter 
death,  we  do  not  shrink  even  to  the  change  of  colour.     "We 
have  learned  to   despise   death.     We    make    no    distinction 
between  the  affirmative  and  the  negative,  when  we  find  it 
absolutely  necessary  to  our  purpose.     We  are  often  martyrs, 
but  we  never  turn  informers.     We  sing,  though  loaded  with 
chains  in  the  darkest  dungeons,  and  our  lips  are  hermetically 
sealed  under  all  the  severe  infiictions  of  the  rack.    The  rrrcat 
and  undisguised  object  of  our  profession  is  '  furtively  to  seize 
the  property  of  others,  and  appropriate  it  to  our  own  use;' 
tliereby  invariably  imitating  the  jjlausible  but  perfidious  ex- 
ample of  the  generality  of  mankind  under  one  mask  or  other, 
in  which  however  we  have  no  occasion  to  court  witnesses  to 
instruct  us.    In  the  day  we  employ  ourselves  in  insignificant, 
amusing,  trifling  matters,  but  we  devote  the  night  and  its 
accommodating   darkness    to    the    great    object  of  our   pro- 
fessional combination.     The  brilliancy  of  glory,  the  etiquette 
of  honour,  and  the  pride  of  ambition,  form  no  obstacles  to  us 
as  they  do  in  other  fraternities.     Hence  we  are  exempt  from 
that  base,  cowardly,  and  infamous  servitude,  which  degrades 
the  illustrious  un]iai)py  voluntarily  into  slaves." 

Such  was  the  singular  race  of  people  who  lived  the  life  of 
the  uncultivated  savage,  in  the  midst  of  society  ;  who  pre- 
.served  manners,  a  language,  and  probably  a  religion  of  their 
own,  "maintaining  their  independence  in  Spain,  England,  and 
Russia,  for  nearly  five  hundred  years.  It  may  be  supposed 
that  the  Gipsi/  Girl  terminates  like  every  other  romance, 
the  heroine  of  which  is  of  low  birth.  Preciosa  is  discovered 
to  l)e  the  daugliter  of  a  noble  lady,  and  her  real  rank  being 
discovered,  she  is  married  to  her  lover. 

The  second  novel,  which  is  entitled  T/ie  Liberal  Lover, 
contains  the  adventures  of  some  Christians  who  have  been 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  259 

■reduced  to  slavery  by  the  Turks.  Cervantes  lived  in  the 
time_  of  the  famous  corsairs  Barbarossa  and  Dragut.  The 
Ottoman  and  Bai'bary  fleets  then  claimed  tlie  dominion  of 
the  Mediterranean,  and  had  been  long  accustomed,  in  con- 
junction with  the  fleets  of  Henry  II.  and  the  French,  annually 
to  ravage  the  shores  of  Italy  and  Spain.  No  one  could  be 
assured  of  living  in  safety.  The  Moors,  running  the  light 
vessels  on  shore,  used  to  rusli  sword  in  hand  into  the  gardens 
and  houses  wliich  adjoined  the  sea,  generally  attending  more 
closely  to  the  seizing  of  captives,  than  to  the  acquisition  of 
plunder,  from  a  conviction  that  the  wealthy  individuals  whom 
they  thus  carried  into  Barbary,  and  shut  up  in  the  slave- 
yards,  or  condemned  to  the  hardest  labour,  would  gladly 
purchase  redemption  from  this  horrid  servitude  even  at  the 
price  of  their  whole  fortune.  In  this  state  of  terror,  during 
the  reigns  of  Charles  V.  and  his  successors,  did  the  people 
live  who  dwelt  upon  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean.  Sicily 
and  the  Idngdom  of  Naples,  not  being  the  residence  of  their 
sovereign,  were  more  particularly  exposed  to  the  cruelties  of 
tlie  Barbary  powers.  They  were,  in  fact,  without  a  marine, 
without  garrisons,  without  resources  for  defence  ;  in  short, 
without  any  other  than  a  vexatious  viceregal  government, 
which  oppressed  without  protecting  them.  It  was  in  their 
gardens,  near  Trapani,  in  Sicily,  that  the  liberal  lover  and 
his  mistress  Leonisa  were  made  captive.  They  meet  each 
otlier  again  at  Nicosa,  in  Cyprus,  two  years  after  the  taking 
of  that  city,  in  1571  ;  and  their  adventures  possess  the  double 
merit  of  powerful  romantic  interest  and  great  fidelity  of 
character  and  description.  Cervantes,  wlio  had  fought  in  the 
wars  of  Cyprus  and  in  tlie  Greek  seas,  and  who  during  his 
captivity  had  become  well  acquainted  with  the  Musulmans 
and  with  the  condition  of  their  Christian  slaves,  lias  given  to 
his  eastern  tales  a  great  appearance  of  historical  truth.  The 
imagination  cannot  feign  a  more  cruel  moral  infliction  than 
that  to  which  a  man  of  a  cultivated  mind  is  subjected,  when 
he  falls,  together  with  all  the  objects  of  his  fondest  affection, 
into  the  hands  of  a  barbarian  master.  The  adventures, 
therefore,  of  Corsairs  and  their  captives  are  all  of  them  sin- 
gularly romantic.  At  one  period,  the  French,  the  Italians, 
and  the  Spanish,  borrowed  all  their  plots  from  this  source. 
The  public,  liowever,  soon  became  fatigued  with  the  same 


260  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

unvarying  fictions.  Truth  nlonc  possesses  the  essence  of 
variety  ;  and  the  imagination,  unnourished  by  truth,  is  com- 
pelled to  copy  itself.  Every  picture  of  captivity  which 
Cervantes  lias  presented  to  us  is  an  original,  for  he  painted 
from  tlie  memory  of  his  sufferings.  The  other  descriptions 
of  this  kind  appear  to  be  merely  casts  from  this  first  model. 
Romance-writers  should  not  be  permitted  to  introduce  the 
corsairs  of  Algiers  into  their  tales,  unless,  like  Cervantes,  they 
have  been  themselves  inmates  of  the  slave-vard. 

The  third  tale,  entitled  Rinconete  and  CoTtadillo,  is  of 
another  clas.s,  though  completely  Spanish.  It  is  in  the 
Picaresco  style,  of  which  the  author  of  LnzariUo  de  Tormes 
was  the  inventor.  The  history  of  two  young  thieves  is 
related  in  this  novel  with  the  greater  humour,  inasmuch  as 
the  wit  of  tlie  Spanish  writers  was  peculiarly  reserved  for  tlie 
description  of  vulgar  life.  It  seems  that  they  were  only  per- 
mitted to  ridicule  such  as  had  absolutely  cast  aside  all  pre- 
tensions to  honour.  It  is  from  those  writers  that  we  have 
invariably  borrowed  our  descriptions  of  the  social  life  and 
organization  of  the  community  of  thieves  and  beggars,  and 
it  is  amongst  them  alone,  I  am  inclined  to  believe,  that  they 
ever  existed.  The  company  of  robbers  of  Seville,  and  the 
authority  possessed  by  their  chief,  Monipodio,  are  pleasantly 
described  in  this  novel.  The  most  laughable  portions  of  it, 
however,  and  which  are  very  correct  as  far  as  regards  both 
Spain  and  Italy,  are  those  in  which  tlie  strange  union  of 
devotion  and  licentiousness  amongst  these  vagabonds  is 
described.  In  the  place  where  the  thieves  assemble  tliere  is 
an  image  of  the  Virgin,  witli  a  throne  for  the  offerings,  and 
a  vessel  of  holy  water  near  it.  Amongst  the  robbers  an  old 
woman  arrives,  "  who,  without  saying  a  word  to  any  one, 
walks  across  the  room,  and,  taking  some  of  the  holy  water, 
devoutly  falls  upon  her  knees  before  the  image  ;  and  after  a 
long  ])rayer,  having  kissed  the  ground  thrice,  and  raised  as 
often  her  eyes  and  hands  to  heaven,  rises,  places  her  ofh.-ring 
on  the  throne,  and  walks  out  again."  All  the  thieves,  in 
turn,  make  an  offering  of  silver  ;  for  which  purpose  they 
reserve  part  of  their  acquhsitions,  to  be  employed  in  masses 
for  the  souls  of  their  deceased  companions,  and  of  their  bene- 
factors. Thus  a  young  robber,  who  conducts  Kinconete  to 
the  meeting,  to  the  question — 'Perhaps,  then,  you  follow  the 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  261 

occupation  of  a  thief  ?'  replies  :  "  I  do  so,  in  the  service  of 
God,  and  of  all  worthy  people  !' 

In  general  we  are  apt  to  imagine  that  this  corrupt  and 
unruly  portion  of  society,  who  violate  without  ceasing  all 
laws,  divine  and  human,  ai'e  infidels  in  their  religious 
opinions  ;  as  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  those  who  feel  any 
sentiments  of  religion,  woul  1  attach  themselves  to  such  infa- 
mous and  criminal  .occupations.  When,  therefore,  in  the 
countries  of  the  South,  we  remark  assassins,  robbers,  and 
prostitutes,  scrupulously  fulfilling  all  the  observances  of  reli- 
gion, we  immediately  accuse  them  of  hypocrisy,  and  imagine 
that,  by  this  show  of  Christianity,  they  merely  wish  to  de- 
ceive those  whose  eyes  are  upon  them.  This,  however,  is  au 
error  ;  for  in  the  South  of  Europe  all  these  people,  the  refuse 
of  society,  are  really  under  the  influence  of  religious  feelings. 
The  malefactors,  when  they  become  numerous,  find  or  form 
an  abandoned  priesthood,  who,  living  upon  their  offerings, 
and  partaking  the  produce  of  their  crimes,  are  always  ready 
to  sell  them  absolution.  The  criminal  commits  the  oH'ence 
with  a  determination  to  repent  of  it,  and  in  the  expectation 
of  absolution  ;  while  the  priest  confesses  him  with  a  conviction 
that  the  faith  is  in  him,  and  that  the  repentance  is  sincere. 
Scarcely,  however,  does  the  penitent  leave  tlie  church  than 
he  returns  to  his  criminal  habits.  By  this  shocking  abuse  of 
religion,  the  priest  and  the  offender  silence  their  consciences 
in  the  midst  of  all  their  iniquities.  Their  religion  is  not  a 
salutary  curb  :  it  is  an  infamous  contract,  by  which  the  most 
corrupt  men  believe  that  they  may  purchase  a  license  to 
satisfy  all  their  evil  propensities.  The  voice  of  conscience 
is  stifled  by  their  faith  in  the  act  of  penitence  ;  and  the  im- 
pious and  infidel  robber  would  never  reach  the  same  degree 
of  depravity,  which  we  may  remark  in  those  villains  so  zea- 
lous and  so  pious,  who  have  been  painted  by  Cervantes, 
and  of  whom  we  find  the  models  in  Italy  as  well  as  in 
Spain. 

The  three  first  novels  are  of  a  very  dissimilar  cast  ;  the 
nine  which  follow  them,  complete  the  varied  circle  of  inven- 
tion. The  Spanisli- EnglisJi  Ladij,  it  is  true,  shews  that 
Cervantes  was  much  more  imperfectly  acquainted  with  the 
heretics  than  with  the  Moors.  The  Licentiate  of  Glass,  and 
the  Dialogue  of  the  t/vo  Dogs  of  the  Hospital  of  the  Mesur- 


262  ox    THE    LlTEUATUIiE 

rection,  arc  satirical  pieces,  displayinj^  much  wit  and  incident. 
Tlie  Uc'uutiful  C/iar-iV())ti(in  rescniltlcs  a  love-romance  ;  and 
The  Jealous  3Ian  of  Egtremadura  is  distinguished  by  the 
excellence  of  its  characters,  by  its  plot,  and  by  the  skill  with 
which  the  catastrophe  is  brought  about.  AVe  have,  in  tliis 
tale,  an  example  of  the  prodigious  power  of  music  over  the 
Moois.  An  African  slave,  whose  lidelity  had  resisted  every 
temptation,  cannot  be  persuaded  to  be  unfaithful  to  his  trust, 
except  by  the  hope  of  being  taught  to  play  upon  the  guitar, 
and  to  chaunt  ballads  like  the  pretended  blind  man,  who 
every  evening  rouses  him  to  ecstasy  by  his  music.  The  novels 
of  Cervantes,  like  his  Don  Quixote,  lead  us  into  Spain,  and 
open  to  us  the  houses  and  the  hearts  of  her  inhabitants  ; 
while  their  infinite  variety  proves  how  completely  their 
author  was  master  of  every  shade  of  sentiment  and  every 
touch  of  feeling. 

We  have  already  related  that  shoi-tly  before  his  death  Cer- 
vantes was  employed  upon  a  work,  the  dedication  to  which  he 
composed  after  he  had  received  extreme  unction.  It  is  enti- 
tled :  Tlie  S//fferi)u/s  of  PeraUes  and  Sifjismonda,  a  Noriheni 
Story :  and  to  this  work  more  than  to  any  other  of  liis 
literary  labours  did  he  attach  his  hopes  of  fame.  The  judg- 
ment of  the  Spanish  has  placed  this  production  by  the  side  of 
Don  Quixote,  and  above  all  the  author's  other  works  ;  but  a 
foi-eigner  will  not,  I  should  imagine,  concede  to  it  so  much 
merit.  It  is  the  offspring  of  a  ricli,  but  at  the  same  time  of 
a  wandering  imagination,  which  confines  itself  within  no 
bounds  of  the  possible  or  the  probable,  and  which  is  not  sulH- 
ciently  founded  on  reality.  Cervantes,  who  was  so  correct 
and  elegant  a  painter  of  all  that  fell  within  the  sphere  of  his 
observation,  lias  been  pleased  to  place  the  scene  of  his  last 
tale  in  a  world  with  which  he  had  no  acquaintance.  He  had 
traversed  Spain,  Italy,  Greece,  and  Barbary;  he  was  at  home 
in  every  part  of  the  South.  He  has,  however,  entitled  this 
romance  a  Northern  story,  and  his  complete  ignorance  of  the 
North,  in  which  his  scene  is  laid,  and  which  he  imagines  to 
be  a  land  of  barbarians,  anthropophagi,  pagans,  and  enchanters, 
is  sulhciently  singular.  Don  Quixote  often  promises  Sancho 
Panza  the  kingdoms  of  Denmark  and  Soprabisa  ;  but  Cer- 
vantes, in  fact,  knew  little  more  of  these  countries  than  his 
knight.     The  King  of  Denmark  and  the  King  of  Danea  are 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  263 

both  introduced,  though  Denmark  and  Danea  are  the  same 
country.  One  halt'  of  the  isles  of  that  country,  he  says,  are 
savage,  deserted,  and  covered  with  eternal  snows  ;  the  other 
is  inhabited  by  corsairs,  who  slay  men  for  the  purpose  of 
eating  their  hearts,  and  make  women  prisoners  in  order  to 
elect  from  amongst  them  a  queen.  The  Poles,  the  Norwe- 
gians, the  Irish,  and  the  English,  are  all  introduced  in  their 
turns,  and  represented  as  possessing  manners  no  less  extra- 
ordinary, and  a  mode  of  life  no  less  iantastic  ;  nor  is  the  scene 
laid  in  that  remote  antiquity,  the  obscurity  of  which  might 
admit  of  such  fables.  The  heroes  of  the  romance  are  the 
contemporaries  of  Cervantes  ;  and  some  of  them  are  the 
soldiers  of  Charles  V,,  who  were  marched  with  him  into 
Flanders  or  Germany,  and  who  afterwards  wandered  into  the 
northern  countries. 

The  hero  of  the  romance,  Persiles,  is  the  second  son  of  the 
King  of  Iceland  ;  and  his  mistress,  Sigismonda,  is  the 
daughter  and  heiress  of  the  Queen  of  Friseland,  a  country 
Avhich  has  escaped  from  the  chart,  but  which  is  now  supposed 
to  have  been  the  Feroe  Islands,  where  the  very  veracious 
travellers  of  the  iifteenth  century  have  placed  many  of  their 
adventures.  Sigismonda  had  been  betx'othed  to  Maximin, 
the  brother  of  Persiles,  whose  savage  and  rude  manners  were 
little  calculated  to  touch  the  heart  of  the  sweetest,  the  most 
beautiful,  and  the  most  perfect  of  women.  The  two  lovers 
make  their  escape  at  the  same  time,  with  the  intention  of 
travelling  together  on  a  pilgrimage  to  Rome  ;  no  doubt  for 
the  purpose  of  obtaining  from  the  Pope  a  dispensation  from 
Sigismonda's  engagements.  Persiles  assumes  the  name  of 
Periander,  and  Sigismonda  that  of  Auristela  ;  and  during  the 
whole  of  the  romance  they  appear  under  these  names  :  they 
pass  as  brother  and  sister  ;  and  the  secret  of  their  birth  and 
history,  with  which  I  have  commenced  my  account  of  the 
novel,  is  not  disclosed  until  the  termination  of  the  work. 
Their  peregrinations  through  the  North  are  contained  in  the 
first  volume  ;  through  the  South,  in  the  second.  Exposed  to 
more  dangers  than  would  be  amply  sufficient  for  ten  reasonable 
romances  ;  captured  by  savages,  and  recaptured  ;  on  the  point 
of  being  i-oasted  and  eaten  ;  shipwrecked  innumerable  times, 
separated  and  re-united,  attacked  by  assassins,  by  poison, 
and  by  sorcery,  and  at  the  same  time  robbing  all  they  meet  of 


264  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

their  hearts,  they  run  greater  risks  from  the  love  which  they 
inspire  than  could  be  occasioned  by  hatred  itself.  The 
ravishers,  however,  who  dispute  for  them,  combat  so  fiercely 
amongst  themselves  that  they  are  all  slain.  In  this  manner 
j)erish  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  liarbdrous  Jsle,  where  a 
whole  nation  of  pirates  are  consumed  in  the  flames  which 
they  have  themselves  lighted.  On  another  occasion,  all  the 
sailors  of  a  vessel  fight  until  none  are  left  ;  but  this  was 
necessary,  that  our  travellers  might  have  a  lit  conveyance. 
This  romance  is  indeed  a  singularly  bloody  one.  Besides 
those  who  thus  perish  by  wholesale,  the  number  of  individuals 
who  die  or  kill  themselves  would  almost  fill  the  ranks  of  an 
army.  The  history  of  the  hero  and  heroine  is  interspersed 
with  a  thousand  episodes.  Before  they  arrive  at  the  end  of 
their  journey,  they  collect  a  numerous  caravan,  each  member 
of  whit  h  in  turn  recites  his  adventures.  These  are  always, 
of  course,  most  extraordinary,  and  manifest  great  fertility  of 
invention.  Many  of  them  are  amusing,  but  it  appears  to  me 
that  nothing  is  more  fatiguing  than  the  marvellous  ;  and  that 
there  is  never  so  great  a  similarity  as  between  productions 
which  resemble  nothing  else  in  nature.  Cervantes,  in  this 
novel,  has  fallen  into  many  of  the  errors  which  he  so  humor- 
ously exposed  in  Don  Quixote.  I  cannot  suppose  that  in 
Don  Belianis  or  in  Felix  Mars  of  Hircania  more  extravagance 
is  to  be  found  than  in  these  volumes.  The  style  of  the 
ancient  romance-writez's,  it  is  true,  did  not  possess  so  much 
elegance  and  purity. 

Amongst  the  episodes  there  is  one  which  appears  to  me  to 
be  interesting,  less  on  account  of  its  own  merits  than  because 
it  reminds  us  of  an  amusing  tale  of  one  of  our  celebrated 
contem[)oraries.  Persiles,  in  the  Barbarous  Isle,  discovers, 
amongst  the  i)irates  of  the  Baltic,  a  man  who  is  called  liutilio 
de  Sienna,  who  is  a  dancing-master,  like  Monsieur  Violet 
amongst  the  Iroquois.  In  his  own  country  he  had  seduced 
one  of  his  scholars,  and  had  been  imprisoned  pre[)aratory  to 
his  suffering  a  capital  punishment.  A  witch,  howevei',  who 
had  fallen  in  love  with  him,  opened  the  doors  of  his  prison. 
She  s})read  a  mantle  on  the  ground  before  him.  "  Slie  then 
desired  me  to  place  my  foot  upon  it  and  to  be  of  good  courage, 
but  for  a  moment  to  omit  my  devotions.  I  immediately  saw 
that    this  was  a    bad  beginning,  and  I  perceived    that  her 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  265 

object  was  to  convey  me  tlirough  the  air.  Although,  like  a 
good  Christian,  I  held  all  sorcery  in  contempt,  yet  the  fear  of 
death  in  this  instance  made  me  resolve  to  obey  her.  I  placed 
my  foot  on  the  middle  of  the  mantle,  and  she  also.  At  the 
same  time  she  muttered  some  words  which  I  could  not 
understand,  and  the  mantle  began  to  ascend.  I  felt  terribly 
afraid,  and  there  was  not  a  single  Saint  in  the  Litany  whom 
in  my  heart  I  did  not  invoke.  The  enchantress,  doubtless, 
perceived  my  terror,  and  divined  my  prayers,  for  she  again 
commanded  me  to  abstain  from  them.  '  Wretch  that  I  am,' 
exclaimed  I,  '  what  good  can  I  hope  for,  if  I  am  prevented 
from  asking  it  from  God,  from  whom  proceeds  all  good  ?'  At 
last  I  shut  my  eyes  and  suffered  the  devils  to  convey  me 
whither  they  would,  for  such  are  the  only  post-horses  which 
witches  employ.  After  having  been  carried  through  the  air 
for  four  hours,  or  a  little  more,  as  I  should  judge,  I  found 
myself  at  the  close  of  tlie  day  in  an  unknown  country. 

"  As  soon  as  the  mantle  touched  the  ground,  my  com- 
panion said  to  me  :  '  Friend  Rutilio,  you  have  arrived  at  a 
place,  Avhere  the  whole  human  race  cannot  harm  you.'  As 
she  spoke  these  words,  she  embraced  me  with  very  little 
reserve.  I  repelled  her  with  all  my  strength,  and  perceived 
that  she  had  taken  the  figure  of  a  wolf.  The  sight  froze  my 
senses.  However,  as  ol'ten  happens  in  great  dangers,  when 
the  very  hopelessness  of  escape  gives  us  desperate  strength, 
I  seized  a  hanger  which  I  had  by  my  side,  and  with  unspeak- 
able fury  plunged  it  into  the  breast  of  what  appeared  to  me 
to  be  a  wolf,  but  which  as  it  fell  lost  that  terrific  shape. 
The  enchantress,  bathed  in  her  blood,  lay  stretched  at  my 
feet. 

"  Consider,  Sirs,  that  I  was  in  a  country  perfectly  un- 
known to  me,  and  without  a  single  person  to  guide  me.  I 
Avaited  for  many  hours  the  return  of  day,  but  still  it  appeared 
not,  and  in  the  horizon  there  was  no  sign  which  announced 
the  approaching  sun.  I  quitted  the  corpse  which  excited  in 
my  heart  so  much  fear  and  terror,  and  minutely  examined 
the  appearance  of  the  heavens.  I  observed  the  motion  of 
the  stars,  and  from  the  course  which  they  pursued,  I  ima- 
gined that  it  should  already  have  been  day.  As  I  stood  in 
this  state  of  confusion,  I  heard  the  voice  of  people  approach- 
ing the  spot  were   I  was.     I  advanced  towards  them  and 

VOL.  II.  B 


266  ON    THE    LITEUATUIIE 

demanded  in  Tuscan,  in  what  country  I  might  be.  One  of 
them  answered  me  in  Italian:  'Tiiis  country  is  Norway  ; 
but  who  are  you  who  question  us  in  a  tongue  so  little 
known?'  'lam,'  said  I,  'a  wretcli  who  in  attempting  to 
escape  from  death  have  fallen  into  his  hands  ;'  and  in  a  i'ew 
words  I  related  to  them  my  journey,  and  the  death  of  the 
encliantress.  He  who  had  spoken  appeared  to  pity  nic,  and 
said  :  '  You  ought,  my  good  I'riend,  to  be  very  thankful  to 
heaven,  which  has  delivered  you  out  of  the  power  of  wicked 
sorcerers,  of  whom  there  are  many  in  tliese  northern  parts. 
It  is  said,  indeed,  that  they  transform  themselves  into  he- 
wolves  and  she-wolves,  for  theie  are  enchanters  of  both 
sexes.  I  know  not  how  this  can  be,  and  as  a  Christian  and 
a  Catholic  I  do  not  believe  it,  notwithstanding  experience 
demonstrates  the  contrary.  It  may,  indeed,  be  said  that 
their  transformations  are  the  illusions  of  the  devil,  who,  by 
God's  permission,  thus  punishes  the  sins  of  this  evil  genera- 
tion.' I  then  asked  him  the  hour,  as  the  night  appeared  to 
me  very  long  and  the  day  came  not.  He  replied,  that  in 
these  remote  regions  the  year  was  divided  into  four  portions. 
There  were  three  months  of  perfect  night,  during  which  the 
sun  never  appeared  above  the  horizon  ;  three  months  of 
daybreak,  which  were  neither  day  nor  night  ;  three  months 
of  uninterrupted  dayliglit,  during  which  the  sun  never  set  ; 
and  lastly,  three  months  of  twilight  :  that  the  season  then 
was  the  morning  twilight,  so  that  it  was  useless  to  look  for 
the  appearance  of  day.  He  added,  that  I  must  postpone 
until  the  period  of  perfect  day  my  j)rospect  of  returning 
home  ;  but  that  then  vessels  would  sail  witli  merchandize  to 
England,  France,  and  Spain.  He  inquired  whether  I  was 
acquainted  with  any  occupation  by  which  I  could  support 
myself  until  my  return  to  my  own  country.  I  replied,  that 
I  was  a  dancing-master,  very  skilful  in  the  saltatory  art,  as 
well  as  in  the  nimble  use  of  my  fingers.  Upon  this  my  new 
friend  began  to  laugh  n>ost  heartily,  and  assured  me  that  these 
occupations,  or  duties,  as  I  called  tlieni,  were  not  in  fashion 
in  Norway,  or  in  the  neighbouring  countries."  Ilutilio's 
host,  who  was  the  great  grandson  of  an  Italian,  taught  him 
to  work  as  a  goldsmith.  He  afterwards  made  a  voyage  for 
connnercial  purposes,  and  was  taken  by  the  pirates,  and 
carried  to  the  Barbarous  Itle,  where  he  remained  until  all 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  267 

the  inhabitants  were  destroyed  in  a  tumult,  Avhenhe  escaped, 
together  with  Persiles  and  Sigismonda. 

In  this  episode  we  recognize  the  pen  of  the  author  of  Don 
Quixote.  The  insignificance  of  the  hero  and  the  greatness 
of  the  incident  are  here  as  pleasantly  contrasted  as  in  Don 
Quixote  are  the  valour  of  the  hero  and  tlie  petty  nature  of  the 
incidents.  This  humorous  spirit,  however,  and  this  ironical 
style  of  treating  his  own  story,  only  manifest  themselves 
occasionally  in  this  work,  which  in  its  serious  marvellousness 
is  often  fatiguing. 

It  has  appeared  to  me  that  we  may  perceive  in  the  works 
of  Cervantes,  the  progress  which  superstition  was  making 
under  the  imbecile  sovereigns  of  Spain,  and  the  influence 
which  it  was  acquiring  over  the  mind  of  an  old  man  sur- 
rounded by  priests,  whose  object  it  was  to  render  him  as  in- 
tolerable and  as  cruel  as  themselves.  In  his  novel  of 
Rinconete  and  Cortadillo,  Cervantes  makes  a  skilful  and 
delicate  attack  upon  the  superstitions  of  his  country,  and  a 
similar  spirit  is  observable  in  his  Don  Quixote.  The  episode 
of  Ricoto  the  Moor,  the  countryman  of  Sancho  Panza,  who 
relates  the  sufferings  of  tlie  Moors,  for  the  most  part 
Christians,  on  their  banishment  from  Spain,  is  highly  touch- 
ing. "  The  punishment  of  exile,"  says  he,  "  which  some 
esteem  light  and  humane,  is  to  us  the  most  terrible  of  all. 
Wherever  we  roam  we  lament  Spain,  for  there  were  we  born, 
and  that  is  our  native  country.  Nowhere  have  we  found  the 
asylum  which  our  misfortunes  merited.  In  Barbary  and  in 
every  part  of  Africa,  where  we  had  hoped  to  meet  with  a 
friendly  reception,  an  asylum,  and  kind  treatment,  we  have 
been  more  injured  and  more  outraged  than  elsewhere.  We 
knew  not  the  benefits  which  we  possessed  until  we  lost  them. 
The  desire  which  we  almost  all  of  us  feel  to  return  into 
Spain  is  so  great,  that  the  greater  part  amongst  us,  who  like 
me  understand  the  language,  and  they  are  not  few,  have  re- 
turned into  this  country,  leaving  their  wives  and  children 
without  support.  It  is  now  only  that  we  feel  by  experience 
how  sweet  is  that  love  of  our  counti-y,  which  we  Ibrmerly 
used  to  hear  spoken  of."  With  whatever  reserve  the  esta- 
blished authorities  are  alluded  to  in  this  story,  and  in  the 
equally  affecting  stoi-y  of  his  daughter  Ricota,  it  is  impossible 
that  it  should  not  excite  a  deep  interest  for  so  many  unfortu- 

k2 


268  ON   THE    LITERATUHE 

nate  wretches,  who  aggrieved  in  their  religion,  oppressed  by 
the  laws,  no  less  than  by  individual  tyranny,  had  been  driven 
Avitli  their  wives  and  their  children,  to  the  number  of  «ix 
huiulred  thousand,  from  a  country  where  they  had  been 
established  for  more  than  eight  centuries  ;  a  country  which 
owed  to  them  its  agriculture,  its  commerce,  its  prosperity, 
and  no  inconsiderable  part  of  its  literature. 

In  Persiles  and  Sigismonda  there  is  a  Moorish  adventure, 
the  time  of  which  is  laid  near  the  period  of  their  expulsion 
from    Spain.      But   in   this    place  Cervantes   endeavours   to 
render    the    Musulmans    odious,  and  justify  the   cruel  law 
which  had  been  put  in  execution  against  them.     The  heroes 
of  the  romance  arrive  with  a  caravan  at  a  Moorish  village  in 
the  kingdom  of  Valencia,  situated  a  league  distant  from  the 
sea.      The  Moors   hasten  to   welcome   them  :  offering  their 
houses,  and  displaying  the   most  obliging  hospitality.      Tiie 
travellers   at   length  yield  to  these  entreaties,   and  take  up 
their  lodging  with  the  richest  Moor  in  the  village.     Scarcely, 
however,  had  they  retired  to  repose,  when  the  daughter   of 
their   host  secretly  apprizes  them,   that   they  had  been  thus 
pressingly  invited  in  order  that  they  might  be  entrapped  on 
board  a  Barbary  fleet,  which  would  arrive  in  the  night  for 
the  purpose    of  transporting   the   inhabitants   of  the   village 
and  all  their  riches  to  the  shores  of  Africa,   and  that  their 
host   hoped  by  making  them  prisoners  to  procure  a   large 
ransom.     The  travellei's,  in  consequence  of  this  intelligence, 
took  refuge  in  the  church,  where  they  fortified  themselves  ; 
and    in    the    niaht    the    inhabitants    of  the    village    having 
burned  their   dwellings,  set   sail  for  Africa.      Cervantes  on 
this    occasion    speaks   in  the    person    of  a  christian  Moor  : 
"  Happy  youth  !    prudent   king  !    go  on,   and  execute  this 
generous  decree  of  banishment  ;  fear   not  that  the   country 
will  be  deserted  and  uninhabited.     Hesitate  not  to  exile  even 
those  who  have  received  baptism.     Considerations  like  these 
ought  not  to  impede  your  progress,  for  experience  has  shown 
how  vain  they  are.     In   a  little  while  the  land  will  be   re- 
peopled   witli  new   Christians,  but  of  the   ancient  race.     It 
will  recover  its  fertility,  and  attain   a   higher  prosperity  than 
it  now  possesses.     If    the  lord  should    not  have  vassels  so 
numerous    and    so  humble,  yet   those   who    remain   will   be 
faithful  Catholics.  "With  them  the  roads  will  be  secure,  peace 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  269 

will  reiga,  and  oui*  property  will  be  no  longer  exposed  to  the 
attacks  of  these  robbers." 

This  work  leads  us  to  hazard  another  remark  on  the  cha- 
racter of  the  Spanish  nation.  The  hero  and  heroine  are 
represented  as  patterns  of  perfection.  They  are  young, 
beautiful,  brave,  generous,  tender,  and  devoted  to  one 
another  beyond  any  thing  which  human  nature  can  be  sup- 
posed to  attain,  yet  with  all  these  rare  qualities  they  are 
addicted  to  falsehood,  as  though  they  had  no  other  occupation. 
Upon  every  occasion,  and  before  they  can  possibly  know 
whether  tlie  falsehood  will  be  useful  or  prejudicial  to  them, 
they  make  it  an  invai'iable  rule  to  speak  directly  contrary  to 
the  truth.  If  any  one  asks  them  a  question,  tiiey  deceive 
him.  If  any  one  confides  in  them,  they  deceive  him.  If  any 
one  asks  their  advice,  they  deceive  him ;  and  those  who  are 
most  attached  to  them,  are  most  surely  the  objects  of  this 
spirit  of  dissimulation.  Arnaldo  of  Denmark,  a  noble  and 
generous  prince,  is  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the 
romance  the  victim  of  Sigismonda's  duplicity.  Sinforosa,  is 
no  less  cruelly  deceived  by  Persiles.  Policarpo,  wlio  had 
shown  them  great  hospitality,  loses  his  kingdom  by  the 
operation  of  their  artifices.  Every  falsehood,  however, 
proving  successful,  the  personal  interest  of  the  hero  is  sup- 
posed to  justify  tiie  measure,  and  what  would  to  our  eyes 
appear  an  act  of  base  dissimulation,  is  represented  by  Cer- 
vantes as  an  effort  of  happy  prudence.  I  am  aware  that 
foreigners  who  have  travelled  in  Spain,  and  merchants  who 
have  traded  with  the  Castilians,  unanimously  praise  their 
good  faith  and  honesty.  Such  authorities  must  be  believed. 
Nothing  is  more  common  than  to  calumniate  a  people  who 
are  separated  from  us  by  their  language  and  their  manners  ; 
and  those  virtues  must  indeed  be  real  wliich  can  triumph  over 
all  our  national  prejudices.  The  literature  of  Spain,  at  all 
events,  does  not  strengthen  our  confidence  in  the  good  faith 
of  the  Castilians  ;  not  only  is  dissimulation  crowned  with  suc- 
cess in  their  comedies,  their  romances,  and  their  descriptions 
of  national  manners,  but  that  quality  absolutely  receives 
greater  honour  than  candour.  In  the  writers  of  the  northern 
nations  we  discover  an  air  of  sincerity  and  frankness,  and  an 
openness  of  heart,  which  we  may  look  for  in  vain  amongst  the 
Spanish  authors.     Their  history  bears  a  sti'onger  testimony 


270  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

even  than  their  literature  to  the  truth  of  tliis  accusation, 
wliich  hangs  over  all  the  people  of  the  South,  and  induces  a 
suspicion  of  want  of  faith,  which  their  sense  of  honour,  their 
religion,  and  the  system  of  morality  which  is  current  amongst 
them,  would  seem  to  justify.  No  history  is  soiled  by  more 
instances  of  perfidy  than  that  of  Spain.  No  government  has 
ever  made  so  light  of  its  oaths  and  its  most  sacred  engage- 
ments. From  the  reign  of  Ferdinand  tlie  Catholic,  to  the 
time  of  the  administration  of  Cardinal  Alberoni,  every  war, 
every  public  treaty,  every  relation  between  the  government 
and  the  people,  is  marked  by  the  most  odious  treachery. 
Their  address,  however,  gained  the  admiration  of  the  world, 
and  they  contrived  to  separate  truth  from  honour. 

There  is  now  only  one  work  of  Cervantes  which  remains 
to  be  noticed,  the  Galateft,  his  earliest  composition,  which 
was  published  in  1584,  in  imitation  of  the  Diana  of  Monte- 
mayor.  After  Don  Quixote,  this  production  is  most  generally 
known  to  foreigners.  The  translation,  or  rather  the  imitation 
of  it  by  Florian  has  rendered  it  popular  in  France.  Tlie 
Italians  had  already  shewn  a  gi'eat  taste  for  pastoral  poetry ; 
they  did  not,  like  the  ancients,  content  themselves  with  writing 
eclogues,  in  which  a  single  sentiment  was  developed  in  a 
dialogue  between  a  few  shephei'ds,  without  action,  plot,  or 
catastrophe.  To  the  sweetness,  the  spirit,  and  the  elegance 
which  belong  to  pastoral  productions,  the  Italians  added 
romantic  situations  and  powerful  passions.  'I'iiey  had  com- 
posed several  pastoral  dramas,  some  of  which  have  been  pre- 
sented to  the  notice  of  the  reader  in  the  earlier  part  of  this 
work.  The  Spaniards  had  been  still  more  deeply  captivated 
b}'  these  pastoral  i'ancies,  which,  by  recalling  to  the  mind  the 
feelings  of  our  childhood,  accord  admirably  with  the  yielding 
indolence  of  southern  feelings.  Their  drama  in  its  origin  was 
entirely  pastoral.  Incited  b}'  the  same  taste,  they  i)roduced 
many  long  works,  which  were,  in  fact,  nothing  more  than 
tedious  eclotrues.  The  six  books  of  the  Galatea  form  two 
octavo  volumes,  and  yet  these  constituted  only  the  first  portion 
of  the  work,  which  was  never  finished.  Florian  soon  per- 
ceived that  a  tale  of  this  lennrth  would  not  be  agreeable  to  the 
taste  of  his  countrymen  ;  and  he  therefore  worked  up  the 
incidents  while  he  abridged  the  romance,  and  while  he 
retrenched  the  poetical  portions,  added  to  the  general  interest. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  271 

Cervantes  has  been  blamed  for  having  mingled  too  many 
epsodes  with  the  principal  tale.  It  is  said,  that  he  has 
attempted  too  many  complicated  histories,  and  introduced  too 
many  characters,  and  that  he  has,  ])y  the  quantity  of  incidents 
and  names,  confounded  the  imagination  of  the  reader,  who  is 
unable  to  follow  him.  He  is  also  blamed  for  having,  in  the 
earliest  of  his  works,  when  lie  was  yet  comparatively  ignorant 
of  what  constitutes  purity  and  elegance  of  style,  employed  an 
involved  construction  which  gives  his  work  an  appearance  of 
affectation.  I  should  be  also  inclined  to  impute  it  to  him  as 
a  fault,  though  this  accusation  more  properly  falls  upon  the 
class  than  upon  this  individual  work,  that  he  is  almost  cloying 
in  the  sweetness  and  languor  of  his  love-scenes.  When  we 
read  these  pastoral  romances,  we  may  imagine  ourselves 
bathing  in  milk  and  honey.  Notwithstanding  these  observa- 
tions, the  purity  of  its  morals,  the  interest  of  its  situations, 
the  richness  of  invention,  and  the  poetical  charms  which  it 
displays,  must  ensure  to  the  Galatea  an  honourable  place  in 
the  list  of  Spanish  classics. 

Amongst  the  contemporaries  of  Cervantes  there  is  one 
whose  name  is  frequently  repeated,  and  whose  work  has  pre- 
served considerable  celebrity  without  being  ever  read.  Don 
Alonzo  de  Ei-cilla  was  the  author  of  the  Arancana  ;  a  poem 
which  has  been  sometimes  cited  as  the  only  Spanish  epic. 
This  idea,  however,  is  by  no  means  well  grounded  ;  for  there 
is  not,  perhaps,  any  nation  which  has  more  frequently 
attempted  the  epic  style  than  the  Spanish  :  indeed,  the  Cas- 
tilians  reckon  thirty-six  epic  poems.  It  is  true  that  none  of 
these  rise  above  mediocrity,  or  are  worthy  of  being  compared 
with  the  admirable  productions  of  Camoens,  or  Tasso,  or 
Milton.  Ercilla,  however,  has  no  greater  pretensions  than 
the  rest,  for  we  find  nothing  in  his  writings  which  can  raise 
him  absolutely  above  the  ranks  of  his  rivals.  The  Araucana 
would,  in  all  probability,  have  been  forgotten,  together  with 
the  thirty-six  pretended  epics,  if  Voltaire  had  not  chanced  to 
bestow  upon  it  some  fresh  celebrity.  On  the  publication  of 
his  Henriadehe  subjoined  an  Essay  on  Epic  Poetry,  in  which 
he  reviewed  the  various  poems  which  different  nations  had 
presented  to  dispute  the  epic  palm.  The  Spaniards  had 
nothing  better  than  the  Araucana,  of  which  Cervantes  had 
said,  in  his  inventory  t)f  the  library  of  Don  Quixote,  that  it 


272  ON    THE    LITKUATUUE 

was  one  of  the  best  poems  in  heroic  verse  which  tlie  Castilians 
possessed,  and  that  it  might  be  compared  with  the  most 
famous  productions  of  Italy.  Voltaire  examined  it,  and 
judged  it  with  the  more  indulgence  on  account  of  its  obscurity. 
He  placed  Ercilia,  where  we  may  well  be  astonished  to  find 
him,  by  the  side  of  Homer,  of  Virgil,  of  Tasso,  of  Camoens, 
and  of  Milton.  He  insisted  upon  his  valour  and  upon  the 
dangers  which  the  author  had  experienced,  as  though  they 
added  to  his  poetical  merits  ;  and  in  a  favourable  analysis  he 
cited  several  passages  which  display  real  beauties.  The 
longest  is  taken  from  the  second  canto  :  it  is  the  speech  of 
Colocolo,  the  oldest  of  the  Caciques,  who,  surrounded  by 
chiefs  all  aiming  at  the  supreme  power,  calms  the  furious 
passions  of  liis  ambitious  countrymen,  and  proposes  a  just 
and  simple  mode  of  clioosing  a  connnander  in  chief.  Voltaire, 
in  a  comparison  which  he  institutes  between  this  speech  and 
that  of  Nestor  in  the  Iliad,  gives  the  preference  to  the 
eloquence  of  the  savage,  and  eagerly  seizes  u[)on  this  oppor- 
tunity of  placing  his  own,  in  opposition  to  a  commonly 
received  oi)inion.  If  Ercilia  is  indebted  to  Voltaire  for  his 
celebrity,  the  obligation  is  in  some  degree  reciprocal.  In  all 
probability  the  perusal  of  the  Araucana  suggested  to  the 
French  poet  the  beautiful  conception  of  his  Alzire,  and 
opened  to  his  view  the  vast  field  which  the  sanguinary 
struggle  between  the  Ancient  and  the  New  World,  and  the 
contrast  between  the  independence  of  the  Americans  and  tlie 
fanaticism  of  the  Spaniards,  afforded. 

Don  Alonzo  de  Ercilia  y  Zuniga  was  born  at  Madrid,  in 
1533  ;  or,  according  to  other  writers,  in  1540.  He  accom- 
panied Pliilip  II.,  then  Infant,  as  his  page,  into  Italy,  the 
Low  Countri<'S,  and  afterwards  into  England.  From  tiience 
he  proceeded,  at  the  age  of  two-and-twenty,  with  the  new 
Viceroy  of  Peru,  to  America.  He  had  been  informed  that 
the  Araucans,  the  most  warlike  people,  who  formed  and  still 
form  a  powerful  republic,  had  thrown  off  the  yoke  to  which, 
on  the  Spanish  invasion,  they  had  momentarily  submitted. 
In  tliis  war  he  engaged  with  great  ardota*.  It  was  a  contest 
in  which,  even  as  a  subaltern,  no  inconsiderable  glory  was  to 
be  acquired.  The  Araucans,  who  were  governed  by  sixteen 
Caciques  who  possessed  cnjual  powers,  did  not  recognize  any 
single  supreme  chief,  except  in  the  event  of  war.     Then  it 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  273 

was  that  they  submitted  to  the  most  rigorous  discipline  ;  they 
did  not  disdain  to  learn  from  tlieir  enemies  the  art  of  war  ; 
with  a  body  of  horse  they  opposed  the  cavahy  of  the 
Spaniards  ;  in  a  short  time  they  learned  the  use  of  fire-arras, 
and  employed  witii  great  address  those  which  they  won  from 
their  enemies,  though  they  were  unable  themselves  to  manu- 
facture gunpowder.  Their  invincible  courage,  their  disci- 
pline, and  their  contempt  of  death,  qualified  them  to  expel 
the  Spaniards  from  their  country.  Fatal  reverses,  however, 
succeeded  their  first  victories  ;  and  in  the  time  of  Alonzo  de 
Ercilla,  the  Spaniards  flattered  themselves  with  the  hopes  of 
subduing  the  Araucans.  It  was  in  the  middle  of  this  war 
that  Ercilla  undertook,  with  all  the  ardour  of  youtli,  to  com- 
pose an  epic  poem  on  it.  This  idea  he  pursued  in  the  midst 
of  all  the  dangers  and  fatigues  of  the  expedition.  In  a  wild 
and  uncultivated  country,  and  in  the  presence  of  an  enemy, 
his  days  and  nights  were  passed  in  the  open  air.  He  con- 
tinued, nevertheless,  the  composition  of  his  poem,  noting 
down  the  adventures  of  the  day,  sometimes  upon  scraps  of 
paper  which  he  had  by  chance  preserved,  which  would 
scarcely  contain  half  a  dozen  lines,  and  sometimes  on  pieces 
of  parchment  or  skin  which  he  found  in  the  cabins  of  the 
savages. 

In  this  manner  he  completed  the  fifteen  first  cantos,  or  first 
part  of  his  work.*  He  was  scarcely  thirty  years  of  age 
when  he  returned  to  Spain  to  indulge  the  fond  idea,  that  he 
had  £ecured  his  fame,  both  as  a  warrior  and  a  poet.  He 
anxiously  Avaited  for  the  grateful  acknowledgments  of  his 
sovereign  and  his  country  ;  but  the  sullen  monarch,  to  whom 
he  dedicated  his  Araucana,  deigned  not  to  notice  either  his 
verses  or  his  valour.  J]rcilla,  humiliated  by  tlie  neglect  of 
his  sovereign,  believed  that  he  might  still  by  fresh  efforts 
acquire  sufficient  renown  amongst  his  conntrymen  to  attract 
the  attention  of  the  court.  He  added  a  second  part  to  his 
poem,  and  inserted  in  it  the  grossest  flatteries  of  a  prince, 
little  entitled  to  praise,  but  who  has  yet  been  always  regarded 
with  enthusiasm  by  the  Spaniards.  In  this  second  part  lie 
also  related  tlic  most  brilliant  events  of  Philip's  reign,  and 

*  This  first  part  was  published  at  i\Iadrid,  1569,  small  8vo,  with  a 
dedication  to  Philip  II.,  which  was  not  republished  in  the  subsequent 
editions.     The  second  part  in  1578,  and  the  third  in  1590. 


274  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

again  waited  with  impatience,  but  in  vain,  foi*  the  honours 
and  rewards  which  he  conceived  himself*  to  have  merited. 
The  Em[)eror  Maximilian  II.  bestowtd  upon  him,  it  is  true, 
a  chamberlain's  key  ;  but  without  adding  to  this  honour  any 
of  those  pecuniary  acknowledgments  of  which  P^rcilla  stood 
pressingly  in  need.  Depressed  and  discouraged,  the  poet 
forsook  his  own  country,  resolving  to  seek  in  foreign  lands, 
and  no  doubt  at  the  court  of  INIaximilian,  those  rewards  which 
Castile  had  refused  to  him.  In  his  travels,  during  whicli  he 
composed  a  third  part  of  his  poem,  he  dissipated  the  remainder 
of  his  fortune,  and  experienced,  as  he  advanced  in  years,  the 
hardships  of  poverty.  Nothing  is  known  of  his  history  after 
his  fiftieth  year  ;  but  tlie  conclusion  of  his  poem  shews  hira 
struggling  with  those  misfortunes  from  which  so  few  of  the 
great  poets  of  Spain  h.ave  been  exempt.  After  mentioning 
some  new  exploits  and  victories  of  Philip  II.,  which  would 
form  a  poetical  theme,  he  renounces  for  himself  so  ungrateful 
a  task  ;  a  task  which  has  produced  to  him  neither  recom- 
pense, nor  glory,  and  with  the  following  melancholy  lines  he 
disappears  from  our  view  : 

All  !  who  shall  tell  how  oft  the  ocean's  roar 

1  bruv'd  in  every  clime  ;  now  spreading  forth 

ify  daring  canvass  to  the  freezing  North  ; 

Now  conquering  on  the  far  antarctic  shore 

The  Antipodes  ;  while  in  the  changing  skies 

Wondering  I  saw  new  constellations  rise  ; 

Now  tempting  unknown  gulfs  with  daring  prow, 

To  snatch  a  wreath  to  hintl  thy  royal  brow, 

Where  the  cold  southern  zone  the  blissful  day  denies.* 

*  Quantas  tierras  corri,  quantas  naciones 

Ilacia  el  elado  nortc  atravcsando  : 

Y  en  sus  bajas  antarticas  regiones 

El  antipoda  ignoto  conquistando. 

Climaa  pase,  mude  constelaciones, 

Golfos  inavegables  navegando, 

Estendiendo,  senor,  vucstra  corona 

Ilasta  casi  la  austral  frigida  zona. 
So  many  editions  exist  of  this  celebrated  poem,  that  it  is  unneces- 
sarj'  to  give  large  extracts  here.  That  palilished  by  Baudnj  (Paris, 
1840)  in  the  following  volume  may  be  recommended:  "Tesoro  de  los 
Poemas  Espafioles  Epicos,  Sagrados,  y  Burlcscos  :  que  contiene  integra 
la  Araucana  de  D.  Alonzo  de  Ercilla,  la  Mosqiua  de  Yillaviciosa," 
kc.  This  volume  forms  a  sequel  to  the  Tesoro  del  Peirnaso  Epanol, 
four  vols,  and  is  jart  of  a  series  which  comprises  the  best  Spanish 
poets,  dramatists,  and  historians,  printed  uniformly,  in  large  8vo. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  275 

Ercilla  concludes  by  declaring,  that,  renouncing  a  world 
which  has  ever  deceived  liim,  he  will  henceforward  consecrate 
to  God  the  small  remains  of  life,  and  weep  over  his  faults, 
instead  of  devoting  himself  to  the  Muses. 

There  is  in  the  courage  of  Ercilla,  in  his  adventures  and 
his  misfortunes,  a  sort  of  romantic  attraction,  which  induces 
us  to  expect  to  find  liim  a  great  poet  as  well  as  a  great  man. 
Unfortunately  the  Araucana  does  not  confirm  this  favourable 
impression.  Indeed  it  can  scarcely  be  regarded  as  a  poem  : 
it  is  rather  a  history  versified  and  adorned  with  descriptions, 
in  which  the  author  never  rises  into  the  true  poetical  spliere. 
The  Spaniards  appear  to  have  always  failed  in  tlie  epic,  in 
consequence  of  the  false  ideas  of  it  which  they  have  enter- 
tained. Lucan  has  always  been  in  their  eyes  the  model  of 
epic  poets.  They  seem  to  have  thought  tliat  their  duty  con- 
sisted in  relating  historical  facts  in  a  more  impressive  manner 
than  the  historian  ;  but  they  have  never  attended  to  the 
unity  cf  interest  and  action,  of  the  value  of  whicli  tliey  appear 
to  have  been  unaware.  They  never  distribute  the  incidents 
according  to  the  impression  which  they  wish  to  produce  ; 
suppressing,  enlarging,  and  adding  to  tliem,  according  to  the 
requisitions  of  an  art  which  is  essentially  creative.  They 
sacrifice  every  thing  to  historical  accuracy  ;  and  yet  it  is  not 
to  that,  but  to  poetical  truth,  that  they  ought  to  have 
attended.  Ercilla  prided  himself  upon  his  veracity  and  accu- 
racy ;  he  challenged  even  those  who  were  best  informed  rela- 
tive to  the  war  of  Arauco  to  point  out  a  single  error.  His 
poem,  therefore,  is  sometimes  merely  a  rhymed  gazette, 
which,  not  possessing  the  interest  of  novelty,  is  intolerably 
fatiguing.  From  the  commencement,  which  he  has  imitated 
from  Ariosto,  he  invokes  Truth  alone  ;  he  nobly  tells  us  how 
faitliful  he  will  prove  to  her,  but  at  the  same  time  he  shews 
us  that  to  her  he  has  sacrificed  all  tlie  charm  of  poetry. 

Nor  love,  nor  love's  delights,  tli'  impassion'd  hour, 
The  tender  thought,  the  heart's  responsive  throe, 
Nor  lady  fair,  nor  knight  in  amorous  woe 
Waking  the  lute  beneath  the  myrtle  bow'r. 
Attract  my  Muse  ;  but  deeds  of  highest  name 
I  sing ;  when,  waking  at  the  call  of  Fame, 
Spain's  valiant  sons  unsheath'd  the  glittering  blade. 
And  o'er  the  unsubdued  Araucan  laid 
The  iron-burthen'd  yoke,  his  spirit  proud  to  tame. 


276  ON    TIIIC    LITKRATURE 

Themes  worthy  of  renown  I  shall  rehearse  : 
A  people  in  the  wilds  of  Nature  bred, 
Who  to  a  king  ne'er  bow'd  the  subject  head ; 
Their  deeds  of  bold  cmprize  shall  in  my  verse 
Be  sung;  their  native  wealth,  and  fruitful  soil, 
Enrich'd  b}'  industry,  and  patient  toil ; 
And  of  their  proud  defence  the  Muse  shall  tell. 
How  fir'd  with  freedom's  flame  the  conquer'd  fell, 
Adding  new  triumph  to  the  conqueror's  spoil. 

And  thou,  illustrious  Philip,  deign  receive 
"My  humble  labours  ;  thy  benignant  smile 
.Shall  every  sorrow  from  my  heart  beguile, 
And  a  rich  guerdon  to  thy  poet  give  . 
Truth  prompts  my  song,  nor  from  her  sacred  line 
All  uncorruptcd  sliall  it  e'er  decline  : 
Despise  not  thou  the  offering  of  th^  Muse, 
However  poor:  nor  gracious,  oh  refuse 
To  lend  thy  royal  name  :  her  honours  all  are  thine. 

After  having  devoted  two  stanzas  more  to  tlie  dedication, 

Krcilla  begins  Jiis  poem  witli  a  description  of  Ciiili,  which  he 

gives,  not  in  the  U\nguage  of  the  IMuses,  but  witii  a  prosaic 

exactness  which  even  an  historian  might  wish  to  decline,  and 

to  resign  to  the  mere  statistical  writer.    It  is  not  only  incon- 

.sistent  with  poetry,  but  even   totally  irreconcileablc   to  all 

elevation  of  language  : 

Running  from  North  to  South,  Chili  extends 
Along  the  late  discover'd  Southern  sea ; 
Between  its  eastern  and  its  western  ends, 
Measur'd  across  where  it  is  found  to  be 
The  broadest,  'tis  a  hundred  miles.     It  bends, 
South  latitude,  from  the  twenty-seventh  degree 
To  that  point  where  the  ocean's  waves  are  met 
By  those  of  Chili,  in  a  narrow  strait. 

Six  more  stanzas,  nearly  in  the  same  style,  complete  the 
description  of  Chili  and  Arauco.  Ercilla  never  perceived 
that  in  ])oetry  it  was  necessary  to  paint  the  climate  or  the 
country  ;  that  he  ought  to  have  brought  before  our  eyes  the 
wild  mountains  of  the  Andes,  in  tlie  bosom  of  which  lived 
the  Puc'lches,  the  most  formidable  tribe  in  the  confederated 
Republic  of  Arauco,  instead  of  simply  informing  us  tliat  the 
mountains  were  a  thousand  leagues  in  length  ;  that  he  ought 
to  have  painted  the  varied  hues  of  the  vegetation,  so  different 
from  that  of  Europe  ;  the  climate,  which  within  a  very  short 
?pace  presents  all  the  extremes  of  heat  and  cold ;  in  short, 
that  all  the  various  embellishments  of  the  scene,  to  which  he 


01'    THE    SPANIARDS.  277 

was  about  to  introduce  us,  ought  to  liave  been  pi-esented  to 
our  view.  At  the  opening  of  his  epic,  ErcilUi  shews  that  he 
knew  not  how  to  describe  like  a  poet.  He  has  even  forgotten 
to  reject  tlie  scientific  words  of  north  and  south,  east  and 
west,  which  their  foreign  origin  renders  unpleasant  in  tlie 
Spanish  language.  His  description  of  the  manners  of  the 
Araucans,  of  their  division  into  sixteen  clans,  under  sixteen 
cliieftains  or  Caciques,  agrees  exactly  witli  the  present  con- 
dition of  that  warlike  people,  who  compelled  the  Spaniards 
to  respect  their  liberties.  That  description,  however,  is  very 
fatig.uing,  because  the  forms  of  verse,  if  they  do  not  facilitate 
the  composition,  contribute  only  to  embarrass  it ;  and  when 
they  are  made  use  of  in  prosaic  details,  require  amplifications 
and  artificial  expedients,  which  render  them  more  heavy  than 
mere  prose. 

The  territory  of  Arauco  had  been  conquered  by  Don  Pedro 
de  Valdivia,  who  founded  there  seven  Spanish  cities.  Tlie 
conquerors,  however,  soon  rendered  their  yoke  insupportable 
to  the  vanquished  Araucans,  who  at  length  revolted,  and 
assembled  togetlier  for  the  purpose  of  naming  their  general 
or  Toqui.  It  is  in  this  assembly  that  Colocolo,  the  oldest  of 
the  Caciques,  after  delivering  a  long  harangue,*  proposes  an 

[*  M.  dc  Sismoudi  informs  us  that  this  speech  has  been  translated 
by  Voltaire,  avIio   has  expressed  his  admiration  of  it.     This  version, 
which  is  rather  eloquent  than  faithful,  has  led  Boutterwek  to  observe, 
that  Voltaire  could  appreciate  oratorical  beauty,  but  had  an  imperfect 
perception  of  poetical  excellence  ;   a   charge  which   M.   de  Sismondi 
repels  with  much  warmth.     The  French  translation  is  subjoined.     Jlr. 
15owring,  in  his  Ancient  Poetry  and  Bomances  of  Spain,  has  given  an 
elegant  metrical  version,  of  which  we  quote  the  first  two  verses. —  7V.] 
Caciques  !  defenders  of  our  country,  hear  ! 
It  is  not  envy  wounds  my  tortured  sight, 
When  I  observe  these  struggles,  who  shall  wear 
Ambition's  badge, — which  had  been  mine  of  right ; 
For  see  my  brow  in  aged  wrinkles  dight, 
And  the  tomb  tells  me  1  must  soon  be  there ; — 
'Tis  love  inspires  me  ! — patriotism  !  zeal  ! — 
Listen  !  my  soul  its  counsels  shall  unveil. 
To  what  vain  honours,  chiefs,  aspire  ye  now  ] 
And  v>-here  the  bulwarks  of  this  towering  pride  ] 
Ye  have  been  vanquish'd, — trod  on  by  the  foe ; 
Defeat  is  eeho'd  round  on  eveiy  side. 
What  !  are  vour  conquerors  thus  to  be  defied, 
That  stand  around  with  laurels  on  their  brow  ! 
Check  this  mad  fury  !  wait  the  coming  fray  ! 
Then  shall  it  crush  the  foe  in  glory's  day. 

"  Caciques, 


278  ox    TIIK    MTKUATURE 

expedient  worthy  of"  a  barbarous  nation  :  that  a  heavy  beam 
should  be  brought,  and  that  the  man  who  can  bear  the  weight 
tlie  longest  shall  liave  the  honour  of  commanding.  All  the 
Caciques  successively  make  trial  of  their  strength,  but  Cau- 
polican,  tlie  son  of  Leocan,  bears  away  the  prize.  During 
two  days  and  nights  he  sustains  the  beam  upon  his  shoulders, 
and  when,  on  the  third  day,  he  throws  ii  down,  he  shew.->  the 
assembly,  by  the  activity  of  his  leap,  on  ridding  himself  of 
his  burthen,  tliat  his  vigour  is  not  yet  exhausted. 

It  was  this  Caupulican  who  animated  for  such  a  length  of 
time  the  courage  of  the  Araucans,  who  led  them  from  victory 
to  victory,  and  who,  when  subsequently  overwhelmed  by  the 
fresh  succours  which  arrived  I'rom  Peru,  still  supported  the 
constancy  of  his  countrymen  in  the  midst  of  their  reverses. 
No  inconsiderable  interest  might  have  been  attached  to  the 
hero  of  the  poem,  and  to  the  generous  people  whom  he 
connnanded  ;  our  sympathies  might  easily  have  been  awakened 

"  Caciques,  illustres  defenseurs  de  la  patrie,  le  desir  ambitieux  de 
commander  n'est  point  ce  qui  m'engage  il  vous  pailcr.  Je  ne  me  plains 
pas  (juc  vous  disputiez  avec  tant  de  clialeur  un  honneur  qui  peut-etrc 
serait  dil  a  ma  vieillcsse,  et  ([ui  ornerait  mou  di'clin :  c'est  ma  tendresso 
pour  vous,  c'est  I'amour  que  jo  dois  a  ma  pairie,  qui  me  soUicite  a  vous 
demander  attention  pour  ma  faiblc  voix.  Helas  !  comment  pouvons- 
uous  avoir  assez  bonne  opinion  de  nous-memes  pour  pretendre  a  quclque 
grandeur,  et  pour  ambitionncr  de.s  titrcs  faslueux,  nous  qui  avons  etc  les 
malheureux  sujets  et  les  esclaves  des  Espagnols !  Voire  coliire,  Caciques, 
votre  fureur  ne  devraient dies  pas  s"exercer  plutot  centre  nos  tyrans  ! 
Pouniuoi  tourne/-vous  contre  vous-nienics  ces  armes  qui  pourraient 
extermincr  vos  ennemis,  et  vengcr  noire  pairie?  Ah  !  si  vous  voulez 
perir,  cherchez  une  morl  qui  vous  procure  de  la  gloire  ;  d"une  main, 
briscz  un  joug  honteux,  et  de  I'aulre,  altaquez  les  Espagnols,  et  no 
repandcz  pas,  dans  une  querelle  sterile,  les  precieux  rcstes  d'un  sang  que 
les  dieux  vous  ont  laisse  pour  vous  vengcr.  J'applaudis,  je  I'avoue,  a  la 
fi&rc  emulation  de  vos  courages;  ce  memc  orgucil  que  je  condamue, 
augmenle  I'espoir  que  je  cont/ois.  Mais  que  voire  valour  aveugle  ne 
combatle  pas  contre  elle  ineme,  et  ne  so  serve  pas  de  ses  proprcs  forces 
pour  detruirc  le  pays  quelle  doit  defendre.  Si  vous  eles  rcsolus  de  nc 
point  cesser  vos  querelles,  trempez  vos  glaives  dans  mon  sang  glace. 
J'ai  vccu  Irop  long-temps ;  heurcux  qui  meurl  sans  voir  ses  compatriotes 
malheureux,  et  malheureux  par  leur  faule  !  Ecoulez  done  ce  que  j'osc 
vous  proposer ;  votre  valeur,  6  Caciques  !  est  egale  ;  vous  Cles  tous 
ogalemenl  illustres  par  voire  naissance,  par  votre  pouvoir,  par  vos 
richesscs,  par  vos  exploits ;  vos  fimes  sent  cgalemcnt  digncs  do  com- 
mander, cgalement  capablcs  de  subjugucr  I'univcrs  :  ce  sont  ces  preseas 
cOlestos  qui  causcnt  vos  querelles.  Vous  nianqucz  de  chef,  et  chacun  de 
vous  merite  de  I'etre  ;  ainsi,  puisqu'il  n'y  a  aucune  difference  cutre  vos 
courages,  (juc  la  force  du  corps  decide  cc  que  regalite  de  vos  vertus 
n'aurait  jamais  decide." 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  279 

in  favour  of  these  half-naked  savages,  who  were  compelled 
to  contend  against  all  the  advantages  which  their  superior 
knowledge  of  the  art  of  war  gave  to  the  Spaniards.  But 
such  neither  was,  nor  ought  to  have  been,  the  intention  of 
Ercilla.  His  object  was  to  interest  the  reader  for  the 
Castilians  and  for  himself,  for  we  i'requently  find  him  fighting 
valiantly  in  the  midst  of  his  countrymen.  The  composition 
is,  in  fact,  rather  a  journal  than  an  epic.  Animated  as  he 
was  by  his  martial  ardour,  he  has  yet  failed  to  communicate 
any  portion  of  his  enthusiasm  to  the  reader  ;  he  cannot  make 
us  enter  into  the  cruel  passions  of  the  Spaniards  ;  he  cannot 
make  us  accessories  to  their  avarice  and  their  fanaticism. 
We  wade  with  pain  through  his  long  military  details,  all  ar- 
ranged in  chronological  order,  through  the  history  of  his  skir- 
mishes, and  the  minute  incidents  which  seem  to  require  that 
we  should  be  interested  in  the  particular  fortunes  of  every 
common  soldier.  As  the  conquest  of  America  was  attempted 
by  a  handful  of  Spaniards,  every  individual,  in  fact,  possessed 
considerable  importance,  and  might  imagine  that  he  singly 
influenced  the  fate  of  empires.  This  species  of  war,  in 
which  we  see  more  of  the  soldier,  and  less  of  military  evo- 
lutions, is,  perhaps,  the  best  fitted  for  the  purposes  of  poetry; 
but  in  order  to  turn  this  circumstance  to  advantage,  Ercilla 
ou2;ht  to  have  described  the  individual  adventures  of  the 
soldiers,  or  he  ought  to  have  excited  our  attention  by  intro- 
ducing some  strongly-marked  cliaracters,  or  some  prominent 
acts  of  heroism,  which  might  dignify  events  intrinsically 
insignificant.  The  march  of  fourteen  nameless  soldiers,  who 
are  sent  to  reinforce  the  army  of  Valdivia,  is  a  meagre  sub- 
ject for  a  whole  canto  of  an  epic  poem. 

The  author's  style  varies  in  the  three  parts  of  which  his 
work  is  composed.  The  first  portion,  comprising  the  fifteen 
cantos  which  he  wrote  in  America,  is  the  most  purely 
histoi-ical,  the  most  devoid  of  all  adventitious  ornament,  and 
the  most  fatio-uincr  from  the  minute  details  of  the  war  which 
it  presents.  In  the  second  part,  which  was  written  in 
Europe,  Ercilla  was  desirous  of  correcting  the  monotony  of 
his  subject,  of  which  he  had  pi-obably  been  made  sensible, 
by  the  introduction  of  incidents  possessing  a  greater  degree 
of  national  interest,  and  which,  at  the  same  time,  should  be 
more  gratifying  to  the  vanity  of  the  monarch  to  whom  the 
poem  was  dedicated.     In  his  seventeenth  canto  he  describes 


280  ON   THE   LITERATURE 

the  battle  of  St.  Quentin,  and  in  liis  twenty-fourth,  that  of 
Lepanto,  without  attemi)ting  however  to  connect  tliem  Avitli 
his  subject.  The  third  and  hist  part,  which  concludes  with 
the  thirty-seventh  canto,  exhibits  more  ornament,  tliough  in 
general  foreign  to  the  subject,  and  misplaced.  In  tliis  por- 
tion of  tlie  work  we  meet  with  the  description  of  the  won- 
derful art  and  the  enchanted  gardens  of  tlie  magician  Fiton, 
which  could  never  have  belonged  to  the  wild  deserts  of 
America.  Magic  itself  is  bound  to  observe  poetical  triitli. 
In  the  twenty-eighth  canto,  tlie  beautiful  savage,  Glaura, 
recounts  to  Ercilla  her  intrigues  and  adventures  with 
Cariolan,  in  much  the  same  terms,  and  with  the  same  feel- 
ings, as  might  have  been  expected  from  a  Spanish  lady. 
Ercilla  himself  relates,  during  a  long  marcli,  to  his  com- 
panions in  arms,  the  true  history  of  Dido,  Queen  of  Car- 
thage, whom  Virgil,  he  says,  has  calumniated  in  making  her 
die  of  love  for  -^neas.  This  narrative  alone  occupies  the 
thirty-second  and  thirty-third  cantos. 

The  course  of  the  historical  events,  however,  presents  a 
sort  of  epic  unity.  The  situation  of  the  Spaniards  in 
Arauco  continues  to  grow  more  and  more  critical,  until  the 
moment  of  their  receiving  reinforcements  from  Peru,  after 
which  period  they  experience  no  reverses.  The  capture  of 
the  Araucan  chief  and  his  frightful  punishment  should  have 
formed  the  termination  of  the  poem.  AVith  that  incident 
the  present  analysis  concludes. 

Caupolican,  hunted  from  one  retreat  to  another,  and  after 
every  defeat  again  appearing  in  greater  strength,  is  at  length 
surprised  and  taken  prisoner  by  the  treachery  of  one  of  his 
soldiers.  He  voluntarily  discovers  his  name  to  the  Spaniards, 
and  declares  that  he  has  the  power  of  treating  with  them  so 
as  to  bind  the  whole  nation,  lie  engages  that  the  Araucans 
shall  with  himself  embrace  Christianity,  and  submit  to  the 
dominion  of  Philip,  and  represents  that  his  captivity  may 
thus  be  tlie  means  of  procuring  peace  to  all  Chili  ;  but  he 
announces  to  them  at  the  same  time,  that  if  it  is  necessary, 
he  is  equally  prepared  for  death  : 

Nor  spoke  the  Tndian  more,  hut  with  an  eye 

Intrcind,  ami  a  siiirit  all  elate, 

Willi  uublanchM  cheek,  the  last  decree  of  fate 

Calmly  awaited  ;  or  to  live  or  die 

To  him  was  equal ;  fortune's  tempest  dread 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  281 

Could  frown  no  further  vengeance  on  his  head ; 
Though  bound  a  captive,  and  in  fetters,  still 
Shone  through  his  soul  th'  unconquerable  will ; 
His  aspect  nobly  bold,  from  innate  valour  bred. 
Scarce  had  he  told  his  name,  than  too  severe 
A  doom  was  pass'd — precipitate  resolve  ! 
Impal'd,  with  arrows  pierced,  he  should  absolve 
His  love  of  country.     But  no  dastard  fear 
Appall'd  his  spirit,  no  appealing  look 
For  mercy  cried  :  fortune  he  would  not  brook. 
Though  death  against  him  rais'd  his  fiery  dart, 
With  thousand  torments  ai'm'd,  his  valorous  heart, 
Nor  secret  dread,  nor  mortal  shudder  shook. 

Yet  in  a  moment  by  God's  awful  power 

Upon  his  soul  a  mighty  change  was  wrought  ; 

The  light  of  faith  beam'd  on  him,  and  he  sought, 

Amid  the  perils  of  that  mortal  hour. 

To  share  the  Christian's  baptism,  and  the  sure 

Promise  of  bliss,  that  ever  shall  endure  ! 

Castile's  proud  sons  in  joy  and  pitj'  gaz'd. 

While  the  barbarian  tribes  stood  all  amaz'd. 

And  gushing  tears  their  warrior  eyes  obscure. 

And  now  arriv'd  the  sad  though  happy  day, 

Which  death  and  Christian  baptism  to  him  gave  ; 

Though  that  the  body  slew,  yet  this  should  save 

His  parted  spirit  from  corruption's  sway. 

'Midst  wondering  crowds  to  death  he  tlien  was  brouglit. 

And  the  high  doctrine  of  redemption  taught, 

That  bade  him  to  resign  his  mortal  breath, 

With  firmest  hope,  to  triumph  over  death, 

While  on  the  life  to  come  repos'd  his  silent  thought. 

His  warrior  brow  no  gorgeous  feathers  deck. 

His  feet  unsandall'd,  to  the  silent  plain 

Naked  he  came,  dragging  his  weighty  chain. 

That  clasp'd  with  fell  embrace  his  royal  neck, 

Whence  hung  the  hangman's  rope.     A  martial  band 

And  hosts  of  bristling  spears  around  him  stand. 

And  weeping  crowds,  who  ask  if  this  be  true, 

The  sorrowing  sight  that  meets  their  shuddering  view, 

This  last  sad  triumph  o'er  their  native  land. 

Thus  to  the  bloody  scaffold  he  drew  nigh. 
That  distant  from  the  camp  an  arrow's  flight, 
Eaised  on  the  plain,  appeared  before  his  sight, 
And  to  the  gazing  crowd  was  seen  on  high. 
Ascending  then  the  stage,  with  brow  elate, 
He  saw  the  dread  preparatives  of  fate  ; 
Saw,  without  change  of  temper  or  of  blood. 
The  armament  of  death,  that  round  him  stood. 
With  placid  mien,  as  in  his  free-born  state. 
Now  reach'd  the  summit,  with  an  eye  serene 
From  side  to  side  he  turns  his  gazing  view, 
VOL.  II.  S 


282  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

Admiring  the  vast  crowd  that  round  him  drew. 
The  sad  spectators  of  the  deathly  scene  ; 
Wondering,  his  people  ask'd  how  fortune's  might 
Could  hurl  their  monarch  from  his  native  height 
Of  glory  ;  nor  were  bounds  to  their  amaze. 
While  gathering  fast  around  with  tearful  gaze, 
They  view  the  coming  scene  with  terror  and  afiright. 

Then  near  unto  the  pointed  stake  he  came, 

Where  he  ere  long  should  pour  his  mortal  breath 

In  the  dire  conflicts  of  a  torturing  death  : 

But  here  no  terrors  shook  his  manly  frame  : 

"  Pleas'd  I  submit,  since  destiny  hath  cast 

This  bloody  die ;  soon  is  the  journey  pass'd  ; 

Contempt  and  proud  despite  shall  arm  my  soul, " 

He  said,  '•  to  quaff  misfortune's  bitter  bowl, 

Kor  feel  we  that  dread  stroke  that  conies  the  last " 

The  busy  hangman  now  approach'd  his  side 

To  seize  his  prey,  a  branded  negro  slave, 

The  wretched  freightage  of  the  Atlantic  wave. 

This  last  indignity  too  deeply  tried 

The  monarch's  spirit,  though  with  soul  unmov'd 

He  yet  had  every  frown  of  fortune  prov'd  ; 

He  could  not  brook,  though  in  this  bloody  strife. 

So  base  an  ending  to  his  noble  life, 

And  all  indignant  thus  the  hostile  chief  reprov'd. 

"  Oh  deed  unworthy  of  the  Christian  race  ! 
Is  this  your  boasted  honour,  this  the  dower 
Of  noble  valour  in  her  dying  hour, 
To  bid  me  perish  by  a  hand  so  base  1 
Death  is  a  full  atonement,  and  life  fled. 
We  war  no  longer  with  the  helpless  dead  : 
This  is  not  death,  but  mockery  and  despite. 
Thus  to  afflict  my  spirit  in  her  flight. 
And  heap  this  dark  dishonour  on  my  head. 

"  Amidst  your  swords  that  now  so  silent  rest. 

That  drank  my  country's  blood,  and  in  the  strife 

Of  furious  battle  thirsted  for  my  life. 

Can  none  be  found  to  pierce  my  warrior  breast  1 

Whatever  sorrows  on  my  head  descend. 

Whatever  griefs  my  suttering  heart  may  rend, 

Let  not  a  slave's  polluted  touch  disgrace 

Caupolican,  the  latest  of  his  race; 

Nor  such  a  deed  of  shame  his  hour  of  death  attend.'" 

So  spoke  the  indignant  chief,  and  sudden  turn'd 

Upon  the  miscreant  slave,  and  though  oppress'd 

With  galling  weight  of  fetters,  on  the  breast 

He  smote  him  fierce,  and  from  the  seafibld  spurn'd. 

Caupolican,  whom  the  very  men  who  were  inflicting  upon 
him  the  most  atrocious  punishment  continually  exhorted  to 
patience  and  resignation,  repented  of  this  act  of  impatience, 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  283 

or  rather  he  summoned  to  his  aid  the  heroism  peculiar  to  the 
Americans,  tliat  imperturbable  courage,  which  enables  them 
to  triumph  over  human  malevolence.  No  longer  oiiering 
any  resistance,  he  again  assumed  an  air  of  indifference, 
whilst  racked  by  cruel  pains,  he  was  set  up  as  a  mark  for  the 
arrows  of  the  Castilians  : 

Then  from  the  ranks  stepp'd  forth  a  chosen  band 

Of  archers,  six  in  number,  but  as  true 

As  death  the  feather'd  weapons  which  they  drew. 

At  thirty  paces  from  the  chief  they  stand  ; 

And  though  for  many  a  year  their  bows  had  sped 

Their  bloody  shafts,  and  strewn  the  field  with  dead, 

Yet  at  so  great  a  name  a  sudden  fear 

Their  courage  check'd  ;  they  felt  the  rising  tear, 

And  from  their  trembling  hearts  their  fainting  spirits  fled. 

But  cruel  fortune,  whose  avenging  hate 
Had  fill'd  so  deep  the  martyr's  cup  of  woe. 
That  soon  the  bitter  draught  must  overflow, 
Herself  now  urg'd  the  bloody  stroke  of  fate  ; 
And  as  her  hand  the  straining  bowstring  press'd, 
A  hundred  arrows  pierced  the  chieftain's  breast : 
Nor  fewer  would  suffice  to  free  a  way 
For  his  great  spirit  from  her  home  of  clay, 
And  to  his  warrior  soul  give  its  eternal  rest. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

ON    THE    KOMANTIC    DRAMA.      LOPE    FELIX    DE    VEGA    CARVIO. 

In  treating  of  the  various  branches  of  the  literature  of  the 
South,  we  have  hitherto  ventured  to  criticise,  with  the 
greatest  freedom,  authors  whose  reputation  entitles  tliem  to 
the  utmost  respect.  Without  regard  to  mere  arbitrary  rules, 
we  have  not  hesitated  to  express  our  praise  or  our  censure, 
according  to  the  impressions  which  we  have  received  from  the 
perusal  of  those  works,  which  are  admired  as  ma.ster-pieces  of 
genius  by  other  nations.  If,  in  pursuing  this  course  of 
criticism,  we  have  exposed  ourselves  to  the  imputation  of 
deciding  in  too  peremptory  a  style,  on  subjects  with  which 
we  have  only  a  partial  acquaintance,  we  may,  perhaps,  on  the 
other  hand,  justly  claim  the  merit  of  candour  and  impartiality. 
By  full}^  explaining  the  feelings  witli  which  we  have  been 
inspired  by  the  study  of  individual  works,  we  have  discharged 
our  duty  with  greater  fidelity,  than  if  we  had  only  echoed  the 
public  sentiment,  and  added  to  the  number  of  those  who  join 
with  indifference  the  voice  of  common  assent. 

s2 


284  ON    THE    LTTERATUKE 

But  the  topic  which  it  is  now  intended  to  discuss  embraces 
considerations  of  peculiar  delicacy.  It  cannot  be  altogether 
divested  of  national  prejudices.  On  the  subject  of  dramatic 
literature  the  nations  of  E^urope  have  divided  themselves  into 
two  conflicting  parties  ;  and,  refusing  to  observe  any  degree 
of  reciprocal  justice,  they  exasperate  each  other  with  mutual 
insult  and  contempt.  Each  country  has  erected  its  favourite 
author  into  an  idol,  against  Avhom  all  hostile  criticism  is  pro- 
hibited. If  the  French  pay  their  adorations  to  Kacine,  the 
English  worship  Shakspeare  with  no  less  devotion  ;  while 
Calderon,  in  Spain,  and  Schiller,  in  Germany,  are  objects  of 
equal  veneration.  To  compare  one  of  these  authors  with  the 
others  would  be  to  offend  at  once  all  their  admirers.  Should 
it  be  practicable  to  point  out  a  blemish  in  some  favoured 
writer,  it  is  not  easy  to  urge  the  obj(?ction  with  success.  Far 
from  conceding  the  point,  his  partizans  will  convert  into  a 
beauty  the  fault  which  they  cannot  conceal.  They  imagine 
that  the  national  honour  depends  upon  a  superiority  which 
they  hold  to  be  too  clear  to  admit  of  any  question  ;  for,  in  the 
warmth  of  controversy,  the  disputants  reject  the  very  idea  that 
their  own  opinion  may,  by  possibility,  not  be  free  from  error. 

It  was  our  intention  in  a  work  of  this  nature,  to  make  an 
impartial  display  of  the  opposite  systems  adopted  by  different 
nations,  and  to  explain  the  peculiar  tenets  of  each,  as  well  as 
to  detail  the  arguments  upon  which  they  founded  their  attacks 
upon  the  theory  of  their  adversaries.  AVe  would  gladly  have 
believed  that  we  had  shown  ourselves  equally  sensible  to  the 
beauties  of  these  opposite  sects,  and  that,  whilst  we  endea- 
voured to  catch  and  to  indicate  the  point  of  view  in  which 
our  subject  is  seen  by  foreign  nations,  we  had  succeeded  in 
avoiding  their  prejudices.  Without  asserting  a  jurisdiction 
over  the  rules  oi'  other  schools,  wc  have  treated,  with  due 
severity,  those  writers,  however  illustrious,  who  rejected  indis- 
criminately all  rules  alike.  Leaving  to  every  theatre  the 
observance  of  its  own  practical  laws,  it  has  been  our  aim  to 
overlook  national  systems,  and  to  prefer  the  contemplation  of 
a  general  theory  of  poetry,  which  may  embrace  them  all. 
Our  anxious  wish  to  observe  a  strict  impartiality  has  not  been 
properly  appreciated.  By  both  parties  we  have  been  consi- 
dered as  avowing  hostile  opinions.  While  the  Englisli  critics 
have  rebuked  with  severity  the  preference,  which,  in  speaking 
of  Alfieri,  we  have  given  to  the  classical  school,  the  French 


OF    TUE    SPANIARDS.  285 

have  censured  with  no  less  asperity  the  taste  for  the  produc- 
tions of  the  romance  authors,  which  we  have  not  attempted  to 
disguise  wliilst  remarking  on  the  works  of  Calderon.  The 
result  of  our  exertions  to  interfere  with  neither  party,  has 
been,  that  each  has,  in  its  turn,  disavowed  us,  and  endeavoured 
to  drive  us  into  the  arms  of  the  other. 

We  shall,  however,  persist  in  our  determination  not  to 
range  ourselves  under  any  party -banner.  We  shall  repeat 
our  appeal  to  the  enlightened  minds  of  those  who  decide  upon 
all  other  questions  with  impartiahty  and  justice.  We  would 
ask,  how  it  happens  that  great  nations,  as  highly  civilized  as 
ourselves,  to  whom  it  is  not  possible  to  refuse  the  merit  of 
erudition,  of  correct  taste,  of  imagination,  of  sensibility,  and 
of  every  mental  Axculty  essential  to  perfection  in  criticism  or 
in  poetry,  should  maintain  an  opinion  diametrically  opposite 
to  our  own  on  subjects  which  they  understand  quite  as  well 
as  ourselves  ?  Is  it  not  manifestly  true  that  different  nations, 
in  their  estimate  of  the  dramatic  art,  consider  it  in  detached 
portions,  and  that  each  selecting  some  favourite  quality,  pro- 
portions its  praise  or  censure  to  the  degree  in  which  this 
requisite  has  been  observed  or  neglected  by  the  author  ? 
From  the  nature  of  this  art,  a  certain  degree  of  improbability 
must  be  submitted  to  by  all ;  but  different  countries  disagree 
as  to  the  particular  concessions  which  must  in  this  respect  be 
made  ;  and,  whilst  they  shut  their  eyes  to  the  established 
licences  of  their  own  stage,  they  are  mutually  disgusted  by 
those  v/hich  are  allowed  in  foreign  theatres.  It  cannot  be 
disputed  that  the  law  of  intrinsic  beauty  and  genuine  taste  is 
paramount  to  all  these  national  jurisdictions  :  this  law  it  is 
the  business  of  a  philosopher  to  explore.  He  will  not  fail  to 
recognize  its  operation  when  he  perceives  the  union  of  several 
rival  nations  in  one  common  sentiment  ;  and  he  will  draw  a 
decided  distinction  between  those  rules  of  criticism  which  are 
of  arbitrary  dictation,  and  those  which  have  their  foundation 
in  the  very  nature  of  things. 

Although  every  nation  possesses,  with  regard  to  dramatic 
literature,  its  own  peculiar  taste  and  rules,  yet  each  may  be 
arranged  under  one  of  the  two  banners  which  are  now  raised 
in  opposition  throughout  all  Europe.  To  distinguish  these 
two  conflicting  systems,  the  epithets  of  classiral  and  7'oma>it/c 
have  been  employed  ;  terms  to  which  it  is  perhaps  difficult  to 
attach  any  definite  meaning.     Those  ancient  authors,  whose 


286  ON    THE   LITERATDRE 

authority  has  been  called  to  their  aid  by  the  French  and  the 
Italians,  are  denominated  by  them  classical.  Their  own 
writers,  when  they  have  adhered  with  suliicient  closeness  to 
these  models,  have  been  honoured  with  the  same  appellation  ; 
and  a  rhissiral  taste  is  descriptive  of  tlie  greatest  purity  and 
perfection  ;  nor  have  the  critics  of  Germany,  of  Enjjland,  and 
of  Spain,  disputed  the  propriety  of  this  terra.  They  have 
acquiesced  in  bestowing  the  tith^  of  classical  on  every  literary 
])roduction  Avhich  belongs  to  the  Koman  or  to  tlie  Grecian 
School.  But  these  nations,  deeply  imbued  with  the  ideas  and 
the  feelings  of  the  middle  ages,  imagine  that  tiiey  possess  a 
more  valuable  fund  of  poetry  in  their  own  antiquities  than 
exists  in  tliose  of  foreign  countries.  Delighting  in  the  study 
of  their  old  popular  traditions,  they  have  hence  formed  that 
style  of  chivalric  poetry  which  nourishes  patriotic  feelings, 
and  which  magnifies  our  ancestors  so  greatly  in  the  eyes  of 
their  posterity.  To  this  poetry  the  Germans  have  given  the 
epithet  of  romantic,  because  the  Romance  language  was  that 
of  the  Troubadours,  who  first  excited  these  new  emotions  ; 
because  the  civilization  of  modern  times  commenced  with  the 
rise  of  the  Romance  nations  ;  and  because  the  chivalric 
poetry,  like  the  Romance  language,  was  stamped  with  the 
two-fold  character  of  the  Roman  world,  and  of  tlie  Teutonic 
tribes  which  subdued  it.  But  whatever  may  have  induced  the 
Germans  to  adopt  this  name,  a  subject  upon  Avliich  they  them- 
selves hold  various  opinions,  it  is  enough  for  us  that  they 
have  thus  appropriated  it,  and  there  is  no  reason  why  we 
should  contest  it  with  them. 

Tliis  distribution  into  the  classical  and  romantic  schools 
was  extended  by  the  German  critics  to  all  tlie  branches  of 
literature,  and  even  to  the  fine  arts.  But  as  the  two  systems 
are  in  no  point  so  directly  opposed  to  each  other  as  in  all  that 
relates  to  the  theatrical  art,  the  term  runiantic,  when  it  was 
adopted  by  the  French,  was  exclusively  applied  by  them  to 
that  system  of  dramatic  composition,  wliich  differed  most 
essentially  from  their  own.  It  may  be  readily  conceived  that 
the  principles  of  the  classical  school  are  in  direct  hostility  not 
only  to  that  which  is  intrinsically  wrong,  but  also  to  that 
which  is  only  wrong  as  being  forbidden  by  arbitrary  rules. 
Of  this  circumstance  the  French  critics  liave  availed  them- 
selves. They  have  designedly  confounded  the  universal  rules 
of  good  taste  with  their  own  narrow  laws  ;  and  they  have 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  287 

distinguished  the  classical  system  as  that  which  observes  all 
the  rules,  and  the  romantic  as  that  which  disregards  them  all. 
Because  a  new  species  of  composition  has  arisen  amongst 
them,  the  melodrame,  remarkable  only  for  its  false  and  exag- 
gerated sentiment,  its  improbability,  and  its  violation  alike  of 
classical  rules  and  of  natural  good  sense,  it  is  immediately 
asserted  that  the  melodrame  belongs  to  the  romantic  school. 
Because  inditferent  authors,  in  every  branch  of  letters,  revolt 
against  the  rules  which  they  are  unable  to  observe,  it  is  main- 
tained that  the  romantic  system  is  destitute  of  all  genius,  and 
that  the  poetry  which  constitutes  the  delight  of  the  English, 
of  the  Germans,  and  of  the  Spanish,  may  be  best  described  as 
a  simple  negation  of  all  the  beauties  of  French  poetry. 
Amongst  other  inconveniences,  it  is  to  be  observed  that  this 
mode  of  reasoning  may  be  turned  with  full  effect  against 
those  who  employ  it.  The  theatre  of  other  civilized  nations 
has  also  its  rules,  however  they  may  differ  from  our  own. 
With  some  of  these  the  French  have  thought  proper  to  dis- 
pense, for  the  purpose  of  introducing  some  stage-effect, 
which  they  consider  as  preferable  ;  while  the  Germans,  the 
English,  and  the  Spanish,  on  the  other  hand,  regard  the 
French  theatre  as  utterly  devoid  of  that  truth,  that  life,  and 
that  poetical  colouring  which  they  so  much  admire. 

In  pursuing,  then,  our  inquiry  into  the  system  of  the 
romantic  drama,  Ave  shall  regard  it  as  it  has  been  developed 
by  its  admirers,  and,  above  all,  by  the  German  critics,  in  their 
remarks  as  well  on  the  -works  of  the  Spanish  and  of  the 
English  as  on  their  own  authors.  We  shall  investigate  the 
abstract  tendency  of  its  principles,  before  we  inquire  how 
those  principles  have  been  practically  enforced  ;  and  we  shall 
endeavour  to  discover  rather  what  has  been  intended,  than  the 
success  with  which  the  attempt  has  been  accompanied.  The 
most  zealous  partisans  of  the  Romance  writers  are  not  so 
bigoted  as  to  deny  that  they  have  their  faults,  or  to  attempt 
to  convert  those  very  faults  into  authorities. 

In  one  point,  at  least,  all  countries  have  fully  agreed.  The 
dramatic  art  is  considered  by  them  all  as  an  imitation  of 
nature,  which  brings  before  our  eyes  actions  and  events 
which  occurred,  or  which  might  possibly  have  occurred, 
without  witnesses,  in  times  long  past,  and  in  places  far  remote. 
By  presenting  us  with  a  lively  representation  of  the  play  of 
human  passions,  it  affords  us  at  once  improvement  and  delight. 


288  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

In  order  to  adapt  the  sentiments  and  passions  of  the  scene  to 
those  of  the  spectator,  and  to  impart  instruction  with  etFect, 
the  observation  of  some  degree  of  truth  is  indispensable.  But 
as  we  are  thus  introduced  to  scenes  which,  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  events,  we  never  could  have  witnessed,  we  must  to  a 
certain  extent  acquiesce  in  improbabilities.  By  whatever  sys- 
tem it  may  be  regulated,  the  stage  is  always  an  enchanted  spot ; 
and,  wlien  we  have  permitted  the  magician  to  transport  us  by 
his  art  to  Athens  or  to  Rome,  we  have  scarcely  left  ourselves 
the  right  of  objecting  to  the  farther  exercise  of  his  powers. 

The  object  which  the  dramatist  means  to  represent,  must 
determine  the  degree  to  which  truth  and  probability  may  be 
violated,  on  introducing  historical  facts  or  real  personages 
into  the  precincts  of  the  art.  Nor  must  it  be  forgotten,  that 
in  all  the  imitative  arts,  the  copy  should  never  present  us 
with  an  exact  transcript  of  the  original.  It  would  appear  that 
a  portion  of  the  pleasure  which  we  derive  from  this  source, 
consists  in  observing,  at  the  same  time,  the  points  of  difference 
as  well  as  of  coincidence.  It  would  be  absurd  to  paint  a 
statue  and  to  array  it  in  real  garments.  The  picture  which 
has  all  the  advantage  of  colours,  is  never  brought  out  in 
relief.  Upon  tlie  same  principle  the  drama  ought  not  to  cor- 
respond, in  every  respect,  with  the  scenes  which  we  daily 
witness  in  real  life.  The  mimic  powers  of  the  art  are  not 
without  their  bounds  ;  and  it  is  even  necessary  that  its  decep- 
tions should  not  be  altogether  concealed  from  our  view. 

According  to  all  the  commentators  upon  the  drama  of  the 
Greek:^,  that  species  of  composition  always  commenced  with 
the  chorus.  This  lyrical  portion  of  the  poem,  improbable  in 
itself,  but  at  the  same  time  more  highly  poetical  than  the  rest, 
was  the  first  source  of  delight  to  the  s[)ectator.  In  the  chorus, 
the  poet  placed  his  principal  glory;  and,  through  this  medium, 
the  sentiments  of  the  assembled  jieople  were  expressed.  Oa 
the  merit  of  the  chorus  depended  the  success  of  the  tragedy. 
In  the  estimation  of  the  Greeks,  the  manners,  the  characters, 
the  passions,  the  incidents,  and  the  catastrophe,  were  of  very 
subordinate  interest.  With  them  the  action  of  the  drama 
admitted  of  great  brevity.  The  catastrophe  alone,  with  the 
assistance  of  the  chorus,  was  suihcient  to  occupy  the  theatre. 
For  this  reason  we  find  that,  of  all  those  subjects  which  the 
Greeks  selected  for  the  stage,  and  which  have  reached  our 
times,  the  greater  part  would  not  supply  JLillicieut  action  for 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  289 

a  modern  play.  We  look  in  vain  for  a  regular  plot  and  a 
catastrophe.  We  find  only  a  developement  of  the  story  in 
beautiful  lyrics.  It  necessarily  results  that  the  Greek  tragedies 
are  confined  to  very  strict  limits,  and  comprise  but  a  lew  hours. 
Yet  their  authors  were  far  from  observing  those  limits  with  the 
severity  which  is  so  much  insisted  upon  at  the  present  day. 

At  the  period  of  the  reformation  of  the  French  theatre, 
under  the  auspices  of  Louis  XIV.,  the  national  taste  had  been 
perverted  by  those  romantic  reveries  which  formed  the  only 
literary  studies  in  the  fashionable  classes  of  society.  The  long 
romances  of  La  Calprenede  and  of  Scudery,  of  which  we 
now  know  little  more  than  the  names,  were  then  eagerly 
perused  by  the  courtier  as  well'  as  by  the  citizen.  To  adapt 
subjects  of  ancient  history  to  the  taste  of  those  who  then 
decided  on  the  merit  of  dramatic  attempts,  it  was  necessary 
to  invest  them  with  a  sentimental  disguise,  which,  although 
it  is  now  regarded  as  in  the  highest  degree  ridiculous,  was 
esteemed  at  that  time  to  be  an  indispensable  requisite.  Men 
of  real  genius,  and  Racine  in  particular,  who  far  excelled  all 
others,  after  having  deeply  imbibed  the  genuine  and  masculine 
beauties  of  classical  antiquity,  were  called  upon  to  resuscitate 
them  before  an  audience  which  was  only  acquainted  with 
them  through  the  medium  of  their  romantic  interpretation. 
It  is  erroneous  to  conclude  that  the  talents  of  Racine  were 
exclusively  adapted  to  the  expression  of  tenderness  and  love. 
The  fact  is,  that  these  sentiments  alone  were  required  from 
him  by  the  spirit  of  the  age.  In  point  of  time  and  place,  an 
intrigue  of  the  romantic  drama  is,  almost  of  necessity, 
extremely  confined.  Racine  found  the  rules  already  esta- 
blished, which  prescribed  twenty-four  hours  as  the  duration 
of  the  action,  and  fixed  the  scene  to  a  single  spot.  The 
operation  of  these  rules  gave  him  little  concern  ;  for  a  com- 
pliance with  them,  on  his  part,  was  a  work  of  no  difl[iculty. 
His  claims  to  our  admiration  are  not  built  upon  this  founda- 
tion. The  subjects  which  he  was  compelled  to  treat,  were 
capable  of  being  restricted  to  very  narrow  bounds.  But  we 
cannot  too  highly  applaud  the  prodigious  genius,  which  has 
enabled  him  to  exalt  these  subjects,  and  to  place  the  produc- 
tions drawn  from  the  Romance  writers  of  that  age  on  a  level 
with  the  most  glorious  creations  of  ancient  Greece. 

In  the  writings  of  Racine,  however,  the  French  theatre 
displays  some  improbabilities  with  which  foreign  critics  have 


290  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

often  reproached  it.  For  ourselves,  so  completely  are  we 
reconciled  to  theni  by  the  genius  and  authurit}'  of  the  poet,  that 
we  cannot  even  perceive  them.  Thus,  he  lias  systematically 
blended  together  manners  so  totally  opposed  to  each  other  as 
those  of  the  chivalric  ages  and  of  ancient  Greece.  Nothing 
can  possibly  be  more  distinct  than  the  language  of  Romance, 
loaded  as  it  is  with  titles  of  honour  and  terms  of  servile 
respect,  and  the  dignified  simplicity  of  the  antique.  In  ad- 
dition to  this,  the  English  particularly  condemn  his  invariable 
custom  of  uniting  heroic  verse  with  rhyme,  and  of  con- 
ve3''ing  his  sentiments  in  a  strain  of  language  so  uniformly 
elevated  as  almost  entirely  to  suppress  the  abrupt  and  natural 
impulses  of  the  mind. 

Under  such  artificial  regulations,  it  is  asserted,  by  foreign 
nations,  that  truth  and  natui'e  can  never  be  found.  To  this 
position  let  us  be  allowed  to  reply,  that  such  amongst  us  are 
the  settled  rules  of  the  art ;  that  we  imitate  nature,  not 
under  her  prosaic,  but  under  her  poetical  forms  ;  and  that  as 
the  sculptor  gives  animation  to  the  marble  block,  so  our 
great  masters  of  verse  have  infused  life  into  the  monotonous 
and  stately  alexandrine. 

It  was  the  custom  of  the  Spaniards  to  represent  on  the 
stage,  not  only  the  great  incidents  of  their  national  history, 
but  also  those  complicated  intrigues,  those  feats  of  dexterity 
and  turns  of  fortune,  which  delighted  their  imagination 
and  reminded  them  of  their  Moorish  romances,  which  were 
infinitely  more  fertile  in  adventures  than  those  of  the  French. 
The  English,  who  had  only  just  emerged  from  a  state  of 
civil  warfare,  and  were  on  the  point  of  plunging  into  it  once 
more,  preferred  the  representation  of  those  more  potent 
passions,  which  influence  public  men.  Tiiey  d.velt  with 
delight  on  the  exhibition  of  deep  and  energetic  characters, 
strufr^lin'j  under  the  most  momentous  circumstances,  and 
they  loved  to  contemplate  the  course  of  the  statesman 
through  the  career  of  national  events.  Possessing  greater 
information  and  more  steadiness  than  either  of  these  nations, 
the  Germans  aimed  at  reviving  on  their  stage  the  scenes  of 
real  history,  in  their  natural  colours.  In  their  characters,  in 
their  language,  and  in  the  train  of  events,  they  particularly 
insisted  on  the  observance  of  truth  and  reality.  They 
seemed  to  lay  a  strict  injunction  on  the  poet,  that  he  should 
conceal  nothing  from  their  view. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  291 

Proposing  to  themselves  the  attainment  of  objects  so  dif- 
ferent from  our  own,  these  three  nations  required,  in  the 
action  of  their  dramas,  greater  latitude  both  of  time  and 
space.  Nei|lier  the  Eastern  fictions  of  the  first,  nor  the 
political  and  historical  pieces  of  the  others,  could  be  subjected 
to  the  rule  of  the  four-and-twenty  hours.  In  the  manage- 
ment of  such  subjects,  it  was  necessary  either  to  confine  the 
scenic  representation  to  the  catastrophe  alone,  or  to  sub- 
stitute recitals  in  the  place  of  action — an  arrangement  wliich 
is  destructive  of  all  dramatic  effect;  or  to  permit  the  poet  to 
compress  the  lapse  of  time  before  the  eyes  of  the  spectators. 
The  essence  of  the  romantic  system  consists,  then,  in  the 
privilege  wliich  it  has  granted  to  the  dramatist  ol'  condensing 
successive  events  on  the  same  scene  and  into  the  same  day, 
by  a  kind  of  theatrical  magic;  upon  the  same  principle  that 
the  magic  of  the  fancy  enables  us  to  survey  the  same  events 
in  their  proper  colours,  upon  the  perusal  of  a  kw  brief  pages, 
and  in  the  lapse  of  a  few  short  hours. 

Against  this  licence  of  the  romantic  stage,  of  which  the 
ancients  perhaps  declined  to  avail  themselves  only  because 
they  could  not  change  their  scenery  nor  dispense  with  the 
presence  of  the  chorus,  the  authority  of  Aristotle  and  the  ar- 
gument of  probability  have  been  strongly  urged.  With 
respect  to  the  authority  of  the  Stagyrite,  the  advocates  of 
the  romantic  school  seem  to  reply,  with  good  reason,  that  his 
doctrine  of  the  unities  is  contained  in  a  very  obscure  treatise, 
of  the  genuineness  of  which  some  doubts  may  be  entertained. 
Nor,  it  is  farther  contended,  is  it  easy  to  explain  why  the 
name  of  Aristotle,  which  on  pliilosophical  questions  was 
once  esteemed  all-powerful,  should  ever  have  been  allowed 
much  weight  in  the  solution  of  poetical  difficulties.  To  a 
nice  perception  of  the  fine  arts,  his  dry,  methodical,  and 
calculating  genius  must  have  rendered  him  an  utter  sti-anger; 
and  the  faith  which  is  yet  extended  to  his  oracular  judgments, 
is  nothing  more  than  a  relic  of  that  usurped  dominion,  which, 
tliree  centuries  since,  he  exercised  over  all  the  schools  and 
over  every  branch  of  the  human  understanding. 

Nor  have  the  same  critics  less  forcible  reasons  to  urge  on 
the  question  of  probability.  It  is  readily  admitted,  they 
observe,  that  the  scene  of  these  representations  is  a  stage, 
open  on  one  side  to  our  observation  ;  that  the  actors,  instead 
of  being  absorbed  in  their  own  feelings  and  business,  address 


292  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

themselves  to  the  audience  ;  that  they  speak  our  native 
language,  and  not  that  of  the  characters  which  they  have 
assumed  ;  that  the  latter,  although  often  supposed  to  be 
natives  of  difrcrcnt  countries,  uniformly  speak  the  same 
language  ;  and  tli:it  the  theatre  represents,  at  the  pleasure  of 
the  dramatist,  the  time  and  the  place  to  which  the  action  of 
his  piece  relates.  Having  carried  our  concessions  to  this 
point,  can  the  tragedian  be  said  to  trespass  too  far,  when,  like 
Azor,  in  the  opera  of  Marmontel,  he  assumes  the  power  of 
laying  open  to  our  inspection,  with  his  magic  ring,  the 
different  edifices  and  places  where  the  train  of  events,  which 
we  are  in  so  supernatural  a  manner  admitted  to  behold,  is 
transacting  ?  When  a  particular  fact  has  required,  in  point 
of  liistarical  truth,  a  long  space  of  time,  and  a  transition  to 
various  countries,  for  its  accomplishment,  the  spectator  is  re- 
duced to  a  choice  between  inconvenience  on  the  one  hand, 
and  improbability  on  the  other.  If  he  does  not  determine  to 
follow  the  course  of  time,  and  the  regular  succession  of 
places,  he  must  permit  the  author  to  collect  his  personages  in 
the  same  apartment,  and  to  effect  all  their  operations  in  the 
short  space  of  time  occupied  by  the  representation.  AVe 
shall  then  find  conspiracies  organized  at  the  very  foot  of  the 
throne  ;  and  we  shall  see  the  conspirators  meet,  disperse,  and 
reassemble,  in  the  prosecution  of  their  plans,  within  the 
lapse  of  three  hours,  in  violation  not  of  truth  and  probability 
alone,  but  of  possibility  itself.  It  cannot  be  contended  that 
one  of  these  methods  is  mose  repugnant  to  probability  than 
the  other,  provided  the  time  is  supposed  to  elapse  and  the 
scene  is  changed,  whilst  the  curtain  is  dropped  and  the  illusion 
is,  for  a  moment,  suspended.  This  mode  is  adopted  even 
upon  the  French  theatre,  where  the  imaginary  extent  of  time 
allowed  to  a  representation,  is  arbitrarily  lixed  at  twenty- 
four  hours.  It  must,  however,  be  confessed  that,  in  the  ro- 
mantic plan,  every  change  of  scene  produces  a  momentary 
dissipation  of  the  deception.  Having  once  transported  our- 
selves into  another  time  and  country,  we  lose  all  recollection 
of  this  first  act  of  the  imagination,  and,  thinking  no  longer 
of  ourselves,  we  live  in  the  fictions  of  the  dnuna.  On  tlie 
occurrence  of  a  change  of  scene,  we  are  restored  to  our  con- 
sciousness, and  we  begin  to  consider  into  v.hat  country  we 
have  been  carried,  wliat  time  has  passed  since  the  last  scene, 
and  what  new  exertion  of  imagination  the  author  will  next 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  293 

require.  The  latter,  on  his  part,  finds  himself  compelled  to 
enter  into  new  explanations,  to  suspend  the  scene  in  order  to 
make  us  acquainted  with  the  intermediate  incidents,  and  thus 
to  retard  the  progress  of  the  action.  But  it  cannot  be 
doubted,  on  the  other  hand,  that,  from  this  enlarged  licence, 
the  most  striking  effects  are  elicited.  Instead  of  long  and 
cold  narrations,  every  important  scene  may,  by  this  means, 
be  brought  on  the  stage  ;  much  greater  truth  is  given  to  the 
picture  of  manners  ;  and  the  poet,  introducing  us  into  the 
interior  of  every  mansion,  penetrates  more  effectually  into 
the  secrets  of  the  heart.  Subjects  of  the  greatest  magnitude 
may  be  represented  ;  and  mighty  revolutions  are  no  longer 
confounded  with  paltry  intrigues,  which  are  concerted  and 
developed  in  the  course  of  a  few  hours,  and  with  the  aid  of 
trifling  expedients. 

We  certainly  attach  too  much  force  to  the  authority  of  our 
three  gi'eat  tragedians,  when  we  oppose  the  dramatic  rules  of 
the  French  school  to  those  of  all  other  nations,  and  pass  an 
unqualified  censure  upon  the  latter.     It  is  not  to  these  great 
writers  that  we  ovve  the  regulations  of  our  stage.  These  were 
established  long  before,  by  authors  of  no  extraordinary  talent, 
who  were  then  in  possession  of  the  stage.     In  the  year  1552, 
Jodelle,  in  his   Cleopatra,  observed  these  rules  with  scrupu- 
lous  exactness  ;    and  from  that  period   the  herd  of  critics 
no  longer  admitted  of  any  deviation.     Yet  Corneille,  when 
he   composed  the  finest  of  all  his  works,  the  Cid,  had  but 
a  very  confused  idea  of  them,  and  consequently  incurred  the 
severe  animadversions  of  the   erudite.    Nor,  in   the  best  of 
his  succeeding  pieces,  in  Les  Horaces  and  China,  did  he  ob- 
serve either   the  unity  of  action  or  that  of  interest.     The 
hostile  criticism  which  he  encountered,  forced,  at  last,  upon 
his  notice   those    rules  which  have  been    sanctified  by  the 
bigotry  of  the  learned  ;  but  it  is  unibrtunate  that  in  the  very 
instances  in  wbich  he  has  most  closely  adhered  to  them,  his 
efforts  are  least  worthy  of  his  high  reputation.  Racine,  again, 
found  subjects  of  love,  of  intrigue  and  of  gallantry,  in  almost 
exclusive  possession  of  the  French  stage.     To  this  prevalent 
spirit  of  the  age  he  was  compelled  to  submit,  and,  as  topics  of 
this  nature  require  neither  length  of  time,  nor  a  wide  range 
of  places,  for  their  developement,  he  felt  very  little  inconve- 
nience from  the  observance  of  the  three  unities,  while  labour- 
ing under  the  much  more  formidable  difficulty  of  exhibiting 


294  ON   THE   LITERATURE 

only  amorous  heroes.  With  the  most  pathetic  eloquence,  with 
the  most  irresistible  truth,  and  with  the  most  exquisite  sensi- 
bility, lie  pourtrayed  all  that  is  allecting  and  tragical  in  love. 
But  the  rules  to  which  he  conformed  and  which  he  rendered 
subservient  to  the  production  oC  such  inimitable  beauties, 
belonged,  not  so  much  to  himself,  as  to  Pradon,  who,  in  the 
public  estimation,  was  still  more  gallant,  more  romantic,  and, 
consequently,  more  perfect.  At  a  much  later  period,  Voltaire 
found  hiinst'lf  still  more  narrowly  circumscribed  by  these  rules 
of  art,  which  it  was  always  the  endeavour  of  little  minds  to 
draw  closer.  He  exerted  himself  to  procure  for  the  drama  a 
wider  range  ;  and  he  attempted  paths  which  had  hitherto 
been  regai'ded  by  the  French  as  impracticable.  Gallantry 
was  excluded  from  his  scenes,  and  love  was  only  retained  in 
its  tragic  character.  He  drove  from  the  stage  that  crowd  of 
spectators,  Avhose  presence,  being  destructive  of  all  pomp, 
decoration,  and  animated  action,  reduced  the  tragedy,  of 
necessity,  to  a  mere  formal  dialogue.  Different  nations, 
in  all  their  variety  of  manners  and  of  costume,  are  presented 
to  us,  instead  of  the  ever  -  repeated  mythology  of  the 
Greeks.  We  are  affected  by  the  sentiments  of  personages  of 
our  own  religion  and  of  our  own  country.  Yet  did  Voltaire 
experience  incessant  en.barrassment  from  the  rules  which  he 
found  established  on  our  stage.  History  cannot  possil)ly  be 
subjected  to  the  limits  of  the  four-and-twenty  hours  ;  and 
from  history,  therefore,  he  was  altogether  precluded.  The 
plots  of  most  of  his  tragedies,  and  amongst  these  of  his  most 
admirable  pieces,  of  Zaire,  of  Alzire,  of  Mahomet,  and  of 
Tancred,  are  altogether  fictitious.  Nor  did  the  fables  of 
mythology  afford  him  a  greater  choice  of  subjects.  In  his 
remarks  upon  his  G^dipus,  he  observed  to  M.  de  Genonville, 
that  this  sterile  subject  might  possibly  suffice  for  one  or  two 
scenes,  but  certainly  not  for  a  whole  tragedy.  He  expressed  a 
similar  opinion  of  the  PhUoctetes,  oi'  Elect ra,  and  oi  Ipliujenia 
in  Taurkla.  This  observation  might,  indeed,  be  extended  to 
almost  all  those  tragedies  of  the  highest  class,  in  which,  with 
a  strict  observation  of  the  classical  i-ules,  the  catastrophe  alone 
is  introduced  upon  the  stage,  whilst  the  intricacies  of  the 
plot,  and  indeed  the  whole  action  of  the  piece,  are  com- 
prised in  recitals  which  are  rather  of  an  epic  than  of  a 
dramatic  nature,  in  the  romantic  system,  thehrstact  of  the 
fable  would  properly  commence  on  the  day  when  CEdipus, 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  29o 

driven  from  the  altars  of  Corinth,  and  branded  by  the  impu- 
tations of  a  dreadful  oracle,  quitted  his  country,  to  prevent  the 
possibility  of  committing  the  threatened  crime,  and  to  pursue 
the  path  of  glory  which  had  been  traced  by  Hercules.  The 
second  act  would  comprise  his  meeting  with  Laius,  and  the 
assassination  of  that  king.  In  the  third  we  should  discover 
him  at  Thebes,  and  witness  the  deliverance  of  that  city  from 
the  fury  of  the  Sphinx.  The  fourth  would  show  us  the  fatal 
rewards  which  are  bestowed  upon  him  by  the  people  ;  the 
thi-one  of  Laius,  and  the  hand  of  his  widow.  These  are  the 
necessary  steps  in  the  tragedy,  and  the  constituent  parts  of 
its  action.  Upon  these  are  founded  all  the  anxiety  and  all  the 
terror  of  the  catastrophe,  which  in  itself  is  only  sufficient  to 
occupy  the  fifth  act.  All  these  previous  parts  of  the  action, 
which  cannot  be  arranged  under  any  unity  of  time  or  of  place, 
are  not  less  essential  to  the  classical  tragedy  than  to  that  of 
the  romantic  school.  They  are  all  introduced  by  Voltaire  into 
his  play ;  but  to  effect  this,  he  has  made  the  first  four  acts 
consist  of  mere  recitals,  which  are  addressed,  for  the  most 
part,  by  (Edipus  to  Jocasta.  A  dramatist  of  the  Romance 
school,  who  assumes  the  privilege  of  shewing  us  different 
places,  and  of  carrying  us  through  successive  periods  of  time, 
with  the  same  freedom  as  a  writer  of  romances,  an  epic  poet, 
or  any  individual  who  describes  events  real  or  imaginary, 
would  have  placed  all  these  incidents  before  our  eyes.  Had 
he  possessed  the  genius  of  Voltaire,  he  would  have  produced 
the  most  striking  effect  from  the  scene  of  the  Temple,  and 
from  that  of  the  death  of  Laius,  which,  even  in  a  forced  and 
declamatory  recital,  make  so  strong  an  impression.  The 
French  manner  of  treating  the  subject,  to  which  Voltaire  has 
adhered,  is,  it  is  true,  far  more  artificial.  But  the  poet  should 
not  purchase  this  advantage  at  the  expense  of  too  great  sacri- 
fices. Voltaire  has,  in  his  (Edipus,  fallen  into  this  error;  and, 
for  the  sake  of  preserving  the  unities  of  time  and  place,  he  has 
violated  all  the  rest.  In  the  first  instance,  the  abridgement  of 
the  proper  action  of  the  piece  having  rendered  the  subject  too 
slight,  he  was  compelled  to  introduce  a  subsidiary  plot,  which 
almost  entirely  occupies  the  three  first  acts  ;  the  arrival  and 
the  danger  of  Philoctetes,  under  the  suspicion  of  being  the 
assassin  of  Laius.  If  the  action  be  double,  the  interest  also  is 
divided.  The  mutual  love  of  Jocasta  and  of  Philoctetes  has 
no  kind  of  connexion  with  the  feelinss  excited  in  favour  of 


296  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

CEdipus.  If  it  is  intended  to  interest  us,  it  is  a  breach  of  the 
unity.  If  it  fails  in  awaking  our  sympathy,  it  is  a  very 
unfortunate  digression.  Considered  in  any  other  liglit,  this 
attachment  is  still  more  objectionable.  In  a  drama  which  is 
founded  on  incidents  of  so  dreadful  a  nature,  the  passion  of 
love,  of  whatever  description  it  may  be,  must  necessarily 
destroy  the  unity  of  its  tone  and  complexion.  When  we  are 
absorbed  in  the  fate  of  a  hero,  who  has  innocently  perpetrated 
the  crimes  of  parricide  and  incest,  we  are  not  mucli  disposed 
to  listen  to  the  effusion  of  lovesick  sentiments.  But,  more 
than  this,  the  unity  of  manners  is  in  this  instance  equally 
violated.  These,  in  Greece,  should  have  been  represented 
with  strict  regard  to  national  truth.  Tiie  love  professed  by  a 
knight  for  a  princess,  in  the  midst  of  a  splendid  court,  is  here 
out  of  place.  The  early  princes  of  Greece  held  no  courts  ; 
their  wives  and  daughters,  in  the  time  of  Homer,  were  not 
queens  and  princesses  ;  nor  was  Philoctetes  formed  in  the 
school  of  Amadis.  The  unity  of  manners,  indeed,  is  more  than 
any  other  completely  sacrificed.  The  most  essential  part  of  the 
action,  upon  w^hich  the  interest  is  founded,  and  which  ought, 
above  all  others,  to  affect  the  feelings  of  the  audience,  is  en- 
tirely withdrawn.  Long  recitals  are  introduced  in  its  place, 
clothed  in  the  language,  and  subject  to  the  rules,  of  epic 
poetry.  But  our  object  on  visiting  the  theatre  is  to  receive 
impressions  by  the  eye,  as  well  as  by  the  ear,  and  to  enter, 
with  all  the  energy  of  our  souls,  into  the  action  presented 
before  us.  If,  on  the  contrary,  we  would  give  its  full  effect 
to  a  mere  narration,  we  ought  to  seek  the  solitude  and  silence 
of  the  closet.  When  our  senses  are  no  longer  excited,  and 
when  our  imagination  is  undisturbed  by  the  intervention  of  any 
real  object,  the  mind  will  most  successfully  create  its  own 
theatre,  and  bring  to  our  view  the  objects  described  by  the  poet. 
The  tragedy  of  CEdipus  was  written  while  Voltaire  was 
yet  very  young.  In  the  maturity  of  his  genius  he  would  not 
have  fallen  into  the  errors  which  have  been  here  pointed  out. 
But,  at  the  same  time,  it  is  probable  that  he  would  not  then 
have  written  on  the  subject  of  Gi^dipus.  It  would  have 
occurred  to  him,  that  this  drama  could  not  be  treated  with 
strict  regard  to  the  unities,  by  any  but  Greek  authors.  By 
them  the  chorus  and  the  lyrical  portion  of  the  work,  which 
we  have  entirely  excluded,  were  regarded  as  the  essence  of 
the  tragedy  ;  and  they  were  thus  enabled  to  dispense  with  the 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  297 

action.  But  it  was  subsequent  to  the  composition  of  Zaire, 
that  Vohaire  wrote  his  Adelaide  du  Guexdin.  In  this  piece 
he  designed  to  give  an  example  of  a  tragedy  entirely  French, 
and  to  excite  the  feelings  of  the  spectators  by  the  introduc- 
tion of  the  most  distinguished  names  of  the  monarchy,  and  by 
the  recollection  of  the  most  chivalric  and  poetical  of  all  its 
wars.  But,  by  the  difficulties  resulting  from  the  rule  which 
confines  the  time  of  action  to  twenty-four  hours,  he  was^ 
compelled  to  adopt  a  plot  of  mere  invention  ;  and,  instead  of 
deriving  any  advantage  from  the  charm  of  national  associa- 
tions, he  turned  these  very  circumstances  against  himself ;  a 
necessary  consequence,  when  those  associations  are  at  per- 
petual variance  with  the  gratuitous  inventions  of  the  poet. 

The  rules  of  the  French  theatre,  by  compelling  the 
dramatist  to  draw  his  resources  almost  entirely  from  the 
heart,  to  the  exclusion  of  incident,  have  given  rise  to  many 
masterpieces  ;  because  men  of  the  highest  genius,  restricted 
to  these  limits,  have  depicted  the  depth  of  sentiment  and  the 
impetuosity  of  passion,  with  a  degree  of  truth,  precision,  and 
purity  of  taste,  unequalled  by  any  other  nation.  They  are, 
however,  compelled  to  forego  that  which  is  the  end  and 
object  of  the  romantic  tragedy.  Their  drama  is  not,  like 
that,  the  school  of  nations,  wherein  they  may  learn  under  a 
poetical  guise  the  most  brilliant  portions  of  their  history  ; 
where  tliey  may  animate  themselves  by  the  contemplation  of 
ancestral  honours,  of  glory,  and  of  patriotism,  till  they  have 
engraved  upon  their  hearts,  by  beliolding  with  their  own 
eyes,  the  imposing  lessons  of  past  ages. 

Unity  of  action  is  essentially  requisite  in  every  drama,  as 
indeed  in  every  intellectual  creation.  This  it  is  which  gives 
us  the  clear  perception  of  harmony  and  beauty,  which  capti- 
vates our  attention,  and  which  preserves  the  due  relation 
between  the  whole  and  the  several  parts.  It  is  this  unity 
which  establishes  bounds,  though  with  considerable  latitude, 
to  discrepancies  of  time  and  place.  The  distance  of  time 
naturally  suggests  to  the  imagination  a  number  of  interme- 
diate actions  between  one  scene  and  another,  of  interests 
created  or  destroyed,  and  of  changes  in  the  relation  of  affiiirs, 
which  embarrass  and  fatigue  the  mind.  It  is  necessary,  there- 
fore, that  the  spectator,  in  following  the  persons  of  the  drama 
from  place  to  place,  and  day  after  day,  should  always  be  occu- 
pied with  one  single  idea,  and  should  consider  t!ie  actors  as 

VOL    II.  T 


298  ON    THE    I.ITEIIATURE 

engaged  with  the  interests  of  the  drama.  If  he  should 
imagine  them  employed  upon  otlier  actions  unknown  to 
himself,  those  actions,  in  which  it  is  impossible  that  his  mind 
can  be  interested,  distract  his  attention,  and  weaken  the  effect 
of  the  drama  upon  his  mind  by  withdrawing  it  from  the  unity 
of  the  subject.  We  shall  have  occasion  to  remark  that  these 
boundaries  have  been  ill  preserved  in  the  romantic  theatre, 
and  that  the  liberty  which  gave  rise  to  this  poetical  innova- 
tion lias  but  too  frequently  degenerated  into  licence. 

Tliese  observations  are  not  applicable  to  the  Spanish 
theatre  only;  they  may  be  applied  to  all  foreign  literature, 
witli  the  exception  only  of  the  Italian.  All  the  northern,  as 
well  as  the  southern  nations,  have  refused  to  submit  to  the 
pretended  dominion  of  Aristotle;  and  it  will  be  impossible  for 
us  to  relish  the  charms  of  their  literature  if  we  do  not  possess 
a  previous  acquaintance  with  tlieir  critical  canons,  and  if  we 
learn  not  to  judge  of  their  drama  by  the  rules  which  their 
own  poets  have  proposed  to  themselves,  and  not  according  to 
our  own  prejudices. 

With  regard  to  the  Spaniards,  as  far  as  we  have  hitherto 
examined  their  literature,  we  have  seen  that  it  is  much  less 
classical  than  tliat  of  other  nations  ;  that  it  is  much  less 
formed  upon  the  model  of  the  Greeks  and  the  Romans,  less 
subjected  to  the  laws  and  criticism  of  literary  legislators,  and, 
in  short,  that  it  has  preserved  a  more  original  and  independent 
character.  It  is  not  that  the  Spanish  writers  have  possessed 
no  models  to  follow,  gr  that  they  have  never  been  imitators, 
for  their  earliest  masters  were  the  Arabians.  It  was  from 
the  Arabians  that  they  derived  their  elder  poetry.  In  the 
sixteenth  century,  their  mixture  witli  the  Italians  gave  a 
new  life,  as  it  were,  to  their  literature,  and  changed  both  its 
spirit  and  its  form.  It  is  a  singular  fact,  that  they  Vi'ho 
introduced  the  riches  of  loreign  lands  into  the  literature  of 
Castile,  were  not  scholars  but  warriors.  The  Spanish  Uni- 
versities, numerous,  rich,  and  powerful  as  they  were  by  their 
jirivileges,  were  altogether  subject  to  monastic  influence.  The 
principal  of  these  privileges  was  then,  as  it  still  is,  the  right 
of  refusing  to  follow  the  progress  of  science,  and  of  maintain- 
ing all  ancient  abuses  and  obsolete  modes  of  instruction  as 
their  most  precious  patrimonies.  Spain  took  little  jiart  in 
that  zealous  cultivation  of  tlie  learning  and  poetry  of  the 
ancients,  which  gave  so  much  life  to  tlie  sixteenth  century. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  29i> 

Amongst  her  poets  no  one  is  distinfruislied  for  his  scholastic 
reputation,  or  for  his  excellence  in  Greek  or  Roman  compo- 
sition. On  the  contrary,  they  were  generally  warriors,  whose 
active  and  elevated  souls  sought  even  a  wider  range  than  that 
of  martial  action.  Boscan,  Garcilaso,  Diego  de  Mendoza, 
Montemayor,  Castilejo,  and  Cervantes,  all  distinguished 
themselves  in  the  field.  Don  Alonzo  de  Ercilla  traversed  the 
Atlantic  and  the  Straits  of  Magellan,  seeking  glory  and 
danger  in  another  hemisphere.  Camoens,  amongst  the  Por- 
tuguese, was  a  sailor  and  soldier,  as  well  as  a  poet.  This 
alliance  between  arts  and  arms  produced  two  effects  on  the 
literature  of  Spain,  which  were  equally  advantageous.  In 
the  first  place,  it  conferred  a  noble,  valorous,  and  chivalric 
character  upon  the  writings  of  the  Spaniards;  a  character 
rare  in  every  nation,  where  the  sedentary  life  of  the  poet 
enfeebles  his  spirit ;  and  secondly,  it  divested  their  imitations 
of  every  appearance  of  pedantry.  The  Castilians,  indeed, 
borrowi'd  I'rom  other  nations,  more  especially  from  the 
Italians  ;  but  they  were  only  imperfectly  acquainted  witli 
what  they  borrowed,  and  therefore,  when  they  wislied  to  avail 
themselves  of  it,  they  modified  and  adapted  it  to  their  own 
ideas.  The  Arabians,  the  first  instructors  of  the  Spaniards, 
were  ignorant  of  the  drama  ;  the  Provencals  and  the  Catalans 
had  very  little  more  knowledge  of  it ;  nor  could  the  Spaniards 
themsel\'es  boast  of  a  theatre  before  the  time  of  Charles  V. 
They  studied  very  sliglitly,  and  thought  still  less  of  imitating 
the  classical  drama ;  but  their  officers  had  beheld  in  the  wars 
of  Italy,  the  theatrical  representations  which  adorned  the 
Court  of  Ferrara,  and  of  other  Itahan  princes.  In  emulation 
of  these  spectacles  they  attempted  to  establish  something 
resembling  them  amongst  themselves,  and  to  introduce  into 
their  own  country  an  amusement  which  was  the  ornament  of 
those  nations  in  which  tliey  had  borne  arms. 

The  Italian  dramas  were  in  verse,  though  not  of  the  most 
harmonious  kind,  and  it  was  soon  found  tliat  the  language 
possessed  no  good  dramatic  metre.  The  Spaniards  united  an 
Italian  metre  to  their  own  national  verse — the  redondilhas, 
or  the  trochaic  verses  of  eight  syllables,  in  which  their 
ancient  romances  were  written.  The  dialogue,  whenever 
vivacity  is  demanded,  is  in  redondilhas,  sometimes  rhymed 
in  quatrains,  sometimes  in  stanzas  of  ten  lines ;  occasionally 
with   assonants    in    the    second    lines ;    but  always  with  a 

T  2 


300  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

lyrical  movement,  the  verse  being  tliat  wliich  forms  the  most 
impassioned  measure  of  the  Frencli  ode.  Whenever  the 
dialogue  rises  to  eloquence,  or  the  poet  wishes  to  give  it 
dignity  and  grandeur,  he  employs  the  heroic  verse  of  the 
Italians  eitlier  in  octaves  or  tercets  ;  and  whenever  one  of 
the  cliaractcrs  expresses  some  sentiment,  or  comparison,  or 
detached  reflection,  which  has  been  suggested  to  him,  the 
poet  gives  it  in  the  shape  of  a  sonnet. 

The  choice  of  these  various  metres  has  produced  a  more 
extensive  effect  than  we  should  at  first  imagine,  upon  the 
drama  of  Spain.  In  otlier  languages  it  seems  to  have  been 
the  object  of  the  authors  to  make  the  verse  of  their  dramas 
resemble  eloquent  prose.  Tliey  attempt  to  give  their  lan- 
guage the  tone  of  nature,  and  to  compel  every  character  to 
speak  as  a  real  individual  would  express  himself  under  the 
same  circumstances.  The  Spaniards,  on  the  contrary, 
having  made  choice  of  lyric  and  heroic  metres,  endeavoured, 
above  every  thing  else,  to  give  a  poetical  character  to  their 
dramas.  Their  object  was  not  to  represent  what  the 
situatioii  of  the  characters  demanded,  but  to  adapt  the  sub- 
ject-matter to  the  form  which  they  had  selected.  Lyrical 
verse  would  be  ridiculous,  unless  sustained  by  richness  and 
grandeur  of  imagery.  The  same  is  the  case  with  heroic 
verse,  unless  it  conveys  corresponding  sentiments.  The 
ottava  riina  would  be  misplaced,  if  the  sentence  was  not 
proportioned  to  the  length  of  the  metre  ;  and  lastly,  the  son- 
nets must  be  clothed  with  that  sententious  pomp,  and  polished 
with  those  concetti,  which  are  the  distinctive  characteristics 
of  that  class  of  poems.  It  was  necessary  to  pass  from  one  of 
these  metres  to  another ;  it  was  necessary  that  they  should 
all  be  found  in  the  same  tragedy;  nor  did  any  question  arise 
whetlier  it  was  natural  that  the  characters,  amid  the  tumults 
of  passion,  the  commotions  of  terror,  and  the  anguish  of 
grief,  should  employ  the  most  far-fetched  comparisons  to  ex- 
press a  common  idea.  The  only  question  was,  whether  a 
good  sonnet  was  not  thus  produced.  They  did  not  require 
dramatic  but  lyrical  probability,  which  is  much  more  eavsily 
obtained.  They  did  not  regard  a  long  speech,  with  reference 
to  the  circumstances  in  which  the  speaker  was  placed,  or  to 
th(;  impatience  of  the  spectators,  or  of  the  other  characters. 
They  inquired  merely  whether  the  lines  were  intrinsically 
good  and  poetical ;  and,  if  they  were,  they  were  applauded. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  301 

In  sliort,  they  never  considered  the  relation  of  the  parts  to 
the  whole,  but  the  perfection  of  the  parts  themselves ;  they 
lost  sight  of  the  unity  of  the  composition  in  admiring  its  de 
tails,  and  in  their  love  of  art  they  entirely  abandoned  nature. 

The  Italian  poets,  befoi-e  Alfieri,  generally  laid  the  scene 
of  their  dramas  in  ancient  times  or  in  distant  countries.  The 
Spanish  poets,  on  the  contrary,  are  essentially  national. 
The  greater  part  of  their  pieces  are  drawn  from  their  own 
times,  and  from  the  history  of  Spain.  Those  in  which  the 
scene  is  laid  in  other  countries  or  in  fabulous  times,  still  give 
us  a  representation  of  their  own  manners.  They  thus  pos- 
sess the  advantage  of  displaying  a  more  animated  and  faith- 
ful picture  of  nature  than  the  Italian  dramas,  which  are  all 
conventional.  The  Spanish  theatre  bears  the  strong  impress 
of  those  illustrious  times  in  which  it  flourished,  when  the 
pride  of  the  nation  was  roused  by  its  victories,  and  its 
military  spirit  shone  in  every  composition.  As  liberty  had 
been  lost  for  upwards  of  a  century,  the  gentlemen  of  Spain 
placed  their  pride  in  chivalry.  They  became  romantic,  as  it 
was  no  longer  in  their  power  to  be  heroic,  and  entertained 
exaggerated  notions  upon  the  point  of  honour,  which  in  noble 
souls  fills  the  place  of  patriotism,  when  that  sentiment  has 
ceased  to  exist.  The  poet,  when  he  represented  past  times, 
did  not  dare  to  invest  his  cavaliers  with  the  independence 
which  their  fathers  had  enjoyed.  He  endowed  them  with  all 
his  own  political  fears,  and  his  own  religious  superstitions. 
He  painted  them  as  obedient  to  their  kings,  submissive  to 
their  priests,  and  full  of  a  slavish  spirit  at  wliich  the  ancient 
nobles  of  Castile  would  have  blushed.  Notwithstanding  these 
unfaithful  representations,  the  Spanish  theatre  still  exhibits 
pictures  every  way  worthy  of  exciting  our  liveliest  curiosity. 

We  have  already  seen  in  a  former  chapter  what,  according 
to  Cervantes,  was  the  origin  of  the  Spanish  theatre,  and 
what  Cervantes  himself  accomplished  in  its  cause.  We  have 
likewise  seen  how  he  admired  the  genius  of  the  man,  who,  in 
his  time,  created  as  it  were  the  drama  of  his  country,  and 
alone  gave  birth  to  more  theatrical  compositions  than  per- 
haps the  united  literature  of  all  other  nations  can  produce. 
Lope  Felix  de  Vega  Carpio  was  born  at  Madrid  on  the 
twenty-fifth  of  November,  1562,  fifteen  years  after  Cervan- 
tes. His  relations,  who  were  noble,  though  poor,  gave  him 
a  liberal  education.     In  consequence  of  their  death  before  he 


302  ON    THE    LITKUATUKE 

visited  the  university,  lie  was  sent  tliither  by  the  Inquisitor- 
General,  Don  Jerouinio  Manri([uez,  Bisliop  of  Avila,  and  he 
completed   his  studies   at  Alcala.     Prodigies  of  imagination 
and  learning  are  related  of  him  at  this  early  period.     The 
Duke  of  Alva,  soon  alter  his  marriage,  took   him  into  his 
employment  as  secretary  ;  but  being  forced  into  an  affair  of 
honour,   he  wounded    his    adversary  dangerousl}',   and    was 
compelled  to  seek  his  safety  in  flight.     He  passed  some  years 
in  exile  at  Madrid,  and  on  his   return  lost  his   wife.     The 
grief  which  he  felt  upon  this  occasion,  added  to  his  religious 
and  jtatriotic  zeal,  drove  him  into  the  army,  and  lie  embarked  on 
board  the   Invincible  Armada,  which  was  intended  to  subdue 
England,  but  which  only  fixed  Elizabeth  more  firmly  upon  the 
throne.      On  his  return  to  Madrid,  he  again  married,  and  for 
some  time  lived  happily  in  the  bosom  of  his  family  ;  but  the 
death  of  his   second  wife    determined  him  to  renounce  the 
world  and  enter  into  orders.     Notwithstanding  this  change, 
he  continued  to  the  end  of  his  lif(i  to  cultivate  poetry  with  so 
wonderful  a  facility,  that  a  drama  of  more  than  two  thousand 
lines,  intermingled  with  sonnets,  terza  rima,  and  ottava  rima, 
and   enlivened  with  all    kinds   of  unexpected  incidents  and 
intrigues,  frequently  cost  him  no  more  than  the  labour  of  a 
single  day.     lie  teils  us  himself  that  he  has  produced  more 
than  a  hundred  plays,  which  were  represented  within  four 
and  twenty  hours  after  their  first  conception.*    We  must  not 
tbrf^et  what  we  have  before  said  of  the  wonderful  lacility  of 
the  Italian  improvvisatori  ;  and  it  is  not  more  difhcult  to  com- 
pose in  the  Spanish  metres.     In  the  time  of  Lope  de  Vega, 
there  existed  many  Castilian  improvvisatori,  who  expressed 
themselves  in  verse  with  the  same  ease  as  in  prose.    Lope 
was  the  most  remarkable  of  those  improvvisatori ;  for  the  task 
of  versification  seems  never  to  have  retarded  his  progress. 
His  friend  and  biographer  Montalvan,  has  remarked  that  he 
composed  more  rapidly  than  his  amanuensis  could  copy.    The 
managers  of  the  theatres,  who  always  kept  him  on  the  spur, 
left  him  no  time  either  to  read  or  to  correct  his  compositions. 
He   thus,    with   inconceivable    fertility,    produced   eighteen 
hundred  comedies  and  four  \m\u\\-('i\  Autos  i^dcnniientah's  ;  in 
all  two  thousand  two  hundred  dramas,  of  which  about  three 
hundred  alone  have  been  published  in  twenty-five  volumes  in 

*  Pues  mas  de  ciento,  en  horas  veynte  y  quatro, 
Pa.saron  de  las  musas  al  teatro. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  303 

quarto.  His  other  poems  were  reprinted  at  Madrid  in  1776, 
under  the  title  of  the  Detached  Works  ( Ohras  Sueltas)  of  Lope 
de  Vega,  in  twenty-one  volumes  in  quarto.  His  prodigious 
literary  labours  produced  Lope  almost  as  much  money  as  glory. 
He  amassed  a  hundred  thousand  ducats,  but  his  treasures  did 
not  long  abide  with  him.  The  poor  ever  found  his  purse  open  to 
them  ;  and  that  taste  for  pomp,  and  thatCastilian  pride  which  is 
gratified  by  extravagance  and  emban-assments,  soon  dissipated 
his  wealth.  After  living  in  splendour,  he  died  almost  in  poverty. 

No  poet  has  ever  in  his  lifetime  enjoyed  so  much  glory. 
Whenever  he  shewed  himself  abroad,  the  crowd  surrounded 
him,  and  saluted  him  with  the  appellation  of  the  fvodigy  of 
nature.  Children  followed  him  with  cries  of  pleasure,  and 
every  eye  was  fixed  upon  him.  The  religious  College  of 
Madrid,  of  which  he  was  a  member,  elected  him  their  presi- 
dent, {CnpeUun  inaj/or.)  Pope  Urban  VIII.  presented  him 
with  the  Cross  of  Malta,  the  title  of  Doctor  of  Theology,  and 
the  diploma  of  Treasurer  of  the  Apostolic  Chamber  ;  marks 
of  distinction  which  he  owed  at  least  as  much  to  his  fanatical 
zeal,  as  to  his  poems.  The  Inquisition,  too,  appointed  him  one 
of  its  familiars.  In  the  midst  of  the  homage  thus  rendered  to 
his  talents,  he  died  on  the  twenty-sixth  of  August,  1635, 
having  attained  the  age  of  seventy-three.  His  obsequies  were 
celebrated  with  even  royal  pomp.  Three  bishops  in  their 
pontifical  habits  officiated  for  three  days  at  the  funeral  of  the 
Spanish  Phoenix,  as  he  is  called  in  the  title-page  of  his  co- 
medies. It  has  been  calculated  that  he  wrote  more  than 
twenty-one  millions  three  hundred  thousand  lines,  upon  a 
hundred  and  thirty-three  thousand  two  hundred  and  twenty- 
two  sheets  of  paper. 

In  examining  the  works  of  Lope  de  Vega,  we  shall  pursue 
the  same  method  which  we  have  employed  in  our  observations 
upon  less  voluminous  authors,  and  we  shall  attempt  to  make 
the  reader  acquainted  with  them  rather  through  the  medium 
of  a  detailed  analysis,  than  by  judging  them  in  the  mass  and 
by  general  ideas.  P"or  my  own  part,  I  am  only  conversant 
with  thirty  of  his  dramas,  one  tenth  merely  of  the  number 
which  has  been  published,  which  is  itself  but  a  sixth  part  of 
those  which  he  composed.  But  even  this  acquaintance  with 
his  writings  is,  I  imagine,  quite  sufficient  to  enable  us  to  form 
an  opinion  of  his  talents  and  defects. 

Tlie  essence  of  the  Spanish  theatre  is  intrigue.     In  all 


304  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

their  pieces  we  discover  a  complication  of"  incidents,  love- 
alFairs,  stratagems,  and  combats,  which  are  sufficiently  extra- 
ordinary, more  especially  if  we  measure  them  by  our  manners, 
and  which  it  is  by  no  means  easy  to  follow  and  comprehend. 
It  is  said  that  strangers  experience  infinite  dilRculty  in  fol- 
lowing the  thread  of  a  drama  represented  upon  the  stage  of  a 
Madrid  theatre,  while  the  Spaniards  themselves,  who  are 
habituated  to  this  intrigue  and  ronuuuic  adventure,  can  trace 
the  plot  Ayith  surprising  facility.  The  complicated  structure 
of  the  plots  of  the  Spanish  dramas  is  so  essentially  connected 
with  the  literature  of  that  countrj',  that  it  is  necessary  to  con- 
sider and  to  explain  it.  I  shall,  tiierefore,  trace  the  plot  of  the 
first  comedy  now  analysed,  and  which  is  one  of  the  most  simple 
in  its  nature.  In  the  rest,  I  shall  content  myself  with  examining 
those  portions  of  tliem  which  strike  me  as  the  most  remarkable 
for  ingenuity,  for  poetry,  or  for  the  representation  of  manners. 

Tlie  Di.-<crc'et  Revenge  (La  Dhcrcia  Vemjancri)  which  I 
propose  to  analyse,  is  the  first  play  of  the  twentieth  volume. 
It  is  a  national  and  historical  drama,  one  of  that  class  which 
has  always  appeared  to  me  to  possess  the  greatest  portion  of 
real  merit.  The  scene  is  laid  in  Portugal,  in  the  reign  of 
Alfonso  III.  (124G-1279.)  Tlie  hero  of  the  i)iece  is  Don 
Juan  de  Meneses,  the  favorite  of  the  King,  who  was  compelled 
to  defend  himself  against  the  dark  intrigues  of  a  number  of 
envious  courtiers.  At  the  opening  of  the  drama,  he  is  seen 
with  his  squire  Tello  waiting  until  his  cousin,  Donna  Anna, 
of  whom  he  is  enamoured,  shall  leave  church.  His  rival,  Don 
Nuno,  accom{)anied  by  his  friend  Don  Ramiro,  then  ai*rives 
with  the  same  object  of  paying  attention  to  the  lady.  At 
length  she  appears  at  the  church-door,  and,  upon  her  happen- 
ing to  let  her  glove  fall,  the  two  gallants  threw  themselves 
forwards  to  catcli  it.  This  incident  causes  a  dispute  between 
them;  angry  looks  pass,  and  defiances  are '  interchanged. 
Donna  Anna,  in  order  to  prevent  a  quarrel,  decides  against 
her  cousin  in  favour  of  Nuno,  to  whom,  however,  she  is  indif- 
ferent. Having  dismissed  her  tAvo  lovers.  Donna  Anna  returns 
to  the  stage  to  justify  herself  to  Meneses,  and  to  satisfy  him 
that  she  has  only  ])referred  his  rival  in  order  to  prevent  a  dan- 
gerous quarrel.  This  scene,  which  is  a  sort  of  exposition  of 
tlie  plot,  is  intended  to  give  us  an  insight  into  the  happy  love 
of  Meneses,  his  jealous  disposition,  and  the  rivalry  of  Nuno. 

The  second  scene  represents  the  council  of  state  of  King 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  305 

Alonzo.  In  the  English  and  Spanish  dramas,  it  is  not  the 
entry  of  a  fresh  actor  which  constitutes  a  new  scene,  but  the 
re-appearance  of  the  characters  in  a  situation  or  place  which 
has  no  immediate  connexion  with  the  preceding  scene. 
Alonzo  had  been  raised  to  the  throne  of  Portugal  by  a  party 
who  had  deposed  Don  Sancho  his  brother,  a  negligent, 
voluptuous,  and  incapable  prince.  Alonzo  had  been  married 
to  a  French  princess,  (Matilda,  the  heiress  of  the  county  of 
Boulogne,)  a  lady  of  fifty  years  of  age,  while  her  husband  was 
a  youtii.  Having  no  children  by  her,  and  having  abandoned 
the  hope  of  a  family,  he  was  desirous  of  divorcing  the  princess, 
wlio  had  not  followed  him  into  Portugal.  Tlie  reasons  of 
state,  the  wish  of  settling  the  succession  to  the  crown,  on  the 
one  hand,  and  on  the  other  the  rights  of  Matilda  and  the 
gratitude  which  Alonzo  owes  her,  are  discussed  in  council 
with  much  dignity.  Yasco  Nuno  and  Ramiro  persuade  the 
King  to  demand  a  divorce  from  the  Pontiff  Clement  IV., 
which  the  latter  could  not  refuse.  Don  Juan  de  Meneses,  on 
the  contrary,  is  desirous  that  the  king  should  divide  all  the 
pleasures  of  royalty  with  her  from  whom  he  derived  his  sub- 
sistence when  he  had  no  realm  of  his  own.  Alonzo  puts  an 
end  to  the  discussion,  which  was  growing  warm  between 
Nuno  and  Meneses,  and  desires  the  latter  alone  to  remain, 
whose  fidelity  he  had  experienced  in  his  greatest  misfortunes. 
He  informs  him  that  he  has  not  only  determined  to  divorce 
Matilda,  but  to  marry  Beatrix,  the  daughter  of  Alfonso  X.  of 
Castile,  who  had  offered  the  kingdom  of  Algarves  as  a  dowry. 
Having  selected  Don  Juan  as  his  ambassador  to  the  court  of 
Seville,  he  commands  him  to  depart  the  same  night,  and  to 
preserve  the  strictest  silence.  Don  Juan  frankly  avows  that 
he  feels  great  regret  in  being  compelled  to  leave  his  cousin 
Anna  de  Meneses  at  the  moment  when  he  is  disputing  her 
love  with  a  rival  who  may  bear  away  the  prize  ;  but  Alonzo 
promises  to  attend  himself  to  the  interests  of  his  friend,  and 
to  watch  over  his  misti'ess.  Juan  does  not  place  such  implicit 
confidence  in  this  promise,  as  not  to  order  his  squire  Tello  to 
keep  guard  at  night  around  the  mansion  of  his  beloved.  He 
religiously  preserves  the  secret  intrusted  to  him,  and  departs 
without  taking  leave  of  Donna  Anna,  being  compelled  even 
to  neglect  an  appointment  which  she  had  herself  made  with 
him  for  that  evening. 

It  was  not  without  good  grounds  that  Meneses  had  ordered 


306  ON    THE    LITICRATUUE 

Tello  to  keep  guard  during  the  night.  Nuno,  Ramiro,  and 
their  squire  Ivodrigo,  approacli  the  num.sion  of  Donna  Anna. 
It  was  tlie  hour  at  which  she  liad  appointed  to  meet  Don 
Juan,  whom  she  imagines  she  .>-ees  in  the  person  of  Don  NuSo. 
Tello,  who  is  watching,  contrives  by  an  artitice  to  learn  their 
names,  but,  as  they  are  three  to  one,  he  does  not  yet  dare  to 
attack  tlieni.  Wiiile  he  is  observing  them  at  a  distance,  the 
King,  who  wishes  to  keep  his  promise,  and  to  watch  over  the 
mistress  of  Don  Juan,  appears  at  the  bottom  of  tlie  same 
street.  Tello,  witliout  recognizing  him,  accosts  him  and  re- 
quests his  assistance,  and  a  scene  takes  place  which,  whimsical 
as  it  is,  from  its  excess  of  chivalric  spirit,  yet  possesses  a  cha- 
racter of  great  truth  and  originality: 

Tello.   A  cavalier  advances  to  the  grate ; 
Strange  as  it  is,  I'll  speak  at  any  rate. 

Alonzo.  Who's  there  !      Tello.  I'ut  up  your  sword  !  One  who  demands 
Nought  but  a  favour,  Signer,  at  your  hands. 

Alonzo.    So  late,  and  in  this  lonely  place  address'd, 
Who,  think  you,  will  attend  to  such  rctiuest  ? 

Tello.      He  who  boasts  gentle  blood  ;  and  you  are  he, 
As  in  your  noble  countenance  I  see. 

Alonzo.    True,  I'm  a  gentleman ;  and,  by  God's  grace, 
One  also  of  a  known  and  noble  race. 

Tello.      You  know  the  laws  of  honour  then ;  the  best 
Of  all  the  code  is  to  defend' the  oppress'd. 

Alonzo.    But  first  'tis  meet  wc  know  who's  in  the  right. 

Tello.      To  cut  the  matter  short,  pray,  will  you  fight  ] 

Alonzo.    You're  not  a  robber  !  I  can  scarce  think  so, 
Judging  you  from  your  cloak.         Tello.  No,  marry,  no. 
Fear  it  not.         Alonzo.  Well  !  what  would  you  have  me  do! 

Tello.      Behind  that  grating  does  an  angel  dwell, 
And  he  who  loves  her  left  me  sentinel, 
To  guard  her  safety  in  his  absence  hence. 
You  see  tho.se  men  ]     You  see  the  difference  : 
'Tis  three  to  one      Now,  if  you'll  lend  a  hand, 
I'll  cudgel  them  till  none  of  them  can  stand. 

Alonzo.    You've  puzzled  me.     I  am  a  knight,  'tis  true. 
And  therefore  am  I  bound  to  stand  by  you. 
And  yet,  methinks,  'tis  indiscreet  in  us 
To  meddle  in  a  stranger's  quarrel  thus. 

Tello.      Pho  !  never  fear  !  let  but  the  rascals  see 
That  I  have  got  another  man  with  me, 
I'll  settle  them,  though  three  or  thirty-three. 

Alonzo.    Fear  !  in  my  life  I  never  yet  knew  fear  ! 
I  only  dread  our  enemies  should  hear 
Of  this  adventure,  and  should  say  of  it 
That  it  disi)lays  our  rashness,  not  our  wit. 
Tell  me  his  name  whose  place  to-night  you  fill, 
I  promise  I'll  stick  by  you,  come  what  will. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  307 

Tello.     Exceeding  good — you  promise — liis  name  is 
Don  Juan  de  Meneses.         Alonzo.  Why  tlien  this 
Most  lucky  is  ;  his  dearest  friend  am  I  ; 
So  take  your  sword,  we'll  strike  them  instantly. 

Tello.  You  gentlemen  there  !  peeping  through  the  blind, 
ilarch  off  !  or  1  shall  break  your  heads,  you'll  find. 

NuNO.  Pray  are  you  arm'cl  to  carry  the  thing  through  ? 

Tello.  xVrui'd  !  like  the  devil.    Kodrigo.  Kill  the  rascal,  do.  {They fight.) 

Tello.  Now  help.  Sir  Knight.         Eodrigo.  The  bully  fights,  I  swear! 

NuNO.  Forbear,  or  you'll  disgrace  this  house,— forbear  ! 

Tello.  A  coward's  poor  excuse  !         Alonzo.  Follow  them  not. 

Tello.  Oh  let  me  kiss  a  thousand  times  the  spot 
On  which  you  stand.     Could  but  the  king  have  seen 
Your  valorous  deeds,  you  shortly  would  have  been 
His  general  at  Ceuta.         Alonzo.  Sir,  my  rank 
Is  such,  that  at  his  table  I  have  drank. 

Tello.  What  feints  !  what  thrusts  !  what  quickness  !  and  what  fire ! 
May  I  not  know  what  I  so  much  desire, 
Your  name  ?        Alonzo.  I'd  really  tell  you,  had  I  power  ; 
Come  to  the  palace  j'our  first  vacant  hour. 

Tello.  But  if  I  come,  how  shall  I  know  you  then? 

Alonzo.  Give  me  some  trifle  that  you  prize  not ;  when 
You  see  me  next,  I'll  hand  it  you  again. 

Tello.  I've  nought  about  me  that  is  useless.     Yes, 
I've  got  my  purse  which  very  useless  is, 
For  it  is  always  empty — here,  take  this  ! 

Alonzo.  What,  empty  !  Tello.  Ay,  good  Signor  :  squires  like  me 
Boast  very  little  silver,  as  you  see. 

We  may  easily  imagine  that  a  very  diverting  scene  occur.s 
in  tlie  second  act,  when  tlie  king  restores  his  purse  to  Tello, 
and  thus  discloses  his  name.  The  monarch  enquires  whether 
Tello  is  willing  to  receive  a  present  ;  and  the  squire  answers 
him  by  saying,  that  when  his  father  died  he  gave  particular 
directions  th:it  one  hand  should  be  left  out  of  the  grave,  in 
order  that  he  might  be  able  to  receive  what  any  one  might  be 
disposed  to  give  him.  The  king  then  bestows  a  pension  upon 
him  and  the  dignity  of  an  Alcalde  of  St.  John,  to  which  office 
is  attached  the  privilege  of  having  a  key  to  every  fortress. 

In  the  second  act  Don  Juan  de  Meneses  returns  to  Portugal 
with  Beatrix  of  Castile.  This  princess,  the  most  amiable  and 
beautiful  woman  of  her  age,  feels  as  lively  a  passion  for 
Alonzo  as  that  with  which  the  monarch  is  himself  inspired. 
With  the  approbation  of  the  council  of  state  the  marriage  is 
celebrated  (1262,)  before  a  dispensation  for  that  purpose  has 
been  obtained  from  Rome.  The  attachment  of  Alonzo  to 
Beatrix  only  strengthens  the  gratitude  which  he  feels  towards 
Meneses.     To  him  he  confides  the  direction  of  all  his  affairs. 


308  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

Every  petitioner  is  referred  to  him  ;  and  the  jealousy  of  the 
courtiers  is  thus  augmented  and  eonfirmed.  His  ruin  is 
sworn  by  all  ;  and  they  attempt  to  destroy  him  by  the  most 
perfidious  artifice.  Nuno,  above  all,  endeavours  to  wound 
him  in  the  tenderest  point.  lie  demands  from  the  king  the 
hand  of  Donna  Anna  de  Meneses.  He  already  possesses  the 
approbation  of  her  father,  and  he  promises  to  procure  her 
own  consent  under  her  hand.  Don  Juan  undertakes  to  offer 
no  opposition  to  their  union,  provided  he  is  furnished  with 
this  proof  of  tlie  iniidelity  of  his  mistress.  Nuiio  deceitfully 
procures  a  paper  by  which  Donna  Anna  appears  to  give  her 
consent.  The  jealousy  of  the  two  lovers  is  thus  raised  to  the 
highest  pitch  ;  but  a  meeting  and  an  ex[)lanation  take  place, 
and  they  mutually  forgive  one.  another. 

In  the  third  act  Kuno  attempts  to  awaken  the  jealousy  of 
Donna  Anna,  by  persuading  her  tliat  Don  Juan  is  in  love 
with  Inez,  one  of  the  maids  of  honour  to  the  queen  ;  whilst 
his  friend  Don  Ramiro  addresses  her,  and  makes  proposals  of 
marriage  as  if  from  Don  Juan.     Inez  receives  the  overture 
with  great  joy,  and  announces  it  to  the  queen.     This  news 
reaches  tlie  ears  of  Donna  Anna  on  every  side,  and  in  an 
interview  with  her  lover,  instead  of  soothing  him,  she  excites 
him  to  challange  Don  Nuno.      She  tells  him  that  when  she 
prevented  a  quarrel  formerly,  her  love  only  was  in  question, 
but  that  now  her  jealousy  is  awakened  ;  that  his  danger  is 
nothing  in  comparison  with  her  sufferings  ;  and  that  she  can 
no  longer  listen  to  the  voice  of  prudence.     Before  Don  Juan 
is  able  to  meet  Nuuo,  a  fresh  intrigue  at  court  exposes  him 
to  the  greatest  danger.     The  pontiff  refuses  the  dispensation 
for  the  divorce  of  the  king  and  his  marriage  with  Beatrix. 
The  king  and  the  princess  are  overwhelmed.     The  Countess 
of  Boulogne  being  unwilling  that  her  marriage    should    be 
dissolved,  had  written  to  Rome  to  oppose  the  divorce.      The 
enemies  of  Don  Juan  present  to  the  king  a  forged  letter,  as 
from  the  Countess  to  Juan,  in  oi'der  to  establish  an  under- 
standing between  those  parties,  and  to  induce  a  belief  that  the 
favourite  had  been  secretly  intriguing  at  Rome  against  the 
king  and    queen.     Alonzo  is  enraged  at  the  idea  of  being 
betrayi'd  by  his  friend.      He  orders  him  to  be  arrested,  and 
without  examination  or  hearing  he  condenms  him  to  deatli. 
The  office  of  aiTesting  him  is  given  to  his  enemies,  and  Don 
Juan  is  taken  into  custody  by  the  hands  of  Ramiro.     The 


OF    THE    SrANlARDS. 


309 


scene  in  which  Don  Juan  is  arrested,    is  exceedingly  fine. 
The  speech  of  Don  Juan  is  full  of  noble  poetry. 


Juan.  I  yield  me  to  the  king's  commands, 
nor  fear 
To  lose  the  royal  favour,  on  his  trutli 
Securely  resting.     From  these  prison  walls, 
Like  Joseph,  shall  I  step  victoriously 
In  glory.     Yet  I  grieve,  noble  Raniiro, 
My  tongue    may   utter    not  what  my  heart 

.would — 
You  understand  me. 

Ram.  All  things  have  their  end, 

And  so  shall  thy  captivity,  and  then 
Fair  answer  will  I  grant  thee  if  thou  seek'st  it. 

JvAN'.  So  be  it,  and  these  words  of  thine 
My  consolation.  [shall  be 

Vasco.  It  is  little  fitting 

To  cast  defiance  at  the  very  moment  [yet 

When  you  are  rendering  up  your  sword;  and 
Methinks  it  hath  not  shed  such  blood  in  Afric 
That  it  should  blanch  the  cheek  of  bold  Ramiro. 

Juan.  Vasco  de  Acuna,  I  do  marvel  not 
At  these  adverse  mutations  of  my  fortune, 
But  yet  I  do  admire  to  see  ye  three 
Building  ambitious  hopes  upon  my  ruin, 
Because  the  king  is  but  a  man,  and  ye 
Think  to  deceive  him.     Maugre  all  the  envy 
Bred  in  you  by  his  favours  shewn  to  me. 
All  of  you  know  how  well  tills  sword,  which 

now 
I  render  up,  has  served  the  king  atCoiinbra, 
And  at  Algarves,  too,  if  not  in  Afric. 
But  wherefore  do  I  weaUy  tax  myself 
To  satisfy  your  furious  hate  ?   There,  take  it ; 
But  know  that  speedily  ye  all  shall  pay  me 
For  this  foul  injury. 

NuNO.  Wert  thou  not  prisoner 

Thou  wouldst  not  thus  have  boasted. 

Juan.   Jly  good  friend  Nuno,  be  not  so  hard 

with  me. 
Ramiro.  Advance!  March  forward,  giiard. 
Juan.        Tello !        Tello.     My  lord! 
Juan.  Tello,  remember  you  relate  this  scene. 


Juan.  Obedezco  del  rey  el  manda- 

miento; 
No  triste  de  perder  del  rey  la  gracia, 
Porque  de  mi  verdadestoy  seguro, 
Que  saldre  de  esta  carcel  con  vitoria, 

Y  sera  de  Joseph  corona  y  gloria. 
Pero  de  no  poder,  Ramiro  noble, 
Dtzirte  las  palabras  que  pensaba, 
Que  tu  me  entiendes  ya. 

Ramiro.  Todo  se  acaba, 

Y  esta  prizion  se  acabard  muy  presto ; 

Y  aresponderte  me  hallaras  dispuesto, 
Sempre  que  tu  quisierts. 

Juan.  Pues,  yo  tomo 

Essa  palabra  por  cunsuelo  mio. 

Vasco.  No  es  tiempo  de  tratar  de 
desafio,  [pada. 

Quando  por  f  uerf  a  has  de  dexar  la  es- 
Ni  pienso  que  en  Africa  bafiada 
Se  vio  de  tanta  sangre,  que  amenace 
Cavalleros  que  son  conio  Kamiro. 

Juan.  Vasco  de  Acuna,  nunca  yo 

me  admiro 

De  las  adversidades  de  fortnna  : 

Admironie  de  ver  que  esteys  haziendo 

Lances  los  tres  en  mi,  porque  os  pa- 

rezca  [se  puede. 

Que  el  rey  es  hombre,  y  que  engailar 

La  embidia  queteneys  de  que  me  es- 

time;  [todos 

Esta  espada  que  os  doy,  bien  sabeys 

Que  en  Coymbra  serrio,  y  en  los  Al- 

garbes, 
Si  en  el  Africa  no,  mas  que  me  can:o 
En  dar  satisfacion  a  vuestra  furia! 
Tomad  la,  y  estad  ciertos  que  esta  in- 
Me  pagareys  muy  presto.  [juria 

NuNO.  A  no  estar  preso 

No  hablaras  tan  sobervio. 

Juan.  Nuiio  amigo 

Menos  rigor. 

Ramiro.      Camina,  alerta  guarda. 

Juan.  Tello.        Tello.  Senor  ! 

Juan.  Diras  lo  sucedido. 


The  biting  taunt  of  Nunc,  who  reproaches  Juan  with  pre- 
suming not  on  his  strength,  but  on  his  weakness,  could  not  be 
put  into  the  mouth  of  any  man  who  was  not  highly  sensitive 
upon  the  point  of  honour.  In  fact,  the  traitors  of  the  Spanish 
stage  are  never  cowards  like  those  of  the  Italian.  The  public 
would  not  have  suffered  so  shameful  a  representation. 

Tlie  eaei-fjetic  love  of  Anna  de  Meneses  succeeds  in 
delivering  Juan  from  prison.  This  she  accomplishes  through 
the  means  of  the  faithful  Tello,  who  held  the  key  of  the  ibr- 
tress,  and  by  the  zeal  of  Inez,  who  fearlessly  exposes  herself 
on  behalf  of  him  whom  she  believes  her  lover.  Donna  Anna 
and  Juan  experience  a  peculiar  pleasure  in  availing  them- 


310  ox    THE    LITERATURE 

selves  of  these  deceitful  practices,  and  as  soon  as  the  latter  is 
at  liberty,  instead  of  attempting  to  justify  himself,  he  turns 
upon  liis  enemies  their  own  arms.  By  liis  procurement,  cer- 
tain ibrged  letters  are  conveyed  to  tlie  king,  from  which  it 
uould  ap})ear  that  the  enemies  of  Don  Juan  have  been  guilty 
of  tlie  very  treasons  with  wliich  he  had  been  charged.  The 
hostile  courtiers  are  consequently  exiled,  and  Juan  is  restored 
to  favour,  while  the  general  satisfaction  is  augmented  by  the 
news  which  at  this  time  arrives  of  the  death  of  the  Countess 
of  Boulogne,  by  which  the  legality  of  the  nuptials  between 
Alonzo  and  Beatrix  is  firmly  established. 

I  fear  that  this  long  analysis  of  a  comedy  of  Lope  de  Vega 
may  be  thought  both  fatiguing  and  obscure  ;  and  that  it  may 
be  said  that  too  much  attention  lias  been  bestowed  upon  a 
work  which  probably  did  not  cost  its  author  more  than  four 
and  twenty  liours.  It  appeared  to  me,  however,  that  this  was 
the  only  mode  in  which  I  could  give  an  idea  of  the  peculiar 
invention  and  ellcct  of  Lope's  comedies,  and  of  the  new  cha- 
racter which  he  gave  to  the  Spanish  drama.  Ilis  plays  are 
no  less  removed  from  the  perfection  of  the  romantic  writers 
than  from  that  of  the  authors  of  antiquity.  Kothing  else 
could  be  expected  from  the  unexampled  velocity  with  which 
he  wrote.  Some  of  his  productions  are  very  rudely  composed, 
though  generally  lighted  up  with  some  sparks  of  genius.  It 
was  by  these  brilliant  traces  of  superior  talent,  as  well  as  by 
the  wonderful  fecundity  of  his  pen,  that  Lope  de  Vega 
•wrought  so  great  a  change  in  the  dramatic  literature  of  his 
country.  Cervantes  had  originated  tiie  idea  of  a  grand  and 
severe  style  of  tragedy ;  but  after  the  appearance  of  Lope, 
neither  tragedy  nor  comedy,  properly  speaking,  were  to  be 
i'ound.  Novels  and  romances  usurj)ed  the  Spanish  stage.  A 
Spanish  comedy,  as  Boutterwek  justly  remarks,  is  properly  a 
dramatic  novel  :  like  a  novel,  its  interest  may  be  either  of  a 
tragic,  or  comic,  or  historical  nature,  or  it  may  be  purely 
poetical.  The  rank  of  the  characters  cannot  assign  the  class 
to  which  it  belongs.  Princes  and  potentates,  in  their  places, 
contribute  to  the  carrying  on  of  tin;  plot,  as  well  as  valets  and 
lovers,  and  they  are  all  mingled  together  whenever  the 
exigencies  of  the  story  render  it  probable.  Neither  the  keep- 
ing of  character,  nor  a  satirical  vein,  is  essential  eitlier  to  the 
Spanish  drama  or  to  the  novel.  The  burlesque  and  the 
tender,  the  vulgar  and  the  pathetic,  may  be  mingled  together 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  311 

■without  destroying  the  spirit  of  the  piece,  for  the  object  of  the 
poet  is  not  to  keep  alive  any  one  certain  emotion.  He  does 
not  attempt  to  give  a  longer  duration  to  the  'interest  or  to 
the  emotion  of  the  spectators  than  to  their  laughter.  The 
whole  piece  turns  upon  a  complicated  intrigue,  which  excites 
their  attention  and  curiosity ;  and  he  thus  fills  his  historical 
plays  with  the  most  extraordinary  adventures,  and  his  sacred 
dramas  with  miracles. 

The  comedies  of  this  nation,  which  have  appeared  since  the 
age  of  Lope  de  Vega,  may  be  classed  under  the  distinctive 
heads  of  sacred  and  profane.  The  latter  branch  may  be  again 
subdivided  into  heroic,  historical,  or  mythological,  and  co- 
medies of  tlie  cloak  and  the  sword,  which  depict  the  fashionable 
manners  and  pursuits  of  the  day.  The  sacred  comedies 
represent  either  the  lives  of  saints  or  sacramental  acts.  Of 
these  two  classes  the  first  is  constructed  on  the  model  of  the 
mysteries,  which  Avere  anciently  performed  in  the  monasteries, 
while  the  latter  is  almost  entirely  confined  to  allegorical  sub- 
jects intended  to  celebrate  the  feast  of  the  Holy  Sacrament. 
In  course  of  time,  to  these  different  classes  of  dramatic 
performances  were  added  a  kind  of  prologue,  called  a  com- 
mendation, loa,  and  interludes,  entremeses,  which,  when 
accompanied  with  music  and  dancing,  were  termed  saynetes. 

In  the  comedies  of  the  cloak  and  the  sword,  or,  as  they 
might  properly  be  called,  of  intrigue.  Lope  has  scarcely  re- 
garded probability  in  the  order  and  connexion  of  his  scenes. 
His  chief  object  was  to  excite  interest  by  the  situations  in 
which  his  characters  were  placed,  and  by  the  working  up  of 
his  plot.  One  intrigue  is  interwoven  with  another,  and  the 
intricacy  of  the  plot  increases,  until  the  author,  to  terminate 
the  whole,  cuts  asunder  all  the  knots  which  he  cannot 
otherwise  unravel,  and  marries  all  the  couples  who  present 
themselves  to  him  as  candidates  for  that  ceremony.  Reflec- 
tions and  maxims  of  prudence  are  frequently  to  be  met  vnth 
in  the  course  of  his  comedies,  but  morality,  strictly  so  called, 
is  never  introduced  into  them.  The  public  for  whom  he 
wrote  would  not  have  permitted  him  to  dilate  on  a  subject 
\yith  which  they  conceived  that  they  were  sufficiently  edified 
from  the  pulpit.  His  gallantry,  on  which  every  intrigue  is 
founded,  is  of  the  most  extravagant  nature.  Not  the 
slightest  regard  is  paid  to  its  decorum  ;  and  if  it  is  partially 
regulated  by  the  principles  of  honour,  it  is  never  influenced 


312  ON    TUE    LITERATURE 

by  those  of  morality.  When  tlie  passions  are  pourtrayed, 
they  possess  all  the  character  of  the  impetuous  temperament 
of  the  nation.  In  the  reveries  of  his  lovers,  Lope  exhibits 
a  fund  of  romantic  declamation,  ami  of  jenx  d'esprit,  quite 
inexhaustible.  "  Love  excuses  even/  thin;/''  v:n>>  the  maxim 
of  the  fashionable  inhabitants  of  Madrid ;  and  on  the  au- 
thority of  this  adage,  all  kinds  of  deceptions,  perfidies  of  the 
basest  nature,  and  tlie  most  scandalous  intrigues,  are  repre- 
sented without  any  reserve.  His  cavaliers  draw  their  swords 
on  every  trifling  occasion  ;  and  to  inflict  a  wound  or  even 
death  upon  their  adversaries  is  considered  as  a  circumstance 
of  very  little  moment. 

The  sacred  pieces  of  Lope  de  Vega  depict,  in  very  faith- 
ful colours,  the  religious  spirit  of  his  times,  and  in  common 
with  his  other  works,  present  an  exact  picture  of  the  prevail- 
ing manners.  They  are  a  strange  mixture  of  catholic  piety, 
of  fantastic  imagination,  and  of  noble  poetry.  The  Lives 
of  the  Saints  possess  more  dramatic  effect  than  the  Sacra- 
mental Acts ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  the  religious  mysteries 
in  the  latter  are  expressed,  by  means  of  the  allegories,  with 
greater  dignity.  Of  all  the  dramatic  works  of  Lope  the 
Lives'of  the  Saints  are  written  with  the  least  observance  of 
the  rules.  In  them  we  discover  the  most  incongruous  union 
of  characters.  Allegorical  personages,  buffoons,  saints, 
countrymen,  scholars,  kings,  the  infant  Christ,  God  the 
Father,  the  devil,  and  all  the  heterogeneous  beings  which  the 
most  grotesque  imagination  can  conceive,  are  here  made  to 
act  and  to  converse  together. 

All  these  pieces  are,  at  present,  known  by  the  general 
designation  of  the  Gran  Comedia,  or  the  Coinedia  famosa, 
whether  the  event  is  fortunate  or  unfortunate,  comic  or 
tragic.  Yet  in  the  edition  of  his  dramatic  works  wiiich 
Lope  himself  published,  we  find  several  pieces  distinguished 
by  the  name  of  tragedies.  Of  these,  the  I'able  was  in  general 
borrowed  from  antiquity.  Lope  seemed  to  imagine,  that  no 
modern  action  was  sufficiently  dignified  to  deserve  the  title 
of  tragic.  But  these  pieces  possess  neither  a  grander  de- 
velopement,  nor  deeper  emotions,  nor  a  more  elevated  strain 
of  language,  to  authorize  the  distinction.  The  style  is  uni- 
versally the  same.  The  author  has  endeavoured  to  render  it 
poetical,  but  not  to  give  it  an  air  of  grandeur.  lie  has  en- 
riched it  with  the  most  brilliant  images,  and  has  adorned  it 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  313 

by  the  efforts  of  his  imagination,  but  he  has  failed  either  to 
dignify  it,  or  to  give  it  an  uniform  elevation.  His  characters 
speak  like  poets,  not  like  men  of  distinguished  rank  ;  and  in 
whatever  tone  they  commence  their  conversation,  they  never 
preserve  it.  There  are  two  pieces  of  Lope  de  Vega  which 
bear  the  name  of  tragedies  ;  one  is  entitled  IVie  burning  of 
Rome,  or  Nero ;  the  other.  The  most  intrepid  Husband,  or 
Orpheus,  both  of  which  must  be  ranked  amongst  his  very 
worst  productions,  and  deserve  no  attention. 

Notwithstanding  the  harshness  and  coarse  style  which  dis- 
tinguish most  of  the  dramas  of  Lope  de  Vega,  it  cannot  be 
said  that  the  reader  is  ever  fatigued  by  their  perusal,  that 
the  action  flags,  or  tliat  we  feel  that  languor  and  impatience 
which  are  almost  invariably  occasioned  by  the  inferior  trage- 
dies of  French  authors  of  the  second  rank.  Our  curiosity 
is  awakened  by  the  rapidity  of  action,  by  the  multiplicity  of 
events,  by  the  increasing  confusion,  and  by  the  impossibility 
of  foreseeing  the  developement  ;  and  it  is  preserved  in  all  its 
vivacity  from  the  first  scene  to  the  conclusion.  His  pieces 
are  often  open  to  severe  criticism  ;  and  indeed  they  are 
sometimes  even  below  criticism  ;  yet  they  uniformly  excite  a 
desire  to  discover  the  event.  It  is  probably  to  his  art  of  ex- 
plaining all  the  circumstances  by  the  acts  of  his  characters, 
that  Lope  owes  this  advantage.  He  always  opens  his  scenes 
by  some  imposing  event,  which  forcibly  attracts  and  capti- 
vates the  attention  of  the  spectator.  His  performers  proceed 
to  action  immediately  on  their  entering  the  stage,  and  he 
discloses  their  characters  more  fully  by  their  conduct  than  by 
a  recital  of  anterior  occurrences.  The  curiosity  is  awakened 
by  his  busy  scenes,  whilst  we  are  generally  inattentive 
during  the  recitals  which  explain  the  French  pieces  ;  and 
yet  an  attention  to  these  recitals  is  absolutely  requisite  in 
order  to  understand  the  whole  drama. 

In  the  piece  which  we  have  just  analysed,  the  quarrel  between 
Don  Juan  de  Meneses  and  Nuno  his  rival,  strikes  the  spec- 
tators by  its  vivacity,  by  the  fear  of  some  impending  danger, 
and  by  the  interest  which  Anna  de  Meneses  takes  in  ap- 
peasing them.  His  principal  characters  have  already  been 
displayed,  each  circumstance  is  developed  in  its  proper  place, 
so  that  there  is  no  need  of  any  other  exposition.  The  two 
dramas  of  Lope  de  Vega  which  follow  that  which  we  have 
just  mentioned,  partake  of  the  same   Spanish  and  chilvalric 

VOL.  U.  U 


314  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

character,  and  possess  the  same  merit.  Tlie  poet  always 
attracts  the  eyes,  auJ  commands  tlie  attention,  of  liis  audience, 
from  the  commencement  of  the  piece.  In  Lo  Cierto  por  lo 
Dudoso ;  The  Certain  for  tlie  Doi/hffnl,  a  ch-ama  founded 
on  the  jealous  rivalry  of  Don  Tedro  king  of  Castile,  and  his 
brother  Don  Henry,  both  of  whom  are  enamoured  of  Donna 
Juana,  daughter  of  the  Adelantado  of  Castile,  the  scene 
opens  in  the  streets  of  Seville  in  tiie  midst  of  the  festivals 
and  rejoicings  on  the  eve  of  Saint  John.  The  jocund  strains 
of  musical  instruments  and  of  the  voice  are  heard  on  every 
side  ;  dances  are  made  up  before  the  audience  ;  the  nobility 
of  the  kingdom  partake  in  the  diversions  of  the  people,  or 
avail  themselves  of  that  opportunity  to  carry  on  their  in- 
trigues :  and  at  last  Don  Henry  and  Don  Pedro  are  intro- 
duced in  a  manner  sufficiently  striking  to  awaken  general 
curiosity.  Each  of  them  recognizes  the  other,  whilst  en- 
deavouring to  obtain  access  to  the  house  of  his  mistress,  and 
they  mutually  attempt  to  conceal  themselves  ii-om  each  other. 

In  the  following  play,  Pobreza  no  es  vilezu ;  Poverty  is 
no  Crime,  in  which  the  scene  is  laid  in  Flanders  during  the 
wars  of  Pliilip  II.,  and  under  the  government  of  the  Count 
de  Fuentes,  the  commencement  is  in  the  highest  degree  at- 
tractive and  romantic.  Rosela,  a  Flemish  lady  of  high  birth, 
has  retired  to  her  gardens  at  a  sliort  distance  from  Brussels, 
She  is  there  attacked  by  four  Spanish  soldiers,  who,  long  de- 
prived of  their  pay  and  enraged  by  hunger,  attempt  to  rob 
her  of  her  jewels.  Mendoza,  the  hero  of  the  piece,  who  was 
serving  as  a  private  soldier  in  the  same  army,  unexpectedly 
arrives,  meanly  apparelled.  He  defends  the  Flemish  lady, 
recovers  her  jewels,  and  conducts  her  to  a  place  of  safety. 
Having  gained  her  affections  by  this  generous  action,  he 
confides  to  her  care  his  sister,  who  has  accompanied  him  to 
Flanders,  and  he  departs  to  the  siege  of  Catelet,  with  the 
Count  de  Fuentes. 

Lode  de  Vega  appears  to  have  studied  the  history  of  Spain, 
and  to  have  been  filled  with  a  noble  enthusiasm  ibr  the  glory 
of  his  country,  which  he  incessantly  endeavours  to  support. 
His  dramas  cannot  be  strictly  called  historical,  like  those  of 
Shakspeare  ;  that  is  to  say,  he  has  not  selected  the  great 
events  of  the  state,  so  as  to  form  a  political  drama  ;  but  he 
has  connected  a  romantic  intrigue  with  the  most  glorious 
occurrences  in  the  records  of  Spain,  and  has  so  interwoven 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  315 

romance  with  history,  that  eulogies  on  the  heroes  of  his 
nation  become  an  essential  and  inseparable  part  of  his  poems. 
It  was  not  to  afford  the  audience  the  pleasure  of  witnessing 
a  ridiculous  battle,  as  in  the  effeminate  theatre  in  Italy,  that 
the  siege  of  Catelet,  in  wliich  Mendoza  distinguished  himself, 
is  partly  displayed  on  the  stage  ;  it  was  for  the  purpose  of 
affording  the  Count  de  Fuentes,  in  arraying  his  army,  the 
opportunity  of  rendering  to  each  of  his  officers,  and  to  each  of 
his  brave  warriors,  that  tribute  of  glory  which  posterity  has 
accorded  to  them.  Although  these  pieces  are  inferior  to 
many  otliers  in  point  of  composition,  yet  the  patriotic  senti- 
ments of  the  author,  and  his  zeal  for  the  glory  of  his  nation, 
give  them  a  deeper  intei-est  than  is  possessed  by  those  which 
are  more  distinguished  by  poetical  beauties. 

In  tiie  faitliful  picture  of  Spanisli  manners  Avhich  he  has 
presented  to  us,  the  most  striking  and  most  incomprehensible 
feature  is  the  extreme  susceptibility  of  Spanish  honour.  The 
slightest  coquetry  of  a  mistress,  of  a  wife,  or  of  a  sister,  is  an 
insult  to  the  lover,  the  husband,  or  the  brother,  which  can 
only  be  obliterated  by  blood.  This  mad  jealousy  was  commu- 
nicated to  the  Spanish  by  the  Arabians.  Its  existence 
amongst  the  latter,  and  indeed  amongst  all  oriental  nations, 
may  easily  be  accounted  for,  because  it  is  in  accordance  with 
their  national  habits.  They  keep  the  female  sex  in  close  con- 
finement ;  they  never  pronounce  their  names,  nor  do  they 
ever  seek  any  intercourse  with  them  until  they  have  them 
absolutely  in  their  power.  Indulging  only  emotions  of  love 
and  of  jealousy  in  their  harams,  they  seem  in  every  other 
place  to  forget  the  existence  of  the  sex.  The  manners  of  the 
Spaniards  are  entirely  opposite.  Their  whole  lives  are  con- 
secrated to  gallantry.  Every  individual  is  enamoured  of  some 
woman  who  is  not  in  his  power,  amd  makes  no  scruple  of 
entering  into  the  most  indelicate  intrigues  to  gratify  his  pas- 
sions. The  most  virtuous  heroines  make  assignations  in  the 
night-time,  at  their  chamber  windows  ;  they  receive  and  write 
billets;  and  they  go  out  masked  to  meet  their  lovers  in  the 
house  of  a  third  person.  So  completely  is  this  gallantry  sup- 
ported by  the  spirit  of  chivalry,  that  when  a  married  woman 
is  pursued  by  her  husband  or  by  her  father,  she  invokes  tlie 
first  person  whom  she  chances  to  meet,  without  knowing  him 
or  disclosing  herself  to  him.  She  requests  him  to  protect  her 
from  her  impertinent  pursuers,  and  the  stranger  thus  called 

u2 


316  ox    THE    LITERATURE 

upon  cannot,  without  dishonouring  himself,  refuse  to  draw  hia 
sword  to  procure  for  tliis  unknown  female  a  liberty  perhaps 
criminal.  He,  however,  who  thus  hazards  liis  life  to  secure 
the  flight  of  a  coquette,  who  has  himself  made  many  assigna- 
tions and  written  billets,  would  be  seized  with  una])peasable 
fury  if  he  discovered  that  his  own  sister  had  inspired  any 
person  with  love,  had  entertained  that  passion  for  another,  or 
had  taken  any  of  those  liberties  which  are  authorized  by  uni- 
versal custom.  Such  a  circumstance  would  be  a  sufficient 
motive  in  his  eyes  to  put  to  death  both  his  sister  and  the  man 
who  had  ventured  to  speak  to  her  of  love. 

The  theatre  of  Spain  every  where  affords  us  examples  of 
the  practical  application  of  this  singular  law  of  honour.  Besides 
various  pieces  of  Lope  de  Vega,  many  of  those  of  Calderon, 
and  amongst  others  the  Lady  Spectre  and  The  Devotion  of  the 
Cross,  place  in  the  clearest  light  the  contiast  between  the 
jealous  fury  of  a  husband  or  a  brother,  and  the  protection 
which  they  themselves  afford  to  any  masked  damsel  who  may 
ask  it  ;  who,  as  it  often  liappens,  is  one  of  the  identical  per- 
sons they  would  have  the  greatest  desire  to  restrain  if  they 
had  known  her.  But  the  argument  which  a  Castilian  philoso- 
pher advances  against  these  sanguinary  manners  in  a  comedy 
of  an  anonymous  author  of  the  Court  of  Philip  IV.  is  still 
more  extraoi'dinary.  A  judge  is  speaking  of  a  husband  who 
has  put  his  wife  to  death  : 

Our  worldly  laws  he  has  obey'd, 

But  not  tliose  laws  wliich  God  has  made. 

My  other  self,  now,  is  my  wife  ; 

It  is  then  clear,  that  if  my  life 

I  must  not  take,  I  cannot  do 

That  violence  to  her.     'Tis  true, 

Man  very  rarely  can  controul 

The  impulse  which  first  moves  his  soul.* 

A  singular  morality,  which  would  prohibit  murder,  only 
when  it  resembles  suicide  ! 

In  Lo  Cierto  por  lo  Dudoso'\  of  Lope  de  Vega,  Donna 
Juana  prefers  Don  Henry  to  his  brother  the  king,  Don  Pedro. 

*  El  montanes  Juan  Pasqual,  y  primer  assistente  de  Scvilla,  de  ua 
ingcnio  de  la  corte. 

Complio  con  duelos  del  mundo  Dar  la  inuerte,  claro  esti 

Mas  no  con  leyes  del  cielo;  Que  a  ella  tampoco.     Ya  veo 

Mi  niuger  es  otro  yo  :  Que  raro  cs  el  que  es  seflor 

Y  pues  yo  a  mi  no  me  debo  De  su  primer  movimiento. 

f  [This  Drama  has  been  lately  revived  and  acted  at  Madrid. — Tr.] 


OF    TKE    SPANIARDS.  317 

To  lilm  she  remains  constant  in  spite  of  the  passion  of  the 
monarch,  who  was  neither  less  amiable,  less  young,  nor  less 
captivr.ting.  She  endeavours  in  various  ways  to  make  known 
her  attachment  to  Don  Henry  ;  and  at  last,  when  the  king  is 
on  the  point  of  receiving  her  hand,  she  begs  to  speak  to  him 
alone,  hoping  to  free  herself  from  him  by  a  singular  artifice. 

JuANA    Don  Pedro,  I  have  ventured  to  confide 
In  your  known  valour  and  your  generous  wisdom, 
To  speak  with  you  thus  frankly.     You  must  know, 
Don  Henry  did  address  me,  and  I  answer'd 
His  suit,  though  witli  a  grave  and  modest  carriage. 
Never  from  him  lieard  1  unfitting  words  ; 
Never  from  him  did  I  receive  a  line 
Trenching  upon  mine  lionour  ;  yet,  believe  me. 
If  I  have  answer'd  not  your  love,  I  have 
A  deeper  motive  than  you  think  of.     Listen  ! 
But  no  !  how  can  I  tell  such  circumstances, 
And  yet  the  hazard  only  may  be  blamed — 
Doth  not  my  cheek  grow  pale  1        The  King.  Oh,  I  am  lost  ! 
Juana,  I  am  lost  !  my  love  begets 
A  thousand  strange  chimeras.     What  shall  I 
Believe  of  this  thy  treachery — of  thy  honour  ? 
Oh  si^eak,  nor  longer  torture  me  ;  I  know 
The  hazards  wherewith  lovers  are  environ'd. 

Juana.   I  seek  choice  woi'ds,  and  the  disguise  of  rhetoric, 
And  yet  the  simple  truth  will  best  excuse  me. 
I  and  Don  Henry  (he  was  speaking  to  me) 
Descended  the  great  staircase  of  the  palace— 
I  cannot  tell  it — will  you  let  me  write  it] 

The  King.  No,  tarry  not,  my  patience  is  exhausted. 

JtJANA.  I  said  we  did  descend  the  staircase. — No, 
Not  the  doom'd  criminal  can  be  more  moved 
Than  I  am  at  this  tale.         The  King.   In  God's  name,  hasten  ! 

Juana.  Wait  but  a  little  while.         The  King.  You  torture  me. 

Juana.  Nay,  I  will  tell  you  all.         The  King.  Oh,  end  the  tale  ! 
My  blood  creeps  through  each  artery  drop  by  drop. 

Juana.  Alas  !  my  lord,  my  crime  was  very  light. 
Well,  Henry  then  approach'd  me.         The  King,  Well !  and  then  ? 

Juana.  His  mouth  ('twas  by  some  fiital  accident) 
Met  mine.     Perchance  he  only  sought  to  sjjeak  ; 
But  in  the  obscurity  of  night  he  did 
Unwittingly  do  this  discourtesy. 
Now  then  you  know  the  hidden  fatal  reason 
Why  I  can  never  be  your  wife.         The  King.  I  know, 
Juana,  that  this  tale  is  the  mere  coinage 
Of  your  own  brain,     I  know  too,  that  Don  Henry 
Hath  not  yet  sought  his  exile,  that  he  lingers 
In  Seville,  plotting  how  to  injure  me. 
I  know  that  they  will  say  it  ill  becomes 
One  of  my  rank  to  struggle  for  your  love ; 


318  ON    TITE    LITliKATUIIE 

That  wise  men,  and  that  fools  will  all  agree 

In  telling  me  I  have  forgot  my  honour. 

But  I  am  wounded.     Jealousy  and  love 

Have  Minded  me  ;  I  equally  despise 

The  wise  man  and  the  fool,  and  only  seek 

To  satisfy  the  injury  I  feci. 

Vengeance  exists  not  undebased  with  fury, 

Nor  love  untainted  by  the  breath  of  folly. 

This  night  will  I  assassinate  Don  Henry, 

And  he  being  dead,  I  will  espouse  thee.     Then 

Thou  never  canst  compare  his  love  with  mine. 

'Tis  true  that  while  he  lives  I  can't  espouse  thee. 

Seeing  that  my  dishonour  lives  in  him 

Who  hath  usurpd  the  place  reserved  for  me  ; 

But  while  1  thus  avenge  this  crime,  I  feel 

That  it  hath  no  reality,  and  yet 

Though  thine  adventure  be  all  false,  invented 

To  nuike  me  yield  my  wishes  and  renounce 

;My  marriage,  it  suffices  that  it  hath 

Been  only  told  to  me,  to  seal  my  vengeance  ; 

Or  if  love  makes  me  credit  aught  of  it, 

Henry  shall  die  and  I  will  wed  his  widow ; 

Tlicn  though  the  tale  thou  tellest  were  discover'd, 

Thine  honour  and  mine  own  will  be  uninjur'd. 

It  is  neither  a  tyrant  nor  a  madman  wlio  speaks.  Don 
Pedro  resolves  to  commit  fratricide,  not  like  a  monster,  but 
like  a  Spaniard,  delicate  upon  the  point  of  honour.  lie  de- 
spatches assassins  by  different  routes  to  discover  his  brother. 
In  the  mean  time,  Don  Henry  marries  Juana  ;  and  the  King, 
when  he  thus  finds  the  evil  without  remedy  and  his  honour 
unimpaired,  pardons  tlie  two  lovers. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

CONTINCATION    OF    LOPE    DE    VEGA. 

It  is  not  merely  on  his  own  accoinit  that  our  farther  atten- 
tion is  directed  to  the  poet  whom  Spain  has  designated  as  the 
phoenix  of  men  of  genius.  Lope  de  Vega  merits  our  atten- 
tion still  more,  as  having  exhil)ited  and  displayed  tlie  spirit 
of  his  own  age,  and  as  having  powerfully  infltienced  the  taste 
of  succeeding  centuries.  After  a  long  interruption  to  the 
dramatic  art,  and  a  silence  of  fifteen  hundred  years,  on  the 
theatres  of  Greece  and  Rome,  Europe  was  suddenly  surprised 
with  the  renewal  of  theatrical  representations,  and  turned  to 
them  with  delight.   In  every  quarter  the  drama  now  revived  ; 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  319 

the  eyes  as  well  as  the  mind  souglit  a  jjratlfication  in  the 
charms    of  poetry,   and  genius  was  required   to  give  to  its 
creations  action  and  life.      In  Italy,  tragedy  liad  been  already 
cultivated   by  Trissino,   RuceHai,   and  tlieir  imitators,  during 
the  whole  of  the  sixteenth  century,  but  without  obtaining 
any   brilliant   success    or    attracting    the  admiration   of   the 
spectators  ;  and  it  was  solely  during  the  period  wliich  cor- 
responds to  the  life  of  Lope  de  Vega,  (1562-1635)  that  the 
only  dramatic  attempts  of  which  Italy  has  reason  to  boast 
before  those  of  Alfieri,  appeared.     Tlie  Amyntas  of  Tasso 
was  published  in  1572  ;  the  Pastor  Fido  in  1585  ;  and  tlie 
crowd  of  pastoral  dramas  which  seemed  to  be  the  only  repre- 
sentation adapted  to  the  national  taste  of  a  people  deprived  of 
their  independence,  and  of  all  military  glor}-,  were  composed 
in  the  years  which  preceded  or    immediately  followed   the 
commencement  of   the  seventeenth    century.     In    England, 
Shakspeare  was  born  two  years  after    Lope  de  Vega,  and 
died  nineteen  years  before  him,  (1564-1616.)     His  powerful 
srenius  raised  the  English  theatre,  which  had  its  birth  a  kw 
years  before,  from  a  state  of  extreme  barbarism,  and  bestowed 
on  it  all  the  renown  which  it  possesses.     In  France,  Jodelle, 
who  is  now  regarded  as  a  rude  author,  had  given  to  French 
tragedy  those  rules  and  that  spirit  which  she  has  preserved  in 
her  maturity,  even  before  the  birth  of  Lope  de  Vega  (1532 
to  1573).     Gamier,  who  was  the  first  to  polish  it,  was  a  con- 
temporary of  Lope.     The  great  Corneille,  born  in  1606,  and 
Rotrou,  born  in  1609,  attained  to  manhood  before  the  death 
of  Lope.     Rotrou  had,  before  that  event,  given  eleven  or 
twelve  pieces  to  the  theatre  ;  but  Corneille   did  not  publish 
tlie  Cid  until  a  year  after  the  death  of  the  great  Spanish 
dramatist.  In  the  midst  of  this  universal  devotion  to  dramatic 
poetry,  we  mny  well  imagine  the  astonishment  and  sui-prise 
produced  by  one  who  seemed  desirous  of  satisfying  himself 
the  theatrical  wants  of  all  Eui-ope  ;  one  whose  genius  was 
never  exhausted  in  touching  and  ingenious  invention;  wlio 
produced  comedies  in  verse  with  more  ease  than  others  wrote 
sonnets;    and    who,    during   the    period    that    the   Castilian 
tongue  was  in  vogue,  filled  at  one  and  the  same  moment,  with 
pieces  of  endless  variety,  all  the    theatres    of  the    Spanish 
dominions,  and  those  of  Milan,  Naples,  Vienna,  Munich,  and 
Brussels.     The  influence  which  he  could  not  win  from  his 
age  by  the  polish  of  his  works,  he  obtained  by  their  number. 


320  ON  Tin:  literature 

He  exliibited  tlie  dramatic  art  as  he  had  conceived  it,  in  so 
many  ditrereiit  manners,  and  under  so  many  forms,  to  so 
many  thousands  of  spectators,  tliat  he  naturalized  and  esta- 
blished a  preference  for  his  style,  irrevocably  decided  the 
direction  of  Spanish  genius  in  the  dramatic  art,  and  obtained 
over  tlw;  ibreign  stage  a  considerable  influence.  It  is  felt  in 
the  i)lays  of  "Shakspeare  and  of  his  immediate  successors  ; 
and  is  to  be  traced  in  Italy  during  the  seventeenth  century, 
but  more  particularly  in  France,  where  the  great  Corneille 
formed  himself  on  the  Spanish  school  ;  where  Rotrou,  Qui- 
nnult.  Thomas  Corneille,  and  Scarron,  gave  to  the  stage 
scarcely  any  other  than  pieces  borrowed  from  Spain  ;  and 
where  the  Castilian  names  and  titles  and  manners  w^ere  for  a 
long  time  in  exclusive  possession  of  the  theatre. 

The  pieces  of  Lope  de  Vega  are  seldom  read ;  they  have 
not,  to  my  knowledge,  been  translated,  and  they  are  rarely 
met  with  in  detached  collections  of  Spanish  plays.  The 
oriiiiiial  edition  of  his  pieces  is  to  be  found  only  in  two  or 
three  of  the  most  celebrated  libraries  in  Europe.*  It  is, 
therefore,  necessary  to  regard  more  closely  a  man  who 
attained  such  eminent  fame;  who  exercised  so  powerful  and 
durable  an  influence  not  only  over  his  native  country,  but 
over  all  Europe,  and  over  ourselves;  and  with  whom  we 
have,  nevertheless,  little  acquaintance,  and  whom  we  know 
only  by  name.  I  am  aware  that  extracts  from  pieces,  often 
monstrous,  and  always  rudely  sketched,  may  probably  disgust 
readers  who  seek  rather  the  masterpieces  of  literature  than  its 
rude  materials;  and  I  feel,  too,  that  the  prodigious  fertility 
of  Lope  ceases  to  be  a  merit  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  are 
fatigued  with  its  details ;  but  if  they  Avere  no  longer  inter- 
esting to  us  as  specimens  of  the  dramatic  art,  they  deserve 
our  attention  as  presenting  a  picture  of  the  manners  and 
opinions  then  prevalent  in  Spain.  It  is  in  this  point  of  view 
that  I  shall  endeavour  to  trace  in  them  the  prejudices  and 
manners  of  the  Spaniards,  their  conduct  in  America,  and 
their  religious  sentiments,  at  an  epoch  which,  in  some 
measure,  corresponds  to  the  wars  of  the  League.  Those  too, 
to  whom  the  Spanish  stage  in  its  rude  state  is  without 
interest,  cannot  Ije  indifferent  to  tlie  character  of  a  nation, 
whicii  was  at  that  time  armed  for  the  conquest  of  the  world, 

*  There  is  a  copy  in  the  Biblioth^qiic  Royalc  at  Paris,  but  the  fifth 
and  sixth  vohnncs  arc  wanting. 


OF    THE    SPANIAKDS.  321 

and  which,  after  having  long  Iield  the  destinies  of  France  in 
the  balance,  seemed  on  the  point  of  reducing  her  under  its 
yoke,   and  forcing  her  to  receive  its  opinions,   its  laws,   its 
manners,  and  its  religion.     A   remarkable  trait    in    all  the 
chivalrous  pieces   of   Spain    is   the    slight   honour  and   little 
remorse  inspired  by  the  commission  of  murder.      There  is  no 
nation  where  so  much  indiffei-ence  has  been  manifested  for 
human  life,  where  duels,  armed  rencounters,  and  assassina- 
tions, have  been  more  common,  arising  from  slighter  causes, 
and    accompanied    with    less    shame    and    regret.     All    the 
Spanish  heroes,  at  the  commencement  of  their  story,  are  in 
the  predicament  of  having  slain  some  powerful  man,  and  are 
obliged  to  seek  safety  in  flight.     After  a  murder  they  are 
exposed,  it  is  true,  to  tlie  vengeance  of  relations  and  to  the 
pursuit    of  justice,  but    they    are   under    the    protection  of 
religion    and    public  opinion ;    tliey  pass  from   one    convent 
and  church  to  another,  until  they  reach  a  place  of  safety ;  and 
they  are  not  only  favoured  by  a  blind  compassion,  but  the 
whole  body  of  the  clergy  make  it  a  point  of  conscience,  in 
their  pulpits  and  confessionals,  to  extend  their  forgiveness  to 
an  unfortunate,  who  has  given  way  to  a  sudden  movement  of 
anger,  and  by  abandoning  the  dead  to  snatch  a  victim  from 
the  hands  of  justice.     Tiie  same  religious  prejudice  exists  in 
Italy  ;  an  assassin    is    always  sure  of  protection  under    the 
name  of  Christian  charity  from  all  belonging  to  the  church, 
and  by  all  that  class  of  peojile  immediately  under  the  influence 
of  the  priests.      Thus  in  no  country  in  the  world  have  assas- 
sinations been  more  frequent  than  in  Italy  and  in  Spain.     In 
the  latter  country  a  village /g/e  scarcely  ever  occurs  without 
a  person  being  killed.     At  the  same  time  this  crime  ought, 
in  reality,  to  wear  a  graver  aspect  amongst  a  superstitious 
people,    since,    according  to  their  belief,   the  eternal  sentence 
depends  not  on  the  general  course  of  life,  but  on  the  state  of 
the  soul  at  the  moment  of  death  ;  so  that  he  who  is  killed, 
being  almost  always  at    the    moment  of  quarrel  in  a  state 
of  impenitence,   there  can  be  no  doubt  of  his  condemnation 
to  eternal  punishment.     But  neither  the  Spaniards  nor  the 
Italians  ever  consult  their  reason  in  legislating  on  morals  ; 
they  submit  blindly  to  the  decisions  of  casuists,  and  when 
they  have  undergone  the  expiations  imposed  on  them  bytlieir 
confessors,   they  believe  themselves  absolved  from  all  crime. 
These  expiations  have  been  rendered  so  much  the  more  easy, 


322  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

as  tliey  are  a  source  of  riclies  to  tlic  clerpfy.  A  foundation  of 
masses  for  the  soul  of  the  deceased,  or  alms  to  the  churcli,  or 
a  sacrifice  of  n'oncy,  in  short,  liowever  disproportionate  to 
the  wealth  of  the  culprit,  will  always  suffice  to  wash  away  the 
stain  of  blood.  The  Greeks  in  the  heroic  ages  required  ex- 
piations beffire  a  murderer  was  permitted  to  enter  ajiain  into 
tlieir  tem})les  ;  but  their  expiations,  far  from  enfeebling  the 
civil  authority,  were  designed  to  strengthen  it ;  they  Avere 
long  and  severe  ;  tlie  murderer  was  compelled  to  make  public 
penance,  and  felt  himself  stained  by  the  blood  he  had  shed. 
Tlius  among  a  fierce  and  half-savage  people  the  authority  of 
religion,  in  accordance  with  humanity,  checked  the  eft"u.-ion 
of  human  blood,  and  rendered  an  instance  of  assassination 
more  rare  in  all  Greece  than  in  a  single  village  in  Spain. 

There  is  not,  perhaps,  a  play  of  Lope  de  Vega,  which  may 
not  be  cited  in  support  of  these  remarks,  and  which  does  not 
discover  in  the  national  character  a  disregard  for  the  lile  of 
others,  a  criminal  indifference  for  evil,  since  it  can  be  ex- 
piated by  the  church,  an  alliance  of  religion  and  ferocity,  and 
the  admiration  of  the  people  towards  men  celebrated  lor 
many  homicides.  I  shall  choose  for  a  corroboration  of  these 
opinions  a  comedy  of  Lope  de  Vega,  entitled  21ie  Life  of  the 
valiant  Cespedes.  It  will  transport  us  to  the  camp  of 
Charles  V.,  and  will  shew  us  how  those  armies  were  composed 
which  destroyed  the  protestants,  and  shook  the  Gei-man 
empire  ;  and  it  will,  in  some  sort,  finish  the  historical  picture 
of  this  reign,  so  remarkable  in  the  revolutions  of  Europe,  by 
acquainting  us  with  the  character  and  private  life  of  those 
soldiers  whom  we  are  accustomed  to  regard  only  in  the  mass. 

Cespedes,  a  gentleman  of  Ciudad-Real,  in  the  kingdom  of 
Toledo,  was  a  soldier  of  fortune  under  Charles  V.,  renowned 
for  his  valour  and  prodigious  strength.  The  sister  of  this 
Samson  of  Spain,  Uouna  INIaria  de  Cespedes,  was  not  less 
athletic  than  himself.  Beibre  entering  into  the  service,  he  had 
invited  all  the  carmen  and  porters  to  wrestle  with  him,  and 
decide  who  could  raise  the  heaviest  weiglits;  and  when  he  was 
absent  from  home.  Donna  Maria,  his  sister,  took  his  place,  and 
•wrestled  with  the  first  comer.  The  piece  opens  with  a  scene 
])etween  this  young  damsel  and  tAvo  carmen  of  La  ^Mancha, 
who  contend  with  her  who  could  farthest  throw  a  heavy  bar 
of  iron.  She  proves  herself  stronger  than  either  of  them, 
and  wins  all  their  cattle  and  furty  crowns,  for  she    never 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  '  323 

makes  these  trials  of  strength  gratis;  however,  she  generously 
restores  her  antagonists  the  mules,  and  keeps  only  their 
money.  A  gentleman  in  love  vvitli  her,  named  Don  Diego, 
disguises  himself  as  a  peasant,  and  desires  towi-estle  with  her, 
not  with  the  expectation  of  being  victorious,  but  in  the  hope 
of  having  an  opportunity  of  declaring  his  passion  in  her 
arms.  He  deposits  as  the  reward  of  victory  four  pieces  of 
Spanish  coin  ;  she  accepts  them,  and  the  combat  commences  ; 
but  whilst  their  arms  are  intertwined,  Don  Diego  addresses 
her  in  tlie  following  strain  of  gallantry  :— "  Is  thereon  earth, 
lady,  a  glory  equal  to  this,  of  finding  myself  in  your  arms  ? 
Where  is  tlie  prince  that  had  ever  so  happy  a  destiny  ?  We 
are  told  of  one  who  soared  on  wings  of  wax  to  the  blazing  orb 
of  day  ;  but  he  did  not  dare  to  wrestle  with  the  sun,  and  if 
-for  such  audacity  he  was  precipitated  into  the  sea,  how  shall 
I  survive  who  have  grasped  the  sun  in  my  embrace  ?" 

Maria.     You  a  peasant  ? 

DiKGO.      I  know  not. 

Maria.  Your  language,  and  the  perfume  you  carry  about  you, 
excite  my  fears. 

Diego.  The  language  I  have  learned  from  yourself,  for  you  have 
shed  a  ray  of  light  on  my  soul ;  the  perfume  is  that  of  the  flowers  on 
whicli  I  reposed,  in  the  meadow,  in  meditating  on  my  love. 

Maria.  Quit  my  arms. 

Diego.  I  cannot. 

Maria  is  confirmed  in  her  suspicions  of  his  rank  ;  she 
refuses  any  farther  contest  with  him  ;  at  the  same  time  she  is 
touched  by  his  gallantry,  and  as  her  brother  returns  at  this 
moment,  she  conceals  Don  Diego,  to  screen  him  from  his  ani- 
mosity. Cespedes  enters,  and  relates  to  his  sister  that  his 
mistress  had  given  him  a  pink,  which  he  had  placed  in  his 
hat  ;  that  Pero  Trillo  being  enamoured  of  the  same  beauty 
and  jealous  of  his  attachment,  they  had  fought  ;  that  Cespedes 
had  slain  him,  and  had  now  come  home  to  procure  money, 
and  to  engage  Bertrand,  one  of  his  peasants,  to  follow  him  as 
his  esquire  in  his  departure  for  Flanders  to  serve  the  Emperor. 
He  then  flies,  under  the  conviction  that  he  shall  be  immedi- 
ately pursued  by  justice.  Scarcely  is  he  gone  when  the 
corregidor  arrives  with  the  alguazils  to  visit  his  house  and 
arrest  the  crim.inal.  Donna  Maria  considering  this  visit  as  an 
offence,  calls  Don  Diego  to  her  aid,  kills  two  of  the  alguazils 
and  wounds  the  corregidor,  and  then  takes  refuge  in  a  church 
to  escape  the  sudden  anger  of  the  populace.     We  shall  next 


324  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

observe  her  dopurt  from  thence  for  Germany,  in  the  habit  of 
a  soldier  with  Dt)n  Diego. 

In  the  mean  wliile  we  follow  Cespedes  on  his  journey.  We 
see  him  arrive  at  Seville  with  Bertrand,  his  e.-:quire,  quarrel- 
ling with  sharpers  in  the  streets,  and  pursuing  them  with  his 
knife  ;  attaching  himself  to  the  courtesans,  and  engaging  on 
their  account  in  fresh  quarrels  ;  desirous  at  last  of  enrolling 
himself,  but  involved  by  gambling  in  a  quarrel  with  a  Serjeant 
whom  Cespedes  kills,  whilst  he  puts  the  recruiting  party  to 
flight.  Tlie  details  of  these  scenes  of  brutal  ferocity  are  highly 
disgusting  ;  but  they  are  apparently  all  historical,  and  tradition 
has  carefully  preserved  them  for  the  glory  of  the  Spanish  hero. 

The  second  act  shews  us  Cespedes  after  he  has  resided 
some  time  in  Germany,  and  been  advanced  in  the  Emperor's 
service.  But  after  having  had  a  share  in  the  most  brilliant 
campaigns  of  Charles  the  Fifth,  he  is  obliged  to  retire  from 
the  army  in  consequence  of  meeting  ahei'ctic  in  the  Emperor's 
palace  at  Augsburgh,  three  of  whose  teeth  he  struck  out  by  a 
furious  blow  of  his  hand  ;  many  more  heretics  rushed  on  him 
to  revenge  this  outrage,  but  he  and  his  squire  between  them 
killed  ten  of  the  party  and  wounded  several  more.  The 
Emperor,  however,  despatches  Hugo,  one  of  his  captains,  to 
recall  him  to  the  army,  and  assures  him  that  although  himself 
and  tlie  Duke  of  Alva  were  obliged  to  express  their  disappro- 
bation of  his  conduct,  yet  it  was  of  all  the  actions  of  Cespedes 
that  which  had  given  them  the  greatest  satisfaction.  Cespedes, 
encouraged  by  this  mark  of  approbation,  declares  that  when- 
ever he  meets  with  a  heretic,  who  refuses  to  kneel  to  the 
sacrament,  he  will  Iramstring  him,  and  leave  liira  no  choice 
in  the  matter. 

This  captain  Hugo,  the  host  and  protector  of  Cespedes,  has 
in  his  iiouse  a  sister,  named  Theodora,  who  falls  in  love  with 
the  valiant  Spaniard,  and  who,  after  having  been  seduced  by 
him,  escapes  from  her  paternal  roof  to  follow  him.  After  a 
scene  of  military  gallantry  between  them,  Donna  Maria  de 
Cespedes  appears,  disguised  as  a  man,  after  her  arrival  in 
Germany  with  Don  Diego.  The  latter  has  accompanied  her 
during  her  whole  journey,  and  has  obtained  her  aifections,  but 
he  is  determined  to  quit  her,  since  Pero  Trillo,  whom  Ces- 
pedes had  killed  at  the  commencement  of  the  piece,  was  his 
uncle,  and  he  thinks  himself  bound  to  avenge  his  death. 
They  then  separate.     In  the   farewell  of  Donna  Maria  we 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  325 

remark  traces  of  the  poetic  talent  of  Lope,  and  a  sensibility 
which  only  occasionally  presents  itself.  Maria  overwhelms 
her  faithless  lover  with  reproaches,  though  always  mingled 
with  a  return  to  tenderness  ;  and  in  the  midst  of  her  impre- 
cations, she  checks  herself  with  sorrow,  she  seems  to  recall 
him,  and  she  often  repeats  with  sadness — "  When,  alas,  one 
so  often  reproaches,  one  is  very  near  pardoning."  While  she 
is  yet  on  the  stage,  she  hears  two  soldiers  calumniate  Ces- 
pedes.  They  are  jealous  of  the  favour  shewn  to  his  bodily 
prowess,  and  to  exploits  more  fitting  a  porter  than  a  soldier  ; 
and  she,  assuming  to  herself  the  defence  of  her  brother's 
honour,  kills  the  two  soldiers.  She  is  threatened  with  an 
arrest,  but  refuses  to  surrender  to  anyone  except  the  Duke  of 
Alva,  who  conducts  her  to  prison,  but  at  the  same  time 
promises  to  recompense  her  bravery.  Donna  Maria  does  not 
allow  him  time  for  that,  since  she  is  no  sooner  in  prison  than 
she  breaks  her  fetters,  forces  the  bars  of  her  window,  and  sets 
herself  at  liberty. 

Don  Diego,  after  having  separated  from  Donna  Maria,  pur- 
sues the  project  of  revenge  which  he  had  meditated  against 
Cespedes.  Aware  that  a  combat  with  an  antagonist  of  such 
superior  power  would  be  unavailing,  he  resolves  to  assassinate 
him.  He  charges  Mendo  witli  this  commission,  gives  him  his 
pistol,  and  places  him  in  ambush,  concealing  twenty  of  his 
men  nigh  at  hand  to  support  Mendo,  and  aid  his  escape  after 
the  deed.  Cespedes  falls  into  tiie  snare,  but  the  pistol  misses 
fire.  Mendo,  notwithstanding,  is  not  disconcerted,  but  presents 
his  weapon  to  him,  and  succeeds  in  convincing  him  that  he 
was  trying  it  before  him  in  order  to  induce  him  to  purchase 
it.  Cespedes,  after  having  bought  the  pistol,  perceives  that 
it  is  charged,  and  that  there  has  been  a  design  to  assassinate 
him,  without  knowing  whom  to  accuse  of  the  attempt. 

In  the  third  act,  IMcndo  relates  to  Don  Diego  the  failure  of 
the  design,  and  informs  liim  of  the  subterfuge  by  which  he 
escaped  the  vengeance  of  Cespedes.  At  this  moment,  shouts 
of  triumph  and  exclamations  announce  the  victorious  return 
of  Cespedes  from  a  tournament,  where  he  had  challenged  all 
the  bravest  of  the  army.  He  appears  on  the  stage  crowned 
with  laurels,  and  the  Emperor  presents  him  with  the  lordship 
of  Villalar  on  the  Guadiann.  In  the  meantime  Cespedes 
learns  tliat  it  was  Don  Diego,  the  seducer  of  Iv.j,  sister,  who 
had  attempted  to  assassinate  him  ;  but  public  affairs  prevent 


326  ox    TIIK    LITERATURE 

him  seeking  revenge.  The  elector  of  Saxony  had  fortified 
himself  in  IMiihlberg,  (1547.)  Charles  V.  passes  the  Elbe  to 
attack  him  ;  the  army  is  put  in  motion,  and  Cespedes  thinks 
only  of  signalizing  himself  against  the  heretics.  In  the  midst 
of  ))reparations  for  battle,  some  tumultuous  scenes  paint  the 
licentiousness  of  the  camp.  In  one  part  we  see  Donna  Maria 
and  Theodora  following  the  army  disguised  as  soldiers  ;  in 
another  j)art  Bertrand,  the  squire  of  Cespedes,  carries  off  a 
peasant  girl.  Tlie  peasants  of  the  village  collect  together  to 
release  her,  but  Cespedes  opposes  himself  singly  to  all  these 
villagers,  kills  a  number  of  them,  and  forces  the  remainder  to 
fly.  He  then  offers  himself  to  the  Emperor  to  be  the  first  to 
swim  over  the  Elbe.  Bertrand,  Don  Hugo,  and  Don  Diego, 
propose  to  accompany  him  ;  and  the  last,  though  just  coming 
from  a  meditated  assassination,  proves  himself  one  of  the  most 
valiant  men  of  the  army,  and  very  ambitious  of  glory.  These 
champions  then  pass  the  river,  and  point  out  a  ford  to  the 
troops  of  the  Emperor,  who  cross  the  Elbe,  and  put  the 
Saxons  to  flight  ;  but  Diego  being  wounded  is  saved  on  the 
shoulders  of  Cespedes,  who  does  not  yet  know  him,  and  from 
whom  he  conceals  his  name.  Cespedes,  after  having  placed 
him  in  safety,  returns  to  the  fight.  Donna  Maria  arrives.  She 
recognises  her  wounded  lover,  pardons  him,  and  carries  him 
to  her  tent.  It  was  in  this  battle  that  the  virtuous  elector, 
John  Frederic,  was  made  prisoner.  Lope  de  Vega  attributes 
this  honour  to  Cespedes,  who  receives  in  recompense  the  order 
of  knighthood  of  St.  James:  but  without  exciting  any  interest 
in  favour  of  the  sovereign  of  Saxony,  whom  he  considers  as 
a  rebel.  He  notwithstanding  exhibits  on  the  stage  the  noble 
constancy  with  wliich,  whilst  playing  a  game  at  chess  that 
Prince  received  his  sentence  of  death. 

During  the  rejoicings  after  the  victory,  the  order  of  knight- 
hood is  conlerred  on  Cespedes,  who  learns  that  his  sister  is  in 
the  camp,  tiiat  she  has  received  into  her  tent  tiie  very  Don 
Diego  who  had  attempted  to  assassinate  him,  that  she  loves 
him,  and  has  sacrificed  her  honour  to  him.  He  rushes  forth 
to  revenge  himself  on  both.  In  the  last  scene  we  see  him 
sword  in  hand,  and  Bertrand  at  his  side.  Don  Diego  and 
Mendo  await  them  armed,  whilst  Donna  iMaria  and  Tlieodora 
attem[)t  to  restrain  tlicm.  The  Duke  of  Alva  commands  them 
to  suspend   the  combat.      He  asks  the  cau.se  of  the   (piarrel. 

Don   Diego    relates  it,   and   states  that   he  has  offered   to 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  327 

pspouse  Doiuia  Maria,  but  that  Cespedes  has  arrogantly  re- 
fused his  consent.  The  Duke  of  Alva  by  iiis  authority  termi- 
nates the  dispute.  He  concludes  the  marriage  between 
Cespedes  and  Theodora,  and  between  Don  Diego  and  Donna 
Maria,  assigns  a  recompense  to  Bertrand,  and  grants  a  pardon 
to  Mendo.  To  conclude,  the  author  at  the  close  of  his  play, 
announces  that  a  second  part  will  comprehend  the  remainder 
of  the  noble  deeds  of  Cespedes,  to  the  time  of  his  death,  in 
the  war  against  the  revolted  Moors  of  Grenada. 

It  would  be  difficult,  I  imagine,  to  contrive  for  the  stage  a 
greater  number  of  murders,  for  the  most  part  gratuitously 
perpetrated.  IIow  fatal  must  have  been  the  effect  of  exhibit- 
ing to  a  people  already  too  prone  to  sanguinary  revenge,  a 
character  like  Cespedes,  and  representing  him  as  the  hero  of 
his  country  !  There  are  many  pieces  still  more  dangerous. 
Bravery  in  conflict  with  social  order,  and  a  sanguinary  resist- 
ance to  magistiates,  corregidors,  and  officers  of  justice,  have 
been  too  often  displayed  as  the  favourite  heroism  of  the 
Spanish  stage.  Long  before  the  robbers  of  Schiller  appeared, 
and  long  previous  to  our  chiefs  of  the  bawds  of  banditti  in, pur 
inelodrames,  the  Castilians  had  set  apart  virtue,  valour,  and 
nobility  of  mind  as  the  portion  of  their  outlaws.  Many  of  the 
plays  of  the  two  great  writers  of  the  Spanish  stage,  Lope  de 
Vega  and  Calderon,  have  a  chief  of  banditti  as  their  princi- 
pal character.  The  authors  of  the  second  order  frequently 
chose  their  hero  from  the  same  class.  It  is  thus  that  Tlie 
Valiant  Andalusian  of  Christoval  de  Monroy  y  Silva,  The 
Redoubtable  Andalusian  of  a  writer  of  Valencia,  and  The 
Robber  Balthasar  of  another  anonymous  author,  excited  the 
interest  of  the  spectators  for  a  professed  assassin,  who  executed 
the  bloody  commands  of  his  relations  and  friends;  who,  pur- 
sued by  justice,  resisted  the  officers  of  a  whole  province,  and 
left  dead  on  the  spot  all  who  dared  to  approach  him  ;  and 
who,  Avhen  the  moment  of  submission  at  length  arrived,  ob- 
tained the  divine  pardon  through  the  miraculous  interposition 
of  Providence  ;  a  prodigy  which  snatched  him  from  the  hands 
of  his  enemies,  or  at  all  events  assured  the  salvation  of  his 
soul.  This  description  of  plays  met  with  the  most  brilliant 
success.  Neither  the  charm  of  poetry,  so  prodigally  lavished 
in  other  dramas,  nor  the  art  of  preserving  probability  in  the 
plot,  were  demanded,  while  the  seducing  valour  of  the  robber- 
chief,  and  his  wonderful  successes,  enchanted  the  populace. 


328  ON    TIIIC    LITERATURE 

This  was  a  glory  and  lieroism  ap|)ropriate  to  their  own  sphere 
of  life,  though  iittached  to  passions  which  it  was  highly  im- 
portant to  suppress.  In  viewing  the  literature  of  the  Soutli, 
we  are  often  struck  with  the  subversion  of  morals,  with  the 
corruption  of  all  just  principles,  and  watli  tiu;  disorganization 
of  society  wiiich  it  indicates;  but  if  we  candidly  examine  the 
institutions  of  the  people,  and  consider  their  government, 
their  religion,  their  education,  their  games,  and  their  public 
amusements,  we  ought  ratlier  to  allow  them  credit  for  the 
virtues  which  they  have  retained,  for  that  rectitude  of  senti- 
ment and  thouglit  wliich  is  innate  to  the  heart  of  man,  and 
wliich  is  not  entirely  destroyed,  notwitlistanding  exterior 
circumstances  have  so  strongly  conspired  to  corrupt  the  mind, 
and  to  pervert  its  sentiments. 

AV'e  meet  with  principles  of  as  evil  a  tendency,  precepts  as 
cruel,  and  a  fanaticism  not  less  dejjlorable,  in  the  play  of 
A.r(iuco  (loinado :  The  Co)iquef.t  of  Arauco,  of  Lope  de 
Vega  ;  though  in  this  instance  the  piece  is  raised  by  a  high 
strain  of  poetry,  and  supported  by  a  more  lively  int(»rest. 
Nor  is  it  sufficient,  in  inquiring  into  the  conquest  of  America, 
one  of  the  greatest  events  of  tiie  age,  to  seek  for  the  details 
of  it  in  the  historians  ;  it  is  also  desirable  to  view  in  the  poets 
the  character  of  the  people  that  accomplished  it,  and  tiie  effect 
produced  upon  them  by  the  prodigies  of  valour  and  tlie  excess 
of  ferocity  which  were  disj)layed.  The  subject  of  this  piece 
is  taken  from  the  Araucana  of  Don  Alonzo  de  Ercilla.  It 
commences  after  the  election  of  Caiipolican,  and  liis  defeat  of 
Valdivia,  the  Spanish  general  wlio  connnanded  in  Chili,  and 
who  perished  in  a  battle  about  the  year  1554.  This  is  in  itself 
a  noble  and  theatrical  subject.  The  struggle  between  the 
Spaniards,  who  combat  for  glory  and  for  the  establishment 
of  their  religion,  and  the  Araucanians,  who  fight  for  their 
liberty,  affords  room  for  the  developement  of  the  noblest 
characters,  and  for  the  most  striking  opposition  between  a 
savage  and  civilized  people.  This  ojsposition  forms  one  of 
the  greatest  beauties  in  the  play  of  Ahire.  The  Arauco 
domado  is  also  a  piece  of  brilliant  imagination.  Many  of  the 
scenes  are  richer  in  poetry  than  any  that  Lope  de  Vega  has 
composed.  They  would  have  produced  a  still  greater  effect 
liad  they  been  more  impartial;  but  the  Araucans  were  enemies 
of  the  Spaniards,  and  the  author  thouglit  himself  obliged  by 
hia  patriotism    to  give  them  a  boasting   character,  and  to 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS, 


329 


represent  them  as  defeated  in  every  action.  Nevertheless,  the 
general  impression  produced  by  the  perusal  is  an  admiration 
of  the  vanquished,  and  horror  at  the  cruelty  of  the  conquerors. 
Whilst  the  Spaniards  install  the  new  governor  of  Chili, 
Caupolican  celebrates  his  victory,  and  places  his  trophies  at 
the  feet  of  the  beautiful  Fresia,  who,  not  less  valiant  than 
himself,  is  delighted  at  finding  in  her  lover  the  liberator  of 
his  country.  The  first  strophes  which  the  poet  puts  into 
their  mouths  breathe  at  the  same  time  love  and  imagination. 


Caupolican.  Here,  beauteous  Fresia, 
Thy  feather'd  darts  resign,  [rest; 

While  the  bright  planet  pours  a  farewell 
Gilding  the  glorious  West,  [ray, 

And,  as  his  beams  decline. 
Tinges  with  crimson  light  the  expiring  day. 
Lo  !  where  the  streamlet  on  its  way. 
Soft  swelling  from  its  source, 
Through  flower-bespangled  meads 
Its  murmuring  waters  leads, 
And  in  the  ocean  ends  its  gentle  course. 
Here,  Fresia,  may'st  thou  lave 
Thy  limbs,  whose  whiteness  shames  the 

foaming  wave. 
Unfold,  in  this  retreat, 
Thy  beauties,  envied  by  the  queen  of  night; 
The  gentle  stream  shall  clasp  thee  in  its 
Here  bathe  thy  wearied  feet !  [arms ; 

The  flowers  with  delight 
Shall  stoop  to  dry  them,  wondering  at  thy 
To  screen  thee  from  alarms,  [charms. 

The  trees  a  verdant  shade  shall  lend  ; 
From  many  a  songster's  throat 
Shall  swell  the  harmonious  note  ; 
The  cool  stream  to  thy  form  shall  bend 
Its  course,  andtheenamour'dsands  [hands. 
Shall  yield  thee  diamonds  for  thy  beauteous 

All  that  thou  see'st  around. 
My  Fresia,  is  thine  own  ! 
This  realm  of  Chili  is  thy  noble  dower  ! 
Chased  from  our  sacred  ground, 
The  Spaniard  shall  for  all  his  crimes  atone. 
And  Charles  and  Philip's  iron  reign  is  o'er. 
Hideous  and  stain'd  with  gore, 
They  fly  Arauca's  sword ; 
Before  their  ghastly  eyes 
In  dust  Valdivia  lies  ; 
While  as  a  god  ador'd, 
My  briijht  fame  mounting,  with   the  sun 
extends, 


Where'er  the  golden  orb  his  glorious  jour- 
ney bends. 
Fresia.  Lord  of  my  soul,  my  bosom's 
To  thee  yon  mountains  bend  [dream, 

Their  proud  aspiring  heads  ; 
The  nymphs  that  haunt  this  stream, 
With  roses  crown'd,  tlieir  arms  extend. 
And  yield  thee  offerings  from  their  flowery 
But  ah !  no  verdant  tree  that  spreads  [beds. 
Its  blissful  shade,  no  fountain  pure, 
Nor  feather'd  choir,  whose  song 
Echoes  the  woods  among. 
Earth,  sea,  nor  empire,  gold,  nor  silver  ore. 
Could  ever  to  me  prove 
So  rich  a  treasure  as  my  chieftain's  love. 
I  ask  no  brighter  fame 
Than  conquest  o'er  a  heart 
To  whom  proud  Spain  submits  her  laurell'd 
Before  whose  honour'd  name,  [head, 

Her  glories  all  depart  and  victories  are  fled! 
Her  terrors  all  are  sped  ! 
The  keenness  of  her  sword. 
Her  arquebuse,  whose  breath 
Flash'd  with  the  fires  of  death,  [lord, 

And  the  fierce  steed,  bearing  his  steel-clad 
A  fearful  spectre  on  our  startled  shore, 
Affright  our  land  no  more  ! 
Thy  spear  hath  rent  the  chain 
That  bound  our  Indian  soil ;  [hand, 

Her  yoke  so  burthen'd  by  th'  oppressor's 
Thou  hast  spurn'd  with  fierce  disdain  : 
Hast  robb'd  the  spoiler  of  his  spoil, 
Who  sought  by  craft  and  force  to  subjugate 
Now  brighter  days  expand  !         [thy  land  ! 
The  joys  of  peace  are  ours  ! 
Beneath  the  lofty  trees,  [the  breeze. 

Our  light-swung  hammoc'KS  answtring  to 
Sweet  is  our  sleep  among  the  leafy  bower.? ; 
And,  as  in  ancient  days,  a  calm  repose 
Attends  our  bless'd  lite  to  its  latest  close.* 


But  when  the  Indians  are  aware  that  the  Spaniards  are 
advancing  to  attack  them,  and  that  their  god  has  revealed 


*  Caupolican.    Dexa    el   arco    y  las 
Hermosa  Fresia  raia,  [flechas, 

Mientras  el  sol  con  cintas  de  oro  borda 
Torres  de  nubes  hechas  ; 
Y  declinando  el  dia, 
Con  los  unibrales  de  la  noche  aborda, 
A  la  niar  siompre  sorda. 
VOL  II. 


Camina  el  agua  mansa 

De  aquesta  hermosa  fuente, 

Hasta  que  su  corriente 

En  sus  saladas  margenes  descansa; 

Aqui  banarte  puedes 

Tu,  que  a  sus  vidros  en  blancura  excedes. 


330 


ON    TIIK    T.ITEitATURE 


their  approacliing  defeat,  the  warriors  and  tlieir  chiefs  ani- 
mate tlieinseives  for  the  combat,  by  a  warlike  iiymn  of  great 
beauty,  and  of  a  truly  orisrinul  character.  I  have  attempted 
to  translate  it,  although  I  am  aware  that  its  effect  proceeds, 
in  a  great  measure,  from  the  scene  which  precedes  it,  which 
has  awakened  the  enthusiasm  of  the  spectator,  and  from  the 
graiul(!ur  of  the  scene  and  the  music.  At  the  extremity  of 
the  stage,  the  Spaniards  are  seen  on  the  ramparts  of  a  fort, 
where  tliey  have  sheltered  themselves.  The  Indian  tribes 
surround  llicir  chi(;fs  :  each  in  his  turn  menaces  with  ven- 
geance the  enemies  of  his  country  :  the  chiefs  reply  in  chorus, 
and  the  army  interrupts  the  warlike  music  by  its  acclamations, 
repeating  with  ardour  the  name  of  its  leader.  This  barba- 
rous name,  which  recurs  as  a  lurthen  in  the  midst  of  the 
verse,  seems  almost  ludicrous,  though  one  cannot  help  re- 
marking the  truth  of  costume  and  military  action,  -which,  at 
least  in  the  Spanish  original,  transports  the  reader  into  the 
midst  of  the  savaae  bauds. 


An    Indian    Soldier.    Hail,    Cliief! 
twice  crown'd  by  Victory's  hands, 
Victor  o'er  all  Valdivia's  bands. 
Conqueror  of  Villagran. 
The  Army.  All  hail,  Caupolican  ! 
Choru.  of  Chiefs.  Mendoza's  fall  will 
add  fresh  wreaths  again. 
Fall,  tyrant,  fall. 
Th'  avenger  comes,  alike  of  gods  and  men. 
The   Soldier.  The  God  of  Ind,  Apo, 
the  thunderer  comes,  [domains  ; 

Who   gave   his  valiant  tribes    these   vast 
Spoil'd  by  the  robbers   from   the   ocean- 
Soon,  soon,  to  fill  ignoble  tombs,  [plains, 

Slain  by  the  conqueror  of  Villagran. 
The  Army.  Shout,  shout, Caupolican! 
The  Chorus.  The  hero's  eye  is  on  thee; 
tyrant,  fly! 
No,  thou  art  in  his  toils,  and  thou  must 
Thou  canst  not  fly,  [Jie, 

Thou  and  thine  im])ious  clan. 
The  Army    Hear,  hear,  Caupolican! 
Caupolican.  Wretched Castilians, yield, 
— our  victims,  yield  ; 

Fate  sits  upon  our  arms  ; 
Trust  not  these  walls  and  towers,— they 
cannot  shield 
Your  heads  from  vengeance  now, 
Your  souls  from  wild  alarms. 


Chorus.  See  laurels  on  his  brow, 
The  threatening  chief  of  Arauean. 
The  Army.  Caupolican  !  ! 
Chorus.  Mendoza,  cast  your  laurels  at 
With  tyrant-homage  greet,  [his  feet; 

rhe  chief  of  all  his  clan. 
TucAPEL.  Bandits,  whom  treason  and 
the  cruel  thirst  [shores, 

Of   yellow   dust    bore    to   our    hapless 
Who  boast  of  honour  while  your  hands  are 
curs'd  [deplores, 

W  ith  chains  and  tortures  Nature's  self 

Heboid,  we  burst  your  iron  yoke ; 
Your  terrors  fled,  your  savage  bondage 
broke.  [g'an. 

Chorus.  Behold  the  victor  of  your  Villa- 
The  whole  Army.  Caupolican — Cau- 
polican ! !  [waves, — 
Choiius.     Spurn,   spurn  him   o'er  the 
The  new,  last  fee,  Mendoza  spurn  ! 
To  those  farl.inds.  swift,  swift,  return. 
Rengo.  Or  let  them  with  us  find  their 
Madmen  who  hoped  to  find  [graves. 
The  race  of  Chili  blind 
And  weak,  and  vile  as  the  Peruvian  slaves. 
But  who  your  flying  squ.idrons  saves 

From  the  great  chief  of  Arauean? 
When  hereturnswith  all  his  captiveswon — 
C.iORVS.  To  the  glad  bosom  of  Andalican.* 


*  Una  voz.  Pues  tantas  victorias  goza 
De  Valdivia  y  Villagran, 

'J'oDos.  Caupolican ! 

Solo.  Tambien  vencerd  al  Mendoza, 
T  a  los  que  con  el  estan. 

ToDOs.  Caupolican  ! 

Solo.  Si  sabias  el  valor 

yide  Teatro  escogido  de  Lope  dc  Vega. 


Dbste  valientc  Araucano, 
Aquicn  Apo  soberano 
Ilizo  de  Arauco  sertor, 
Como  no  tieiies  temor  ? 
Que  si  vcncio  a  Villagran, 
Touos.  Ciiupolican ! 


8vo.     Paris:  Baudry.     184P. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  331 

Rengo.  Soon  shall  you  aliare  the  fate  of        To  the  great  victor  of  the  war 
Villacran.  That  lie  will  spare! 

Kneel,  an"d  pour  forth  your  prayer  The  Army.  Caupolican  ! 

A  number  of  battles  succeed  each  other,  in  which  the 
Indians,  thou,2;h  they  yield  to  the  superior  arms  of  tlie 
Europeans,  yet  never  lose  their  courage.  Their  wives  and 
children  excite  them  to  battle,  and  force  them  to  combat  when 
they  seem  willinp:  to  lend  an  ear  to  negotiation.  At  length 
Galvarino,  one  of  the  chiefs  of  the  Araucans,  is  made  prisoner, 
and  Mendoza  orders  his  hands  to  be  cut  off,  and  directs  him 
to  be  sent  back  in  that  state  to  his  countrymen.  Galvarino, 
on  hearing  tiiis  cruel  sentence,  thus  replies  to  Mendoza  : 

What  is  thine  aim,  conquest  or  chastisement  ? 
Though  thou  lop  off  these  hands,  yet  still  among 
Arauca's  sons  shall  myriads  yet  be  found 
To  blast  thy  hopes  ;  and  as  the  husbandman 
Heads  the  fast-budding  maize,  to  increase  his  store 
Of  golden  grain,  so  even  these  crimson  hands 
Thou  sever'st  from  my  valiant  arms,  shall  yield 
A  thousand  fold ;  for  when  the  earth  hath  drunk 
My  blood,  an  iron  harvest  she  shall  yield 
Of  hostile  hands,  to  enslave  and  bind  thine  own. 

The  execution  of  the  sentence  does  not  take  place  on  the 
stage,  but  Alonzo  de  Ercilla,  the  epic  poet,  who  acts  an  im- 
portant part  in  this  drama,  brings  the  report  of  it  in  these 
words  : 

He  seem'd  to  me  all  marble;  scarce  the  knife 
With  cruel  edge  had  sever'd  his  left  hand, 
Than  he  replaced  it  with  his  valiant  right, 

Galvarino  ultimately  arrives  at  a  council  of  war  of  the 
Araucans,  at  the  moment  when  the  Caciques,  dispirited,  are 
on  tlie  point  of  concluding  a  peace.  The  sight  of  his  muti- 
lated arms  kindles  tlieir  rage  afresh.  Galvarino  himself 
incites  them  by  an  eloquent  harangue  to  avenge  themselves,  or 
to  die  in  defence  of  their  freedom  ;  and  another  war  is 
commenced,  but  with  still  less  success  than  the  former  one. 
The  Araucans,  re-assembled  in  the  wood  of  Puren,  celebrate 
a  festival  in  honour  of  their  deity.  A  female  in  the  midst  of 
them  chants  a  beautiful  ode  to  the  Mother  of  Love,  when 
they  are  on  a  sudden  surprised  by  the  Spaniards,  who  attack 
them  with  shouts  of  San  Jar/o  and  Cierra  Espaila*  The 
Indians  are  almost  all  slain.      Caupolican  is  left  among  the 


*    [Cierra  E^pana  was  the  war-cry  of  the  ancient  Spaniards. — Tr.'] 

x2 


332  ON  Tin:  literature 

Spaniards,  and,  overpowered  by  numbers,  is  at  lengtli  made 
prisoner,  and  brought  before  Don  Garcia  de  Mendoza  : 

Mendoza.  Wliat  power  hath  thus  rcihiccd  Caupolican] 

Caupolican.  Misfortune,  and  the  fickle  chance  of  war. 

Mendoza.  Jlisfortune  is  the  just  reward  of  all 
That  war  with  hcawMi.     Thou  wast  a  vassal  to 
The  crown  of  Spain,  and  dar'dst  defy  its  power. 

Caupolican.  Free-born,  1  have  to  the  uttermost  defended 
My  native  land,  her  liberty,  and  laws. 
Yours  have  I  ne'er  attempted.         Mendoza.  To  our  arms 
Chili  had  soon  submitted,  hadst  not  thou 
Resisted.         Caupolican.  Now  she  foils,  and  fetters  bind 
Their  hands.         Mendoza.  Through  thee  Yaldivia  pcrish'd  ;   thou 
Hast  destroy 'd  cities,  hast  excited  war, 
Hast  led  thy  people  to  revolt,  hast  slain 
Our  Villagran,  and  for  him  thou  shalt  die. 

Caupolican.  'Tis  true,  my  life  is  in  thine  hands  ;  revenge 
Thy  monarch,  trample  Chili  in  the  dust. 
Yet  with  this  life  thy  power  o'er  me  must  end. 

The  poet,  however,  to  complete  tiie  triumph  of  Spain,  was 
resolved  on  the  conversion  of  the  hero  of  the  Araucans,  and 
Caupolican  embraces  the  religion  of  Mendoza,  persuaded  that 
that    conqueror,    more    experienced    and    enlightened    than 
liimself,  must  be  nearer  to  the  true  faith.      Mendoza,  after 
appearing  as  his  godfather  at  the  baptism,  abandons  him  to 
the  executioner.     He  is  seen  on  the  scaflTold,  bound  to  a  stake, 
and  ready  to  be  delivered  to  the  flames,  and  Thilip  de  Men- 
doza,   addressing  himself  to   the   portrait   of  Philip  II.  the 
coronation  of  which  is  announced  to  the  army,  exclaims : 
Thus  do  we  serve  thee,  Sire,  and  these  rich  plains. 
Satiate  with  Indian  blood,  we  add  to  thy  domains. 
One  should  imagine  that  this  terrific  conclusion,  the  noble 
cliaracter  given  to  Galvarino  and  Caupolican,  the  disgusting 
punishment  of  a  hero  at  the  moment  of  his  conversion,  and 
the  senseless  reproach  of  revolt  addressed  to  an  independent 
nation   wdiich    attempts  to    repel  an    unjust  invasion,  wero 
designedly  placed  before  the  eyes  of  the  Castilians  by  Lope  de 
Vega,  to  inspire  them  with  a  liorror  of  their  cruelties.     But 
this  conjecture  would  betray  a  great  ignorance  both  of  tlie 
poet    and    his    audience.      Thorouglily    persuaded    that    the 
partition   of  the  Indies  by  the  Pope  had  invested  his  sove- 
reign with  the  dominion  of  America,  he  sincerely  regarded 
the  Indians  a.^  rebels  deserving  of  punishment  ;    and  equally 
convinced   that    Cliri.<tianity   ouglit  to  be  established  by  fire 
and  sword,  he  shared  witli  his  whole  heart  in  the  zeal  of  the 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  333 

conquerors  of  America,  whom  lie  considered  as  soldiers  of 
the  faith.  Moreover  he  deemed  the  sacrifice  of  a  hundred 
thousand  idolatrous  Indians  to  be  an  offering  highly  accept- 
able to  the  Deity.  The  partiality  of  Spanish  poets  for  their 
own  nation  is  in  general  so  great,  that  they  think  it  unneces- 
sary to  disguise  the  cruelty  of  its  conduct  towards  other 
countries.  Tliat  which  is  at  this  day  so  revolting  to  us  in 
their  history,  was  in  their  eyes  a  peculiar  merit.  But  the 
heroism  of  Caupolican  and  tlie  Indians,  and  the  virtues  of  these 
infidels  which  could  not  contribute  to  their  salvation,  bore  in 
the  eyes  of  Lope  de  Vega  a  tragic  character,  in  propoi-tion  to 
their  inefficacy.  It  was  an  earthly  lustre  of  which  he  wished 
to  show  the  vanity  ;  and,  in  exciting  for  them  a  passing  in- 
terest, he  wished  to  warn  the  spectators  to  be  on  their  guard 
against  a  culpable  sensibility,  and  to  teach  them  to  triumph 
over  this  weakness,  by  the  example  of  the  heroes  of  the  faith, 
the  Valdivias,  the  Villagrans,  and  the  Mendozas,  who  had 
never  experienced  it. 

These  reflections  lead  us  to  the  consideration  of  that  species 
of  drama,  entitled  by  the  Spaniards  Sacred  Comedies.  Re- 
ligion, indeed,  always  occupies  an  important  place  in  the 
Spanish  plays,  however  far  the  subject  may  be  removed  from 
it.  In  those  countries  where  the  Deity  is  held  to  be  best 
worshipped  by  observing  the  dictates  of  conscience,  confirmed 
by  revelation,  religion  and  virtue  are  synonymous  terms. 
He  who  rejects  morality,  may  be  said  to  have  divested  his 
heart  of  belief;  for  infidelity  is  the  refuge  of  vice.  This  is 
not  the  case  in  Italy  and  Spain,  where  not  only  those  whom 
passion  has  rendered  criminal,  but  those  who  exercise  the 
most  shameful  and  culpable  professions,  courtesans,  thieves, 
and  assassins,  are  true  believers  ;  a  domestic  and  daily  devo- 
tion is  strangly  intermingled  with  their  excesses  ;  religion  is 
ever  in  their  mouths,  and  even  the  studied  blasphemous  ex- 
pressions which  are  only  found  in  the  Italian  and  Spanish 
languages,  are  a  proof  of  their  abounding  faith.  It  is  a  sort 
of  warfare  against  the  supernatural  powers  with  whom  they 
find  themselves  ever  in  contact,  and  whom  they  thus  defy. 
The  drama,  the  romances,  the  poetry,  and  the  history  of 
Spain  are  all  so  deeply  tinctured  by  religion,  that  I  am  con- 
stantly obliged  to  call  the  attention  of  the  reader  to  this 
striking  characteristic  ;  to  mingle,  as  it  were,  the  Inquisition 
with  their  literature,  and  to  exhibit  the  national  character  as 


334  0\    THE    LITKKATURE 

well  as  the  national  taste  perverted  by  superstition  and  by 
fanaticism. 

The  sacred  pieces  of  Lope  de  Vega,  which  form  a  very 
considerable  part  of  his  works,  are  in  general  so  immoral 
and  extravagant,  that  if  we  were  to  judge  the  poet  after 
them  alone,  they  would  impress  us  witii  the  most  disadvan- 
tageous idea  of  his  genius.  I  have,  therefore,  defei'red 
giving  an  analysis  of  any  of  these  pieces,  until  I  had  noticed 
his  historical  plays,  and  sliewn  that,  allowing  him  his  choice 
of  subject.  Lope  knew  how  to  excite  intei-est,  curiosity,  and 
pity  ;  and  was  capable  of  representing  history  and  real  life 
with  a  truth  of  description,  which  we  do  not  find  in  his  Lives 
of  the  Saints. 

It  wouM  be  difficult  to  imagine  any  thing  more  eccentric 
than  the  Life  of*  St.  Nicholas  of  Tolentino,  of  which  Bout- 
terwek  has  given  an  analysis.  It  commences  by  a  conversa- 
tion among  a  number  of  young  students,  who  are  exercising 
their  genius  and  scholastic  knowledge.  Amongst  them  is 
found  the  future  saint,  who  is  already  distinguished  for  his 
piety  amidst  this  libertine  assembly.  Tlie  devil,  under  a 
disguise,  mingles  with  the  company  ;  a  spectre  appears  in 
the  air,  the  heavens  open,  and  God  the  Father  is  seen  seated 
in  judgment  with  Justice  and  Mercy,  who  solicit  him  in  turns. 
This  imposing  spectacle  is  followed  by  a  love-scene  between 
a  Lady  Rosalia,  and  her  lover,  Feniso.  The  future  saint, 
already  a  canon,  appears,  and  preaches  on  tlie  stage  ;  his 
parents  congratulate  themselves  on  possessing  such  a  son, 
and  this  concludes  the  first  act.  The  second  commences  with 
a  scene  in  which  soldiers  appear  ;  the  saint  arrives  with  some 
monks,  and  delivers  a  prayer  in  form  of  a  sonnet.  Brother 
Peregrine  narrates  his  conversion  operated  by  love  ;  a 
subtle  theological  dispute  succeeds  ;  all  the  events  of  the 
life  of  the  saint  are  reviewed  ;  he  prays  a  second  time,  and 
he  is  raised  by  his  faith  into  the  air,  where  the  A'irgin  and 
St.  Augustine  descend  to  meet  him.  In  the  third  act  the 
holy  winding-siieet  is  shewn  at  Home  by  two  cardinals  ; 
Nicholas  assumes  the  habit  of  his  order.  During  the  cere- 
mony the  angels  form  an  invisible  choir  ;  tlie  devil  is  at- 
tracted by  their  music,  and  tempts  the  holy  man  ;  souls  are 
seen  in  the  fire  of  purgatory.  The  devil  retires  surrounded 
by  lions  and  serpents,,  but  a  monk  exorcises  him  jestingly 
with  a  basin  of  holy  water.     The  saint,  now  sullicieutly  tried, 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  335 

descends  from  heaven  in  a  mantle  spangled  with  stars :  as 
soon  as  he  touches  the  earth  a  rock  opens  ;  his  father  and 
mother  ascend  out  of  purgatory  through  the  cliasm,  and  he 
takes  them  by  the  hand  and  returns  with  them  to  heaven. 

The  Life  of  Saint  Diego  of  Alcala  is,  perhaps,  not  so  ex- 
travagant in  its  composition.  There  are  no  allegorical  per- 
sonages in  it,  and  we  there  meet  with  no  other  supernatural 
beings  than  several  angels,  and  the  Diivil,  who  robs  Diego  of 
some  turnips,  which  he  had  himself  stolen  to  distribute  to 
the  poor.  Yet  this  piece  afflicts  us  as  profoundly  as  the  pre- 
ceding, by  shewing  us  how  false  a  direction  these  public 
shows,  aided  by  the  priests,  gave  to  the  devotion  of  the 
purest  minds.  Diego  is  a  poor  [)easant,  who  attaches  himself 
as  a  domestic  to  a  hermit.  Ignorant  and  humble,  endowed 
with  tender  and  amiable  feelings,  he  discovers  many  at- 
tractive qualities.  When  he  culls  the  flowers  to  iidorn  a 
chapel,  he  asks  their  forgiveness  for  snatching  them  from 
their  sylvan  abode,  and  exhibits  in  his  respect  for  them,  for 
the  lives  of  animals,  and  for  all  the  works  of  the  Creator, 
something  touching  and  poetical.  But  he  breaks  at  pleasui'e 
all  bonds  of  relationship  amongst  those  with  whom  God  had 
placed  him  ;  he  flies  from  his  paternal  roof,  without  taking 
leave  of  his  father  or  his  motlier,  and  he  abandons  even  the 
old  hermit,  whom  he  served,  without  bidding  him  adieu.  He 
enters  as  a  brother  into  the  order  of  St.  Francis,  the  habit 
of  which  he  earnestly  asks  for,  and  he  receives  the  following 
instructions.  It  is  one  ot"  those  singular  traits  which  paint  at 
the  same  time  the  taste  and  the  religious  poetry  of  the  Spaniards. 

Diego.  I  am  ignorant,  moi'e  ignorant  than  any  one  ought  to  be. 
I  have  not  even  learnt  my  Christus  ;  but  'tis  false,  for  of  the  whole 
alphabet  it  is  the  Christus  alone  that  I  know.  They  are  the  only 
letters  imprinted  on  my  mind. 

The  Porter  op  the  Franciscans.  'Tis  well ;  know  then  that  these 
letters  contain  more  science  than  is  possessed  by  the  greatest  philoso- 
phers, who  pretend  to  penetrate  into  the  secrets  of  earth  and  heaven. 
Christus  is  the  Alpha  and  Oineya,  for  God  is  the  beginning  and  end 
of  all  things,  without  being  either  beginning  or  end  :  he  is  a  circle,  and 
can  have  no  ending.  If  you  spell  the  word  Christus,  you  will  find  a  C, 
because  he  is  the  creator  :  an  H  to  aspirate  and  respire  in  him  ;  an  /  to 
indicate  how  (mdigue)  unworthy  you  are ;  au  S,  to  induce  you  to  be- 
come a  saint ;  a  T,  because  it  has  in  it  something  divine,  for  this  T 
includes  {\c  tout)  every  thing  ;  thus  God  is  called  Thcos,  as  the  end  of 
all  our  desires.*     The  T  is,  further,  the  symbol  of  the  cross  which  you 


"   Theos  (God)  is  here  confounded  with  7'eZos  (end). 


336  ox    THE    LITERATUKE 

should  bear,  and  it  extends  its  arms  to  invite  j-ou  to  embrace  it,  and 
never  quit  it.  The  F  shews  that  .you  are  (i-enu)  come  into  this  house 
to  devote  yourself  to  Christ,  and  the  S  final,  that  you  are  changed 
into  another  A-ubstancc,  a  substance  divine.  This  is  the  explanation  of 
Christcs.  Construe  this  lesson,  and  when  you  understand  it  perfectly, 
you  will  have  nothing  further  to  learn. 

Notwithstanding  his  ignorance,  the  sanctity  of  Diego 
strikes  the  Francisciins  so  powerfully,  that  they  choo.-=e  him 
for  the  keeper  of  their  convent,  and  afterwards  send  liira  as 
a  missionary  to  convert  the  inliabitants  of  the  Fortunate 
Ishmds.  AV^e  see  Diego  disembark  on  the  shore  of  the 
Canaries  with  a  handful  of  soldiers,  while  the  natives  are 
celebrating  a  festival.  Diego  thinks  himself  called  on  to 
begin  the  conversion  of  these  newly-discovered  islands,  by 
the  massacre  of  their  infidel  inhabitants.  The  moment  he 
beholds  men,  whom  from  their  clotliing  alone  he  recognises 
for  strangers  to  his  faith,  he  rushes  on  them  exclaiming, 
'*  This  cross  shall  serve  for  a  sword,"  encourages  his  men  to 
slay  them,  and  sheds  bitter  tears  when  he  observes  the 
Spaniards,  instead  of  relying  on  the  succour  and  interference 
of  heaven,  measuring  with  a  worldly  prudence  the  strength 
of  their  enemy,  and  refusing  to  attack  a  warlike  and  powerful 
people,  who  were  wise  enough  to  carry  their  arms  even  in  a 
time  of  profound  peace.  On  his  return  to  Spain,  Diego 
robs  the  garden,  the  kitchen,  and  the  pantry  of  his  convent, 
in  order  to  relieve  the  poor.  The  principal  monk  surprises 
him  in  the  fact,  and  insists  on  seeing  what  he  carried  in  his 
gown,  but  the  meat  wdiich  he  had  stolen  is  miraculou.sIy  changed 
into  a  garland  of  roses.  At  length  he  dies,  and  the  whole 
convent  is  instantly  filled  with  a  sweet  perfume,  while  the  air 
resounds  with  angelic  music. 

However  eccentric  these  compositions  may  be,  we  may 
readily  imagine  that  the  people  were  delighted  with  them. 
Supernatural  beings,  transformations  and  prodigies,  Were 
constantly  presented  to  tlieir  eyes  ;  their  curiosity  was  the 
more  vividly  excited,  as  in  the  miraculous  course  of  events  it 
was  impossible  to  predict  what  would  next  appear,  and  every 
improbability  was  removed  Ijy  faith,  whicli  always  came  to  the 
aid  of  the  poet,  with  an  injunction  to  believe  what  could  not 
be  explained.  But  the  Avtos  sacranientahs  of  Lope  seem  less 
calculated  to  please  the  crowd.  They  are  infinitely  more  simple 
in  their  construction,  and  are  mingled  witli  a  theology  which 
the  people  would  find  it  dilhcult  to  comprehend.     In  the  one 


OF    THE    SPANIAKD3.  337 

which  represents  original  sin,  we  first  see  Man,  Sin,  and  the 
Devil  disputing  together.  The  Eai-th  and  Time  join  the 
conversation.  We  next  behold  heavenly  Justice  and  Mercy 
seated  under  a  canopy  before  a  table,  with  every  tiling  requi- 
site for  writing.  Man  is  interrogated  before  this  tribunal. 
God  the  prince,  or  Jesus,  advances ;  Remorse  kneeling  pre- 
sents to  him  a  petition  ;  Man  is  again  interrogated  by  Jesus, 
and  receives  his  pardon,  but  the  Devil  interferes  and  protests 
against  this  favour  being  shewn  to  him.  Christ  appears  apart, 
ci'owned  with  tliorns,  and  re-ascends  to  heaven  amidst  sacred 
music,  and  the  piece  concludes  when  he  is  seated  on  his 
celestial  throne. 

The  greater  part  of  these  allegorical  pieces  are  formed  of 
long  theological  dialogues,  dissertations,  and  scholastic  sub- 
tleties too  tedious  for  perusal.  It  is  true,  that  before  the 
representation  of  an  auto  sacramentale,  and  as  if  to  indem- 
nify the  audience  for  the  more  serious  attention  about  to  be 
required  for  them,  a  loa  or  prologue  equally  allegorical,  and 
at  the  same  time  mingled  with  comedy,  was  first  performed. 
After  the  auto,  or  between  the  acts,  appeared  an  interme- 
diate piece  called  the  Saynete,  entirely  burlesque,  and  taken 
from  common  life  ;  so  that  a  religious  feast  never  terminated 
without  gross  pleasantries,  and  a  humorous  performance  ;  as 
if  a  higher  degree  of  devotion  in  the  principal  drama  re- 
quired, by  way  of  compensation,  a  greater  degree  of  licen- 
tiousness in  the  lesser  pieces.* 

*  I  have  met  with  the  A  utos,  or  Fiestas  dd  Santissimo  Sacra- 
mento, by  Lope  de  Vej>a,  not  included  in  his  Theatre,  in  a  4to  edition 
publi  hed  by  Jos.  Ortiz  de  Villena,  after  the  author's  death.  The  second 
Fiesta  opens  with  a  prologue  between  Zeal  and  Fame,  who  both  enter 
upon  the  stage  dressed  as  public  criers.  Zeal  iirst  makes  his  proclama- 
tion in  the  square  of  the  Most  Blessed  Virgin :  "  Marj',"  he  says,  "  new 
wine  on  sale,  the  wine  of  the  Heir  of  the  heavenly  kingdom,  for  three 
livres ;  Faith,  Charity  and  Hope,  for  three  livres.  Buy  the  rich  The- 
reaca,  the  celestial  wine,  the  Saviour's  blood,  the  best  antidote." 

En  la  plaga  de  Santa  Maria  Fe,  caridad  y  espcranca  ; 

Virgen  bendita,  A  la  rica  triaca 

Ay  vino  nuevo,  Vino  del  cielo, 

Del  Heredero  Que  es  la  sangre  de  Chnsto 

Del  reyno  liel  cielo  ;  Contra  veneuo. 

A  tres  blancas,  a  tres  blancas ; 

Fame  proclaims,  in  her  turn,  the  sale  of  the  Bread  of  Life,  in  the 
same  strain. 

In  the  interlude  some  light-fiugercd  gentry  take  advantage  of  the 
Holy  Sacrament  to  introduce  themselves  iato  the  house  of  a  doctor; 
while  one  occupies  his  attention  by  relating  a  comic  law-suit,  the  other 


338  ox    Tlir.    LITERATIUK 

All  the  pieces  of  Lope  which  we  have  reviewed  are  con- 
nected wltli  public  or  domestic  history,  and  sacred  or  profane 
subjects  ;  but  are  always  founded  on  real  incidents,  which 
require  a  certain  study  and  a  certain  attention  to  tradition. 
Wliere  tlie  incidents  happen  to  be  drawn  from  the  history  of 
Spain,  they  are  treated  with  great  truth  of  manners  and 
fidelity  of  i'acts.  But  as  a  great  part  of  the  Spanish  come- 
dies are  of  an  heroic  cast,  and  as  combats,  dangers,  and  poli- 
tical revolutions  are  there  mingled  with  domestic  events,  the 
poet  could  not  assign  them  at  his  pleasure  to  a  particular 
time  or  place,  feeling  himself  constrained  by  the  i'amiliarity 
of  the  circumstances.  The  Spaniards,  thereibre,  gave  them- 
selves full  licence  to  create  imaginary  kingdoms  and  countries, 
and  to  a  great  portion  of  Europe  tliey  were  such  entire 
strangers,  that  they  founded  principalities  and  subverted  em- 
pires at  will.  Hungary,  Poland,  and  Macedonia,  as  well  as 
the  regions  of  the  North,  are  countries  always  at  their  dis- 
posal, for  the  purpose  of  introducing  brilliant  catastrophes  on 
the  stage.  Neither  the  poet  nor  the  spectators  having  any 
knowledge  of  the  rulers  of  sucli  countries,  it  was  an  easy 
matter  at  a  time  of  so  little  historical  accuracy  to  give  birth 
to  kings  and  heroes  never  noticed  in  history.  It  was  there 
that  Francisco  de  Roxas  placed  his  Father,  n'Jio  could  not 
he  king,  from  which  Rotrou  has  formed  his  Vencedas.  .  It 
was  there  that  Lope  de  Vega  gave  full  reins  to  his  imagina- 
tion, when  he  represents  a  female  fugitive,  charitably  enter- 
tained in  the  house  of  a  poor  gentleman  of  the  Carpathian 
mountains,  bringing  him  as  her  portion  the  crown  of  Hun- 
gary, in  La  Ventura  sin  huscalla  :  The  Unloohed-for  Good- 
i'ortnnc.  In  another,  the  supposed  son  of  a  gardener,  changed 
into  a  hero  by  the  love  of  a  princess,  merits  and  obtains  by 
his  exploits  the  tiirone  of  Macedon.  Tiiis  piece  is  entitled 
El  JTotnhre  jior  su  pulahra  :   The  Man  of  his  ^Va)•d. 

li'  these  pieces  do  not  unite  instruction  with  entertain- 
-raent  they  are  still  deserving  of  preservation  as  containing 
a  rich  fiiml  of  invention  and  incident..    Lope,  though  inex- 


phmdcrs  the  house.  The  alarm  is  given,  but  when  the  pohcc  reaches 
them  they  are  hoth  found  upon  their  knees,  reciting  the  Litany  ;  again 
they  arc  caught,  but  they  take  refuge  amongst  the  penitents.  The 
religious  ceremonies  protect  them  from  all  pursuit;  and  the  doctor, 
whom  they  had  robbed,  is  invited  to  console  himself  by  joining  in  tho 
holy  festival. 


OF    THE    SPAXIAKDS.  339 

liaustiblc  in  intrigues  and  interesting  situations,  can  never 
be  esteemed  a  perfect  dramatist  ;  but  no  poet  whatever  lias 
brought  together  rieher  materials,  for  the  use  of  those  who 
may  be  capable  of  employing  them.  In  his  comedies  of 
pure  invention,  he  possesses  an  advantage  which  he  fre- 
quently loses  in  his  historical  pieces.  While  the  characters 
are  better  drawn  and  better  supported,  there  is  greater  pro- 
bability in  the  events,  more  unity  in  tlie  action,  and  also  in 
the  time  and  place  ;  for,  drawing  all  from  himself,  he  has 
only  taken  what  was  useful  to  him,  instead  of  thinking  him- 
self obliged  to  introduce  into  his  composition  all  that  history 
presented  him  with.  The  early  French  dramatists  borrowed 
lai'gely  from  Lope  and  his  school  ;  but  the  mine  is  yet  far 
from  being  exhausted,  and  a  great  number  of  subjects  are 
still  to  be  found  there  susceptible  of  being  brought  within 
the  rules  of  the  French  drama.  P.  Corneille  took  his  heroic 
play,  Don  Sancho  of  Arcujon,  from  a  piece  of  Lope  deVega, 
intitled  El  Pulacio  Cotifnso:  and  this  single  piece  might 
still  furnish  another  theatrical  subject  entirely  different,  that 
of  the  Twins  upon  the  Throne.  The  mutual  resemblance  of 
these  two  princes,  Don  Carlos  and  Don  Henry,  one  of  whom, 
assuming  the  name  of  the  other,  repairs  the  faults  his  brother 
had  committed,  gives  rise  to  a  very  entertaining  plot.  It  is 
thus  that  many  of  the  pieces  of  this  fertile  writer  are  sufB- 
cient  to  form  two  or  three  French  plays.  How  surprising 
to  us  is  the  richness  of  the  imagination  of  this  man,  whose 
labours  seem  so  far  to  surpass  the  powers  and  extent  of 
human  life.  Of  a  life  of  seventy-two  years'  duration,  fifty 
were  devoted  incessantly  to  literary  labours  ;  and  he  was 
moreover  a  soldier,  twice  married,  a  [)riest,  and  a  familiar  of 
the  Inquisition.  In  order  to  have  written  2,200  theatrical 
pieces,  he  must  every  eight  days,  from  the  beginning  to  the 
end  of  his  life,  have  given  to  tlie  public  a  new  play  of  about 
3,000  verses  ;  and  in  these  eight  days  he  must  not  only  have 
found  the  time  necessary  for  invention  and  unity,  but  also 
for  making  the  historical  researches  into  customs  and  man- 
ners on  which  his  play  is  founded  ;  to  consult  Tacitus  for 
example,  in  order  to  compose  his  Nero  ;  while  the  fruits  of 
his  spare  time  were  twenty-one  volumes  in  quarto  of  poetry, 
amongst  which  are  five  epic  poems. 

These  last  mentioned  works  do  not  merit  any  examination 
beyond  a  brief  notice.      They  consist  of  the  Jentsaleni  Con- 


340  ON   THE    LITERATURE 

quistada,  in  octave  verse,  ami  in  twenty  cantos;  a  continua- 
tion of  the  Orlando  Furioso  under  the  name  of  La  Hennosura 
de  Aiif/c'lha  :  The  lieaiily  of  Aiujelira,  also  in  twenty  cantos; 
thus,  as  if  to  emulate  Tasso  and  Ariosto,  writing  these  two 
epics  on  the  same  subjects  which  they  had  respectively  chosen. 
To  these  may  be  added  an  epic  entitled  Corona  Tra(jica,  of 
Avhich  Mary  of  Scotland  is  the  heroine;  another  epic  poem  on 
Circe,  and  another  on  Admiral  Drake,  entitled  Drarjontea. 
Drake,  rendered  odious  to  the  Spaniards  by  his  victories,  is 
represented  by  Lope  de  Vega  as  the  minister  and  instrument 
of  the  devil.  But  none  of  these  voluminous  poems  have,  even 
in  the  eyes  of  the  Spaniards,  been  placed  on  an  equality  with 
the  classical  epics  of  Italy,  or  even  with  the  Araucana.  Lope, 
moreover,  determined  to  try  every  species  of  poetry,  com- 
posed also  an  Arcadia,  in  imitation  of  Sannazzaro ;  and  like- 
wise eclogues,  romances,  sacred  poems,  sonnets,  epistles, 
burlesque  poems,  among  which  is  a  burlesque  epic,  called 
La  Gatomachia  :  The  Battle  of  the  Cats;  two  romances  in 
prose,  and  a  collection  of  novels.  The  inconceivable  fertility 
of  invention  of  Lope  de  Vega  supported  his  dramatic  fame, 
notwithstanding  the  little  care  and  time  which  he  gave  to  the 
correction  of  his  pieces;  but  his  other  poems,  the  offspring  of 
hasty  efforts,  are  little  more  than  rude  sketches,  which  few 
people  have  the  courage  to  read. 

Tlie  example  of  this  extraordinary  man  gave  birth  to  a 
number  of  pieces  of  the  same  character  as  his  own,  as  liis 
success  gave  encouragement  to  the  dramatic  poets  who  sprang 
up  in  all  parts  of  Sj)ain,  and  who  composed  with  the  same 
unbridled  imagination,  the  same  carelessness,  and  the  same 
rapidity,  as  their  master.  AYe  shall  review  them  when  we 
notice  the  works  of  Calderon,  the  greatest  and  the  most  cele- 
brated of  liis  scholars  and  rivals.  There  is  one,  indeed,  who 
cannot  well  be  separated  from  Lope.  Tiiis  is  Juan  Perez  de 
Montalvan,  his  favourite  scholar,  his  friend,  biographer  and 
imitator.  This  young  man,  full  of  talent  and  lire,  whose 
admiration  of  Lope  had  no  bounds,  took  him  for  his  exclu- 
sive model,  and  his  dramatic  pieces  arc  of  the  same  character 
as  those  of  his  master.  Some  of  his  sacre<l  plays  I  have 
j)crused,  and  amongst  others,  the  Life  of  St.  Anthony  of 
Padua  ;  and  these  eccentric  dramas,  which  excite  little  in- 
terest, do  not  merit  a  longer  examination.  Juan  Perez  de 
Montalvan  composed  with  the  same  rapidity  as  his  master. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  341 

111  his  short  life  (1603 — 1639)  he  wrote  more  than  one  hun- 
dred theatrical  pieces,  and  like  his  master  he  divided  his 
time  between  poetry  and  the  business  of  the  Inquisition, 
of  which  he  was  a  notary.  His  works  contain  almost  in 
every  line  traces  of  the  religious  zeal  which  led  him  to  become 
a  member  of  this  terrible  tribunal. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

LYRIC  POETRY  OP  SPAIN,  AT  THE  CLOSE  OP  THE  SIXTEENTH  AND  COMMENCE- 
MENT OF  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY.  GONGORA  AND  HIS  FOLLOWERS, 
QUEVEDO,  VILLEGAS,    &C. 

The  poetry  of  Spain  had,  like  the  nation  to  which  it  be- 
longed, a  chivalric  origin.  Their  first  poets  were  enamoured 
warriors,  who  celebrated  by  turns  their  mistresses  and  their 
own  exploits  ;  and  who  preserved  in  their  verses  that  cha- 
racter of  sincerity,  and  almost  rude  frankness  of  manners, 
independence,  stormy  liberty,  and  jealous  and  passionate  love, 
of  which  their  life  was  composed.  Their  songs  attract  us 
from  two  causes  :  the  poetical  woi-ld  into  which  chivalry 
transports  us;  and  a  reality  and  truth,  the  intimate  connexion 
of  words  with  the  heart,  which  does  not  allow  us  to  suspect 
any  imitation  of  borrowed  sentiment,  or  any  affectation.  But 
the  Spanish  nation  experienced  a  fatal  change  when  it  became 
subjected  to  the  house  of  Austria ;  and  poetry  suffered  the 
same  fate,  or  I'ather  it  felt  in  the  succeeding  generation  the 
effects  of  this  alteration.  Charles  V.  subverted  the  liberties 
of  the  Spaniards,  annihilated  their  rights  and  privileges,  tore 
them  from  Spain  and  engaged  them  in  wars,  not  for  their 
country,  but  for  his  own  political  interests  and  for  the  grati- 
fication of  their  monarch.  He  destroyed  their  native  dignity 
of  character,  and  substituted  for  it  a  false  pride  and  empty 
show.  Philip,  his  son,  who  presumed  himself  a  Spaniard, 
and  who  is  considered  as  such,  did  not  possess  the  character 
of  the  nation,  but  of  its  monks,  such  as  the  severity  of  their 
order,  and  the  impetuosity  of  blood  in  the  South,  developed 
it  in  the  convents.  This  culpable  violence  against  Nature 
has  given  them  a  character,  at  the  same  time  imperious  and 
servile,  false,  self-opiniated,  cruel  and  voluptuous.  But  these 
vices  o^  the  Spaniards  are  in  no  wise  to  be  attributed  to 
Nature ;  they  are  the  effects  of  the  cruel  discipline  of  the 
convents,  the  prostration  of  the  intellect,  the  subjugation  of 


342  ox    THE    LITERATLKE 

■will,  and  tlie  concentration  of  all  the  passions  in  one  alone 
which  is  deified. 

Philip  II.,  with  a  considerably  less  portion  of  talents  and 
virtue,  bore  a  greater  affinity  to  Cardinal  Ximene.>,  than  to 
the  Spanisli  nation,  which  had  revolted  against  this  imperious 
and  cruel  nioidc,  but  which  liad  eventually  succumbed  to 
his  violence  and  his  artifices.  To  an  unbounded  amljition 
and  a  shameful  perlidy,  to  a  savage  disregard  of  the  miseries 
of  war  and  famine,  and  the  scourges  of  all  kinds  which  he 
brought  upon  his  dominions,  Pliilip  II.  joined  a  sanguinary 
religion,  which  led  him  to  consider  as  an  expiation  of  his  other 
crimes,  the  new  crimes  of  the  Inquisition.  His  subjects,  like 
himself  educated  by  the  monks,  had  already  changed  their 
character,  and  were  become  worthy  instruments  of  his  dark 
politics,  and  his  superstition.  They  distinguished  themselves 
in  the  wars  of  France,  Italy  and  Germany,  as  much  by  their 
perfidy,  as  by  their  ferocious  fanaticism.  Literature,  which 
always  follows,  though  at  a  considerable  distance,  the  political 
changes  of  nations,  received  a  character  much  less  natural, 
true  and  profound  :  exaggeration  assumed  the  place  of  senti- 
ment, and  fanaticism  that  of  {)iety.  The  two  reigns  of  Philip 
III.  and  Philip  IV.  were  still  more  degrading  to  the  Spanish 
nation.  That  vast  monarchy,  exhausted  by  gigantic  elForts, 
continued  her  unceasing  wars  to  experience  oidy  a  constant 
reverse  of  fortune.  The  king,  sunk  in  vices  and  eflTeminacy, 
did  not,  however,  in  the  impeniitrable  security  of  his  palace, 
renounce  his  perfidy  and  unbridled  ambition.  The  ministers 
sold  the  favour  of  the  crown  to  the  highest  bidder  ;  the  nobi- 
lity was  debased  under  the  yoke  of  favourites  and  upstarts  ; 
the  people  were  ruined  by  cruel  extortions ;  a  million  and  a 
half  of  floors  had  perished  by  fire  and  distress,  or  had  been 
driven  into  exile  by  Philip  III. ;  Plolland,  Portugal,  Catalonia, 
Naples,  and  Palermo  had  revolted  ;  and  the  clergy,  joining 
their  despotic  influence  to  that  of  the  ministers,  not  only 
resisted  the  reform  of  existing  abuses,  but  endeavoured  to 
stifle  every  voice  I'aised  in  complaint  against  them.  Any  re- 
flection or  indulgence  of  thought  on  politics  or  religion,  was 
punished  as  a  crime  ;  and  whilst  under  every  other  despotism 
actions  alone  and  the  exterior  manifestation  of  opinion  were 
visited  by  authority,  in  Sixain  the  oNIonks  sought  to  proscribe 
liberal  sentiments  even  in  the  asylum  of  conscience. 

Such  are  the  eflfects  which  these  reigns,  so  degrading  to 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  343 

humanity,  had  on  tlie  h'terature  which  we  are  about  to  ex- 
amine in  this  chapter.  They  are  evident  and  indisputable  ; 
althou!j;li  this  epocli  is  by  no  means  the  mo>t  barren  in  hitters. 
The  human  mind  retains  for  along  period  any  impulse  it  may 
have  received  :  it  is  long  before  it  can  be  reduced  to  a  state 
of  stagnation  in  its  imprisoned  mansion.  It  will  accommodate 
itself  ratlier  than  perish  ;  and  it  somiitimes  sheds  a  radiance 
on  a  period  wlien  it  has  lost  its  just  direction  and  its  truth. 

We  have  already  noticed  two  celebrated  menw-ho  lived 
principally  under  Philip  II.  and  Pliilip  III.  We  sliall  now 
contemplate  one  who  reached  the  height  of  his  fame  under 
Philip  IV.  Cervantes,  Lope  de  Vega,  and  Calderon,  bear  the 
impress  of  their  age  ;  but  their  individual  genius  greatly  pre- 
dominates, though  the  ancient  traits  of  the  national  character 
were  not  entirely  obliterated.  Among  the  poets  whom  we 
shall  notice  in  this  cliapter,  we  shall  still  find  many  authors 
of  real  merit,  but  always  corrupted  in  their  taste  by  their 
contemporaries  and  their  government.  It  was  not  until  the 
middle  of  the  seventeenth  century  that  the  nation  wholly 
declined  ;  and  -its  lethargic  slumbers  lasted  till  the  middle  of 
the  eighteenth. 

The  Spaniards  inlierited  from  the  Moors  a  forced,  pompous, 
and  inflated  manner.  They  devoted  them-elves  with  ardour, 
from  their  first  cultivation  of  letters,  to  the  seductive  style  of 
the  East,  and  tlieir  own  character  seemed  in  this  respect  to  be 
confounded  with  tliat  of  the  Asiatics  ;  for  before  the  conquests 
of  the  latter,  all  the  Latin  writers  in  Spain  had  exhibited,  like 
Seneca,  an  inflated  style  and  great  affectation  of  sentiment. 
Lope  de  Vega  himself  was  deeply  tainted  with  tlieir  defects. 
With  his  astonishing  fertility  of  genius,  he  found  it  more  easy 
to  adorn  his  poetry  with  concetti,  and  with  daring  and  extra- 
vagant images,  than  to  reflect  on  the  propriety  of  his  expres- 
sions, and  to  temper  his  imagination  ■  by  reason  and  good 
taste.  Ilis  example  diffused  amongst  the  poets  of  Spain  a 
style  of  writing  which  seemed  to  harmonize  with  their  cha- 
racter. It  was  that  which  Marini  at  the  same  time  adopted 
in  Italy.  Marini,  born  in  Naples,  but  of  a  Spanish  family, 
and  educated  amongst  the  Spaniards,  was  the  first  to  com- 
municate to  Italy  that  aifectation  and  false  taste  whicli  was 
already  observable  in  the  early  poetry  of  Juan  de  ]\Iena.  The 
school  of  the  Seicentisfl  (or  writers  of  the  sixteenth  century), 
which  he  had  formed,  was  afterwards  introduced  into  Spain, 


344  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

and  produced  there  in  a  much  greater  degree  thon  in  Italy 
that  pretension,  affectation  of"  style,  and  pedantic  expression, 
wliich  destroyed  all  taste  ;  but  in  both  countries  the  cause  of 
this  change  is  attributable  to  a  higlu-r  source,  and  was  the 
same  in  both.  The  poets  had,  in  fact,  preserved  their  genius, 
thougli  they  had  lost  the  freedom  of  sentiment  ;  they  had  re- 
tained the  powers  of  imagination  without  any  true  direction 
for  their  genius  ;  and  their  faculties,  which  no  longer  derived 
supi)ort  from  each  other,  or  harmonized  together,  exhausted 
themselves  in  the  only  path  which  was  left  open  to  them. 

The  chief  of  this  fantastic  and  affected  school,  who  fixed  its 
style,  and  who  was  desirous  of  forming  a  new  epoch  in  art 
by  a  more  refined  culture,  as  he  expressed  it,  was  Luis  Gon- 
gora  de  Argote,  a  man  of  great  talent  and  genius,  but  who  by 
his  subtilty  and  false  taste  destroyed  his  own  merit.  He  had 
too  to  struggle  with  misfortune  and  poverty.  Born  at  Cor- 
dova in  loGl,  his  brilliant  course  of  stu<ly  had  not  succeeded 
in  procuring  him  an  employ  ;  and  it  was  not  until  after  he 
had  waited  on  the  Court  for  eleven  years,  that  he  with  dif- 
ficulty obtained  a  small  benefice.  His  discontent  produced  in 
him  a  vein  of  invective,  which  was  long  the  principal  merit  of 
his  verses,  and  his  satirical  sonnets  are  excessively  caustic,  as  we 
may  perceive  by  the  following,  on  the  mode  of  life  in  Madrid. 

SONNET. 

Circcan  cup,  and  Epicurus'  sty  ; 

Vast  broods  of  liarpics  fattening  on  our  purse  ; 

Empty  pretensions  that  can  only  nurse 
A'^exation  ;  spies  who  swear  the  air  will  lie; 
Processions,  lackeys,  footmen  mounted  high. 

Coaching  the  way  ;  new  fashions  always  worse, 

A  thousand  modes,— with  undesh'd  swords,  the  curse 
Of  citizens,  not  foes: — loquacity 
Of  female  tongues;  impostures  of  all  kind, 

From  courts  to  cabarets ;  lies  made  for  sale. 
Lawyers,  priests  riding  mules,  less  obstinate  ; 
Snares,  miry  ways,  heroes  lame,  halting,  blind; 

Titles,  and  flatteries,  shifting  with  each  gale  : 
Such  is  Madrid,  this  hell  of  worldly  state. 

His  success  was  still  greater  in  burlesque  satires,  in  the 
form  of  romances  or  songs.  In  these  his  language  and  versi- 
fication exhibited  precision  and  clearness,  and  the  natural 
expression  did  not  betray  any  aflinity  to  the  affected  school 
which  he  afterwards  adopted.  It  was  by  cool  reflection,  and 
not  in   the  warmth  of  an  imairination  still   vountr,  that  he 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  345 

invented  for  poetry  a  more  elevated  style,  which  he  denomi- 
nated the  cultivated  stijle.  To  this  end  he  formed,  with  the 
utmost  labour  and  research,  a  language  affected,  obscure,  and 
ridiculously  allegorical,  and  totally  at  variance  with  the  com- 
mon manner  of  speaking  and  writing.  He  endeavoured, 
moreover,  to  introduce  into  the  Spanish  language  the  boldest 
inversions  of  the  Greek  and  Latin,  in  a  way  never  before 
permitted  ;  he  invented  a  particular  punctuation  to  assist  in 
ascertaining  the  sense  of  his  verses,  and  sought  for  the  most 
uncommon  words,  or  altered  the  sense  of  those  already  in 
use,  to  give  new  attraction  to  iiis  style.  At  the  same  time 
he  carefully  consulted  mythology  in  order  to  add  fresh  orna- 
ments to  his  language.  It  was  with  this  kind  of  labour  that 
he  wrote  his  Soledades,  his  PoI//pkemus,  and  some  other 
poems.  These  are  all  fictions  without  any  poetic  charm,  full 
of  mythological  images,  and  loaded  witli  a  pomp  of  fanciful 
and  obscure  phrases.  Gongora's  lot  in  life  was  not,  however, 
ameliorated  by  the  celebrity  which  this  new  style  bestowed 
on  his  writings.  He  survived  some  time  longer  in  poverty ; 
and  when  he  died,  in  1627,  he  was  no  more  tlian  titular 
chaplain  to  the  king. 

It  is  extremely  difficult  to  give  to  foreign  nations  a  just 
idea  of  the  style  of  Gongora,  since  its  most  remarkable 
quality  is  its  indistinctness  ;  nor  is  it  possible  to  translate  it, 
for  other  languages  do  not  admit  of  those  labyrinths  of 
phrases,  in  which  the  sense  wholly  escapes  us  ;  and  it  would 
be  the  translator  and  not  Gongora,  wlio  would  be  charged 
by  the  reader  with  want  of  perspicuity.  I  have,  however, 
attempted  the  commencement  of  the  first  of  his  Soledades, 
by  which  word,  of  rare  occurrence  in  Spain,  he  expresses  the 
solitude  of  the  forest.  There  are  two  of  these  poems,  each 
of  which  contains  about  a  thousand  verses  : 

'Tvvas  in  that  flowery  season  of  the  year,  Era  del  ano  la  estaci  n  florida, 

When  fair  Europa's  spoiler  in  disguise,  En  que  el  mentido  robador  de  Europa 

(On  his  fierce   front,   his  glittering  arms,  (iledia  luna  las  annas  de  su  frente, 

arise  [appear  Y  el  sol  todos  los  rayos  de  su  pelo) 

A  half-moon's  horns,  while  the  sun's  rays  I.uciente  honor  del  cielo, 

Brightening  his  speckled  coat,) — the  pride  En  campos  de  zatiro  pace  estrellas  ; 

of  heaven,  [fields  ;  tluando  el,  que  ministrar  podia  la  copa 

Pastured   on   stars    amidst    the     sapphire  A  Jupiter,  mejor  que  el  garfou  de  Ida, 

When  he,  most  worthy  of  the  office  given  Naufrago,  y  desdenado  sobre  ausente 

Tolda'sboy— to  hold  Jove's  cup  that  yields  Lagrimosas  de  amor,  dulzes  querellas 

Immortal  juice — waswreck'dinsavage  sea,  Da  al  mar,  que  condolido, 

Confiding  to  the  waves  his  amorous  pains;  Fue  a  las  hondas,  que  al  viento 

The  sea  relenting  sends  the  strains  El  niisero  gemido 

To  the  far  leafy  groves,  glad  to  repeat  Segundo  de  Arion,  duJze  instrumento. 
Echoes  than  old  Arion's  shell  more  sweet.  Brussels  edition,  4to,  1G59,  p.  497 

VOL.  II.  Y 


346 


ON    THE    LITERATURE 


The  Polyphemus  of  Gongora  is  one  of  liis  most  celebrated 
poems,  and  the  one  which  has  been  most  frequently  imitated. 
The  Castilian  poets,  who  were  persuaded  that  neither 
interest  nor  genius,  sentiment  nor  thought,  were  any  part  of 
poetry,  and  that  the  end  of  the  art  was  solely  the  union  of 
harmony  with  the  most  brilliant  images,  and  witli  the  riches 
of  ancient  mythology,  sought  for  subjects  which  might  fur- 
nish them  with  gigantic  })ictures,  with  a  strong  contrast  of 
images,  and  Avith  all  the  aid  of  fable.  The  loves  of  Poly- 
phemus appeared  to  them  a  singularly  happy  subject,  since 
they  could  there  unite  tenderness  and  affright,  gentleness 
and  horror.  The  poem  of  Gongora  consists  of  only  sixty- 
three  octave  stanzas  ;  but  the  commentary  of  Sabredo  has 
swelled  it  into  a  small  (juarto  volume.  In  the  literature  of 
Spain  and  Portugal,  Ave  find  at  least  a  dozen  or  fifteen  i:)oems 
on  this  subj(;ct.  I  shall  here  insert  a  few  stanzas  of  that 
which  has  served  as  a  model  to  all  the  others  : 


Cyclops — terrific  son  of  Ocean's  God  ! — 
Like  a  vast   mountain   rose  liis  living 
frame; 
His  single  eye  ca<it  like  a  flame  abroad 
Its  glances,  glittering   as   the   morning 
beam  : 
A  mighty  pine  supported  where  lie  trod 

His  giant  steps,  a  trembling  twig  for  him, 

Which  sometimes  served  to  walk  with,  or 

to  drive  [live. 

His  sheepto  pasture,  wherethe  sea  nymphs 

His  jet-black  hair  in  wavy  darkness  hung. 

Dark  as  the  tides  of  the  Lethean  deep. 
Loose   to  the   winds,  and  shaggy  masses 
clung  [sweep. 

To  his  dread  face  ;  like  a  wild  torrent's 
His  beard  far  down  his  rugged  bosom  flung 
A  savage  veil ;  while  scarce  the  massy 
heap 
Of  ropy  ringlets  his  vast  hands  divide. 
That  floated  like  the  briny  waters  wide. 
Not  mountainous  Trinacria  ever  gave 
Such  fierce  and  unform'd  savage  to  the 
day;  [brave 

Swift  as  the  winds  his  feet,  to  chase  or 
The  forest  hordes,  whose  battle  is  his 
play,  [shoulders  wave 

Whose    spoils   he   bears ;      o'er  his  vast 
Their  variegated  skins,  wont  to  dismay 
The  shei)herds  and  their  flocks.  And  now 
he  came  [twilight  beam. 

Driving  his  herds  to  fold  'neath  the  still 

With  hempen  cords  and  wild  bees'  wax  he 

bound  [shrill, 

A  hundred  reeds,  whose  music  wild  and 

Repeated  by  the  mountain  echoes  round. 

Shook  every  trembling  grove,  and  stream, 

and  hill. 


Era  un  nionte  de  miembros  eniinente 
Este,  que  de  Neptuno  hijo  fiero 
De  un  ojo  ilustra  el  orbe  de  su  frente, 
Emulo  casi  del  mayor  Luzero, 
Ciclope,  a  quien  el  pino  mas  valiente 
Baston  le  obedecia  tan  ligero, 
Y  al  grave  peso  jungo  tan  delgado. 
Que  un  dia  era  baston  y  otro  cayado. 


Negro  el  cabello,  imitador  nudoso, 
De  las  eseuras  aguas  del  Leteo, 
Al  viento  que  lo  peina  proceloso 
Bucla  sin  orden,  pende  sin  aseo. 
Un  torrente  es  su  barba  impetuoso. 
Que  adusto  hijo  deste  Pireneo, 
Su  pecho  inunda,  otarde,  o  mal,  oenvano 
Sulcada  aun  de  los  dedos  de  su  mano. 


No  la  Trinacria,  en  sus  montaiias,  ficra 
Armo  de  crueldad,  calco  de  viento, 
Que  redinia  feroz,  salve  ligera. 
Su  piel  manchada  de  colores  ciento  ; 
Pellico  es  ya,  la  que  en  los  montes  era 
Mortal  horror,  al  que  con  passo  lento 
Los  bueyes  a  su  albergue  rcducia, 
Pisando  la  dudosa  luz  del  dia. 


Cera  y  cafiamo  unic  (qu?  no  deviera) 
Cien  caflas,  cuyo  barbaro  ruydo 
Dc  mas  ccos,  que  unio  canamo  y  ccra 
Albogue  es  di.ramente  repetido. 
La  selva  se  confoiide,  el  mar  se  altera, 
llompe  Triton  su  caracol  torcido, 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  347 

The  ocean  heaves,  the  Triton's  shells  re-     Sordo  huye  el  baxel  a  vela  y  remo.      r 
sound  [fill     Tal  la  musica  es  de  Polifemo. 

No  more;  the  frighted  vessel's  streamers 
With  the  shook  air,  and  bear  in  haste  away; 
Such  was  the  giant's  sweetest  hannonv. 

Those  who  understand  the  Spanish  language,  will  perceive 
that  the  translation  has  rather  soi'tened  than  overcharged  the 
metaphors.  It  was  these,  however,  which  were  admired  as 
the  true  sublime  of  poetry  and  tlie  highest  productions  of 
genius.  Polyphemus,  after  having  expressed  his  passion  and 
vainly  solicited  Galatea,  furiously  assails  with  fragments  of 
rock  the  grotto  whitlier  she  had  retired  with  Acis  her  lover. 
One  of  these  kills  Acis,  and  thus  the  poem  terminates. 

The  effect  produced  by  the  poetry  of  Gongora  on  a  people 
eager  after  novelty,  impatient  for  a  new  career,  and  who  on 
all  sides  found  themselves  restrained  witliin  the  bounds  of 
authority,  of  the  laws  and  the  church,  presents  a  remarkable 
phenomenon  in  literature.  Restricted  on  every  side  by  the 
narrowest  barriers,  they  resolved,  however,  to  enfranchise 
themselves  from  those  of  taste.  They  abandoned  themselves 
to  all  the  extravagancies  of  a  wild  imagination,  merely  be- 
cause all  the  other  faculties  of  their  minds  were  under  re- 
straint. The  followers  of  Gongora,  proud  of  a  talent  so 
laboriously  acquired,  considered  all  those  who  either  did  not 
admire  or  did  not  imitate  the  style  of  their  master,  as  writers 
of  circumscribed  minds,  who  could  not  comprehend  him. 
None  of  these  imitators,  however,  liad  the  talent  of  Gongora, 
and  their  style  in  consequence  became  still  more  false  and 
exaggerated.  They  soon  divided  tliemselves  into  two  schools, 
the  one  retaining  only  his  pedantiy,  the  other  aspiring  to  the 
genius  of  their  master.  The  first  found  no  occupation  so 
proper  to  form  their  taste  as  commenting  on  Gongora.  They 
composed  long  critiques,  and  tedious  explanations  of  the 
works  of  this  poet,  and  displayed  on  this  occasion  their 
w^hole  stock  of  erudition.  These  persons  have  been  sur- 
naraed  in  derision  cultoristos,  from  the  estilo  culto,  or  culti- 
vated style,  which  they  so  highly  extolled.  Others  were 
named  conceptistos,  from  the  conceptos  (concetti)  of  which 
they  made  use  in  common  with  Marini  and  Gongora.  These 
last  sought  after  uncommon  thoughts,  and  antitheses  of  the 
sense  and  of  images  ;  and  then  clothed  them  in  the  eccentric 
language  which  their  master  had  invented. 

In  this  numerous  school  some  names  have  shared  in  the 

y2 


348  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

celebrity  of  Gongora.  Thus  Alonzo  de  Lodesma,  who  died 
some  years  before  his  master,  employed  tliis  peculiar  language 
and  false  style,  to  express  in  poetry  the  mysteries  of  the 
Catholic  religion.  Felix  Arteaga,  who  was  preacher  to  the 
court  in  1618,  and  who  died  in  1633,  applied  the  same  ec- 
centric manner  to  pastoral  poetry.* 

I  know  not  whether  we  must  rank  among  the  disciples  of 
Gongora,  or  only  as  conforming  himself  to  the  taste  of  the 
age,  the  monk  Lorenzo  de  Zamora,  more  celebrated  indeed 
as  a  th(!ologian  than  as  a  poet.  He  has  left  us,  under  the 
name  of  the  3I//sti('  MonarrJuj  of  the  Church,  a  work  in 
many  quarto  volumes  which  is  well  esteemed ;  and  he  has 
intermixed  his  meditations  with  some  poems.  The  epoch  of 
their  publication  (1614.)  is  that  with  which  we  are  now 
occupied,  and  we  may  form  an  idea  of  them  from  the  follow- 
ing 1-edondilhas  in  honour  of  St.  Joseph.  "  What  language 
is  equal  to  express  his  glory  who  taught  the  word  of  the 
Father  himself  to  speak  ;  according  to  whose  wise  dispen- 
sation, and  by  dilTerent  means,  God  who  is  the  master  of  the 
universe,  submits  to  find  a  master  in  the  Saint.  What  higher 
claim  to  science  can  he  advance  than  that  he  taught  Jesus 
his  letters — his  very  A,  B,  C  ?  If  I  consider  him  as  my 
servant  who  eats  of  my  bread,  Mary,  O  Saint  !  was  your 
servant ;  God  himself  is  your  servant  ;  yet,  since  it  was 
God  who  created  the  fruit  of  your  labours,  I  scarcely  know 
whether  I  should  call  him  your  creator  or  your  creature. 
Joseph  !  what  a  happy  man  you  were  when  God  himself  was 
your  minister.  No  man,  and  not  even  God,  was  ever  better 
administered  to,  than  you  were.  God  rules  above,  and  you 
rule  also.  God  i-eigns  over  lieaven  and  earth  ;  but  on  earth 
you  were  obeyed  by  the  Lord  himself.  How  hap[)y  you  wi-ll 
be  in  heaven,  wluiu  you  liiul  on  your  arrival  such  relations  at 
court.  You  bestowed  bread  on  the  bread  of  life ;  you 
nourished  bread  with  bread  ;  and  you  gave  bread  to  him 
who  invites  us  to  his  eternal  bread.     Another  celestial  privi- 

*  The  followini^  curious  stanzas  I  quote  from  Boutterwek  : 

Los  milagros  de  Amarilis,  Una  tarde,  que  es  mafiana 

Aquel  angel  superior,  Pues  el  alva  se  rio, 

A  quien  dan  nombre  de  Fenix  Y  entre  carmin  encendido 

La  verdad  y  la  passion,  Candidas  perlas  mostru, 

Mirava  a  su  puerta  un  dia  Divirtioso  en  abrasar 

En  la  corte  un  labrador,  A  los  mismos  que  alumbrb, 

(iue  si  adorar  no  nierece  Y  del  cielo  de  si  luismo 

Padecer  si  merecio.  El  angel  bello  cajo. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS, 


349 


le^e  was  reserved  for  you  :  you  invited  your  God  to  sit  at 
your  table  ;  your  dignity  was  sucli,  tliat  after  having  invited 
the  Lord  to  sit  down,  you  yourself  took  the  first  place.  It 
was  tlie  first  man's  prerogative  to  bestow  names  upon  all 
animals  ;  but  that  of  which  you  boast  is  far  more  wonderful; 
you  bestowed  a  name  upon  the  Lord  himself.  How  well 
acquainted  with  you  he  must  be,  Ave  may  learn  from  the  fact 
of  his  having  addressed  you  by  the  name  of  Papa,  during 
his  whole  childhood.  After  receiving  such  a  title  from  him, 
is  there  any  thing  which  can  be  added  to  your  glory  ?"* 

*  I  insert  here  the  whole  text  of  this   fanciful  piece.     I  found  it  in 
Book  VIII.  of   the  third  part  of  the  Monarchia  mystica  de  la  Yglesia, 
by  Fray  Lorenyo  de  Zauiora,  chap.  xiii.  page  52.3.  It  is  a  curious  monu- 
ment, not  indeed  of  poetry,  but  rather  of  the  spirit  of  the  age. 
Redondilhas  a  San  Joseph. 

Pero  vos,  aca  en  el  suelo 

IvSandastes  al  mismo  Dios. 

Que  dire  de  vos  que  importe, 


Que  lengua  podra  alcaiifar 
Aquel  que  tanto  subio, 
Que  h  la  palabra  ensefio 
Del  propio  padre  a  hablar. 

Seguu  su  sabio  aranzel, 

Aunque  por  diversos  modos, 
Es  Dios  maestro  de  todos, 
Pero  de  Dios  lo  fue  el. 

De  lo  que  su  ciencia  fue 
Yo  no  se  dar  otra  sena, 
Sino  que  al  Christus  enseiia 
Las  letras  del  A,  B,  C. 

O  Joseph  !  es  tan  gloriosa 
Vuestra  virtud,  y  de  modo, 
Que  el  mismo  padre  de  todo 
Su  madre  os  dio  por  esposa. 

Pudo  dar  al  hijo  el  padre 
Madre  de  mas  alto  ser, 
Aunque  en  razon  de  muger 
Pero  no  en  razon  de  madre  i 

A  esta  cuenta  pudo  Dios 
Joseph,  hazeros  rnas  santo, 
Mas  como  padre  soys  tanto, 
Que  otro  no  es  mejor  que  vos. 

Pero  si  vos  en  quanto  hombre 
Soys  tanto  menos  que  Dios, 
Por  lo  menos  llegays  vos 
A  ser  ygual  en  el  nombre. 

£i  yo  llamo  mi  criado 

Al  que  con  mi  pan  se  cria, 

Vuestra  criada  es  Maria, 

Y  aun  Dios  es  vuestro  criado. 

Pues  cria  a  Dios  el  sudor 
De  vuestra  maiio,  y  ventura, 
Ni  se  si  os  diga  criatura 
O  si  03  llame  criador. 

Joseph  dichoso  aveys  side, 
Pues  que  servido  de  Dios, 
Nadie  fue  mejor  que  vos 
Ni  auu  Dios  fue  mejor  servido. 

Manda  Dios,  y  mandays  vos, 
Manda  Dios  en  suelo  y  cielo, 


Dichoso  quando  alia  yreys, 
Pues  en  llegando  hallareys 
Tales  parientes  en  corte. 

Pues  pudo  Dios  cscoger 
Para  su  madre  marido. 
El  mejor  que  avia  nacido 
Vos  lo  devistes  de  ser. 

Si  OS  Uamaremos  mayor 

Joseph  que  el  senor  del  cielc, 
Pues  viviendo  ack  en  el  suelo, 
Fue  el  mismo  vuestro  menor. 

Bien  es  que  en  sueno  y  tendido 
Os  liable  el  angel  a  vos. 
Que  a  quien  despierto  habla  Dios 
Hablelc  el  angel  dormido. 

Distes  pan  al  pan  de  vida, 

Y  con  pan  el  pan  criastes, 
Yvos  a  pan  combidastes 

Al  que  con  pan  nos  combida. 

Otra  celestial  empresa 
Kealfa  vuestro  valor. 
Que  al  propio  Dios  y  seilor 
Sentastes  a  vuestra  mesa. 

Soys  en  fin  de  tel  manera 

Que  al  mismo  Dios  combidastes, 

Y  aunque  con  Dios  os  sentastes, 
Tuvistes  la  cabecera. 

Por  gran  cosa  el  primer  hombre 
Dio  nombre  a  los  animales, 
Mas  son  vuestras  prendas  tales 
Que  al  mismo  Dios  distes  nombre. 

Soys  quien  soys,  y  tal  soys  vos, 

Y  vuestro  valor  de  modo. 
Que  a  Dios  obedece  todo, 

Y  a  vos  obedece  Dios. 
Joseph,  quien  soys  aquel  sabe 

Que  tayta  Uamaros  supo, 

Y  pues  tal  nombre  en  vos  cupo, 
Esse  OS  calehre  y  alabe. 


350  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

Whilst  Gongora  introduced  into  the  higher  walks  of  poetry 
an  atlected  and  almost  iinintelligibh!  style,  and  his  ibllowers, 
in  order  to  preserve  the  reputation  of  refined  genius,  de- 
scended even  on  the  most  sacred  subjects  to  the  most  prepos- 
terous play  of  words,  the  ancient  school  which  had  been 
founded  by  Garcilaso  and  by  Boscan  had  not  been  wholly 
abandoned.  The  party,  which  designated  itself  as  classical, 
Still  continued,  and  made  itself  conspicuous  by  the  severity 
of  its  criticisms  against  the  imitators  of  Gongora.  But  in 
spite  of  its  adherence  to  ancient  examples,  and  to  the  best 
principles,  those  who  composed  it  had  lost  all  creative  genius, 
all  powerful  inspiration,  and  the  charm  of  novelty.  Some  men 
of  this  school  merit  notice  from  their  attachment  to  the  purest 
style  of  poetry,  but  they  were  the  last  flashes  of  an  expiring  flame. 

Among  the  conteni|)()rariesof  Cervantes  and  Lope  de  Yega, 
two  brothers,  whom  the  Spaniards  compare  to  Horace,  occupy 
a  distinguished  place.  Lnpercio  Leonardo  de  Argensola  was 
born  in  1565,  at  Balbastro ;  and  Bartolomeo  Leonardo  in 
1566,  of  a  family  originally  of  Ravenna,  but  for  some  time 
past  established  in  Aragon.  The  first,  after  having  finished 
his  studies  at  Saragossa,  wrote  in  his  youth  three  tragedies, 
of  which  Cervantes  expresses,  in  Don  Quixote,  the  highest 
admiration.  He  was  attached  as  secretary  to  the  Empress 
Maria  of  Austria,  who  was  living  in  Spain.  He  was  com- 
missioned by  the  King,  and  the  States  of  Aragon,  to  continue 
the  Annals  of  Zurita ;  and  he  ultimately  attended  the  Count 
de  Lemos  to  Naples  as  secretary  of  state,  and  died  there  in 
1613.  His  brother,  who  had  shared  in  his  education  and 
pursued  a  like  career,  and  who  had  never  been  separated  from 
him,  returned  to  Saragossa  after  the  death  of  Lupercio.  He 
there  continued  the  Annals  of  Aragon,  and  died  in  1631. 

These  brothers,  in  the  opinion  of  Boutterwek  and  Nicoh) 
Antonio,  resembled  each  other  so  exactly  in  taste,  genius, 
and  style,  that  it  is  difficult  to  distinguish  their  compositions, 
and  the  two  poets  may  be  considered  as  one  individual. 
They  are  not  peculiarly  remarkable  for  their  originality  or 
power  of  thought,  for  enthusiasm,  or  for  melancholy  reverie  ; 
but  they  possess  a  great  delicacy  of  poetic  sentiment,  a  vigor- 
ous and  elevated  genius,  a  great  talent  of  description,  a  fine 
wit,  a  classical  dignity  of  style,  and,  above  all,  a  solidity  of 
taste,  which  entitles  them  to  rank  immediately  after  Ponce  de 
Leon,  as  the  most  correct  of  the  Spanish  poets. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  351 

Notwithstanding  the  suffiage  of  Cervantes,  the  reputation 
of  Argensola  does  not  rest  on  his  dramatic  works.  It  is  the 
lyric  poetry  of  the  two  brothers,  and  their  epistles  and  satires 
in  the  manner  of  Horace,  which  have  rendered  their  names 
illustrious.  We  may  remark  in  them  an  imitation  of  this 
model,  as  in  Luis  Ponce  de  Leon  ;  but  they  have  not  in  so 
great  a  degree  that  tranquil  and  soft  enthusiasm  of  devotion, 
which  confers  on  the  verses  of  the  latter  so  peculiar  a  charm. 
I  have  perused  the  works  of  the  two  brothers,  in  the  edition 
of  Saragossa,  in  quarto,  1634.  Some  specimens  of  their 
choicest  poetry  are  given  by  Boutterwek.  In  a  tine  sonnet 
of  the  eldest,*  may  be  observed  a  peculiar  elevation  of 
imagery,  style,  and  harmony,  joined  to  an  obscurity  of 
thought  and  expression,  which  we  cannot  but  regard  as  the 
harbinger  of  a  corrupt  taste.  His  brother  wrote  some  satiric 
sonnets,!  evidently  in  imitation  of  the  Italians.  The  epistles 
and  satires  of  both  the  one  and  the  other  brother  are  the 
pieces  in  which  they  are  said  to  have  most  resembled 
Horace.  The  specimens  of  them  which  I  have  seen  inspire 
little  curiosity. 

The  historical  works  of  Argensola  are  composed  in  a  good 
style,  and  with  a  greater  degree  of  judicious  observation  and 
elevated  sentiment  than  we  should  have  expected  in  the  epoch 
in  which  he  wrote.  His  principal  work  is  the  History  of  the 
Conquest  of  the  Moluccas.;]:  His  continuation  of  the  Annals 
of  Aragon  by  Zurita,  which  comprehends  the  troubles  at  the 
commencement  of  the   reign   of  Charles  V.,||  was  published 

*  Imagen  cspantosa  de  la  niuerte,  El  uno  vea  el  popular  tumulto 

Sueiio  cruel,  no  turbes  mas  mi  pecho,  Uoniper     con     furia     las     heiTadas 

Mostrandomecortadoel  nudoestrecho,  puertas, 

Consuelo  solo  de  mi  advcrsa  suerte.  O  al  sobornado  siervo   el   hierro  oc- 

Busca  de  algun  tirano  el  muro  fuerte,  culto ; 

De  jaspe  paredes,  de  oro  il  techo;  El  otro  sus  riquezas  descubiertas, 

O  el  rico  avaro  el  en  angosto  lecho,  Con   Have   lalsa,   o   con  violento   in- 

Haz  que   temblando   con   sudor  des-  sulto; 

pierte.  Y  dexale  al  amor  sus  glorias  ciertas. 

t  As  a  specimen  of  his  manner,  we  give  the  following  sonnet,  addressed 
to  an  old  coquette : 

Pon,  Lice  tus  cabellos  con  legias,  Pero  tii  acude  por  socorro  all'  arte, 

De  venerables,  si  no  rubios,  rojos,  Que  aun   con   sus   fraudes   quiero   que 

Que  el  tienipo  vengador  busca  despojos,  defienda 

Y  no  para  volver  huyen  los  dias.  Al  desengaflo  descortes  la  entrada. 

Y  las  mexillas,  que  avultar  porfias.  Con   pacto,   y  por   tu   bien,   que  no  pre- 

Cierra  en  porfiles  languidos,  y  fiojos,  tendas 

Su  hermosa  atrocidad  nobo  o  los  ojos,  Reducida  a  ruinas,  ser  aaiada 

Y  apriesa  te  desarma  las  ancias.  Sino  es  de  ti,  si  puedes  engai\arte. 

Madrid,  fol.  1G09.  !i  Saragossa,  fol.  1630. 


352  ON    THE    LITKKATURE 

early  iii^  the  rt-i.-rti  of  Philip  IV.,  and  dedicated  to  the  Count 
Duke  d'Olivaivz.  Tlie  King,  wlio  imagined  the  spirit  of  the 
Aragoiiese  utterly  subdued,  saw,  without  uneasiness,  this 
record  of  their  ancient  privileges. 

Spain  had  at  this  time  a  great  number  of  poets  in  the  lyric 
and  bucolic  style,  who  followed  the  example  of  the  Romans 
aiul  the  Italians,  of  lioscan,  and  Gaicilaso.  Like  the  Italians 
of  tiie  iifteentii  century,  thi-y  are  more  remarkable  for  purity 
of  taste  and  elegance  of  language,  than  for  richness  of  inven- 
tion or  force  of  genius  ;  and  whilst  we  acknowledge  their 
talents,  if  we  do  not  possess  an  insatiable  appetite  for  love- 
songs,  or  an  unlimited  toleration  of  common  ideas,  we  shall 
soon  be  wearied  with  their  perusal,  Vincenzio  Kspinei, 
Christovalde  Mesa,  Juan  de  Morales,  Augustino  de  Texadaj 
Gregorio  Morillo,  a  happy  imitator  of  Juvenal,  Luis  Barahona 
de  Soto,  a  rival  of  Garcilaso  ;  Gonzales  de  Argote  y  Molina, 
whose  poems  breathe  an  unconiiiion  ardour  of  patriotism  ; 
and  the  three  Figueroa,  distinguished  by  their  success  in  dif- 
ferent styles,  are  the  chief  among  a  crowd  of  lyric  poets, 
whose  names  can  with  difficulty  be  preserved  from  oblivion. 

It  is  to  a  very  different  class  that  we  must  assign  Qu(;vedo, 
the  only  man  perhaps  whose  name  deserves  to  be  placed  by 
the  side  of  that  of  Cervantes,  and  whose  fame,  without 
rivalling  the  genius  of  the  latter,  is  however  permanently 
established  in  Europe.  Of  all  the  Spanish  writers,  Quevedo 
bears  the  greatest  resemblance  to  Voltaire  ;  not  so  much, 
indeed,  in  genius  as  in  his  turn  of  mind.  Like  Voltaire  he 
possessed  a  versatility  of  knowledge  and  talent,  a  peculiar 
vein  of  pleasantry,  a  cynical  gaiety  even  when  applied  to 
serious  subjects,  a  passion  for  attempting  every  style  and 
leaving  monuments  of  his  genius  on  every  topic,  an  adroitness 
in  pointing  tlie  shafts  of  ridicule,  and  the  art  of  compelling 
the  abuses  of  society  to  appear  before  tlie  bar  of  public 
opinion.  Some  extracts  from  his  voluminous  works  will 
show  within  what  narrow  barriers  Voltaire  must  have  eonliiu;d 
himself  under  such  a  suspicious  government  as  that  of 
Piiilip  II.  and  i)eneath  the  yoke  of  the  inquisition. 

Don  Francisco  de  Quevedo  y  Villegas  was  born  at  Madrid 
in  1580,  of  an  illustrious  family  attached  to  the  court,  where 
it  held  several  honourable  appointments.  He  lost  both  his 
parents  when  young,  l)nt  iiis  guardian,  D(m  Jerome  de 
Villanueva,  placed  him  in  the  university  of  Alcala,  where  he 


01'    THE    SPANIARDS.  353 

learned  the  languages.  He  made  himself  master  of  the 
Latin,  Greek,  Hebrew,  Arabic,  Italian,  and  French  ;  and  he 
pursued  at  the  same  time  the  usual  scholastic  studies,  includ- 
ing theology,  law,  the  belles  lettres,  philology,  natural  philo- 
sophy, and  medicine.  Distinguished  at  the  university  as  a 
prodigy  of  knowledge,  he  acquired  in  tlie  world  at  large  the 
reputation  of  an  accomplished  cavalier.  He  was  frequently 
chosen  as  arbiter  in  disputed  points  of  lionour,  and  while  with 
the  greatest  delicacy  he  preserved  the  parties  from  any  com- 
promise of  cliaracter,  he  had  at  tlie  same  time  the  art  of  re- 
conciling them  without  an  appeal  to  a  sanguinary  ordeal. 
Highly  accomplished  in  arms,  he  possessed  a  courage  and 
address  beyond  that  of  the  most  skilful  masters,  althougli  the 
malformation  of  his  feet  rendered  bodily  exercises  painful  to 
him.  A  quarrel  of  a  somewhat  chivalric  nature,  was  the 
cause  of  a  change  of  his  destiny.  Ho  one  day  undertook  the 
defence  of  a  lady  with  whom  he  was  unacquainted,  and  whom 
he  saw  insulted  by  a  man  likewise  unknown  to  him.  He 
killed  his  adversary  on  the  spot,  who  proved  to  be  a  noble- 
man of  consideration.  Quevedo,  to  avoid  prosecution  from 
his  family,  passed  into  Sicily  with  the  Duke  d'O^suna,  who 
had  been  appointed  Viceroy  of  that  Island,  and  afterwards 
accompanied  him  to  Na})les.  Charged  with  the  general 
inspection  of  the  finances  of  botli  countries,  he  established 
order  by  his  integrity  and  seventy.  Employed  by  the  Duke 
in  the  most  important  affairs,  in  embassies  to  the  King  of 
Spain  and  the  Pope,  he  crossed  the  sea  seven  times  in  his 
service.  During  the  time  he  was  so  accredited,  he  was 
frequently  pursued  by  assassins,  who  wished  to  rid  themselves 
of  a  negotiator,  an  enemy,  or  a  judge,  so  dangerous  to  them. 
He  took  a  share  in  the  conspiracy  of  the  Duke  of  Bedmar 
against  Venice,  and  he  was  in  that  city  with  Jacomo  Pietro 
at  the  moment  of  the  detection  of  the  plot,  but  contrived  to 
withdraw  himself  by  flight,  from  the  searcli  of  the  govern- 
ment, while  many  of  his  most  intimate  friends  perisiied  on 
the  scaffold.  After  a  brilliant  cai'eer,  he  was  involved  in  the 
disgi'ace  of  the  Duke  d'Ossuna.  He  was  arrested  in  1620, 
and  carried  to  his  estate  of  Torre  de  Juan  Abad,  where 
he  was  detained  prisoner  three  years  and  a  half,  without 
being  allowed  during  the  first  two  years  to  call  in  a  physician 
from  the  neighbouring  village  for  the  benefit  of  his  declining 
health.     At  length  his  innocence  was  acknowledjjed,  his  im- 


354  ON    THE    LITERATUKK 

prisonment  changed  into  banisliniont,  and  liis  iVeedoni  soon 
after  restored  liini  ;  but  on  demanding  indemniiication  for 
the  injuries  he  had  suffered,  he  was  again  sent  into  exile. 
This  forced  retirement  restored  him  to  the  cultivation  of 
letters,  from  which  his  political  career  had  in  some  degree 
estranged  him.  During  his  banishment  to  his  estates  he 
wrote  the  greater  part  of  his  poems,  and  in  particular  those 
which  he  })ublislied  as  the  works  of  a  poet  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  under  the  name  of  Bachiller  de  la  Torre.  He  was 
afterwards  recalled  to  court,  and  appointed  secretary  to  the 
king  on  the  17th  March,  1632,  Tlie  Duke  d'Olivarez  soli- 
cited him  to  enter  again  into  public  business,  and  offered  him 
an  embassy  to  Genoa,  which  Quevedo  declined,  in  order  to 
devote  himself  entirely  to  his  studies  and  to  philosophy.  He 
was  at  this  time  in  correspondence  with  the  most  eminent 
men  in  Europe  ;  his  countrymen  appeared  sensible  of  his 
merits,  and  the  ecclesiastical  benefices  which  he  enjoyed, 
producing  a  revenue  of  eiglit  hundred  ducats,  })laced  him  in 
easy  circumstances.  These  he  renounced  in  1634,  in  order 
to  espouse  at  the  age  of  fifty-four  a  lady  of  high  birth.  He 
lost  her  in  the  course  of  a  few  months,  and  his  grief  brought 
him  back  to  Madrid,  where  in  1641  he  was  an-ested  in  the 
night-time  in  the  house  of  a  friend,  as  the  author  of  a  libel 
against  good  morals  and  the  government.  He  was  not  per- 
mitted to  send  to  his  house  for  a  change  of  linen,  or  to  give 
information  of  his  apprehension,  but  was  thrown  into  a  narrow 
dungeon  in  a  convent,  where  a  stream  of  water  passed  under 
his  bed  and  produced  a  pernicious  damp  in  his  melancholy 
cell.  He  was  there  treated  as  a  common  malefactor,  with  a 
degree  of  inhumanity  which  ought  not  to  be  practised  on  the 
most  abandoned  criminals.  His  estate  was  confiscated,  and 
in  liis  confinement  he  was  reduced  to  subsist  upon  common 
charity.  His  body  was  covered  with  wounds,  and,  as  he  was 
refused  a  surgeon,  he  was  obliged  to  cauterise  them  himself. 
He  was  eventually  set  at  liberty,  in  consequence  of  a  letter 
to  the  Duke  d'Olivarez,  which  his  biographer  has  preserved. 
After  an  imprisonment  of  two  and  twenty  months,  his  case 
was  inquired  into,  and  it  appeared  that  it  was  already  ascer- 
tained that  a  monk  was  the  real  author  of  the  libel  which  he 
was  suspected  to  have  written.  He  was  then  I'estored  to 
liberty,  but  his  health  was  so  entirely  ruined  that  he  could 
not  remain  at  Madrid  to  demand  satisfaction   for   his  long 


OP    THE    SPANIARDS.  355 

confinement.      Sick  and  broken  in  spirit,  he  retin-ned  to  his 
estate,  where  he  died  on  the  eighth  of  September,  1645. 

A  considerable  part  of  the  writings  of  Quevedo  were 
stolen  from  him  in  his  lifetime,  amongst  which  were  his 
theatrical  pieces  and  his  historical  works,  so  that  he  cannot, 
as  he  had  hoped,  lay  claim  to  distinction  in  every  class  of 
letters.  But,  notwithstanding  the  loss  of  fifteen  manuscripts, 
which  have  never  yet  been  recovered,  his  remains  form 
eleven  large  volumes,  eight  of  which  are  in  prose  and  three 
in  verse. 

Quevedo  was  always  on  his  guard  against  exaggeration  of 
style,  pomp  of  words,  extravagant  images,  inverted  sentences, 
and  ridiculous  ornaments  borrowed  from  mythology.  This 
false  taste,  of  which  Gongora  was  in  some  degree  the  founder, 
frequently  afforded  to  our  poet  the  subject  of  an  agreeable 
and  witty  satire.  But,  in  some  respects,  Quevedo  himself 
has  not  escaped  the  general  contagion.  lie  endeavoui'ed  to 
attract  admiration  and  to  dazzle  ;  he  did  not  aim  at  a  just 
expression  of  sentiment,  but  regarded  only  the  efi'ect  it 
might  produce  ;  so  that  marks  of  effort  and  affectation  are 
visible  in  every  line  of  his  writings.  His  ambition  was  to 
shine,  and  he  had  in  fact  more  of  this  quality  than  any  of 
his  contemporaries,  and  more  than  we  find  in  any  other 
Spanish  author  ;  but  this  constant  display  is  not  natural  to 
him,  and  it  is  evident  that  his  succession  of  pleasantries, 
strokes  of  wit,  antitheses,  and  piquant  expressions,  are  pre- 
pared before  hand,  and  that  he  is  more  desirous  of  striking  than 
of  persuading.  On  sei'ious  subjects,  it  is  needless  to  enquire 
whether  or  not  he  be  sincere,  while  truth,  propriety,  and 
I'ectilude  of  mind  appear  to  be  indifferent  to  him.  On  humo- 
rous subjects  he  wishes  to  excite  our  laughter,  and  he  suc- 
ceeds ;  but  he  is  so  lavish  of  incident,  and  his  strokes  of 
Avit  are  so  often  repeated,  that  he  fatigues  even  while  he 
amuses  us. 

Among  the  works  of  Quevedo  there  is  one  on  the  public 
administration,  entitled,  21te  Kingdom  of  God  and  the 
Government  of  Christ,  and  dedicated  to  Pliilip  IV.,  as  con- 
taining a  complete  treatise  on  the  art  of  ruling.  As  secretary 
of  the  Duke  d'Ossuna,  and  as  one  who  had  executed  the 
designs,  and  often  perhaps  directed  the  councils  of  this  am- 
bitious viceroy,  whose  political  measures  so  long  troubled 
Europe,   he  was  certainly  entitled  to  be  heard.     If  he  had 


355  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

developed  the  policy  by  whieli  the  terrible  Spanish  triumvi- 
rate, Toledo,  Ossun:x,  and  Bedmar,  attempted  to  govern  Italy, 
he  v/ould,  without  doubt,  have  manifested  not  less  depth  of 
thouirht,  knowledge  of  mankind,  address,  courage,  and  im- 
morality, than  Machiavelli.  Whether  he  had  attacked  or 
attempted  to  defend  the  principles  on  which  the  Cabinet  of 
Madrid  conducted  itself;  whether  he  had  weighed  the 
character  of  other  nations,  or  investigated  the  interests  of 
people  and  of  princes,  he  would  have  excited  reflection  in 
tlie  minds  of  his  readers  on  objects  which  had  l)een  to  himself 
the  subject  of  profound  meditation.  But  the  work  of 
Quevedo  is  of  a  quite  different  nature,  and  consists  of  politi- 
cal lessons  taken  from  the  life  of  Christ,  and  applied  to  kingly 
government,  with  the  most  pious  motives,  but  on  tlie  other 
liand  with  as  complete  an  absence  of  jiractical  instruction,  as 
if  the  work  had  been  composed  in  a  convent.  All  his  ex- 
amples are  drawn  from  the  sacred  writings,  and  not  from 
tliat  living  history  of  the  seventeenth  century  in  which  the 
author  had  taken  so  considerable  a  share.  One  might  justly 
have  expected  a  rich  treasure  of  precepts  and  observations, 
and  a  very  different  train  of  tiiought,  from  a  man  who  had 
seen  and  acted  so  much.  To  recommend  virtue,  moderation, 
and  piety  to  sovereigns  is,  doubtless,  inculcating  the  truth  ; 
but  it  recpiires  something  more  than  bare  axioms,  something 
circumstantial  and  engaging,  in  order  to  make  a  durable 
impression. 

Although  Quevedo  discovers  so  little  profound  thought  on 
a  subject  of  which  he  ought  to  have  been  the  master,  he 
discovers  notwithstanding,  at  all  times,  in  the  same  work, 
considerable  talent  and  wit.  It  does  not  at  first  view  a])pear 
easy  to  find  in  the  conduct  of  Jesus  Clirist,  a  model  for  all 
the  duties  of  royalty,  and  to  draw  from  his  life  alone  ex- 
am|)les  ap]>licalil('  to  all  the  circumstances  of  war,  finances, 
and  public  administration  ;  but  it  was  intended,  perhaps,  to 
exhibit  rather  a  strong  invention  than  a  correct  mode  of 
reasoinng.  Ilis  most  remarkabh;  (pialities  are,  his  precision 
and  energy  of  language,  his  rapid  and  eloquent  phrases,  and 
his  fulness  of  sense  and  thought.  Quevedo  wishes  to  per- 
suade monarchs  to  command  their  armies  in  person.  The 
relation  of  this  advice  to  the  moral  precepts  of  the  Gospel, 
it  is  not  easy  to  discover  ;  but  he  illustrates  his  subject  in  a 
natural  manner  by  the  conduct  of  the  apostle  Peter,  who, 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  357 

under  the  eyes  of  his  master,  attacks  the  whole  body  of  the 
£>uard  of  the  high-priest,  but  who,  when  he  is  separated  from 
Jesus,  sliamefully  denies  him  before  a  servant.  "Tlie 
Apostle,"  he  says,  "  then  wanted  his  principal  strength — the 
eyes  of  Christ  :  his  sword  remained,  but  it  had  lost  its  edge  ; 
his  heart  was  the  same,  but  his  master  saw  him  no  longer. 
A  kin<r  who  enters  into  the  field  himself  and  shares  the 
dangers  of  his  soldiers,  obhges  them  to  be  valiant  ;  in 
lending  his  presence  to  the  combat,  he  multiplies  his  strength, 
and  obtains  two  soldiers  for  one.  If  he  despatches  them  to 
the  combat  without  seeing  them,  he  exculpates  them,  from 
their  negligence,  he  trusts  his  honour  to  chance,  and  has 
only  himself  to  blame  for  any  misfortune.  Those  armies 
which  rulers  only  pay,  ditler  much  from  those  which  they  com- 
mand in  person  ;  the  former  produce  great  expense,  and  re- 
nown attends  on  the  latter ;  the  latter  too  are  supported  by 
the  enemy,  the  former  by  indolent  monarchs  who  ai-e  wrapped 
up  in  their  own  vanity.  It  is  one  thing  for  soldiers  to  obey 
commands,  and  another  to  follow  an  example  :  the  first  seek 
their  recompense  in  pay,  the  latter  in  fame.  A  king,  it  is 
true,  cannot  always  combat  in  person,  but  he  may  and  he 
ought  to  appoint  generals  more  known  by  their  actions  than 
by  their  pen."  These  precepts,  although  antithetical,  are 
just  and  true  ;  and  at  that  time  one  might,  perhaps,  also 
consider  them  as  somewhat  daring,  since  Piiilip  III.  and 
Philip  IV.  never  saw  their  armies,  and  Philip  II.  was  early 
separated  from  his.  At  the  present  day  these  precepts  would 
be  ranked  with  stale  truths.  The  great  error  of  Quevedo 
consists  in  wasting  his  genius  on  common  ideas.  There  is 
seldom  much  novelty  in  his  thoughts,  but  often  a  good  deal 
in  the  manner  in  which  tliey  are  expressed. 

The  merit  of  novelty  of  expression  may,  perhaps,  be  con- 
sidered as  sufficient  in  moral  works  ;  since  their  object  is 
to  inculcate,  and  to  fix  in  the  hearts  of  all,  truths  as  ancient 
as  the  world,  and  which  never  change.  Quevedo,  besides 
liis  purely  religious  works,  as  his  Introduction  to  a  holy  Life, 
his  Life  of  the  Apostle  Paul,  and  that  of  St.  Thomas  of 
Villanueva,  has  also  left  some  treatises  on  moral  philosophy. 
The  most  remarkable  one,  and  that  which  aftbrds  us  the  best 
idea  of  the  character  of  his  genius,  is  the  amplification  of  a 
treatise  attributed  to  Seneca,  and  afterwards  imitated  by 
Petrarch,  on  the  consolations  in  good  and  bad  fortune.     The 


358  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

Roman  author  enumerated  tlie  calamities  of  human  nature, 
and  applied  to  each  the  consolations  of  philosophy.  Qiicvedo, 
after  his  translation  of  the  Latin,  adds  a  second  chapter  to 
each  calamity,  in  which  he  estimates  the  same  misfortune  in 
a  Ciiristian  point  of  view,  generally  with  the  design  of 
proving  that  what  tlie  Roman  philosopher  supported  in 
patience,  was  to  him  a  triumph.  We  shall  give  an  example 
of  this  play  on  morality.  It  is  one  of  the  sliortest  chapters, 
on  IlxUc. 

Seneca.  Thou  art  banished :  However  I  be  forced,  I  cannot  be 
driven  out  of  my  country ;  there  is  but  one  country  for  all  men,  and  no 
one  can  quit  it.  Thou  art  banished :  I  shall  change  only  my  place  of 
abode,  not  my  country  ;  wherever  I  go  I  shall  find  a  home  ;  no  place  is 
a  place  of  exile,  but  a  new  country  to  me.  Thou  shall  remain  no 
loiKjer  in  thy  country :  Our  country  is  the  place  where  wc  enjoy  happi- 
ness ;  but  real  happiness  is  in  the  mind,  not  in  place,  and  depends  on 
a  man's  self;  if  he  be  wi.se.  his  exile  is  no  more  than  a  journey  ;  if  he 
is  unwise,  ho  suffers  banishment.  Thou  art  banished  :  That  is  to  say, 
I  am  made  a  citizen  of  a  new  state. 

D.  Francisco  de  Qlevedo.  Thou  art  banished:  This  is  a  sentence 
to  be  passed  only  by  death.  Thou  art  banished :  It  is  possible  that 
some  one  may  have  the  desire  to  banish  me,  but  I  know  that  no  one  has 
the  power.  I  can  travel  in  my  country,  but  cannot  change  it.  Thou 
art  banished  :  Such  may  be  my  sentence,  but  the  world  will  not  allow 
it,  for  it  is  the  country  of  all.  Thou  art  banished  :  I  shall  depart,  but 
shall  not  be  exiled  ;  the  tyrant  may  change  the  place  where  I  set  my 
feet,  but  he  cannot  change  my  country.  I  shall  quit  my  house  for 
another  house,  my  village  for  a  new  one ;  but  who  can  drive  me  from 
my  home?  I  shall  quit  the  place  where  I  was  born,  not  the  place  for 
which  I  was  born.  Thou  art  banished  :  I  quit  only  one  part  of  mj- 
country  for  another  part.  Thou  shall  see  thy  icife,  thy  children,  thy 
relation's,  no  more  :  That  might  happen  to  me  when  living  with  them. 
Thou  shall  be  deprived  of  thy  friends  :  I  shall  find  others  in  the  place 
to  which  I  go.  Thou  shall  be  forcjotten  :  I  am  so  already  where  I  am 
thus  rejected.  Tlwu  shall  be  reqretted  by  none :  That  will  not  be 
strange  to  me,  leaving  the  place  1  leave.  Thou  shall  be  treated  as  a 
stranr/er :  That  is  a  consolation  to  me,  when  1  see  how  you  treat  your 
own  citizens.  Christ  has  said,  no  man  is  a  prophet  in  his  own  country  ; 
a  stranger  is  therefore  always  better  received. 

Such  is  the  genius  of  Quevedo,  and  such  is  the  character 
of  his  morals.  It  surpri.ses  and  amuses  us,  and  is  presented 
to  us  in  an  attractive  manner,  but  it  carries  with  it  little  per- 
suasion and  less  consolation.  AVe  feel  that  after  all  that  has 
been  said,  it  would  not  be  dilhcult  to  defend  the  opposite  side 
with  equal  success. 

Many  of  his  works  consist  of  visions,  and  in  these  we  find 
more  gaiety,  and  his  pleasantries  are  more  varied.     It  must 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  359 

be  confessed,  however,  that  he  has  chosen  singular  subjects  to 
jest  on  ;  church-yards,  alguazils  possessed  of  devils,  the  attend- 
ance of  Pluto,  and  hell  itself.  In  Spain  eternal  punishment  is 
not  considered  too  serious  a  subject  for  pleasantry;  elsewhere 
it  scarcely  affords  room  for  the  exercise  of  wit.  Another 
singular  trait  is  the  description  of  people  on  whom  Quevedo 
has  lavished  his  sarcasms.  These  are  lawyers,  physicians, 
notaries,  tradespeople,  and,  more  particularly,  tailors.  It  is 
the  latter  that  he  most  generally  attacks,  and  we  cannot  well 
imagine  in  what  way  a  Castilian  gentleman,  a  favourite  of  the 
Viceroy  of  Naples,  and  frequently  an  ambassador,  could  have 
been  so  far  exasperated  by  the  knights  of  the  gentle  craft  to 
owe  them  so  long  a  grudge.  For  the  rest,  these  visions  are 
written  with  a  gaiety  and  an  originality  which  becomes  still 
more  poignant  from  the  austerity  of  the  subject.  The  first 
vision.  El  Sueno  delas  Calaveras,  represents  the  Last  Judg- 
ment. "  Scarcely,"  he  says,  "  had  the  trumpet  sounded, 
when  I  saw  those  who  had  been  soldiers  and  captains  rising 
in  haste  from  their  graves,  thinking  they  heard  the  signal  for 
battle ;  the  miser  awoke  in  anxious  fear  of  pillage  ;  the 
epicures  and  the  idle  received  it  as  a  call  to  dinner,  or  the 
chase.  This  was  easily  seen  from  the  expression  of  their 
countenances,  and  I  perceived  that  the  real  object  of  the 
sound  of  the  trumpet  was  not  understood  by  any  one  of  them. 
I  afterwards  saw  the  souls  flying  from  their  foi'mer  bodies, 
some  in  disgust,  others  in  affright.  To  one  body  an  arm  was 
wanting,  to  another  an  eye.  I  could  not  forbear  smiling  at 
the  diversity  of  the  figures,  and  admiring  that  Providence, 
which,  amidst  such  a  confusion  of  Limbs,  prevented  any  one 
from  taking  the  legs  or  the  arms  of  his  neighbour.  I  observed 
only  one  burial-ground  where  the  dead  seemed  to  be  changing 
their  heads  ;  and  I  saw  a  notary  whose  soul  was  not  in  a 
satisfactory  state,  and  who,  by  way  of  excuse,  pretended  that 
it  had  been  changed  and  was  not  his  own.  But  what  astonished 
me  most  was  to  see  the  bodies  of  two  or  three  tradesmen, 
who  had  so  entangled  their  souls  that  they  had  got  their  five 
senses  at  the  end  of  the  five  fingers  of  their  right  hand." 

We  find  as  much  gaiety,  and  on  less  serious  subjects,  in 
the  Correspondence  of  the  Chevalier  de  la  2'enaza,  who  teaches 
all  the  various  mod<'s  of  refusing  to  render  a  service,  to  give 
a  present,  or  to  make  a  loan  that  is  asked  for  ;  in  the  Advice 
to  Lovers  of  Fine  Langiia(je,  where  Gongora  and  Lope  de 


360  ox    TIIK    I.nEUATUUK 

Vega  arc  very  {)lea>;uitly  ridieiiled  ;  in  the  Trcatha  on  all 
Subjects  in  the  World  and  niani/  besides;  in  tlie  Happy  Hour, 
where  Fortune,  lor  once  only,  rewards  every  one  according 
to  his  merit  ;  and  lastly,  in  the  Life  of  the  fjreat  IWaiio,  a 
romance  in  the  manner  of  Lazarillo  de  Tormes,  which  paints 
the  national  manners  in  a  very  amusing  way. 

One  of  the  most  striking  circumstances  in  tiie  domestic  life 
of  the  Castilians,  is  the  dilHculty  of  reconciling  their  excessive 
poverty  with  their  pride  and  slotlifidness.  Among  the  poorer 
classes  of  other  countries,  we  observe  privations  of  different 
kinds,  want,  sickness,  and  sufferiuL's;  but  absolute  starving  is 
a  calamity  which  the  most  wretched  seldom  experience  ;  and 
if  they  are  reduced  to  this  state,  it  generally  throw^s  them  into 
despair.  If  we  are  to  believe  the  Castilian  writers,  a  con- 
siderable portion  of  their  population  are  in  constant  appi'e- 
hension  of  famine,  yet  never  think  of  relieving  themselves  by 
hibour.  A  crowd  of  poor  gentlemen,  and  all  the  hnir/hfs  of 
indiistri/,  trouble  themselves  little  about  luxuries,  as  ibod  is 
absolutely  often  wanting  to  them,  and  all  their  stratagems  are 
often  employed  in  procuring  a  morsel  of  dry  bread.  After 
this  repast  their  next  object  is  to  appear  before  the  world  in 
a  dignified  manner  ;  and  the  art  of  arranging  their  rags  in 
order  to  give  the  idea  of  a  shirt  and  clothes  under  their 
cloak,  is  the  principal  study  of  their  lives.  These  pictures, 
which  are  found  in  many  of  the  works  of  Quevedo,  and  in  all 
the  Spanish  romances,  have  too  great  a  semblance  of  truth  to 
have  been  mere  inventions  ;  but  with  whatever  humour  and 
originality  they  may  have  been  drawn,  they  ultimately  leave  a 
disagreeable  impression,  and  discover  an  egregious  national 
vice,  the  correction  of  which  should  be  the  first  object  of  a 
legislator. 

The  poems  of  Quevedo  form  three;  large  volumes,  under 
the  name  of  the  Spanish  Parnassus.  He  has,  in  fact,  arranged 
them  under  the  names  of  the  nine  IMn.-es,  as  if  to  hint  that 
he  had  attained  every  branch  of  literature  and  sung  on  every 
subject.  These  nine  classes  are  however  intermixed,  and 
consist  almost  entirely  of  lyric  poems,  pastorals,  allegories, 
satires,  and  burlesrpie  pieces.  Under  the  name  of  each  Muse 
he  arranges  a  great  number  of  sonnets,  lie  has  written  more 
than  a  thousand,  and  some  of  them  possess  great  beauty. 
Such,  in  my  eyes,  is  that  On  the  Iluins  of  Rome,  of  which 
the  following  is  a  tran-lation  : 


OF    TIIK    SPANiAJlDS.  361 

SONNET. 

Stranger,  'tis  vain  !     Midst  Rome,  thou  seek'st  for  Rome 

In  vain  ;  thy  foot  is  on  her  throne— her  grave  ; 

Her  walls  arc  dust  :  Time's  conquering  banners  wave 
O'er  all  her  hills ;  hills  which  themselves  entomb. 
Yea  !  tlie  proud  Aventiue  is  its  own  womb ; 

The  royal  Palatine  is  ruin's  slave  ; 

And  medals,  mouldering  trophies  of  the  brave, 
Mark  but  the  triumphs  of  oblivion's  gloom. 
Tiber  alone  endures,  whose  ancient  tide 

Worshipp'd  the  Queen  of  Cities  on  her  throne. 
And  now,  as  round  her  sepulchre,  complains. 
0  Rome  !  the  steadfast  grandeur  of  thy  pride 

And  beauty,  all  is  fled  ;  and  that  alone 
Which  seem'd  so  fleet  and  fugitive  remains  !  * 

After  his  sonnets,  tlie  romances  of  Quevedo  form  the 
most  numerous  class  of  his  writings.  In  these  short  stanzas, 
neither  the  measure  nor  the  rhyme  of  which  are  difficult,  we 
often  find  the  most  biting  satire,  much  humour,  and  not 
unfrequently  ease  and  grace  ;  though  these  latter  qualities 
accord  little  with  his  constant  desire  of  shining.  On  the 
other  hand,  these  romances,  abounding  in  allusions  and  in 
words  borrowed  from  different  dialects,  are  very  difficult  to 
compreliend.  I  shall  cite  only  some  stanzas  of  one  of  them, 
written  on  his  misfortunes.  The  manner  in  which  a  man  of 
genius  struggles  against  calamity,  and  tlie  means  with  which 
he  arms  himself  for  the  contest,  are  always  worthy  of  atten- 
tion. When  he  has  experienced  misfortunes  as  severe  as 
those  of  Quevedo,  his  pleasantries  on  his  ill-fortune,  although 
they  may  not  be  very  refined,  bear  a  value  in  our  eyes  from 
the  moral  courage  which  they  exhibit  : 

Since  then,  my  planet  has  look'd  on  And  Heaven  will  bless  you  witli  a  fair, 

With  such  a  dark  and  scowling  eye,  Alas !  and  numerous  progeny. 

My  fortune,  if  my  ink  were  gone,  fhey  bear  my  effigy  aboiit 

Might  lend  n^  pen  as  black  a  dye.  'j^e  village,  as  a  charm  of  power. 

No  lucky  or  unlucky  turn  If  clothed,  to  bring  the  sunshine  out. 

Did  Fort-ne  ever  seem  to  play  ;  If  naked,  to  call  down  the  shower. 

Hut  ere  I'd  time  to  laugh  or  mourn,  'Wlien  friends  request  my  company, 

'Twas  sure  to  tuin  tlie  other  way.  ^^  feasts  and  banquets  meet  my  eye  ; 

Ye  childless  great,  who  want  a  heir,  To  holy  mass  they  carry  me. 

Leave  all  your  vast  domains  to  me.  And  ask  me  alms,  and  bid  good-bye. 


*  A  Koma  sepultada  en  sus  ru  inas. 

Buscas  en  Roma  a  Roma,  6  peregrino!  Solo  el  Tibre  quedo,  cuya  corriente 

Y  en  Roma  misma  a  Roma  no  la  hallas  :  Si  ciudad  la  rego,  ya  sepultura 
Cadaver  son,  las  que  ostento  murallas,  La  llora  con  funesto  son  dohente. 

Y  tumba  de  si  propio  el  Aventiuo.  q  Roma !  en  tu  grandeza,  en  tu  hermosura 
Yace  donde  reynaba  el  Palatino,  Huyo  lo  que  era  firnie,  y  sol^miente 

Y  limadas  del  tiempo  las  medalla«,  Lo  fugitive  permanece  y  dura. 
Mas  se  muestran  destrozo  a  las  batallas 

De  las  edades,  que  blazon  latino.  Cun,  -s. 

VOL.  II.  Z 


362  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

Should  bravos  chance  to  lie  perdu,  Mine  is  each  fool's  loquacity, 

To  break  some  h.ipny  lover's  head,  Each  ancient  dame  will  be  my  queen. 

I  am  their  man,  while  he  in  view  jhe  poor  man's  eye  amidst  the  crowd 

His  beauty  serenades  in  bed.  ytill  turns  its  asking  looks  on  mine ; 

A  loosen'd  tile  is  sure  to  fall  Jostled  by  all  the  rich  and  proud. 

In  contact  with  my  head  below.  No  path  is  clear,  whate'er  my  line. 

Just  as  I  dolliny  hat.     'Mong  all  Where'er  I  go  I  miss  my  way, 

The  crowd,  a  stone  still  lays  me  low.  j  jogy^  stjn  \„^f.  .^^  ^veiy  game ; 

The  doctor's  remedies  alone  No  friend  I  ever  had  would  stay, 

Ne'er  reach  the  cause  for  which  they're     No  foe  but  still  remain'd  the  same. 

And  if  I  ask  my  friends  a  loan,       [given,     j  get  no  water  out  at  sea. 

They  wish  the  poet's  soul  in  heaven  ;  Nothing  but  water  at  my  inn  ; 

So  far  from  granting  aught,  'lis  I  My  pleasures,  like  my  wine,  must  be 

Who  lend  my  patience  to  their  spleen  ;  Still  mix'd  with  what  should  not  be  in.* 

"We  al^o  find  amongst  the  poems  of  Quevedo,  pastorals, 
allegories  under  tlie  name  of  Sijlvaa,  epistles,  odes,  songs, 
and  tlie  commencement  of  two  epic  poems,  one  burlesque, 
the  other  religious.  But  it  is  to  his  works  themselves  tliat 
we  must  refer  those  wlio  wish  to  be  better  acquainted  with  a 
Spanish  writer  who  has,  perhaps,  nearer  than  any  other, 
approached  the  French  style  of  writing. 

By  the  side  of  Quevedo  we  may  place  Estevan  Manuel  de 
Villegas,  born  at  Nagera,  in  old  Castile,  about  the  year  1595. 
He  studied  at  IMadrid  and  Salamanca,  and  his  talent  for 
poetry  manifested  itself  from  his  earliest  years.  At  the  age 
of  fifteen  he  translated  Anacreon  into  verse,  and  several 
odes  of  Horace  ;  and  from  that  period  he  always  imitated 
these  two  poets,  to  whose  genius  his  own  was  strictly  analo- 
gous. At  the  age  of  three  and  twenty  he  collected  liis 
various  poems,  which  he  printed  at  his  own  expense,  and 
dedicated  to  Phillip  III.,  under  the  title  Amatorias,  or  J^ro- 
ticas.  He  obtained  with  difficulty  a  small  employ  in  his 
native  city  ;  for,  altliougli  noble,  lie  was  without  fortune. 
Devoting  the  remainder  of  his  life  to  philological  Latin 
works,  he  contributed  nothing,  after  his  twenty-tliird  year,  to 
Spanish  poetry.  He  died  in  1669,  aged  seventy-four.  He 
is  considered  tiie  Anacreon  of  Spain.  His  grace  and  soft- 
ness, and  his  union  of  tlie  ancient  style  with  the  modern, 
place  him  above  all  those  who  have  written  in  the  same 
class  ;f  but  he  was  as  incapable  as  the  other  Spanish  poets  of 


*  Thalia,  Romance  16. 

f  As  a  specimen  of  his  Anacreontic  manner,  I  may  refer  to  the 
tliirty-fifth  Cantilena  given  below,  and  which  1  have  tlic  rather  selected, 
as  it  is  not  found  in  Boutterwek. 

Dicen  me  las  muehachas  Que  siempre  de  amorcantas 

Que  sera  don  Esteban,  Y  nunca  de  la  guerra? 

Pero 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS. 


363 


submitting  himself  to  the  rules  of  the  ancients  in  tlie  correction 
of  his  thoughts,  and  he  often  indulged  himself  in  the  concetti 
of  Marini  and  Gongora.  I  shall  give  only  one  of  his  pieces,  a 
model  of  grace  and  sensibility,  already  quoted  by  Boutterwek: 


THE    NIGHTINGALE. 


I  have  seen  a  nightingale 
On  a  sprig  of  thyme,  bewail, 
Seeing  the  dear  nest,  which  was 
Hers  alone,  borne  off,  alas ! 
By  a  labourer;  I  heard. 
For  this  outrage,  the  poor  bird 
Say  a  thousand  mournful  things 
To  the  wind,  which,  on  its  wmgs, 
From  her  to  the  guardian  sky, 
Bore  her  melancholy  cry. 
Bore  her  tender  tears.     She  spake 
As  if  her  fond  heart  would  break; 
Due  while,  in  a  sad  sweet  note. 
Gurgled  from  her  straining  throat, 
She  enforc'd  her  piteous  tale, 
Mournful  prayer,  and  plaintive  wail; 
One  while,  with  the  shrill  dispute 
Quite  outwearied,  she  was  mute; 
Then  afresh  for  lier  dear  brood 
Her  harmonious  shrieks  renew'd. 
Now  she  wing'd  it  round  and  round; 
Now  she  skimm'd  along  the  ground  ; 
Now.  from  bough  to  bough,  in  haste, 
The  delighted  robber  chas'd; 
And,  alighting  in  his  path, 
Seem'd  to  say,  'twixt  grief  and  wrath, 
"  Give  me  back,  fierce  rustic  rude! 
"  Give  me  back  my  pretty  brood!" 
And  I  saw  the  rustic  still 
Answer'd,   "  That  I  never  will !"  * 


Yo  vi  sobre  un  tomillo 
Quexarse  un  paraxillo, 
Viendo  su  nido  amado 
De  quien  era  caudillo 
De  un  labrador  robado. 
Vi  le  tan  congoxado 
P-sr  tal  atrevimiento, 
Dar  mil  quexas  al  viento, 
Para  que  al  ciel  santo 
Lleve  su  tierno  llanto, 
Lleve  su  triste  acento. 
Ya  con  triste  harmonia 
Esfor9ando  al  intento 
Mil  quexas  repetia; 
Ya  cansado  callava; 

Y  al  nuevo  sentimiento 
Ya  sonoro  volvia. 

Ya  circular  volaba, 

Ya  rastrero  corria: 

Y'a  pues  de  rama  en  raraa 

Al  rustico  seguia, 

Y  saltando  en  la  grama, 
Parece  que  decia; 
Dame  rustico  fiero 

Mi  dulce  compania! 
Yo  vi  que  respondia 
El  rustico,  no  quiero. 


Among  the  distinguished  poets  of  this  age  we  may  enumerate 
Juan  de  Xauregui,  the  translator  of  the  Pharsalia  of  Lucan; 
Francisco  de  Borja,  Prince  of  Esquillace,  one  of  the  first 
grandees  of  Spain,  who  cultivated  poetry  with  the  greatest 
ardour,  and  whose  works  are  extremely  voluminous  ;  and 
Bernardino  Count  de  Rebolledo,  ambassador  to  Denmark  at 
the  close  of  the  thirty  years'  war,  who  composed  the  greater 
part  of  his  Spanish  poetry  at  Copenhagen.  But  poetry  ex- 
pired in  these  writers.     They  no  longer  separated  the  powers 


Pero  yo  las  respondo; 
Muchachas  bacliilleras. 
El  ser  los  hombres  feos 
Y'  el  ser  vos  otras  bellas. 

De  que  sirve  que  cante 
Al  son  de  la  trompeta, 
Del  otro  embarazado 
Con  el  paves  a  cuestas  ? 

Que  placeres  me  guiza 
Un  arbol  pica  seca 


Cargado  de  mil  hojas 
Sin  una  fruta  en  ellas  ? 


Quien  gusta  de  los  parches, 
Que  muchos  parches  tenga ; 
Y  quieu  de  los  escudos 
Que  nunca  los  posea. 

Que  yo  de  los  guerreros 
No  trato  los  peleas, 
Sino  las  de  las  niiias 
Porque  estas  son  mis  guerras. 

*  [For  the  kind  communication  of  the  above  translation,  the  Editor 
has  to  repeat  his  acknowledgments  to  Mr.  WifFen. —  Tr.} 

z  2 


364  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

of  inspiration  from  the  reasoning  faculty;  and  the  Selcas 
Danicas  of  ReboUedo,  which  comprehend  in  rhimed  prose 
the  liistory  and  geography  of  Denmark,  and  liis  Selvas  Mili- 
tares  y  Puliticas,  where  lie  has  collected  all  that  he  knew  on 
war  and  government,  seem  written  to  prove  the  last  decline 
of  Spanish  poetry.  We  should  imagine  it  had  iiere  reached 
its  termination,  if  Calderon,  whom  we  shall  notice  in  the 
following  cliapters,  had  not  appeared  at  the  same  epoch,  and 
stamped  this  as  the  most  brilliant  period  of  the  Spanish 
romantic  drama. 

During  tlie  reigns  of  Philip  11.,  Philip  III.,  and  Pliilip  IV., 
several  prose  writers  obtained  applause.  A  romance  in  the 
modern  taste,  of  Vincent  Espinel,  intitled  The  Life  of  the 
Squire  Marco  de  Obrcgon,  led  tiie  way  to  the  introduction 
of  many  succeeding  pictures  of  polite  life.  In  that  class  of 
novels,  which  is  most  attractive  to  the  Spaniards,  and  which  is 
called  by  them  El  Gusto  Picaresco,  the  Life  of  Don 
Gusman  cV AJfarache  appeared  in  1599,  and  of  course  pre- 
vious to  Don  Quixote.  It  was  immediately  translated  into 
Italian,  French,  and  Latin,  and  into  the  other  languages  of 
Europe.  The  author  was  JNlatteo  Aleman,  who  had  retired 
from  the  court  of  Philip  111.  to  live  in  solitude  ;  and  the 
applause  witli  which  his  work  was  received  was  not  sufficient 
to  induce  him  to  relinquish  his  retreat.  A  continuation, 
which  was  published  under  the  assumed  name  of  Matteo 
Luzan,  is  far  from  bearing  a  comparison  with  the  original. 

In  history,  the  Jesuit  Juan  de  Mariana,  who  commenced 
writing  in  the  lifetime  of  Charles  V.,  and  wlio  died  only  in 
1623,  in  his  ninetieth  year,  has  obtained  a  well-deserved 
reputation  from  tlie  elegance  of  his  style.  His  language  is 
pure,  his  descriptions  are  picturesque,  without  poetic  alFec- 
tation,  and  for  the  time  in  which  he  lived  he  has  exhibited 
much  impartiality  and  freedom  of  opinion.  We  must  not, 
however,  coniide  either  in  his  criticisms,  or  in  his  facts, 
whenever  the  authority  of  the  cliurch  or  the  power  of 
monarchs  would  have  been  compromised  by  a  more  strict 
relation.  In  imitation  of  the  ancients,  in  all  important 
councils,  and  before  the  battles,  he  has  placed  speeches  in  the 
mouths  of  his  principal  personages.  Liv}'  makes  us  ac- 
quainted with  the  manners  and  opinions  of  the  inhabitants 
oi'  Italy  at  different  epochs,  and  his  harangues  arc  always 
formed  on  real  sentiments  and   incidents,  altliough  the  in- 


OF    THE    SPANIAKDS.  365 

vention  of  the  author.  The  speeches  of  Mariana,  on  the 
contrar\',  though  of  a  hite  age,  bear  all  the  marks  of  anti- 
quity ;  they  are  deprived  of  all  probability  ;  and  we  perceive 
from  the  very  first  word,  that  neither  the  Gothic  kings,  nor  the 
Saracen  princes  to  whom  they  are  given,  could  ever  have 
uttered  thera.  Mariana  at  first  Wrote  his  History  of  Spain 
in  Latin.  It  consisted  of  thirty  books,  and  was  brought  from 
the  earliest  period  down  to  the  death  of  Ferdinand  the 
Catholic,  and  dedicated  to  Philip  II.  He  afterwards  trans- 
lated it  into  Spanish,  and  dedicated  the  translation  to  the 
same  monarch.  Notwithstanding  his  great  caution,  he  was 
formally  denounced  to  the  Inquisition,  the  suspicious  Philip 
thinking  that  he  detected  in  his  work  traces  of  that  freedom, 
the  very  memory  of  which  he  wished  to  extinguish  ;  and 
Mariana  with  difficulty  escaped  prosecution. 

The  second  of  the  historians  of  Spain  in  point  of  repu- 
tation, was  born  only  a  few  years  before  the  death  of  Mariana. 
Antonio  de  Solis,  who  lived  from  1610  to  1686,  not  less 
distinguished  by  his  poetry  than  his  prose,  followed  the 
example  of  Calderon,  with  whom  he  was  united  in  strict 
friendship,  and  presented  the  stage  with  many  comedies 
written  with  much  imagination.  His  political  and  historical 
information  procured  hitn  employment  in  the  chancery  of 
the  state,  under  the  reign  of  Philip  IV.  After  the  death  of 
that  monarch  in  1665,  he  was  presented  with  the  office  of 
historian  of  the  Indies,  with  a  considerable  salary.  At  the 
close  of  his  life  he  entered  into  holy  orders,  and  thence- 
forth was  wholly  devoted  to  religious  observances.  It  was  at 
a  mature  age  and  in  discharge  of  the  duties  of  his  office, 
that  he  wrote  his  History  of  the  Conquest  of  Mexico,  one  of 
the  last  Spanish  works  in  which  purity  of  taste,  simplicity, 
and  truth,  are  to  be  found.  The  author  has  avoided  in  this 
history  all  flights  of  imagination  and  display  of  style  which 
might  betray  the  poet.  He  united  a  brilliant  genius  with  a 
con-ect  taste.  The  adventures  of  Fernando  Cortes,  and  of 
the  handful  of  warriors,  who  in  a  new  hemisphere  overthrev/ 
a  powerful  empire ;  their  inflexible  courage,  their  passions 
and  their  ferocity ;  the  dangers  which  incessantly  presented 
themselves,  and  over  all  of  which  they  triumphed;  the 
peaceful  virtues  of  the  Mexicans,  their  arts,  their  govern- 
ment, and  their  civilization,  so  different  from  that  of  Eui'ope, 
formed  altogether  an  assemblage  of  novel  and  attractive  cir- 


366  ON    TIIK    LITERATURE 

cumstances,  and  afforded  a  noble  subject  for  history.  A 
unity  of  design,  and  a  romantic  interest,  connected  with  the 
marvellous,  naturally  present  themselves  in  it.  Deserij)tions 
of  places  and  of  manners,  and  philosophical  and  political  re- 
flections, are  all  called  for  by  the  sul)ject,  and  excite  our 
earnest  attention.  Antonio  de  Solis  was  not  unequal  to  the 
task,  and  few  historical  works  are  read  with  more  pleasure. 

All  true  taste  seemed   now  to  expire  in  Spain  :  a  passion 
for  antithesis,  concetti,  and  the  most  extravagant  figures,  had 
introduced  itself  alike  into  prose  and  verse.  No  or.e  ventured 
to  write  without  calling  to  his  aid,  on  the  most  simple  subject, 
all  the  treasures  of  mythology,  and  without  quoting,  in  sup- 
port of  the  most  common  sentiment,  all  the  writers  of  antiquity. 
The  most  natural  sentiment  could  not  be  expressed  without 
supporting  it  by  an  imposing  image  ;  and  in  common  writers, 
the  mixture  of  so  many  preten.-ions,  with  a  cumbrous  phrase- 
ology and  dulness  of  intellect,  formed  a  most  extraordinary 
contrast.    The  lives  of  the  distinguished  men  whom  we  have 
presented  to  the  reader,  are  all  written  by  their  contemporaries 
or  their  immediate  successors  in  this  eccentric  style.    That  of 
Quevedo  by  the  Abbe  Paul-Antonio   de  Tarsia   would    be 
entertaining  from  its  excess  of  absurdity,  if  one  hundred  and 
sixty  pages    of   such    ridiculous   composition   were    not   too 
i'atiguing,  and  if  one  could  avoid  experiencing  regret,  not  so 
much  at  the  folly  of  an  individual,  as  at  the  decline  of  letters 
and  the  corruption  of  national  taste.     Among  a  multitude  of 
writers  who  transferred  into  pi'ose  all  the  defects  and  affecta- 
tion of  Gongora,  one  of  distinguished  talents  contributed  to 
extend    this    bad   taste   still   further.     This    was    Balthasar 
Gracian,  a  Jesuit,  who  appeared  to  the   public    under  the 
borrowed  name  of  his  brother  Lorenzo  Gracian.      His  works 
treat  of  politeness,  morals,   tlieology,  poetical  criticism,  and 
rhetoric.   The  most  diffuse  of  all  bears  the  title  of  el  Criticoii, 
and  is  an  allegorical  and   didactic   picture   of  human    life, 
divided  into  epochs,  which  he  calls  crises,  intermingled  with 
tedious  romances.     We  discover  throughout  this  work  a  man 
of  talent,  who  endeavours  to  soar  above  every  thing  common, 
but  who   often   at   the  same  time  oversteps  both  nature  and 
reason.      A  constant  display,  and  an  affectation  of  style  which 
makes  him  at  times  unintelligible,  render  the  perusal  of  him 
tedious.     Gracian,  nevertheless,  would  have   eucceeded  as  a 
good  writer  if  lie  had  not  been  too  ambitious  of  distinction. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  367 

His  reputation  was  more  proportioned  to  his  efforts  than  to 
his  merit.  He  was  transhited  and  panegyrized  in  France  and 
Italy,  and  out  of  Spain  contributed  to  corrupt  that  taste 
which  in  his  own  country  was  in  its  last  decline. 


CHAPTER  XXXHI. 

DON  PEDRO  CALDEKON  DE  LA  BARCA. 

Our  attention  is  now  called  to  a  Spanish  poet  whom  his 
fellow-countrymen  have  designated  as  tiie  prince  of  dramatists, 
who  is  known  to  foreigners  as  the  most  celebrated  in  this  class 
of  literature,  and  whom  some  critics  of  Germany  have  placed 
above  all  dramatic  writers  of  modern  days.  It  would  be  im- 
proper to  impeach  with  levity  so  high  a  reputation  ;  and 
whatever  my  own  opinion  may  be  on  the  merits  of  Calderon, 
it  is  my  duty  to  show  in  the  first  place  the  esteem  in  which 
he  has  been  held  by  persons  of  the  first  distinction  in  letters, 
in  order  that  the  reader,  in  the  extracts  which  I  shall  submit 
to  him,  may  not  give  too  much  attention  to  national  foi'ms, 
often  in  o|)position  to  our  own  ;  but  that  he  may  seek  and  feel 
the  excellences  of  the  author,  and  may  arm  himself  against 
prejudices  from  which  I  am  myself  perhaps  not  exempt. 

The  life  of  Calderon  was  not  very  eventt^ul.  He  was  born 
in  1600  of  a  noble  family,  and  at  fourteen  years  of  age  we  are 
assured  he  began  to  write  for  the  stage.  After  having  finished 
his  studies  at  the  university,  he  remained  some  time  attached 
to  his  patrons  at  court.  He  quitted  them  to  enter  into  the 
army,  and  served  during  several  campaigns  in  Italy  and 
Flanders.  Some  time  afterwards,  King  Philip  IV.,  who  was 
passionately  attached  to  the  drama,  and  who  himself  published 
many  pieces  which  purpoi'ted  to  be  written,  Ry  a  Wit  of  this 
Court:  Un  ingenio  de  est  a  Corte;  having  seen  some  pieces  of 
Calderon,  gave  the  author  of  them  an  appointment  near  his 
own  person,  presented  him  with  the  order  of  St.  James,  and 
attached  him  permanently  to  his  court.  From  that  time  the 
plays  of  Calderon  were  represented  with  all  the  pomp  which 
a  rich  monarch,  delighting  in  such  entertainments,  had  the 
power  to  bestow  on  them,  and  the  Poet  Laureate  was  often 
called  on  for  occasional  pieces  on  festive  days  at  court.  In 
1652,  Calderon  entered  into  orders,  but  without  renouncing. 


368  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

the  stage.  Thencei'ortli,  however,  his  compositions  were 
generally  religious  pieces  and  auios  sacranHmtalex ;  and  the 
more  he  advanced  in  years,  the  more  he  regarded  all  ins  works 
which  were  not  religious,  as  idle  and  unworthy  of  his  genius. 
Admired  by  his  contemporaries,  caressed  by  kings,  and  loaded 
with  honours  and  more  substantial  benefits,  lie  survived  to  a 
very  great  age.  His  friend  Juan  de  Vera  Tassis  y  Villaroel, 
having  undertaken,  in  1685,  a  complete  edition  of  his  dramatic 
works,  Calderon  authenticated  all  that  are  found  in  that  col- 
lection,     lie  died  two  years  after,  in  his  eighty-seventh  year. 

Augustus  "William  Schlegel,  who  more  than  any  per- 
son has  contributed  to  the  difiusicn  of  Spanish  literature 
in  Germany,  thus  speaks  of  Calderon  in  his  Lectures  on  the 
Drama.  "  At  length  appeared  Don  Pedro  Calderon  de  la 
Barca,  as  fertile  in  genius  and  as  diligent  in  writing  as  Lope, 
but  a  poet  of  a  different  kind  ;  a  true  poet,  indeed,  if  ever  man 
deserved  the  name.  For  him,  but  in  a  superior  degree,  was 
renewed  the  admiration  of  nature,  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
public,  and  the  dominion  of  the  stage.  The  years  of  Calde- 
ron's  age  coincided  with  those  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
He  was,  therefore,  sixteen  years  old  when  Cervantes  died, 
and  thirty-five  at  the  time  of  the  death  of  Lope,  whom  he 
survived  nearly  half  a  century.  According  to  his  biographers, 
Calderon  wrote  more  than  one  hundred  and  twenty  tragedies 
or  comedies,  more  than  a  hundred  sacred  allegorical  pieces 
(autos  sacramcntales),  a  hundred  humorous  interludes  oi' 
xaynetes,  and  many  other  pieces  not  dramatic.  As  he  composed 
for  the  theatre  from  his  fourteenth  year  to  his  eighty-first,  we 
must  distribute  his  productions  through  a  long  space  of  time, 
and  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  he  wrote  with  such 
wonderful  celerity  as  Loi)e  de  Vega.  He  had  sufficient  time 
to  mature  his  plans,  which  he  did  without  doubt,  but  he  must 
have  accpiired  from  practice  great  facility  of  execution. 

"In  the  almost  countless  number  of  his  works,  we  find 
nothing  left  to  chance  ;  all  is  finislied  v.ith  the  most  perfect 
talent,  agreeable  to  fixed  princi[)les,  and  to  the  first  rules  of 
art.  This  is  undeniable,  even  if  we  should  consider  him  as  a 
mannerist  in  the  pure  and  elevated  romantic  drama,  and 
should  regard  as  extravagant  those  lofty  flights  of  pcetry 
which  rise  to  the  extnime  bounds  of  imagination.  Calderon 
has  converted  into  his  own  what  served  only  as  a  model  to 
his    predecessors,    and    he    required   the    noblest    and    most 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  369 

delicate  flowers  to  satisfy  his  taste.  Hence  he  repeats  himself 
often  in  many  expressions,  images,  and  comparisons,  and 
even  in  dramatic  situations,  although  he  was  too  rich  to 
borrow,  I  do  not  say  from  others,  but  even  from  himself. 
Theatrical  perspective  is  in  his  eyes  the  first  object  of  the 
dramatic  art  ;  but  this  view,  so  restricted  in  others,  becomes 
positive  in  him.  I  am  not  acquainted  with  any  dramatic 
author  who  has  succeeded  in  an  equal  degree  in  producing 
that  poetical  charm  which  affects  the  senses  at  the  same  time 
that  it  preserves  its  ethereal  essence. 

"  His  dramas  may  be  divided  into  four  classes  ;  representa- 
tions of  sacred  history,  from  Scripture  or  legends  ;  historical 
pieces  ;  mythological,  or  drawn  from  some  poetical  source  ; 
and,  lastly,  pictures  of  social  life  and  modern  manners.  In 
a  strict  sense  we  can  only  call  those  pieces  historical  which 
are  founded  on  national  events.  Calderon  has  painted  witli 
great  felicity  the  early  days  of  Spanish  history  ;  but  his 
genius  was  far  too  national,  I  may  almost  say  too  fiery,  to 
adapt  itself  to  other  countries.  He  could  easily  identify  him- 
self with  the  sanguine  natives  of  the  South  or  the  East,  but 
in  no  manner  with  the  people  of  classic  antiquity,  or  of  the 
North  of  ILurope.  Wlien  he  has  chosen  his  subjects  from  the 
latter,  he  has  treated  them  in  the  most  arbitrary  manner.  The 
beautiful  mythology  of  Greece  was  to  him  only  an  engaging 
fable,  and  the  Roman  history  a  majestic  hyperbole. 

"  Still,  his  sacred  pieces  must,  to  a  certain  extent,  be  con- 
sidered as  historical  ;  for,  although  he  has  ornamented  them 
with  the  richest  poetry,  he  has  always  exhibited  with  great 
fidelity  the  characters  drawn  from  the  Bible  and  sacred 
history.  On  the  other  hand,  these  dramas  are  distinguished 
by  the  lofty  allegories  which  he  often  introduces,  and  by  the 
religious  enthusiasm  with  which  the  poet,  in  those  pieces 
which  were  destined  for  the  feast  of  the  Holy  Sacrament,  has 
iUuminedthe  universe,  which  he  has  allegorically  painted  with 
the  purple  flames  of  love.  It  is  in  this  last  style  of  composi- 
tion that  he  has  most  excited  the  admiration  of  his  contempo- 
raries, and  he  himself  also  attached  to  it  the  greatest  value." 

I  think  it  my  duty  to  give  a  further  extract  from  Schlegel 
on  Calderon.  No  one  has  made  more  extensive  researches 
into  Spanish  literature  ;  no  one  has  developed  with  more 
enthusiasm  the  nature  of  this  romantic  poetry,  which  it  is 
not  just  to  submit  to  austere  rules  ;  and  his  partiality  has 


370  ON    THE    LITEUATLUK 

added  to  his  eloqiienoo.  The  passage  I  am  about  to  translate 
has  been  highly  extolled  in  Cierinany.  I  .shall,  in  my  turn, 
present  Caldercn  under  another  aspect  ;  but  that  under  which 
his  admirers  have  viewed  him  must  still  be  allowed  to  possess 
a  degree  of  truth. 

"  Calderon  served  in  several  campaigns  in  Handers  and  in 
Italy  ;  and,  as  a  knight  of  St.  James,  ])erformed  the  military 
duties  of  that  order  until  he  entered  into  the  church  ;  by 
which  he  nlanLl"est^•d  how  much  religion  had  been  the  ruling 
sentiment  of  his  life.  If  it  be  true  that  a  religious  feeling, 
loyalty,  courage,  honour,  and  love  are  the  basis  of  romantic 
poetry,  it  must  in  Spain,  born  and  nourished  under  such 
auspicious  circumstances,  have  attained  its  highest  flight. 
The  imagination  of  the  Spaniards  was  as  daring  as  tiieir 
spirit  of  enterprise;  and  no  adventure  was  too  perilous  for 
them.  At  an  earlier  period  the  predilection  of  the  nation  for 
the  most  incredible  wonders  had  been  manifested  in  the 
chivalric  romances.  These  they  wished  to  see  repeated  on 
the  stage  ;  and  as  at  this  epoch  tlie  Spanish  poets  had  attained 
the  highest  point  of  art  and  social  perfection,  had  infused  a 
musical  spirit  into  their  poetry,  and  purifying  it  of  every 
thing  material  and  gross,  had  left  only  the  choicest  colours 
and  odours,  there  resulted  an  irresistible  charm  of  conti'ast 
between  llie  subject  and  its  composition.  'J'he  spectators 
imagined  they  again  saw  on  the  stage  a  revival  of  that 
national  glory,  which,  after  having  threatened  the  whole 
world,  was  now  become  half  extinct,  whilst  the  ear  was  grati- 
fied by  a  novel  style  of  pcetrj^,  in  which  were  combined  all 
the  harmony  of  the  most  varied  metres,  elegance,  genius,  and 
a  prodigality  of  images  and  comparisons  which  the  Spanish 
tongue  alone  permitted.  The  treasures  of  the  most  distant 
zones  were  in  poetry,  as  in  reality,  imported  to  satisfy  the 
mother-country,  and  one  may  assert  that,  in  this  poetic 
empire,  as  in  the  terrestrial  one  of  Charles  V.,  the  sun 
never  set. 

"  Even  in  the  plays  of  Calderon  which  represent  modern 
manners,  and  which  for  the  most  part  descend  to  the  tone  of 
common  life,  we  feel  ourselves  influenced  by  a  charm  of 
fancy  wliich  prevents  us  from  regarding  them  as  conu>dies, 
in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word.  The  comedies  of  Shak- 
speare  arc  composed  of  two  parts,  strangers  to  earh  other :  the 
comic  part,  which  is  always  conformable  to  P^nglish  maimers, 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS,  371 

because  the  comic  imitation  is  drawn  from  well-known  and 
local  circumstances  ;  and  the  romantic  part,  which  is  derived 
from   the  stage  of  the  South,   as  his  native  ^oil  was  not  in 
itself  sufficiently  poetical.  In  Spain,  on  the  contrary,  national 
manners  might  be  regarded  in  an  ideal  point  of  view.     It  is 
true  that  would  not  have  been  possible  if  Calderon  had  intro- 
duced us  into  the  interior  of  domestic  life,  where  its  wants 
and   habits  reduce  every  thing  to  naiTow  and  vulgar  limits. 
His    comedies    conclude,    like    those   of   the    ancients,    with 
marriage,  but  ditfer  from  them  wholly  in  the  antecedent  part. 
In  these,  in  order  to  gratify  sensual  passions  and  interested 
views,   the   most  immoral   means  are  often  employed  ;  the 
pei'sons,  with  all  the  powers  of  their  mind,  are  only  physical 
beings,  opposed  to  one  another,  seeking  to  take  advantage  of 
their  mutual  weaknesses.     In  those,  a  passionate  sentiment 
prevails  wliich  ennobles    all    that    it    surrounds,    because  it 
attaches  to  all  circumstances  an  affection  of  the  mind.      Cal- 
deron   presents    to    us,  it  is  true,    liis  principal    personages 
of  both  sexes  in  the  first  effervescence  of  youth,  and  in  the 
confident  anticipation  of  all  the  joys  of  life  ;  but  the  prize 
for  which  they  contend,  and  which  they  pursue,  rejecting  all 
othei's,  cannot  in  their  eyes  be  exchanged  for  any  other  good. 
Honour,   love,  and  jealousy  are  the  ruling  passions.     Their 
noble  struggles  form  the    plot   of  the    piece,    which   is    not 
entangled  by  elaborate  knavery  and  deceit.     Honour  is  there 
a  feeling  which  rests  on  an  elevated  morality,  sanctifying  the 
principle  without  regard  to  consequences.     It  may  by  stoop- 
ing   to   the   opinions  and  pi-ejudices  of  society  become  the 
weapon  of  vanity,  but   under  every  disguise  we  recognize  it 
as  the  reflection  of  refined  sentiment.     I  cannot  suggest  a 
more  appropriate  emblem  of  the  delicacy  with  wliich  Calderon 
represents  the  sentiment  of  honour,  tiian  the  fabulous  trait 
narrated  of  the  ermine,    which,  rather  than  suffer  the  white- 
ness of  its  fur  to  be  soiled,  resigns  itself  to  its  pursuers.   This 
refined  sentiment  equally  predominates  in  the  female  charac- 
ters of  Calderon,  and  overrules  the  power  of  love,  who  only 
ranks  at  the  side  of  honour  and  not  above  it.     According  to 
the  sentiments  which  the  poet  professes,  the  honour  of  woman 
consists  in  confining  her  love  to  an  honourable  man,  loving 
him  with  pure  affection,  and  allowing  no  equivocal  attentions, 
inconsistent  with  the  most  severe  feminine  dignity.      This 
love  demands  an  inviolable  secrecy,  until  a  legal  union  per- 


372  ON    TIIK    LITICRATURE 

mits  a  public  declaration.  Tliis  condition  alone  defends  it 
against  the  poisonous  mixture  of  that  vanity,  which  might 
boast  of  pretensions  advanced,  or  of  advantages  obtained. 
Love  thus  appears  as  a  secret  and  lioly  vow.  It  is  true  that 
under  this  doctrine,  in  order  to  satisfy  love,  trick  and  dissi- 
mulation, whicii  honour  elsewhere  forbids,  are  permitted. 
But  tlie  most  delicate  regard  is  observed  in  the  collision  of 
love  with  otlicr  duties,  and  particularly  those  of  friendship. 
The  force  of  jealousy,  always  awake,  always  terrible  in  iis 
explosion,  is  not,  as  in  the  East,  excited  by  possession  only, 
but  by  the  slightest  preference  of  the  iieart,  and  by  its  most 
imperceptible  manifestations.  Love  is  thus  ennobled  ;  for 
this  passion  falls  beneath  itself,  if  it  is  not  wholly  exclusive. 
It  often  ha[)pens  that  the  plot  which  these  contending 
passions  forn^.,  produces  no  result,  and  the  catastrophe  then 
becomes  comic.  At  other  times  it  assumes  a  tragic  shape, 
and  honour  becomes  a  hostile  destiny  to  him  who  cannot 
satisfy  it  without  destroying  his  own  happiness  by  the  com- 
mission of  a  crime. 

"  Such  is  tlie  loi'ty  spirit  of  these  dramas,  which  foreigners 
have  called  intriguing  comedies,  but  which  the  Spaniards, 
after  the  costume  in  which  they  are  performed,  have  named 
Comedies  of  the  mantle  and  the  sword  :  Comedian  de  capa  y 
espada.  In  general  they  possess  nothing  burlesque,  further 
than  the  part  of  the  humorous  valet,  wlio  is  known  under  the 
name  of  Gracioso.  This  personage,  indeed,  serves  only  to 
parody  the  ideal  motives  by  which  his  master  is  governed, 
but  he  does  it  often  in  the  most  elegant  and  lively  manner. 
It  is  seldom  that  he  is  employed  as  an  instrument  to  increase 
the  plot  by  his  artifices  ;  as  tliis  is  usually  effected  by  acci- 
dental and  well  contrived  incidents.  Other  pieces  are  named 
Comedias  de  jifjuron ;  the  parts  in  which  are  cast  in  the 
same  manner,  only  distinguished  by  one  prominent  figure  in 
caricature.  To  many  of  the  pieces  of  Calderon  the  claim  of 
dramatic  character  cannot  be  denied,  although  we  must  not 
expect  to  see  the  more  delicate  traits  of  cliaracter  exhibited 
by  the  poets  of  a  nation,  whose  powerful  ])assions  and 
fervent  imaginations  are  irreconcileable  with  a  talent  for  ac- 
curate observation. 

"  Calderon  bestowed  on  another  class  of  his  dramas  tlie 
name  of  festival  pieces.  These  were  intended  to  be  repre- 
sented   in    court   on   occasions   of   solemnity.      From  their 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  373 

theatrical  splendour,  the  frequent  change  of  scene,  the  deco- 
ration presented  to  the  eyes,  and  the  music  which  is 
introduced,  we  may  call  them  poetical  operas.  In  fact  they 
are  more  poetical  than  any  other  compositions  of  this  kind, 
since  by  their  poetry  alone  an  eifect  is  produced  which  in  the 
simple  opera  is  obtained  only  by  scenerj',  music,  and  dancing. 
Here  the  poet  abandons  himself  to  the  highest  flights  of 
fanc}',  and  his  representations  seem  almost  too  ethereal  for 
earth. 

"  But  the  true  genius  of  Calderon  id  more  peculiarly  shewn 
in  his  management  of  religious  subjects.  Love  is  painted  by 
him  with  its  common  attributes,  and  speaks  only  the  language 
of  the  poetic  art.  But  religion  is  his  true  flame,  the  heart  of 
his  heart.  For  her  alone  he  touches  those  chords  to  which 
the  soul  most  deeply  responds.  He  seems  not  to  have  wished 
to  effect  this  through  worldly  means,  as  piety  was  his  only 
motive.  This  fortunate  man  had  escaped  from  the  labyrinth 
and  the  deserts  of  scepticism  to  the  asylum  of  faith,  whence 
he  contemplates  and  paints,  with  an  imperturbable  serenity 
of  soul,  the  passing  tempests  of  the  world.  To  him,  life  is  no 
longer  an  enigma  ;  even  his  tears,  like  dewdrops  in  the  beams 
of  morning,  reflect  the  image  of  heaven.  His  poetry,  what- 
ever the  subject  may  ostensibly  be,  is  an  unceasing  hymn  of 
joy  on  the  splendours  of  creation.  With  delighted  astonish- 
ment he  celebrates  the  wonders  of  nature  and  of  human  art, 
as  if  he  saw  them  for  the  first  time  in  all  the  attraction  of 
novelty.  It  is  the  first  awakening  of  Adam,  accompanied  by 
an  eloquence  and  a  justness  of  expression  which  an  intimate 
knowledge  of  nature,  the  highest  cultivation  of  mind,  and  the 
most  mature  reflection  could  alone  produce.  When  he  united 
the  most  opposite  objects,  the  greatest  and  the  smallest,  the 
stars  and  the  flowers,  the  sense  of  his  metaplior  always 
expresses  the  relation  of  his  creatures  to  their  common 
Creator  ;  and  this  delightful  harmony  and  concert  of  the 
miiverse,  is  to  him  a  new  and  unfading  image  of  that  eternal 
love  which  comprehends  all  things. 

"  Calderon  was  yet  living,  while  in  other  countries  of 
Europe  a  mannerism  began  to  predominate  in  the  arts,  and 
literature  received  that  prosaic  direction  which  became  so 
general  in  the  eighteenth  century.  He  may,  therefore,  be 
considered  as  placed  on  the  highest  pinnacle  of  romantic 
poetry  ;  and  all  her  brilliancy  was  lavished  on  his  works,  as 


374  ON    THE    LITF.RATUKE 

in  a  display  of  fireworks  the  brijrlitost  colours  and  the  most 
striking  lights  are  reserved  for  the  hi'^t  explosion." 

I  have  liere  given  a  fuitliful  translation  of  this  spirited  and 
eloquent  j)assage,  which  is,  indeed,  in  opposition  to  my  own 
opinion.  It  contains  every  thing  splendid  that  can  be  said  of 
Calderon  ;  and  I  coidd  wish  that  the  reader  himself  may  be 
induced  by  so  high  an  eulogium  to  study  a  writer  who  has 
excited  such  warm  enthusiasm.  It  was  also  my  object  to 
shew  the  high  raidc  wiiicli  Calderon  occupies  in  tlie  world  of 
letters.  1  shjxll  shortly  give  an  analysis  of  some  of  his  best 
pieces,  that  every  person  may  form  his  own  opinion  on  a  poet 
to  whom  no  one  can  refuse  a  place  in  the  first  rank.  But,  in 
order  to  explain  what  impression  his  works  have  made  on 
myself,  I  ought  to  refer  to  what  was  .•^laid  in  the  last  chapter 
of  the  debasement  of  the  Spanish  nation  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  the  corruption  of  religion  and  of  the  government, 
the  perversion  of  taste,  and,  in  fine,  the  change  which  the 
ambition  of  Charles  V.  and  the  tyranny  of  Philip  II.  had 
operated  on  tlie  Castilians.  Calderon  had  in  his  youth  seen 
Philip  III.  ;  he  had  shared  the  patronage  of  Philip  IV.  :  and 
he  lived  sixteen  years  under  the  more  miserable,  and  if 
possible,  more  shameful  reign  of  Charles  II.  It  would  be 
strange  indeed,  if  the  influence  of  an  epoch  so  degrading  to 
mankind  had  not  been  in  some  degree  communicated  to  the 
leading  poet  of  the  age. 

Calderon,  in  fact,  although  endowed  by  nature  with  a  noble 
genius  and  the  most  brilliant  imagination,  appears  to  me  to  be 
the  man  of  his  own  age — the  wretched  epoch  of  Philip  IV. 
When  a  nation  is  so  corrupt  as  to  have  lost  all  exaltation  of 
character,  it  lias  no  longer  before  its  eyes  models  of  true 
virtue  and  real  grandeur,  and,  in  endeavouring  to  represent 
'them,  it  falls  into  exaggeration.  Such  to  my  view  is  the 
character  of  Calderon  :  he  oversteps  the  line  in  every  depart- 
ment of  art.  Truth  is  unknown  to  him,  and  the  ideal  which 
he  Ibrms  to  himself  offends  us  from  its  want  of  ])ropriet3\ 
There  was  in  the  ancient  Spanish  knights  a  noble  pride, 
which  sprang  from  a  sentiment  of  affection  for  that  glorious 
nation  in  which  they  were  objects  of  high  importance  ;  but 
the  empty  haughtiness  of  the  heroes  of  Calderon  increases 
with  the  misfortunes  of  their  country,  and  their  own  debase- 
ment. There  was  in  the  manners  of  the  early  knights  a  just 
estimate  of  their  own  character,    which  prevented  affronts, 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS,  375 

and  assured  to  every  one  tlie  respect  of  his  equals  ;  but  when 
public  and  private  honour  became  continually  compromised 
by  a  corrupt  and  base  court,  the  stage  represented  honour  as 
a  point  of  punctilious  delicacy,  wliich,  unceasingly  wounded, 
required  the  most  sanguinary  satisfaction,  and  could  not  long 
exist  without  destroying  all  the  bonds  of  society.  The  life  of 
a  gentleman  was,  in  a  manner,  made  up  of  duelling  and 
assassination  ;  and  if  the  manners  of  the  nation  became  bru- 
talized, those  of  the  stage  were  still  more  so.  In  the  same 
way  the  morals  of  the  female  sex  were  corrupted  ;  intrigue 
had  penetrated  beyond  the  blinds  of  windows  and  the  grates 
of  the  convent,  where  the  younger  part  of  the  sex  were 
immured  ;  gallantry  had  introduced  itself  into  domestic  life, 
and  had  poisoned  the  matrimonial  state.  But  Calderon  gives 
to  the  women  he  represents  a  severity  proportioned  to  the 
relaxation  of  morals  ;  he  paints  love  wholly  in  the  mind  ;  he 
gives  to  passion  a  character  which  it  cannot  support  ;  he 
loses  sight  of  nature,  and  aiming  at  the  ideal  he  produces 
only  exaggei'ation. 

If  the  manners  of  the  stage  were  corrupt,  its  language  was 
still  more  so.  The  Spaniards  owe  to  their  intercourse  with 
the  Arabs  a  taste  for  hyperbole  and  for  the  most  extravagant 
images.  But  the  manner  of  Calderon  is  not  borrowed  from 
the  East ;  it  is  entirely  his  own,  and  he  goes  beyond  all  flights 
which  his  predecessors  had  allowed  themselves.  If  his  imagi- 
nation furnishes  him  with  a  brilliant  image,  he  pursues  it 
through  a  whole  page,  and  abandons  it  only  through  fatigue. 
He  links  compai'ison  to  comparison,  and,  overcharging  his 
subject  with  the  most  brilliant  colours,  he  does  not  allow  its 
form  to  be  perceived  under  the  multiplied  touches  Avhich  he 
bestows  on  it.  He  gives  to  sorrow  so  poetical  a  language, 
and  makes  her  seek  such  unexpected  comparisons,  and  justify 
their  propriety  with  so  much  care,  that  we  withhold  our  com- 
passion from  one  who  is  diverted  from  his  griefs  by  the 
display  of  his  wit.  The  aflfectation  and  antithesis  with  which 
the  Italians  have  been  reproached,  under  the  name  o?  concetti, 
are,  in  Marini  and  in  the  greatest  mannerists,  simple  expres- 
sions in  comparison  with  the  involved  periods  of  Calderon. 
We  see  that  he  is  atFected  with  that  malady  of  genius  which 
forms  an  epoch  in  every  literature  on  the  extinction  of  good 
taste,  an  epoch  which  commenced  in  Rome  with  Lucan,  in 
Italy  with  the  seicentisti,  or  poets  of  the  sixteenth  century  ; 


376 


ON    THE    LITEUATUUE 


which  distinguished  in  France  the  Hotel  de  Rarabouillet  ; 
Avhich  prevailed  in  England  under  the  reign  of  Charles  II.; 
and  which  all  persons  have  agreed  to  cond<Miin  as  a  perversion 
of  taste.  Examples  of  this  style  will  crowd  on  us  iu  the  suc- 
ceeding extracts  ;  but  we  shall  pass  over  them  at  the  time  in 
order  not  to  suspend  the  interest ;  and  it  will  be  better  to 
detach  a  singh;  passage  as  a  specimen.  It  is  taken  from  u 
play  in  which  Alexander,  Duke  of  Parma,  relates  how  he  is 
become  the  rival  of  Don  Caesar,  his  secretary  and  friend. 

In  g;all;mt  mood,  I  sought  my  sister's  bower, 

And  saw  with  her  and  with  her  ladies  there, 

My  Anna,  in  a  garden  of  the  Loves, 

Presiding  over  every  common  flower, 

A  fragrant  rose  and  fair ; 

Or  rather,  not  to  do  her  beauty  wrong, 

I  saw  a  star  on  beds  of  roses  glowing  ; 

Or,  midst  the  stars,  the  star  of  morning  young 

May  better  tell  my  love's  briglit  deity  ; 

Or,  on  the  morning  stars  its  light  bestowing, 

I  saw  a  dazzling  sun ;  or,  in  the  sky. 

Midst  many  brilliant  suns  of  rivalry, 

I  saw  her  shine  with  such  a  peerless  ray, 

That  heaven  was  till'd  with  that  one  glorious  day. 

But  when  she  spoke,  then  was  my  soul  entranc'd  : 

Eves,  ears,  and  every  sense  in  rapture  danc'd ; 

The  mirai'le  of  nature  stood  confess'd, 

Fair  modesty,  in  modest  beauty  dress'd. 

It  could  not  last :  she  bade  farewell  ! 

But  was  that  evening  transient  as  a  dream  ? 

Ask  Love  ;  and  he  will  tell  how  fleet  hours  seem 

Moments,  which  should  be  ages  ;  ages  well 

Might  seem  but  moments,  as  they  speed  away  ! 

And  when  she  bade  adieu, 

AVith  courteous  steps  I  wateh'd  my  love's  return. 

We  parted  !     TiCt  it  now  suffice  to  say, 

Loving,  I  die,  and  absent,  live  to  mourn  !* 

This  language  which,  if  it  be  allowed  to  be  poetical,  is  still 


Entre  galan  al  quarto  de  mi  hermana, 

Y  con  ella  y  siis  damas  vl  a  dona  Ana: 
Vi,  en  un  jardin  de  aniores. 

Que  presidia  entre  communes  flores 
La  rosa  hermosa  y  bella ; 
Mnl  digo,  que  si  l)ien  lo  considero, 
Yo  vi  entre  muchas  rosas  una  estrcUa, 
O  entre  mucli-is  estrellas  un  Luceru ; 

Y  si  raejor  en  su  Deidad  reparo, 
Vrestando  a  los  demas  sus  arrebdes, 
Entre  muchos  Luceros  vi  un  sol  claro, 

Y  al  fin  vi  un  eielo  para  muelios  solei. 

Y  tanto  su  beldad  los  excedia, 

Que  en  muchos  cielos  huvo  solo  un  dia. 


Hablando  estuve,  en  ella  divertidos 
Los  ojos,  quanto  atentos  los  oidos; 
Porque  mostraba,  en  todo  milagrosa 
Cuerila  belleza  en  discretion  hermosa. 
Despidio  se  en  efecto;  si  fue  breve 
La  tarde,  amor  lo  diga,  que  quisiera 
Que  un  siglo  intero  cada  instante  fuera; 

Y  aun  no  fuera  bastante, 

Pues  aunque  fuera  siglo,  fuera  instante. 
La  sali  acompafirndo  cortesmente, 

Y  aqui  basta  decirte 

Que    muero    amante    y    que    padesco 
ausente. 
Nadiefiesu  secrcto.  Jorn.  i,  t.  i.  p.  273. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  377 

extremely  false,  becomes  still  more  misplaced  when  it  is  em- 
ployed to  express  great  passions  or  great  sufferings.  In  a 
tragedy,  otherwise  replete  with  beautiful  passages,  and  to 
which  we  shall  return,  intitled  Amai'  despues  de  la  Muerte; 
Love  after  Death,  or  rather  the  revolt  of  the  Moors  in  the 
Alpuxarra,  Don  Alvaro  Tuzani,  one  of  the  revolted  Moors, 
running  to  tlie  aid  of  his  mistress,  finds  her  poniarded  by  a 
Spanish  soldier,  at  the  taking  of  Galera :  she  yet  breathes, 
and  recognizes  him. 

Clara. 

Thy  voice — thy  voice,  my  love,  I  fain  would  hear  : 

'Twill  give  me  life  :  'twill  make  my  death  most  happy. 

Come  nearer.     Let  me  feel  you  in  my  arms. 

Let  me  die  thus — and —        {She  dies.) 

Don  Alvako. 
Alas,  alas  !     They  err  who  say  that  love 
Can  knit  twain  hearts,  and  souls,  and  lives  in  one ; 
For  were  such  miracle  a  living  truth, 
Thou  hadst  not  fled,  or  I  had  died  with  thee ; 
Living  or  dying,  then,  we  had  not  parted, 
But  hand  in  hand  smil'd  o'er  our  equal  fate. 
Ye  heavens  !  that  see  my  anguish  ;  mountains  ndld  ! 
That  echo  it ;  winds  !  which  my  torments  hear ; 
Flames  !  that  behold  my  suflerings  ;  can  ye  all 
See  Love's  fair  starry  light  extinguish'd  thus, 
His  chief  flower  wither,  and  his  soft  breath  fail 
Come,  ye  who  know  what  love  is,  tell  me  now. 
In  these  my  sorrows,  in  this  last  distress, 
What  hope  more  is  there  for  the  wretched  lover 
Who,  on  the  night  that  should  have  cro^-n'd  his  passion 
So  long  and  faithful,  finds  his  love  (oh,  horror  !) 
Bathed  in  her  own  sweet  blood  ;  a  lily  flower 
Bespangled  with  those  frightful  drops  of  red  ; 
Gold,  precious,  purified  in  fiercest  fire  1 
What  hope,  when,  for  the  nuptial  bed  he  dream'd  of, 
He  clasps  the  cold  urn,  weeps  o'er  dust  and  ashes. 
Whom  once  he  worshipp'd,  Love's  divinity? 
Nay,  tell  me  not  of  comfort :  I'll  none  of  it. 
For  if  in  such  disasters  men  do  weep  not, 
They  will  do  ill  to  follow  other's  counsels. 
0  ye  invincible  hills  of  Alpuxarra, 
0  scene  of  the  most  shameless  coward  deed, 
Infamous  triumph,  glory  execrable  ! 
For  never  did  thy  mountains,  Alpuxarra, 
Never  thy  valleys  witness  sight  like  this  ! 
Upon  thy  highest  cliifs,  or  depths  profound. 
More  hapless  beauty  never  breathed  its  last ! 
But  why  complain  !  if  my  complaints  when  pour'd 
To  the  wild  winds  are  but  the  wild  winds'  sport  \ 
VOL.  II.  A  A 


378  ON   THE   LITERATURF 

A  correct  taste  would  have  expressed,  in  a  situation  so 
violent  and  so  calamitous,  the  agonizing  cry  of  the  lover,  and 
would  have  made  the  audience  participators  of  his  grief ;  but 
we  all  feel  that  the  language  of  Alvaro  Tuzani  is  false,  and  he 
instantly  checks  the  profound  emotion  which  the  dreadfid  in- 
cident is  calculated  to  produce  ;  a  fault  continually  repeated 
by  Calderon.  His  decided  predilection  for  investing  with  the 
beauties  of  poetry  the  language  of  all  his  personages,  deprives 
him  of  all  heartfelt  and  natural  expression.  "VVe  may  observe 
in  him  many  situations  of  an  admirable  effect,  but  we  never 
meet  with  a  passage  touching  or  sublime  from  its  simplicity 
or  its  truth. 

The  admirers  of  Calderon  have  almost  imputed  it  to  him  as 
a  merit,  that  he  has  not  clothed  any  foreign  subject  with 
national  manners.  His  patriotism,  they  say,  was  too  ardent 
to  have  allowed  him  to  adopt  any  other  forms  than  those 
peculiar  to  Spain  ;  but  he  had  the  more  occasion  to  display 
all  the  riches  of  his  imagination,  and  his  creations  have  a  fan- 
tastic character,  which  gives  a  new  charm  to  pieces  where  he 
has  not  allowed  himself  to  be  fettered  by  facts.  Such  is  the 
opinion  of  the  critics  of  Germany  ;  but  after  showing  so  much 
indulgence  on  one  side,  how  happens  it  on  the  other  side  that 
they  have  treated  with  so  much  severity  the  tragic  writers  of 
France,  for  having  given  to  their  Grecian  and  Roman  heroes 
some  traits  and  forms  of  society  drawn  from  the  Court  of 
Louis  XIV.?  An  author  of  the  Mysteries  of  the  thirteenth 
and  fourteenth  centuries  might  be  pardoned  for  confounding 
histoiy,  chronology,  and  facts.  At  that  time  information  was 
scanty,  and  one  half  of  ancient  history  was  veiled  under  clouds 
of  darkness.  But  how  shall  we  excuse  Calderon,  or  the  public 
for  whom  he  composed  his  plays,  when  we  find  him  mixing 
together  incongruous  facts,  manners,  and  events,  in  the  most 
illustrious  periods  of  Roman  history,  in  a  way  which  would 
disgust  even  a  school-boy.  Thus,  in  his  play  of  Coriolanus, 
which  he  has  entitled  The  Arms  of  Beauty,  he  represents 
Coriolanus  as  continuing  against  Sabinius,  king  of  the 
Sabines,  the  war  which  Romulus  had  already  commenced 
against  the  same  imaginary  king,  and  consequently  at  the 
distance  of  a  whole  generation  ;  and  he  even  speaks  to  us  of 
the  conquest  of  Spain  and  Africa,  of  Rome,  the  empress  of  the 
Universe,  the  rival  of  Jerusalem.*     The  character  of  Corio- 

*  La  gran  Comedia  de  las  Armas  de  la  Uermosura,  t.  1.  p.  115. 


OF    THE   SPANIARDS.  379 

lanus,  and  that  of  the  senate  and  the  people,  are  alike 
travestied.  It  is  impossible  to  recognize  a  Roman  in  the 
sentiments  of  any  person  in  the  piece.  Melastasio,  in  his 
Roman  dialogues,  was  infinitely  more  faithful  to  history  and 
to  the  manners  of  antiquity. 

But  we  must  not  attribute  to  Calderon  alone  an  ignorance 
of  foreign  manners.  Whether  it  be  deserving  of  praise  or  of 
blame,  it  was  not  peculiar  to  him,  but  belonged  to  his  country 
and  his  government.  The  circle  of  permitted  information 
became  every  day  more  circumscribed.  All  books  containing 
the  history  of  other  countries,  or  their  state  of  civilization, 
were  severely  prohibited,  for  there  was  not  one  of  them  which 
did  not  contain  a  bitter  satire  on  the  government  and  religion 
of  Spain.  How  then  could  they  be  allowed  to  study  the 
ancients,  with  whom  political  liberty  was  inseparable  from 
existence  ?  Whoever  had  been  penetrated  by  their  spirit, 
must,  at  the  same  time,  have  regretted  the  noble  privileges 
v/hich  their  nation  had  lost.  How  could  they  be  allowed  to 
contemplate  the  history  of  those  modern  nations,  whose  pro- 
sperity and  glory  were  founded  on  religious  liberty  ?  After 
having  studied  them,  would  they  themselves  have  tolerated 
the  Inquisition  ? 

There  is  one  trait  in  the  character  of  Calderon  on  which  I 
shall  insist  with  the  greater  caution,  as  I  am  sensible  that  my 
feelings  on  the  subject  are  extremely  warm.  Calderon  is,  in 
fact,  the  true  poet  of  the  Inquisition.  Animated  by  a 
religious  feeling,  which  is  too  visible  in  all  his  pieces,  he 
inspires  me  only  with  horror  for  the  faith  which  he  professes. 
No  one  ever  so  far  disfigured  Christianity ;  no  one  ever 
assigned  to  it  passions  so  ferocious,  or  morals  so  corrupt. 
Among  a  great  number  of  pieces,  dictated  by  the  same 
fanaticism,  the  one  which  best  exhibits  it,  is  that  entitled  The 
Devotion  of  the  Cross.  His  object  in  this  is  to  convince  his 
Christian  audience  that  the  adoration  of  this  sign  of  the 
Church  is  sufficient  to  exculpate  them  from  all  crimes,  and  to 
secure  the  protection  of  the  Deity.  The  hero,  Eusebio,  an 
incestuous  brigand  and  professed  assassin,  but  preserving  in 
the  midst  of  crimes  devotion  for  the  cross,  at  the  foot  of  which 
he  WBS  born,  and  the  impress  of  which  he  bears  on  his  heart, 
erects  a  cross  over  the  grave  of  each  of  his  victims,  and  often 
checks  himself  in  the  midst  of  crime  at  the  sight  of  the  sacred 
symbol.     His  sister,  Julia,  who  is  also  his  mistress,  and  is 

AA  2 


380  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

even  more  abandoned  and  ferocious  than  himself,  exhibits 
the  same  degree  of  superstition.  He  is  at  length  slain  in  a 
combat  against  a  party  of  soldiers  commanded  by  his  own 
father  ;  but  God  restores  him  to  life  again,  in  order  that  a 
holy  saint  may  receive  his  confession,  and  thus  assure  his 
reception  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  His  sister,  on  the 
point  of  being  appreliended,  and  of  becoming  at  length  the 
victim  of  her  monstrous  iiii(|uities,  embraces  a  cross,  which 
she  finds  at  her  side,  and  vows  to  return  to  her  convent  and 
deplore  her  sins  ;  and  this  cross  suddenly  rises  into  the  skies, 
and  bears  her  far  away  from  her  enemies  to  an  impenetrable 
asylum. 

We  have  thus  in  a  manner  laid  the  cause  of  Calderon 
before  the  reader,  and  made  him  acquainted  with  both  sides 
of  the  question.  Let  it  not,  however,  be  imagined  that  the 
faults  which  I  have  brought  forward  are  sufficient  to  obliterate 
the  beauties  which  liave  been  so  highly  extolled  by  Schlegel. 
There  are,  doubtless,  sufficient  left  to  place  Calderon  amongst 
the  poets  of  the  richest  and  most  original  ftmcy,  and  of  the 
most  attractive  and  brilliant  style.  It  now  only,  remains  for 
me  to  make  him  known  by  his  own  works,  and  to  present  an 
analysis  of  some  of  his  most  striking  pieces.  Of  these  I  shall 
select  two  in  the  most  opposite  styles,  but  with  tlie  decided 
intention  of  placing  before  the  reader  such  instances  of  the 
genius  and  sensibility  of  this  celebrated  author  as  appear 
worthy  of  imitation,  and  not  with  a  desire  of  dwelling  on  his 
defects,  which  I  have  already  sufficiently  pointed  out. 

I  shall  commence  with  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
enjrafirin";  of  his  comedies  of  intrigue.  It  is  called  El  Seci'eto 
a  Vozes,  or  The  Secret  in  Words.  The  scene  is  laid  in 
Parma,  which  is  d(!scribed  in  so  particular  a  manner  that  wc 
cannot  doubt  that  the  author  resided  in  this  city  during  his 
campaigns  in  Italy,  and  that  he  had  the  scenery  fresh  in  his 
recollection.  But  the  period  of  time  is  imaginary,  and  is  re- 
ferred to  the  sup})osed  reign  of  a  duchess  Flerida,  heiress  to 
the  duchy  of  Parma,  a  mere  imaginary  personage.  This 
princess,  suffering  under  a  secret  passion,  surrounds  her 
court  with  all  the  fascinations  of  art  in  order  to  divert  her 
grief.  The  action  commences  in  the  gardens,  and  the  scene 
opens  with  a  troop  of  musicians,  who  sing  as  they  cross  the 
stage,  and  are  followed  by  the  whole  court.  The  chorus 
celebrates  the  empire  of  Love  over  Reason;  and  Flora,  one  of 


OF   THE    SPANIARDS.  381 

the  ladies  of  the  duchess,  responds  in  strains  of  love.  In  the 
mean  time,  two  knights  by  turns  advance  to  view  in  her 
retreat  this  beautiful  princess.  The  first,  Frederick,  the  hero 
of  the  piece,  is  one  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  duchess  ;  the 
second,  who  conceals  himself  under  the  name  of  Henry,  is 
the  Duke  of  Mantua,  who,  enamoured  of  Flerida,  and  having 
already  demanded  her  in  marriage,  wishes  to  appear  to  her 
in  the  character  of  a  private  gentleman,  and  thus  to  contem- 
plate her  moi-e  nearly.  For  this  purpose  he  addresses  him- 
self to  the  young  and  gallant  Frederick,  to  whom  he  confides 
his  secret,  and  with  whom  he  is  lodging.  Fabio,  the  valet  of 
Frederick,  is  not  admitted  into  the  secret  ;  and  his  curiosity, 
which  manifests  itself  from  the  first  scene,  renders  the  spec- 
tator more  attentive  to  the  disguise  of  Henry.  By  the  ques- 
tions of  Henry  and  the  replies  of  Frederick,  we  are  made 
acquainted  with  the  character  of  the  duchess. 

The  latter  returns,  and  while  she  observes  with  Frederick 
the  tone  of  a  sovereign,  she  still  betrays  that  she  is  agitated 
by  a  tender  emotion.  She  is  aware  that  Frederick  is  the 
author  of  the  verses  which  had  just  been  sung  before  her  ; 
she  remarks  that  they  are  love-verses  ;  and  that  all  the  verses 
which  he  composes  turn  on  love  and  its  sorrows.  She  wishes 
him  to  name  the  object  of  his  passion  ;  but  Frederick,  who 
laments  his  poverty  and  ascribes  to  it  alone  his  want  of  suc- 
cess, utters  nothing  which  may  discover  his  secret,  or  flatter 
the  desire  of  Flerida  to  see  herself  beloved  by  him. 

Meanwhile  Henry  presents  himself  as  a  knight  of  the  duke 
of  Mantua.  He  bears  a  letter  of  recommendation  to  the 
duchess,  of  his  own  writing,  in  which  he  requests  an  asylum  until 
his  reconciliation  with  a  family,  irritated  agiiinst  him  by  the 
consequences  of  a  duel  in  which  a  love  aflfair  had  engaged  him. 
Whilst  the  duchess  reads  the  letter  and  the  courtiers  converse 
together,  Frederick  approaclies  Laura,  the  first  lady  of  the 
court  and  the  secret  object  of  his  passion.  They  have  a 
mutual  understanding,  and  maintain  a  correspondence ;  and 
Laura,  by  stealth,  hands  him  a  letter  concealed  in  the  glove 
of  the  duchess. 

Flerida  then  invites  the  stranger  to  participate  in  the  games 
which  form  the  entertainment  of  the  court.  These  are  ques- 
tions on  points  of  love  and  gallantry,  which  are  agitated  with 
all  the  subtlety  of  the  Platonic  philosophy.  Tliat  of  the  day 
is  to  decide  what  is  the  greatest  pain  in  love.     Every  one 


382  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

advances  a  different  proposition,  and  supports  it  with  argu- 
ments sufficiently  laboured  ;  but  the  princess,  whose  only- 
pleasure  consists  in  these  exercises  of  the  mind  and  this 
affectation  of  sensibility,  gives  additional  room  for  conjec- 
turing that  she  is  tormented  by  an  unequal  passion,  and  one 
which  she  dares  not  avow. 

The  duchess,  with  her  whole  court,  retires.  Frederick 
remains  alone  with  his  valet,  and  reads  the  letter  he  has 
received.  He  distrusts  his  valet,  and  conceals  from  him  the 
name  of  his  mistress,  and  the  manner  in  which  he  obtains 
her  letters  ;  but  by  this  he  only  excites  more  strongly  the 
curiosity  of  Fabio,  who  takes  all  that  he  sees  for  enchant- 
ment; and  he  has  not  the  precaution  to  conceal  from  Fabio  the 
purport  of  the  letter,  an  appointment  that  very  evening  under 
the  window  of  his  mistress.  The  duchess  in  the  mean  time 
sends  for  Fabio,  and  bribes  hira  with  a  chain  of  gold  to  name 
the  lady  to  whom  his  master  is  attached.  The  faithless  valet 
has  it  not  in  his  power  to  betray  his  master,  but  he  apprises 
Flerida  of  the  rendezvous  with  an  unknown  lady,  to  which 
his  master  was  that  night  invited.  Flerida,  tormented  by 
jealousy,  orders  Fabio  to  watch  narrowly  the  movements  of 
his  master,  and  she  on  her  side  seeks  to  interrupt  the  happi- 
ness of  the  two  lovers.  Frederick  brings  her  some  state 
papers  to  sign  ;  she  lays  them  aside,  and  gives  him  a  letter 
for  the  Duke  of  Mantua,  with  directions  to  deliver  it  that 
very  night.  Frederick  despatches  his  valet  to  order  his 
horses  ;  but  after  having  communicated  with  the  Duke  of 
Mantua,  they  agree  that  he  shall  open  the  letter  addressed  to 
him,  and  that  if  Flerida  has  not  discovered  that  he  is  con- 
cealed under  the  name  of  Henry,  he  shall  answer  it  as  if  he 
had  received  it  at  home. 

Night  arrives,  and  Laura  is  on  the  point  of  repairing  to  the 
window  at  which  she  had  made  the  appointment  with  her 
lover,  when  the  duchess  calls  her,  and  informs  her  that  she 
had  discovered  that  one  of  her  ladies  had  made  an  appoint- 
ment to  meet  a  gentleman  at  one  of  the  palace  windows.  She 
is  anxious  to  discover  which  of  them  could  dare  so  far  to 
violate  the  laws  of  decorum,  and  has  made  choice  of  Laura, 
as  the  most  trustworthy  of  her  train,  to  watch  over  the  rest 
of  the  house.  She  then  orders  her  to  descend  to  the  lattice, 
and  to  observe  minutely  all  that  approach.  In  this  manner  she 
sends  her  herself  without  suspicion  to  the  very  appointment 


OP   THE    SPANIARDS.  383 

which  she  wished  to  prevent.  Shortly  after,  some  one  is 
heard  to  strike  against  the  lattice,  the  signal  agreed  on,  and 
Frederick  appears  at  the  window.  The  two  lovers  have 
a  short  explanation.  Laura  is  offended  at  the  duchess  being 
made  acquainted  with  their  meeting,  and  is  jealous  of  the 
interest  which  Flerida  seems  to  take  in  it.  However,  they 
exchange  portraits,  and  that  which  Fi-ederick  gives  her  com- 
pletely resembles  in  the  setting  that  which  he  receives  from 
her.  He  promises  to  give  her  on  the  day  following  a  cypher, 
by  means  of  which  they  may  understand  each  other  in  the 
presence  of  other  persons.  It  is  this  cypher  which  gives  to 
the  play  the  name  of  the  Secret  in  Words. 

At  the  commencement  of  the  second  act,  Frederick  and 
Fabio  in  travelling  dresses  appear  on  the  stage  with  Henry. 
The  latter  finding  that  the  duchess  did  not  suspect  him,  has 
answered  the  letter,  and  Frederick  is  the  bearer  of  his  reply. 
He  presents  to  the  duchess,  to  the  great  astonishment  of  his 
valet,  the  answer  of  the  Duke  of  Mantua  ;  and  he  takes  the 
opportunity  of  giving  to  Laura  a  letter,  which  he  pretends 
to  have  received  from  one  of  her  relatives  at  Mantua.  In 
this  is  contained  the  concerted  cypher.  The  letter  runs  thus : 
"Whenever,  Signora,  you  wish  to  address  me,  begin  by 
making  a  sign  with  your  handkerchief,  in  order  to  engage  my 
attention.  Then,  on  whatever  subject  you  speak,  let  the 
first  word  of  the  sentence  be  for  me,  and  the  rest  for  the 
company  ;  so  that  by  uniting  all  your  first  words,  I  shall 
discover  what  you  wished  to  communicate.  You  will  do  the 
like  when  I  give  the  signal  for  speaking  myself."  Laura 
did  not  long  delay  making  a  trial  of  this  ingenious  cypher. 
Fabio  tells  the  duchess  that  his  master  had  not  been  to 
Mantua  during  the  night,  but  that  on  the  contrary,  he  had 
communicated  with  his  mistress,  and  Laura  warns  Frederick 
of  this  circumstance.  Her  speech  is  composed  of  sixteen 
short  words,  which  commence  sixteen  little  verses  ;  but  she 
never  speaks  more  than  a  stanza  at  a  time ;  and  Frederick, 
uniting  the  first  words  of  each  verse,  repeats  them,  and  thus 
spares  the  audience  the  trouble  of  connecting  them  after  him. 
This  stage-trick  is  very  diverting  ;  and  the  perplexed  ex- 
pressions of  Laura,  who  makes  use  of  the  longest  circumlo- 
cutions to  express  the  most  simple  things,  in  order  to  intro- 
duce at  the  commencement  of  the  stanzas  the  words  for 
which  she  has  occasion,  add  still  more  to  the  humour  of  the 


384  ON    THE   LITERATURE 

situation.  But  what  is  most  laughable,  is  the  surprise  of 
Fabio,  who,  left  alone  with  his  master,  and  without  having 
been  out  of  his  sight,  suddenly  finds  that  he  is  informed  of 
his  treachery.  Frederick  is  on  the  point  of  punishing  this 
babbler,  when  he  is  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Henry. 

In  the  mean  time  Fabio,  not  warned  by  the  danger  which 
he  has  already  incurred,  returns  to  the  duchess,  and  informs 
her,  that  he  has  seen  in  the  hands  of  liis  master  the  portrait 
of  a  lady,  and  that  he  is  sure  that  he  carries  it  in  his  pocket. 
The  duchess,  whose  jealousy  continues  to  increase,  though 
it  is  not  directed  to  Laura,  invents  a  stratagem  to  obtain  from 
Frederick  the  portrait,  at  tlie  moment  when  he  brings  papers 
of  state  for  her  signature.  She  commands  him  to  lay  them 
down  and  depart,  since  she  can  no  longer  have  confidence  ia 
a  man  who  has  betrayed  her,  and  who  has  been  in  correspondence 
with  her  mortal  enemy.  Frederick  is  astonished,  and  at  first 
believes  she  is  reproaching  him  for  having  introduced  the 
duke  of  Mantua  into  the  palace  ;  he  implores  forgiveness  ; 
and  Flerida  is  confounded  at  discovering  a  traitor  in  the 
object  of  her  love.  Their  mutual  surprise  renders  the  scene 
higldy  interesting.  The  duchess,  however,  after  having 
drawn  forth  an  explanation  respecting  Henry,  resumes  her 
accusation.  She  reproaches  Frederick  with  maintaining  a 
criminal  correspondence  ;  she  questions  his  honour  ;  and 
compels  him  to  produce  all  the  papers  on  his  person,  and  the 
keys  of  his  bureau.  This  was  what  she  aimed  at,  as  the 
accusation  was  merely  a  stratagem  to  obtain  the  contents  of 
his  pockets,  and  the  case  with  the  portrait  makes  its  appear- 
ance, the  only  object  which  she  wishes  to  see,  and  the  only 
one  which  he  refuses.  She  would  indeed  have  effected  her 
object,  if  Laura  had  not  succeeded  in  adroitly  changing  her 
portrait  for  that  of  Frederick,  which  was  in  a  similar  case  ; 
in  such  a  manner,  that  when  the  duchess  opens  the  suspected 
case  she  finds  only  the  image  of  the  man  from  whom  she 
has  taken  it. 

Fabio  appears  alone  at  the  commencement  of  the  third  act. 
He  has  the  exact  character  of  the  Italian  harlequin  ;  inquisi- 
tive, cowardly,  and  greedy.  When  he  betrays  his  master,  it 
is  more  from  his  folly  than  his  malice,  and  he  is  insensible  to 
the  mischief  which  he  occasions.  His  pleasantries  are  often 
gross  ;  he  narrates  many  tales  to  the  duchrss  as  well  as  to 
bis  master,  and  these  tales  are  in  the  most  vulgar  taste.     The 


OP   THE   SPANIARDS.  385 

French  stage  has,  in  regard  to  decorinn,  an  infinite  advan- 
tage over  those  of  other  countries.  Fabio,  however,  uneasy 
under  his -master's  displeasure,  liides  himself  in  his  apartment 
until  the  storm  be  passed  over.  Frederick  soon  afterwards 
enters  with  Henry,  and  Fabio  unintentionally  overhears  their 
conversation.  Frederick  informs  Henry,  that  the  duchess  is 
aware  that  he  is  the  duke  of  Mantua,  and  that  it  is  useless  to 
disguise  himself  longer.  At  the  same  time  he  confides  to  him 
the  embarrassment  he  is  in  respecting  his  mistress.  Sensible 
of  the  danger  she  incurs  in  being  the  rival  of  the  duchess, 
Laura  has  resolved  to  flv  with  her  lover,  who  is  for  that 
purpose  to  be  ready  with  two  horses  at  the  extremity  of  the 
bridge,  between  the  park  and  the  palace.  Henry  promises 
not  only  to  give  him  an  asylum,  but  to  conduct  him  himself 
to  the  borders  of  his  state.  As  soon  as  they  are  gone  out  to 
make  their  preparations,  Fabio  issues  from  his  concealment, 
and  hastens  to  disclose  to  the  duchess  all  that  he  has  by 
chance  overheard. 

The  scene  is  then  transferred  to  the  palace.  The  duchess 
throughout  makes  Laura  her  confidant,  and  reveals  to  her  her 
love  for  Frederick,  her  desire  to  speak  openly  to  him,  and  to 
elevate  him  to  her  own  rank  by  marriage.  The  jealousy  she 
by  this  excites  in  Laura  is  still  further  augmented  by 
Frederick,  who  comes  in  and  pays  his  sovereign  a  gallant 
compliment.  A  quarrel  and  reconciliation  now  take  place 
between  the  two  lovers,  by  means  of  the  cypher,  from  whicix 
they  appear  to  address  the  duchess  on  subjects  relating  to 
the  court.  The  duchess  then  indulges  some  hope  ;  but  she 
is  again  troubled  at  the  report  of  Fabio,  who  informs  her  of 
the  intended  flight  of  his  master.  She  addresses  herself  to 
Ernest,  the  father  of  Laura,  and  desires  him  not  to  lose 
sight  of  Frederick  for  a  moment  during  the  whole  night. 
She  assigns,  as  a  reason,  a  duel  in  which  he  was  engaged  by 
a  love-affair,  and  from  which  she  wishes  him  to  be  restrained 
at  all  risks.  She  authorises  Ernest  to  take  with  him  her 
body  guard,  to  act  in  case  of  necessity.  Ernest  arrives  at 
the  house  of  Frederick  at  the  moment  when  the  latter  is 
issuing  from  it.  He  is  aware  that  his  mistress  and  the  duke 
are  waiting  for  him  ;  that  the  hour  is  passing  by,  and  that 
the  visit  of  the  talkative  old  man  is  not  likely  soon  to  end. 
Frederick  tries  all  methods  to  rid  himself  of  his  importunities, 
Viut   Ei'nest   repels   them  with    a   well-managed   obstinacy, 


386  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

which  agrees  admirably  witli  the  character  of  an  aged 
flatterer.  At  last  Frederick  declares  his  intention  of  going 
out  alone,  when  Ernest  calls  in  his  guards  with  orders  to 
arrest  him.  Frederick's  house  has,  happily,  two  outlets. 
He  escapes,  and  soon  after  arrives  at  the  park  where  Laura 
is  in  waiting  for  him.  The  latter  on  her  side,  is  surprised 
by  Flerida,  who,  not  trusting  wholly  to  Ernest,  wishes  to 
assure  herself  personally  that  the  lovers  do  not  meet. 
Frederick  calls,  and  the  duchess  obliges  Laui'a  to  answer. 
In  spite  of  all  the  artifices  of  Laura,  who  still  dissembles,  the 
duchess  clearly  discovers  their  attachment,  and  their  project 
for  flying  together.  She  hesitates  for  some  time  as  to  what 
she  ought  to  do  ;  she  yields  by  turns  to  jealousy  and  to  love  ; 
but  she  adopts  at  last  a  generous  resolve.  She  marries 
Laura  to  Frederick,  and  gives  her  own  hand  to  the  duke 
of  Mantua. 

I  have  thought  it  better,  in  order  to  convey  to  the  reader 
an  idea  of  the  genius  of  Calderon,  and  of  the  fertile  invention 
which  he  manifests  in  his  plots,  to  give  a  full  analysis  of  a 
single  play,  rather  than  to  glance  only  at  a  greater  number. 
At  the  same  time,  nothing  appears  so  difficult  to  me  as 
to  give  a  just  idea  of  his  pieces.  The  poetry  in  them, 
which  forms  by  turns  their  chai'm  and  their  defect,  cannot 
possibly  be  translated,  in  consequence  of  its  briUiant  and 
exaggerated  colours.  The  sentiments  are  so  strongly  im- 
pressed with  a  foreign  character,  that  with  whatever  fidelity 
they  may  be  rendered,  a  Spaniard  only  can  judge  of  their 
accuracy,  and  the  pleasantries  are  all  national.  In  both  the 
heroic  and  comic  pieces,  the  emotion  or  the  mirth  arises 
almost  entirely  from  a  complicated  plot,  which,  even  in  the 
original  requires  our  constant  attention,  to  make  ourselves 
masters  of  it,  and  which  necessarily  becomes  confused  in  an 
extract  where  many  of  the  intermediate  links  are  wanting. 
Every  one  of  these  Spanish  plays  contains  ample  matter  for 
three  or  four  French  comedies :  and  the  zeal  with  which  the 
author  himself  enters  into  this  labyrinth,  does  not  allow  him 
time  to  develope  the  situations,  and  to  draw  from  the  feelings 
of  his  characters  the  full  expression  of  their  passions. 

The  plays  of  Calderon  are  not  divided  into  comedies  and 
tragedies.  They  all  bear  the  same  title  of  La  gran  Comedia, 
which  was  probably  given  to  them  by  the  actors  in  their 
bills,  in  order  to  attract  public  notice  ;  and  which  appellation 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  387 

has  remained  to  them.  They  all  belong:  to  the  same  class. 
We  find  the  same  passions,  and  the  same  characters,  which, 
according  to  the  developement  of  the  plot,  produce  either  a 
calamitous  or  a  fortunate  catastrophe,  without  our  being 
able  to  foresee  it  from  the  title  or  from  the  first  scenes. 
Thus,  neither  the  rank  of  the  persons,  nor  the  exposition,  nor 
the  first  incidents,  prepare  the  Spectator  for  emotions  such 
as  are  produced  by  The  Constant  Prince,  and  the  Secreto  a 
Vozes.  The  Constant  Prince,  or  rather  The  Inflexible  Prince, 
the  Regulus  of  Spain,  is  one  of  the  most  moving  plays  of 
Calderon.  In  a  translation  by  Schlegel,  it  is  at  present  per- 
formed with  great  success  on  the  German  stage,  and  I  think 
myself  justified  in  giving  a  full  analysis  of  it. 

The  Portuguese,  after  having  driven  the  Moors  from  the 
whole  western  coast  of  the  Peninsula,  passed  over  into  Africa 
to  pursue  still  farther  the  enemies  of  their  faith.  They  un- 
dertook the  conquest  of  the  kingdoms  of  Fez  and  Morocco. 
The  same  ardour  led  them  to  seek  a  new  passage  to  the 
Indies,  and  to  plant  the  standard  of  Portugal  on  the  coast  of 
Guinea,  in  the  kingdom  of  Congo,  at  Mozambique,  at  Diu, 
at  Goa,  and  Macao.  John  I.  had  conquered  Ceuta.  At  his 
death  he  left  several  sons,  all  of  whom  wished  to  distinguish 
themselves  against  the  infidels.  Edward,  who  succeeded 
him,  sent  his  two  brothers,  in  the  year  1438,  with  a  fleet,  to 
attempt  the  conquest  of  Tangiers.  One  of  these  was  Ferdi- 
nand, the  hero  of  Calderon,  the  most  valiant  of  princes  ;  the 
other  was  Henry,  who  was  afterwards  celebrated  for  his 
assiduous  efforts  in  exploring  the  sea  of  Guinea,  in  order  to 
discover  the  passage  to  the  Indies.  Their  expedition  is  the 
subject  of  this  tragedy. 

The  first  scene  is  laid  in  the  gardens  of  the  King  of  Fez, 
where  the  attendants  of  Phenicia,  a  Moorish  princess,  call 
upon  some  Christian  slaves  to  sing,  in  order  to  entertain 
their  mistress.  "  How,"  they  reply,  "  can  our  singing  be 
agreeable  to  her,  when  its  only  accompaniment  is  the  sound 
of  the  fetters  and  chains  which  bind  us  ?"  They  sing,  how- 
ever, until  Phenicia  appears,  surrounded  by  her  women. 
The  latter  address  to  her  the  most  flattering  compliments  on 
her  beauty,  in  that  eastern  style  which  the  Spanish  language 
has  preserved,  and  which  its  extravagance  would  render 
absurd  in  any  other.  Phenicia  in  sadness  repels  their  atten- 
tions J  she  speaks  of  her  grief ;  and  she  attributes  it  to  a 


388  ON   THE   LITERATURE 

passion  which  she  cannot  vanquish,  and  which  seems  to  be 
accompanied  by  sorrowful  presentiments.  Her  discourse 
consists  wholly  of  description  and  of  brilliant  images.  We 
are  not  to  regard  the  tragedies  of  Calderon  as  an  imitation 
of  Nature,  but  as  an  image  of  Nature  in  the  poetical  world, 
as  the  opera  is  an  image  of  it  in  the  musical  world.  This 
requires  from  the  spectators  a  tacit  convention  to  lend  them- 
selves to  a  language  beyond  the  rules  of  Nature,  in  order  to 
enjoy  the  union  of  the  fine  arts  with  an  action  in  real  life. 

Phenicia  is  attached  to  Muley  Cheik,  cousin  of  the  King  of 
Fez,  and  his  admiral  and  general  ;  but  her  father  wishes  to 
marry  her  to  Tarudant,  Prince  of  Morocco.  She  has  scarcely 
received  this  intelligence  when  Muley  returns  from  a  cruise, 
and  announces  to  the  king  the  approach  of  a  Portuguese 
fleet,  commanded  by  two  princes,  and  carrying  fourteen 
thousand  soldiers  for  the  attack  of  Tangiers.  His  speech, 
Avhich  is  intended  to  serve  as  an  explanation  of  the  principal 
action,  is  two  hundred  and  ten  lines  in  length ;  but  all  the 
splendour  of  the  poetry  with  which  it  is  interspersed  would 
not  be  able  to  procure  attention  in  France  to  so  long  an 
liarangue.  Muley  receives  order.s  to  oppose  the  landing  of 
the  Portuguese  with  the  cavalry  of  the  coast. 

The  landing  is  the  subject  of  the  next  scene.  It  is  effected 
near  Tangiers  amidst  tlie  sound  of  clarions  and  trumpets.  In 
the  midst  of  tliis  military  pomp  each  of  the  Christian  heroes, 
as  he  reaches  the  shore,  manifests  his  character,  his  hopes  and 
fears,  and  the  manner  in  which  he  is  affected  by  the  evil 
omens  whicli  befel  them  on  their  voyage.  Whilst  Fernando 
is  endeavouring  to  dispel  this  superstitious  fear  from  the 
liearts  of  hi.s  knights,  he  is  attacked  by  Muley  Cheik,  but  he 
obtains  an  easy  victory  over  this  suddenly  assembled  body  of 
cavalry.  Muley  himself  falls  into  his  hands,  and  Fernando, 
not  less  generous  than  brave,  when  he  finds  that  his  prisoner 
runs  the  danger,  by  his  captivity,  of  losing  for  ever  the  object 
of  his  love,  restores  Muley  to  his  liberty  without  a  ransom. 

In  the  mean  while  the  kings  of  Fez  and  Morocco  had 
assembled  their  armies,  and  advanced  with  an  overwhelming 
force.  Retreat  is  now  become  impossible  to  the  Portuguese, 
and  their  only  resource  is  in  tlieir  resolution  to  die  like  brave 
soldiers  and  Christian  knights.  Even  this  hope  is  frustrated, 
as  the  Moors  obtain  the  victory  ;  and  Fernando,  after  having 
fought  valiantly,  surrenders  to  the  King  of  Fez,  who  makes 


OF    THE    SPANIAKDS.  389 

himself  known  to  hira.  His  brother  Henry  also  delivers 
himself  up  with  the  flower  of  the  Portuguese  army.  Tiie 
Moorish  king  makes  a  generous  use  of  his  victory,  and  treats 
the  prince  with  a  regard  and  courtesy  that  are  due  to  an 
equal  when  he  is  no  longer  an  enemy.  He  declares  that  he 
cannot  restore  him  to  liberty  until  the  restitution  of  Ceuta, 
and  he  sends  back  Henry  to  Portugal  to  procure  by  this 
means  the  ransom  of  his  brother.  It  is  on  this  that  the  fate 
of  Fernando  turns,  as  he  is  unwilling  that  his  liberty  should 
cost  Portugal  her  most  brilliant  conquest ;  and  he  charges 
Henry  to  remind  his  brother  that  he  is  a  Cliristian,  and  a 
Christian  Prince.     This  ends  the  first  act. 

In  the  second  act  Don  Fernando  appears  surrounded  by 
Christian  captives,  who  recognize  him,  and  hasten  to  throw 
themselves  at  his  feet,  hoping  to  escape  from  slavery  with 
him.     Fernando  addresses  them  : 

My  countrjinen,  your  hands  !     IleaTen  only  knows 
How  gladly  I  would  rend  your  galling-  chains, 
And  fi'eely  yield  my  freedom  up  for  yours  ! 
Tet,  oh  !  believe,  the  more  benignant  fate 
That  waits  us,  soon  shall  soothe  our  bitter  lot. 
The  wretched,  well  I  know,  ask  not  for  counsel ; 
But  pardon  me,  'tis  all  I  have  to  give  : 
No  more  ;  but  to  your  tasks,  lest  ye  should  rouse 
Your  masters'  wrath. 

The  King  of  Fez  prepares  a  feast  for  Fernando,  proposes 
to  him  a  hunting  excursion,  and  tells  him  that  captives  like 
him  are  an  honour  to  the  man  who  detains  them.  During 
these  transactions  Don  Henry  returns  from  Portugal.  Grief 
for  the  defeat  at  Tangiers  has  caused  the  death  of  the  king, 
but  in  expiring  he  had  given  orders  to  restore  Ceuta  to  the 
King  of  Fez,  for  the  redemption  of  the  captives  ;  and 
Alfonso  v.,  who  had  succeeded  him,  sends  Henry  back  to 
Africa  to  make  the  exchange  ;  bnt  Fernando  thus  repels  his 
endeavours: 

Heniy,  forbear  1     Such  words  may  well  debase 

Not  only  him  who  boasts  himself  a  true 

Soldier  of  Christ,  and  prince  of  Portugal, 

But  even  the  lowest  of  barbarians,  void 

Of  Christian  faith.     Jly  brother,  well  I  deem, 

In.serted  this  condition  in  his  will, 

Not  that  it  should  be  acted  to  the  letter, 

But  to  express  how  much  his  noble  heart 

Desir'd  a  brother's  freedom.     That  must  be 

Obtaiu'd  by  other  means ;  by  peace  or  war. 


390  ON   THE   LITERATURE 

How  ever  may  a  Christian  prince  restore 

A  city  to  the  Moors,  bought  with  the  price 

Of  his  own  blood  .'  for  he  it  was,  who  tirst, 

Arm'd  with  a  slender  buckler  and  his  sword, 

Planted  our  country's  banner  on  its  walls. 

But  even  if  we  o'erlook  this  valiant  deed, 

Shall  we  forsake  a  city  that  hath  rear'd 

Within  its  walls  new  temples  to  our  God  ? 

Our  faith,  religion.  Christian  piety, 

Our  country's  honour,  all  forbid  the  deed. 

What  !  shall  the  dwelling  of  the  living  God 

Bow  to  the  Moorish  crescent  ?    Shall  its  walls 

Ee-echo  to  the  insulting  courser's  hoof, 

Lodg'd  in  the  sacred  courts,  or  to  the  creed 

Of  unbelievers  ]     Where  our  God  hath  fix'd 

His  mansion,  shall  we  drive  his  people  forth] 

The  faithful,  who  inhabit  our  new  town, 

May,  tempted  by  mischance,  haply  abjure 

Their  faith.     The  Moors  may  train  the  Christian  youth 

To  their  own  barbarous  rites  ;  and  is  it  meet 

So  many  perish  to  redeem  one  man 

From  slavery  ]    And  what  am  I  but  a  man  ] 

A  man  now  reft  of  his  nobility ; 

No  more  a  prince  or  soldier ;  a  mere  slave  ! 

And  shall  a  slave,  at  such  a  golden  price, 

Kedecm  his  life  ?     Look  down  upon  me,  king, 

Behold  thy  slave,  who  a-sks  not  to  be  free ; 

Such  ransom  I  abjure.     Henry,  return ; 

And  tell  our  countrymen  that  thou  has  left 

Thy  brother  buried  on  the  Afric  shore, 

For  life  is  here,  indeed,  a  living  death  ! 

Christians,  henceforth  believe  Fernando  dead  ; 

Moors,  seize  your  slave.     My  captive  countrj-men  ! 

Another  comrade  joins  your  luckless  band; 

And  king,  kind  brother,  Moors,  and  Christians,  all 

Bear  witness  to  a  prince's  constancy. 

Whose  love  of  God,  his  country,  and  his  faith, 

O'erlived  the  frowns  of  fortune. 

The  King.' 

Proud  and  ungrateful  prince,  and  is  it  thus 
Thou  spurn'st  my  favour,  thus  repay'st  my  kindness] 
Deniest  my  sole  request  ]     Thou  haply  here 
Thinkest  thyself  sole  ruler,  and  would'st  sway 
My  kingdom  ]     But,  henceforth  thou  shalt  be 
By  that  vile  name  thou  hast  thyself  assumed— 
A  slave  !  thou  shalt  be  treated  as  a  slave. 
Thy  brother  and  thy  countrymen  shall  see 
Thee  lick  the  dust,  and  kiss  my  royal  feet. 

After  a  Avarm  altercation,  and  vain  solicitations,  the  king 
calls  one  of  his  oliicers  : 


OP    THE    SPANIARDS.  391 

Hence  with  this  captive  !  rank  him  with  the  rest : 
Bind  ou  his  neck  and  limbs  a  heavy  chain. 
My  horses  be  his  care,  the  bath,  the  garden. 
Let  him  be  humbled  by  all  abject  tasks  ; 
Away  with  his  silk  mantle  ;  clothe  his  limbs 
In  the  slave's  garb.     His  food,  the  blackest  bread ; 
Water  his  drink ;  a  cold  cell  his  repose ; 
And  let  his  servants  share  their  master's  fate. 

We  next  see  Fernando  in  the  garden, working  with  the  other 
slaves.  One  of  the  captives,  who  does  not  know  him,  sings 
before  him  a  romance,  of  which  he  is  the  hero  ;  another  bids 
him  be  of  good  heart,  as  the  prince,  Don  Fernando,  had 
promised  to  procure  them  all  their  liberty.  Don  Juan  Con- 
tinho,  Count  ofMiralva,  one  of  the  Portuguese  knights,  who, 
from  the  time  of  their  landing,  had  been  the  most  distin- 
guished for  his  bravery  and  attachment  to  Fernando,  devotes 
himself  to  him,  makes  a  vow  not  to  quit  him,  and  introduces 
him  to  the  prisoners,  all  of  whom,  in  the  midst  of  their 
sufferings,  hasten  to  shew  him  respect.  Muley  Cheik  now 
arrives,  and,  dismissing  all  witnesses,  addresses  Fernando : — 
"  Learn,"  he  says,  "  that  loyalty  and  honour  have  their 
abode  in  the  heart  of  a  Moor.  I  come  not  to  confer  a 
favour,  but  to  discharge  a  debt."  He  then  hastily  informs 
him  that  he  will  find  near  the  window  of  his  prison  insti'u- 
ments  for  releasing  himself  from  his  fetters  ;  that  he  himself 
will  break  the  bars,  and  that  a  vessel  will  wait  for  him  at  the 
shore  to  convey  him  home  to  his  own  country.  The  king 
surprises  them  at  this  moment,  and  instead  of  manifesting 
any  suspicions,  he  engages  Muley,  by  the  ties  of  honour  and 
duty,  to  execute  his  wishes.  He  confides  to  him  the 
custody  of  Prince  Fernando,  assured  that  he  alone  is  above 
all  corruption,  and  that  neither  friendship,  fear,  nor  interest, 
can  seduce  him.  Muley  feels  that  his  duties  have  changed 
since  the  king  has  reposed  this  confidence  in  him.  He  still, 
however,  hesitates  between  honour  and  gratitude.  Fernando, 
whom  he  consults,  decides  against  himself.  That  prince 
declares  that  he  will  not  avail  himself  of  his  offer ;  that  he 
will  even  refuse  his  liberty,  if  any  one  else  should  propose 
his  escape  ;  and  Muley  submits  at  last  with  regret,  to  what 
he  considers  the  law  of  duty  and  of  honour. 

Not  being  himself  able  to  restore  his  benefactor  to  liberty, 
Muley  endeavours  to  obtain  liis  freedom  through  the  gene- 
rosity of  the  Moorish  king.     At  the  commencement  of  the 


392  ON   THE    LITERATURE 

third  act  we  see  him  imploring  his  compassion  on  behalf  of 
his  prisoner.  lie  gives  a  moving  picture  of  the  state  to 
wliich  tliis  unhappy  prince  is  reduced :  sleeping  in  damp 
dungeons,  working  at  the  baths  and  in  the  stables,  deprived 
of  food,  sinking  under  disease,  and  resting  on  a  mat  at  one 
of  the  gates  of  his  master's  house.  The  details  of  his 
misery  are  such,  tliat  the  taste  of  the  French  stage  would  not 
suffer  even  an  allusion  to  them.  One  of  his  servants  and  a 
faithful  knight  attach  themselves  to  him,  and  never  quit  him; 
dividing  with  him  their  small  ration,  which  is  scarcely 
sulHcient  for  the  support  of  a  single  person.  The  king  hears 
these  revolting  details,  but  recognizing  only  obstinacy  in  the 
conduct  of  the  prince,  he  replies  in  two  words :  "  'Tis  well, 
Muley."  Phenicia  comes,  in  her  turn,  to  intercede  with  her 
I'atlier  for  Fernando,  but  he  imposes  silence  on  her.  The  two 
ambassadors  of  Morocco  and  Portugal  are  then  announced, 
and  prove  to  be  the  sovereigns  themselves,  Tarudant  and 
Alfonso  v.,  who  avail  themselves  of  the  protection  of  the 
law  of  nations,  to  treat  in  person  of  their  several  interests. 
They  are  admitted  to  an  audience  at  the  same  time.  Alfonso 
offers  to  the  King  of  F'ez  twice  the  value  in  money  of  the 
city  of  Ceuta  as  the  ransom  of  his  brother ;  and  he  declares 
that  if  it  be  refused,  his  fleet  is  ready  to  waste  Africa  with 
fire  and  sword.  Tarudant,  who  hears  these  threats,  considers 
them  as  a  personal  provocation,  and  replies  that  he  is  about 
to  take  the  field  with  the  army  of  Morocco,  and  that  he  will 
shortly  be  in  a  state  to  repel  the  aggressions  of  the  Portu- 
guese. The  king,  meanwhile,  refuses  to  liberate  P^ernando 
on  any  other  terms  than  the  restitution  of  Ceuta.  He 
bestows  liis  daughter  on  Tarudant,  and  orders  ]\Iuley  to 
accompany  her  to  Morocco.  Whatever  pain  Muley  may  feel 
in  assisting  at  the  nuptials  of  his  mistress,  and  abandoning 
his  friend  in  his  extreme  misery,  he  prepares  to  obey.  The 
commands  of  a  king  are  considered  by  Calderon  as  the  fiat 
of  destiny,  and  it  is  by  such  traits  that  we  recognize  the 
courtier  of  Philip  IV. 

The  scene  changes ;  and  Don  Juan  and  the  other  captives 
bear  in  Don  Fernando  on  a  mat,  and  lay  him  on  the  ground. 
This  is  the  last  time  that  he  appears  on  the  stage ;  he  is  over- 
powered by  the  weight  of  slavery,  disease,  and  misery.  His 
condition  chills  the  heart,  and  is  perhaps  too  strongly  drawn 
for  the  stage,  where  physical  evils  should  be  introduced  only 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  393 

v/itli  great  resei've.  In  oi'der,  indeed,  to  diminish  this  pain- 
ful impression,  Calderon  bestows  on  him  the  language  of  a 
saint  under  martyrdom.  He  looks  upon  his  sufferings  as  so 
many  trials,  and  returns  thanks  to  God  for  every  pang  he 
endures,  as  the  pledge  of  his  approaching  beatification. 
Meanwhile  the  King  of  Fez,  Tarudant,  and  Phenicia,  pass 
through  the  street  where  he  lies  ;  and  Don  Fernando  addresses 
them:  "Bestow  your  alms,"  he  cries,  "on  a  poor  sufferer. 
I  am  a  human  being  like  yourselves ;  I  am  sick  and  in  afBic- 
tion,  and  dying  of  hunger.  Have  pity  on  me  ;  for  even  the 
beasts  of  the  forest  compassionate  their  kind."  The  king 
reproaches  him  with  his  obstinacy.  His  liberation,  he  tells 
him,  depends  on  himself  alone,  and  the  terms  are  still  the 
same.  The  reply  of  Fernando  is  wholly  in  the  oriental  style. 
It  is  not  by  arguments,  nor  indeed  by  sentiments  of  compas- 
sion, that  he  attempts  to  touch  his  master  ;  but  by  that  exu- 
berance of  poetical  images,  which  was  regarded  as  real 
eloquence  by  the  Arabians,  and  which  was  perhaps  more 
likely  to  touch  a  Moorish  king,  than  a  discourse  more  appro- 
priate to  nature  and  to  circumstances.  Mercy,  he  says,  is  the 
first  duty  of  kings.  The  whole  earth  bears  in  every  class  of 
creation  emblems  of  royalty  ;  and  to  these  emblems  is  always 
attached  the  royal  virtue  of  generosity.  The  lion,  the  monarch 
of  the  forest ;  the  eagle,  the  ruler  of  the  leathered  race ; 
the  dolphin,  the  king  of  fish  ;  the  pomegranate,  the  empress 
of  fruits ;  the  diamond,  the  first  of  minerals,  are  all,  agree- 
ably to  the  traditions  cited  by  Fernando,  alive  to  the  suffer- 
ings of  mankind.  As  a  man,  Fernando  is  allied  to  the  King 
of  Fez  by  his  royal  blood,  notwithstanding  their  difference 
in  religion.  In  every  faith,  cruelty  is  alike  condemned. 
Still,  while  the  prince  considers  it  his  duty  to  pray  for  the 
preservation  of  his  life,  he  desires  not  life,  but  martyrdom ; 
and  awaits  it  at  the  hands  of  the  king.  The  king  retorts 
that  all  his  sufferings  proceed  from  himself  alone.  "  When 
you  compassionate  yourself,  Don  Fernando,"  he  says,  "  I  too 
shall  compassionate  you." 

After  the  Moorish  princes  have  retired,  Don  Fernando 
announces  to  Don  Juan  Coutinho,  who  brings  him  bread,  that 
his  attentions  and  generous  devotion  will  soon  no  longer  be 
required,  as  he  feels  himself  approaching  his  last  hour.  He 
only  asks  to  be  invested  in  holy  garments,  as  he  is  the  grand 
master  of  tlie  religious  and  military  order  of  Advice  ;  and  he 

VOL.  II.  B  B 


394  ON    TUE    LITERATURE 

begs  his  friends  to  mark  the  place  of  his  sepulture  :  "Although 
I  die  a  captive,  my  redemption  is  sure,  and  I  hope  one  day  to 
enter  the  mansions  of  the  blessed.  Since  to  thee,  my  God,  I 
have  consecrated  so  many  churches,  grant  me  a  dwelling  in 
thine  own  mansions."  His  companions  then  depart  with  him 
in  their  arms. 

The  scene  changes,  and  represents  the  coast  of  Africa,  on 
which  Don  Alfonso,  Don  Henry,  and  the  Portuguese  troops 
have  just  landed.  It  is  announced  to  them  that  the  army  of 
Tarudant  is  approaching,  and  that  it  is  conducting  Phenicia 
to  Morocco.  Don  Alfonso  addresses  his  troops,  and  prepares 
for  battle.  The  shade  of  Don  Fernando,  in  the  habit  of  his 
chapter,  appears  to  them,  and  promises  them  victory.  Again 
the  scene  changes,  and  represents  the  walls  of  Fez.  The 
king  appears  on  the  walls,  surrounded  by  his  guards.  Don 
Juan  Coutinho  brings  forward  the  coffin  of  Don  Fernando. 
The  stage  is  veiled  in  night,  but  a  strain  of  military  music  is 
heard  in  the  distance.  It  draws  near,  and  the  shade  of  Don 
Fernando  appears  with  a  torch  in  his  hand,  conducting  the 
Portuguese  army  to  the  foot  of  the  walls.  Don  Alfonso  calls 
to  the  king,  announces  to  him  that  he  has  taken  prisoners 
liis  daughter,  Phenicia,  and  Tarudant,  his  proposed  son-in 
law,  and  offers  to  exchange  them  against  Don  Fernando.  The 
king  is  seized  with  profound  grief  when  he  finds  his  daughter 
in  the  hands  of  those  very  enemies  to  whom  he  had  behaved 
with  so  much  cruelty  after  his  victory.  He  has  now  no  longer 
the  means  of  redeeming  her,  and  he  informs  the  Portuguese 
king,  with  regret,  of  the  death  of  Don  Fei-nando.  But  if 
Alfonso  was  desirous  of  restoring  his  brother  to  liberty,  he  is 
now  not  less  solicitous  to  recover  his  mortal  remains,  which 
are  a  precious  relic  to  Portugal.  He  divines  that  tliis  is  the 
object  of  the  miracle  which  presented  the  shade  of  the  prince 
to  the  eyes  of  the  whole  army  ;  and  he  accepts  the  exchange 
of  the  body  of  his  brother  against  Phenicia  and  all  the  other 
prisoners.  He  only  n^iuires  that  Phenicia  be  given  in  mar- 
riage to  Mulcjs  in  order  to  recompense  that  brave  Moor  for 
the  friendship  and  protection  he  had  extended  to  his  brother. 
He  thanks  Don  Juan  for  his  generous  services  to  Fernando, 
and  consigns  to  the  care  of  liis  victorious  army  the  relics  of 
the  newly  canonized  Saint  of  Portugal.* 

*  The  historical  records  of  the  life  of  Don  Fernando  do  not  disclose  to  us  so  exalted 
an  idea  of  his  self-devotion.    I  have  examined  the  original  Chronicles,  of  the  fifteenth 


OP   THE   SPANIARDS.  395 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

CONOLCTSION    OP   CALDERON. 

After  having  noticed  in  Calderon  the  faults  which  arose 
from  the  political  state  of  his  country,  from  the  religious  pre- 
judices in  which  he  was  born,  and  from  the  bad  taste  which 
prevailed  in  Spain,  in  consequence  of  the  fatal  examples  of 
Lope  de  Vega  and  Gongora,  it  would  appear  inconsistent  to 
confine  our  notice  to  his  most  celebrated  pieces  ;  pieces  which 
are  sufficiently  conformable  to  our  rules  to  be  introduced  on 
the  stage,  as  the  play  of  //  Secreto  a  Vozes ;  or  to  those 
where  the  situation  is  so  truly  tragic,  the  emotion  so  profound, 
and  the  interest  so  well  supported,  as  not  to  leave  us  any 
desire  for  that  regularity  which  would  rob  us  of  all  the  in- 
terest of  the  romance  he  presents  to  us,  as  in  The  Injiexihle 
Prince.  If  we  once  admit  the  enthusiasm  for  religious  con- 
quests, which,  at  that  time,  formed  so  essential  a  part  of  the 
national  manners,  if  we  once  believe  it  sanctified  by  heaven 
and  supported  by  miracles,  we  must  allow  the  conduct  of  Don 
Fernando  to  be  great,  noble,  and  generous.  We  esteem  him 
while  we  suffer  with  him  ;  the  beauty  of  his  character  in- 
creases our  pity,  and  we  feel  sensible  of  the  peculiar  charm  of 
the  romantic  unity,  so  different  fi-ora  our  own.  "We  perceive 
with  pleasure  that  the  poet  leaves  nothing  neglected  which 
belongs  to  the  interest  of  the  subject.  He  conducts  us  from 
the  landing  of  Fernando  in  Africa,  not  only  to  his  death,  but 
to  the  ransoming  of  his  remains,  that  none  of  our  wishes  may 
continue  in  suspense,  and  that  we  may  not  leave  the  theatre 
until  every  feeling  is  fully  satisfied. 

To  confine  ourselves  to  an  analysis  of  these  two  pieces, 
would  be  to  give  a  very  incomplete  idea  of  the  plays  of  Cal- 
deron. We  must,  therefore,  take  a  view  of  some  others  of  his 
dramas,  though  we  shall  not  dwell  on  them  very  long.  More 
frequently  called  upon  to  criticise,  than  to  offer  models  for 
imitation,  we  shall  detain  the  reader  only  on  such  points  as 
merit  his  attention,  sometimes  as  a  proof  of  talent,  sometimes 

century,  published  by  the  Royal  Academy  of  Sciences  at  Lisbon  :  Colle(;<;a6  de  livros 
Inedilos  de  Histnria  Porlugueza,  dos  reinados  dos  senhores  reys  D.  Joau  I.  D.  Duarte, 
D.  Affonso  V.  e  D.  Joao  II.  3  vol.  in  fol.  We  there  find  that,  if  Fernando  was  not 
liberated  from  his  captivity,  it  was  not  owing  to  his  own  high  feelings,  but  to  the 
troubles  in  which  Portugal  was  involved,  and  to  the  jealousy  of  the  reigning  princes ; 
that,  though  a  prisoner  in  1438,  he  did  not  die  until  1443;  and  that  his  death  was  not 
accelerated  by  ill-treatment:  Chron.  do  rey  Affonso  V.  por  Buy  de  Pina,  t.  i.  c.  54, 
His  remains  were  not  redeemed  until  1473. 

BB   2 


396  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

as  a  picture  of  manners  or  of  character,  and  sometimes  as  a 
poetic  novelty. 

The  discovery  of  the  New  "World  has,  at  all  times,  been  a 
favourite  theme  with  the  Spanish  poets.  The  glory  of  these 
prodigious  conquests  was  yet  fresh  in  the  minds  of  men,  in  the 
reign  of  Philip  IV.  The  Castilians  at  that  time  distinguished 
themselves  as  Christians  and  warriors,  and  the  massacre  of 
infidel  nations  appeared  to  them  to  extend  at  the  same  time 
the  kingdom  of  God  and  of  their  own  monarch.  Calderon 
chose  as  the  subject  of  one  of  these  tragedies,  the  discovery 
and  conversion  of  Peru.  He  called  it  La  Aurora  en  Copaca- 
vana,  from  the  name  of  one  of  the  sacred  temples  of  the  Incas, 
where  the  first  cross  was  planted  by  the  companions  of  Pizarro. 
The  admirers  of  Calderon  extol  this  piece  as  one  of  his  most 
poetical  efforts,  and  as  a  drama  animated  by  the  purest  and 
most  elevated  enthusiasm.  A  series  of  brilliant  objects  is 
indeed  presented  to  the  eyes  and  to  the  mind.  On  one  side, 
the  devotions  of  the  Indians  are  celebrated  at  Copacavana  with 
a  pomp  and  magnificence,  which  are  not  so  much  derived 
from  the  music  and  the  decorations,  as  from  the  splendour 
and  poetic  elevation  of  the  language.  On  the  other  side,  the 
first  arrival  of  Don  Francisco  Pizarro  on  the  shore,  and  the 
terror  of  the  Indians,  who  take  the  vessel  itself  for  an  un- 
known monster,  whose  bellowings  (the  discharges  of  artillery) 
they  compare  to  the  thunder  of  the  skies,  are  rendered  with 
equal  truth  and  richness  of  imagination.  To  avert  the  calami- 
ties whicli  these  strange  prodigies  announce,  the  gods  of 
America  demand  a  human  victim.  They  make  choice  of 
Guacolda,  one  of  their  priestesses,  who  is  an  object  of  love  to  the 
Inca,  Guascar,  and  to  the  hero  Jupangui.  Idolatry,  repre- 
sented by  Calderon  as  a  real  being,  who  continually  dazzles 
the  Indians  by  false  miracles,  herself  solicits  this  sacrifice.  She 
obtains  the  consent  of  the  terrified  Inca,  whilst  Jupangui 
withdraws  his  mistress  from  the  priests  of  the  false  gods,  and 
places  her  in  safety.  The  alarm  of  Guacolda,  the  devotion  of 
her  lover,  and  the  danger  of  the  situation,  which  gradually 
increases,  give  to  tlie  scene  an  agreeable  and  romantic  in- 
terest, which,  however,  leads  us  almost  to  forget  Pizarro  and 
his  companions  in  arms. 

In  the  second  act  both  the  interest  and  action  are  entirely 
changed.  We  behold  Pizarro,  with  tlie  Spaniards,  assaulting 
the  walls   of  Cusco,   the   Indians  defending  them,  and  the 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  397 

Virgin  Mary  assisting  the  assailants,  and  saving  Pizarro, 
who  is  precipitated  from  the  summit  of  a  scaling  ladder,  by 
the  fragment  of  a  rock,  but  rises  without  experiencing  any 
injury,  and  returns  to  the  combat.  In  another  scene  the 
Spaniards,  already  masters  of  Cusco,  are  reposing  in  a  palace 
built  of  wood  ;  the  Indians  set  fire  to  it,  but  the  Virgin, 
invited  by  Pizarro,  comes  again  to  his  aid  ;  she  appears 
amidst  a  choir  of  angels,  and  pours  on  the  flames  torrents  of 
water  and  snow.  This  vision  appears  also  to  Jupangui,  as 
he  leads  the  Indians  to  the  attack  of  the  Spaniards.  He  is 
moved  and  converted.  He  addresses  the  Virgin  in  a  moment 
of  danger,  when  the  asylum  of  his  mistress,  Guacolda,  is  dis- 
covered, and  the  Virgin,  taking  him  under  her  protection, 
conceals  them  both  from  their  enemies. 

This  new  miracle  gives  rise  to  the  third  action,  which 
forms  the  third  act,  and  which  is  apparently  founded  on  the 
legend  of  Copacavana.  Peru  has  wholly  submitted  to  the 
King  of  Spain,  and  is  converted  ;  but  Jupangui  has  no  other 
desire  or  thought  than  to  form  an  image  of  the  Virgin  similar 
to  the  apparition  which  he  saw  in  the  clouds.  Notwithstand- 
ing his  ignorance  of  art,  and  of  the  use  of  the  requisite  instru- 
ments, he  labours  incessantly,  and  his  rude  attempts  expose 
him  to  the  derision  of  his  companions.  The  latter  refuse  to 
allow  a  statue  of  so  grotesque  an  appearance  to  be  deposited 
in  a  temple.  Jupangui  is  doomed  to  experience  all  sorts  of 
disappointments  and  mortifications.  An  attempt  is  made  by 
an  armed  band  to  destroy  his  image ;  but  the  Virgin  at 
length,  touched  by  his  faith  and  perseverance,  despatches 
two  angels  to  his  assistance,  who,  one  of  them  with  chisels, 
and  the  other  with  pencils  and  colours,  retouch  the  statue, 
and  render  it  a  perfect  likeness  of  its  divine  original.  The 
festival  which  solemnizes  this  miracle  terminates  the  scene. 

We  have  before  noticed  a  dramatic  piece  by  Lope  de  Vega, 
called  Arauco  domado,  on  the  conquest  of  Chili  ;  which, 
barbarous  as  it  may  be,  yet  seems  to  me  very  much  superior 
to  that  of  Calderon.  The  greater  elegance  of  versification 
in  the  latter,  if  indeed  such  be  the  fact,  is  not  sufficient  to 
atone  for  the  gratuitous  violation  of  all  essential  rules  of  art, 
and  of  those  founded  in  nature  itself.  The  author  perpetually 
diverts  our  attention  to  new  subjects,  without  ever  satisfying 
us.  Not  to  mention  the  interest  which  might  have  been 
excited  in  us  for  the  flourishing  empire  of  the  Incas,  which 


398  ON   THE   LITERATURE 

is  represented  to  us  in  the  midst  of  solemnities,  and  which 
falls  we  know  not  how,  Pizarro  appears,  landing  for  the  first 
time  among  the  Indians  of  Peru  ;  we  stop  to  admire  the  con- 
trast between  tliese  two  distinct  races  of  men,  when  the  scene 
is  suddenly  withdrawn  from  us.     The  love  of  Jupangui  and 
Guacolda  excites  in  us,  in  its  turn,  a  romantic  interest,  but  it 
is  abandoned  long  before  the  close  of  the  piece.  The  struggle 
between  a  conquering  and  a  conquered  people  might  have 
developed  instances  of  valour    and  heroism,  and    produced 
scenes  both  noble  and  aifecting  ;  but  we  have  only  a  glimpse 
of  this  contest,  which  is  suddenly  terminated  by  a  miracle. 
A  subject  altogether  new  then  commences  with  the  conversion 
of  Jupangui,  and  his  attempt  to  make  the  miraculous  image. 
Fresh  personages  enter  on  the  scene  ;  we  find  ourselves  in 
an  unknown  world  ;  the   new-born  zeal   of  the   converted 
Peruvians  is  beyond  our  conception  ;  all  the  feelings  previ- 
ously awakened  in  us  become  enfeebled  or  extinguished,  and 
those  which  the  poet  wishes  to  excite  in  us  in  the  third  act 
are  not  properly  grounded  in  the  heart.  How  shall  we  account 
for  the  admiration  bestowed  by  critics  of  unquestioned  cele- 
brity on  a  piece  like  this  ?     Intimately  acquainted  with  the 
ancient  and  modern  drama,  and  accustomed  to  appreciate  the 
perfect  productions  of  the  Greeks,  how  is  it  possible  that  they 
could  be  blind  to  the  monstrous  defects  of  these  ill  connected 
scenes?     But,  in  fact,  it  is  not  in  the  capacity  of  critics  that 
they  have  judged  the  Spanish  stage.     They  have  extolled  it 
only  because  they  find  in  every  page  that  religious  zeal  which 
appears  to  them  so  chivalric  and  poetical.     The  enthusiasm 
of  Jupangua  redeems  in  their  eyes   all   the    faults   of  the 
Aurora  en  Copacavana.     But  rank  in  literature  is  not  to  be 
regulated  by  religion  ;  and  if  this,  indeed,   were  the  case, 
these  neophytes  would  probably  find  themselves  disarmed  by 
that  very  church,  whose  tenets  they  have  embraced,  when 
they  applaud  a   fanaticism  which  at   this   day  she  herself 
disavows. 

To  return  to  Calderon,  he  had,  on  the  unity  of  subject  and 
of  style,  ideas  differing  in  an  extraordinary  degree  from  our 
own.  He  has  shown  it  in  all  his  pieces  ;  but  there  is  one 
amongst  others  which  in  this  respect  deserves  to  be  noticed 
for  the  eccentricity  of  its  plan.  It  is  intitled,  The  Or'ujin, 
Loss,  and  Restoration  of  the  Virgin  of  the  Sanctuarij,*'  and 

*  Origen,  perdida,  y  restaurocion  de  la  Virgen  del  Sagrario,  t.  vi.  p.  99. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  399 

was  composed  to  celebrate  the  festival,  on  the  stage  as  well 
as  in  the  church,  of  a  miraculous  image  of  the  Virgin  which 
was  preserved  in  the  cathedral  at  Toledo.  This  piece,  like 
all  the  Spanish  comedies,  is  divided  into  three  acts,  but  the 
first  act  is  placed  in  the  seventh  century,  under  the  reign  of 
Recesuindo,  king  of  the  Visigoths  (a.  d,  648) ;  the  second 
is  in  the  eighth  century,  during  the  conquest  of  Spain  by 
Aben  Tariffa  (a.  d.  712)  ;  and  the  third  is  in  the  eleventh 
century,  at  the  time  when  Alfonso  VI.  recovered  Toledo 
from  the  Moors  (a.  d.  1083).  The  unity  of  the  piece,  it 
unity  it  may  be  called,  is  placed  in  the  history  of  the  miracu- 
lous image,  to  which  every  thing  is  referred,  or  rather  on 
which  depends  the  destiny  of  Spain.  As  to  the  rest,  the 
personages,  the  action,  and  the  interest,  vary  in  every  act. 

The  first  act  discovers  to  us  the  Bishop  of  Toledo,  St. 
Udefonso,  who,  with  the  authority  of  the  King  Recesuindo, 
establishes  a  festival  in  honour  of  this  image,  worshipped 
from  the  remotest  period  in  the  church  of  Toledo.  He  relates 
the  origin  of  Toledo,  founded,  as  he  says,  by  Nebuchadnezzar. 
In  this  city,  the  primitive  church  worshipped  the  same  Virgin 
of  the  Sanctuary  which  the  Saint  now  offers  afresh  to  the 
adoration  of  the  Christians.  His  victory  over  the  heresiarch 
Pelagius  is  celebrated  at  the  same  time.  Pelagius  himself 
appears  in  the  piece  as  an  object  of  persecution  to  the  people 
and  the  priests,  and  to  give  to  the  Spaniards  a  foretaste  of  their 
Atitos  dafe.  His  heresy,  which,  according  to  ecclesiastical 
history,  consists  in  obscure  opinions  on  grace  and  predestina- 
tion, is  represented  by  Calderon  as  treason  against  the  majesty 
of  the  Virgin,  as  he  is  accused  of  denying  the  immaculate 
conception.  The  poet  supposes  that  he  wishes  to  possess  him- 
self of  the  image  by  theft.  He  is  prevented  by  a  miracle  ;  the 
Virgin  comes  to  the  aid  of  her  representative  ;  she  terrifies 
the  sacrilegious  intruder  ;  she  encourages  St.  Udefonso,  and 
she  announces  to  the  miraculous  image  that  it  must  be  long 
concealed,  and  must  be  doomed  to  pass  several  ages  in  darkness. 
It  is  difficult  to  imagine  what  advantage  Calderon  found  in 
mingling,  particularly  in  his  religious  pieces,  such  gross  ana- 
chronisms in  his  narrations.  The  long  discourse  of  St. 
Udefonso  on  the  origin  of  the  miraculous  image  commences 
thus :  "  Cosmography,  which  measures  the  earth  and  the 
heavens,  divides  the  globe  into  four  parts  :  Africa,  Asia,  and 
America,  are  the  three  first,  of  which  I  have  not  occasion  at 


400  ON    THE    LITERATUKE 

present  to  speak,  but  which  the  learned  Herodotus  has  fully 
described  ;  the  fourth  is  our  Europe,"  &c.  Calderon  must 
surely  have  known  tliat  America  was  discovered  only  about  a 
hundred  years  before  he  was  born,  and  that  neither  Herodotus 
nor  St.  Ildefonso  could  possibly  have  spoken  of  it. 

In  the  second  act,  Tariffa  is  seen  witli  the  Moors,  besieging 
Toledo.  Calderon  conducts  him  to  the  walls  of  the  city, 
where  he  recounts  to  the  besieged,  in  a  speech  of  eleven 
stanzas,  the  fall  of  the  monarchy  of  the  Goths,  the  defeat  of 
Rodrigo  at  Xeres,  and  the  triumph  of  the  Musulmans.  God- 
man,  governor  of  the  city,  whom  the  Guzmans  consider  at  the 
present  day  as  their  stock,  replies,  in  a  speech  equally  as  long, 
that  the  Christians  of  Toledo  will  perish  on  the  ramparts 
rather  than  surrender.  A  lady,  at  length.  Donna  Sancha, 
who,  in  the  name  of  all  the  inhabitants,  makes  a  speech 
longer  than  the  two  others,  prevails  on  Godman  to  capitulate. 
A  part  of  the  Christians  retire  to  the  Asturias  ;  but  the  mi- 
raculous image  of  Sagi-ario  will  not  permit  itself  to  be  carried 
away  by  the  archbishop.  It  remains  for  the  purpose  of  com- 
forting the  people  of  Toledo  in  their  captivity  ;  and  the  prelate, 
carrying  with  him  the  relics  of  some  saints,  leaves  the  image 
of  the  virgin  on  the  altar.  Godman,  in  the  articles  ol 
capitulation,  obtains  liberty  of  conscience  for  the  Christians, 
who  remain  intermixed  with  the  Arabs,  and  he  conceals  the 
image  of  the  sanctuary  at  the  bottom  of  a  well. 

In  the  third  act,  we  behold  Alfonso  VI.  in  the  midst  of  his 
court  and  knights,  receiving  the  capitulation  of  the  Moors  of 
Toledo,  and  engaging  by  oath  to  maintain  their  religious 
liberty,  and  to  leave  for  the  worship  of  the  jVIusulnians,  the 
largest  mosque  in  the  city.  We  also  see  tlie  origin  of  the 
dispute,  which  was  ultimately  decided  by  a  duel,  as  to  the  pre- 
ference of  the  Mo^arabian  or  Catholic  rites.  Alfonso,  wishing 
to  extend  his  conquests,  leaves  his  wife  Constance  governess 
of  the  city  in  his  absence.  Constance,  sacrificing  every  other 
consideration  to  her  religious  zeal,  violates  the  capitulation 
with  the  Moors,  deprives  them  of  their  mosque,  and  restores 
to  its  place  tiie  miraculous  image  of  the  Virgin.  Alfonso,  at 
first,  is  highly  indignant  at  this  proceeding,  and  promises  the 
deputies  of  the  Moors,  who  prefer  their  complaints  to  him,  to 
chastise  his  wife,  to  restore  the  mosque  to  the  Moors,  and  to 
punish  all  wlio  had  broken  their  oatlis.  But  when  Constance 
appears  before  him  to  implore  his  pardon,  the  Virgin  sur- 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  401 

rounds  her  with  a  celestial  glory;  she  dazzles  the  king,  and 
convinces  him,  to  the  great  delight  of  the  spectators,  that  it 
is  an  unpardonable  crime  to  keep  faith  with  heretics. 

This  piece,  although  so  religious,  is  not  less  interspersed 
with  low  scenes  than  all  the  others.  AVe  have  peasants  in  the 
first  act,  drunken  Moors  in  the  second,  and  pages  in  the  third, 
whose  business  it  is  to  entertain  the  pit,  and  to  correct,  by  their 
occasional  witticisms,  the  too  great  solemnity  of  the  subject. 

Among  the  religious  plays  there  are  few  of  greater  splen- 
dour and  interest  than  the  Purgatory  of  St.  Patricius.  It  is 
one  of  those  of  which  the  Spaniards  and  the  enthusiastic 
German  critics  so  much  admire  the  pious  tendency  ;  a  ten- 
dency so  directly  contrary  to  what  we  regard  at  the  present 
day  as  properly  belonging  to  religion.  The  triumph  of  faith 
and  repentance  over  the  most  frightful  crimes,  is  the  favourite 
theme  of  Calderon.  The  two  heroes  of  the  piece  are  St.  Pa- 
tricius, or  the  Perfect  Christian,  and  Louis  Ennius,  or  the 
Accomplished  Villain.  They  are  shipwrecked  together  on 
the  coast  of  Ireland.  Patricius  supports  Louis  in  his  arms, 
saves  him  by  swimming,  and  conducts  him  to  the  shore,  where 
Egerio  the  King  of  Ireland,  and  his  whole  court,  happen  to  be 
standing.  Calderon,  in  general,  paints  his  characters  wholly 
dark  or  light,  and,  in  order  to  make  us  acquainted  with  them, 
instead  of  giving  himself  the  trouble  to  put  them  into  action, 
he  makes  them  speak  of  themselves  in  a  manner  contrary  to 
all  probability.  In  the  third  scene  of  the  first  act,  Patricius 
and  Louis  are  seen  struggling  in  the  waves  in  each  other's  arms, 
and  as  they  reach  the  shore  they  fall  to  the  earth,  exclaiming  : 

Patricius.  Lend  me  thine  aid,  0  God.        Louis.  The  devil  aid  me  ! 

Lesbia.  These  shipwreck'd  men  move  my  compassion,  king  ! 

The  King.  Not  mine,  who  am  a  stranger  to  all  pity  ! 

Pair.  Misfortune,  Sire,  within  the  noblest  hearts. 
Hath  ever  had  compassion,  nor  exists, 
I  deem,  a  soul  so  hard  as  not  to  feel 
My  miserable  state.     Thus,  in  the  name 
Of  God,  I  seek  for  pity  at  your  hands. 

Louis.  I  ask  it  not,  nor  men  nor  gods  I  seek 
To  move  with  my  misfortunes.         The  King.  Say,  I  pray, 
Whence  are  you,  so  we  better  may  decide 
Your  claims  unto  our  hospitality. 
But  first,  that  ye  may  know  with  whom  ye  speak, 
I  will  reveal  my  title,  lest,  perhaps. 
Through  ignorance,  you  fail  in  reverence 
And  adoration  of  my  rank.     Know,  then, 
I  am  the  King  Egerio,  sovereign 


402  ON   THE   LITERATURE 

Of  this  small  empire ;  small,  indeed,  for  one 
Whose  merit  might,  with  justice,  claim  the  globe. 
Savage  my  dress,  not  kingly,  for  myself 
Am  savage  as  the  monster  of  the  wild ; 
Nor  God  I  own,  nor  worship,  nor  believe 
In  aught,  save  that  wliich  with  our  life  begins, 
And  ends  with  death.     Now  that  ye  know  my  rank 
And  royal  station,  say  from  whence  ye  come. 

The  speeches  of  the  two  shipwrecked  persons  are  too  long  for 
translation  ;  that  of  Patricius  exceeds  one  hundred  and  eighty 
lines,  and  that  of  Louis  Ennius  three  hundred  ;  each  is  a  com- 
plete biography,  and  abounds  in  events.  Patricius  relates 
that  he  is  the  son  of  an  Irish  knight  and  a  French  lady  ;  that 
his  parents,  after  his  birth,  retired  into  separate  convents,  and 
that  he  was  brought  up  in  the  ways  of  piety  by  a  saintly 
matron  ;  that  God  had  early  manifested  his  predilection  for 
him  in  electing  him  to  perform  some  miracles;  that  he  had 
restored  a  blind  person  to  sight,  and  dispersed  the  waters  of 
an  inundation  ;  and  he  adds 

Yet  greater  miracles  I  could  relate, 

But  modesty  hath  tied  ray  tongue,  made  mute 

My  voice,  and  scal'd  my  lips. 

"We  feel  a  pleasure  in  meeting  with  so  modest  a  saint.  He 
relates  at  length  how  he  had  been  carried  off  by  pirates,  and 
how  Heaven  had  avenged  him  by  exciting  a  tempest,  during 
Avhich  the  vessel  was  lost ;  but  he  himself  had  saved  Louis 
Ennius  : 

Some  secret  tie  hath  bound  me  to  this  youth. 

And  warns  me  that  he  one  day  amply  will 

Kepay  my  services. 

Louis  Ennius,  in  his  turn,  thus  commences  his  history  : 

I  am  a  Christian  too ;  in  that  alone 
Patricius  and  myself  agree,  though  even 
In  that  we  differ,  far  a.s  difference  lies 
'Twixt  good  and  evil.     But  whatever  be 
My  conduct,  I  would  here  a  thousand  times 
Lay  dovm  my  life  to  aid  that  holy  faith 
Which  I  adore.     By  that  same  God  1  swear  it. 
Whom  I  believe  in,  since  I  thus  invoke  him. 
I  shall  recount  no  acts  of  piety, 
No  miracles,  by  Heaven  wrought  in  my  favour, 
But  horrid  crimes,  theft,  murder,  sacrilege. 
Treason  and  perfidy — these  are  my  boast 
And  glory  ! 

He,  indeed,  keeps  his  word,  and  it  is  difficult  to  combine  a 
greater  number  of  crimes  in  the  course  of  a  short  life.     He 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  403 

has  killed  an  aged  nobleman,  and  carried  away  his  daughter, 
and  has  assassinated  a  gentleman  in  the  nuptial  chamber  in 
order  to  rob  him  of  his  wife.  At  Perpignan,  in  a  quarrel 
which  he  raised  at  a  gaming  table,  he  has  murdered  an  officer, 
and  wounded  three  or  four  soldiers.  It  is  true,  that  in  defend- 
ing himself  he  also  killed  an  archer ;  and  among  so  many- 
crimes,  there  is,  he  says,  this  one  good  action  for  which  he 
may  ask  a  recompense  at  the  throne  of  God.  He  went  at 
length  to  seek  refuge  in  a  convent,  and  here  he  committed  a 
dreadful  act : 

The  first,  which  stung  me  with  remorse,  the  first 
I  tremble  to  recount ;  my  heart  is  struck 
With  horror,  and  would  leap  from  out  my  breast ; 
And  at  the  memory  of  the  direful  deed 
My  hair  stands  all  erect. 

He  at  length  confesses  his  crime,  which  was  the  seduction 
of  a  nun,  whom  he  carried  off  and  married.  He  retired  with 
her  to  Valencia,  and  having  exhausted  his  means,  he  wished  to 
find  resources  in  the  dishonour  of  his  wife.  She  indignantly 
refuses,  escapes  to  a  convent,  and  shuts  herself  up  for  the 
second  time.  He  then  sails  for  Ireland,  but,  after  falling  into 
theliands  of  corsairs,  is  shipwrecked  with  Patricius  and  saved 
by  him.  The  king,  after  having  heard  these  two  confessions, 
pardons  the  Christian  faith  of  Louis  in  consideration  of  his 
crimes,whilst  Patricius  remains  exposed  to  his  hatred  and  anger. 

The  object  of  this  piece  is  to  shew  Louis  Ennius  persisting 
in  his  faith,  although  his  conduct  is  most  atrocious,  and  merit- 
ing by  his  belief  the  ^avour  and  protection  of  St.  Patricius, 
who  follows  him  like  his  good  genius  to  inspire  him  with  re- 
pentance for  his  crimes,  and  who  at  last  assures  his  salvation. 
Louis  seduces  Polonia,  the  daughter  of  the  king,  engages  in  a 
duel  with  Philip,  the  general  betrothed  to  her,  and  is  made 
prisoner  and  delivered  over  to  justice.  He  then  considers 
whether  he  shall  not  commit  suicide  : 

No,  that  were  only  worthy  of  a  heathen  : 
What  demon  arm'd  my  hand  for  such  a  deed? 
Myself  a  Christian,  and  my  soul  immortal, 
Rejoicing  in  the  holy  light  of  faith, 
Shall  I,  amidst  these  Gentiles,  do  an  act 
Dishonouring  my  creed  1 

He  therefore  does  not  kill  himself,  and  in  that  acts  wisely, 
as  Polonia  finds  means  to  break  her  chains  and  escapes  with 
him.     But  he  had  in  fact  never  loved  Polonia  : 


404  ON    THE    LITERATUHE 

Love  is  with  me  a  passing  appetite, 
Varying  witii  each  new  object.     I  would  lead 
A  life  unfetter'd  by  a  woman's  love : 
So  must  Polonia  die. 

We  then  see  them  on  their  route,  in  the  midst  of  a  forest. 
Poloniii  wounded,  is  flying  from  her  lover,  who  pursues  her 
with  a  dagger : 

PoLONiA.  Restrain  thy  bloody  hand.     If  love  hath  lost 
His  power,  yet  think  upon  thy  Christian  faith. 
Thou  hast  robb'd  me  of  mine  honour  ;  oil  then  spare 
My  life.     Tliy  fury  terrifies  my  soul. 

Louis.      Luckless  I'olonia,  misery  was  always 

The  lot  of  boasted  beauty,  for  ne'er  yet 

Were  happiness  and  Ijeauty  join'd  together. 

In  me  thou  secst  a  more  unpitying  wretch 

Tiian  ever  grasp'd  a  murderer's  sword.     Thy  death 

Is  now  become  my  life. 

By  this  speech  and  the  twenty-five  verses  which  follow,  he 
seems  desirous  of  persuading  lier  to  resignation,  and  he  ends 
by  killing  her  with  his  poniard.  He  then  knocks  at  the  cot- 
tage of  a  peasant,  whom  he  compels  to  serve  him  as  a  guide  to 
the  next  sea-port,  and  whom  he  designs  to  kill  when  he  has 
arrived  there. 

During  this  interval,  St.  Patricius  restores  Polonia  to  life. 
This,  however,  is  not  sufficient  to  convert  the  king,  who 
threatens  the  saint  with  death  in  the  space  of  an  hour,  if  he 
does  not  allow  him  to  see  the  world  of  spirits ;  or,  at  least, 
Purgatory.  Patricius  undertakes  the  task.  He  conducts  the 
king  and  all  his  court  to  a  mountain  containing  a  cavern  which 
leads  to  Purgatory.  The  king,  in  his  haiste  to  see  the  wonders 
of  the  cavern,  rushes  into  the  gulf,  blaspheming  ;  but,  through 
an  ingenious  stratagem  of  St.  Patricius,  instead  of  reaching 
Purgatory,  the  king  falls  direct  into  Hell  ;  a  circumstance 
which  produces  the  instantaneous  conversion  of  the  court  and 
of  all  Ireland. 

Louis,  meanwhile,  departs  with  the  guide  whom  he  had 
taken  from  his  house ;  but,  instead  of  murdering  him,  as  he 
first  intended,  he  retains  him  as  his  domestic  ;  and  he  becomes 
the  grario.so,  or  buffo  of  the  piece.  They  make  together  the 
tour  of  Italy,  Spain,  France,  Scotland,  and  England.  After  an 
absence  of  several  years,  they  return  to  Ireland  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  third  act.  Louis  returns  thither  for  the 
purpose  of  assassinating  Philip,  on  whom  he  had  not  suffi- 
ciently revenged  himself.    But  whilst  he  is  waiting  for  him  at 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  405 

night  in  the  public  street,  a  knight,  completely  armed  at  all 
points,  challenges  him.  Louis  attacks  him,  but  finds  liis  strokes 
are  lost  in  air.  At  length  the  cavalier  raises  his  casque,  and 
shows  himself  to  be  a  skeleton.  "  Knowest  thou  not  thyself  ?" 
he  cries,  "  I  am  thy  likeness  :  I  am  Louis  Ennius."  This 
apparition  converts  Ennius  :  he  falls  to  the  ground  in  a  fit  of 
terror  ;  but,  when  he  rises,  he  proclaims  his  repentance  ;  he 
implores  God  to  judge  him  with  mercy,  and  exclaims:  "What 
atonement  can  be  made  for  a  life  spent  in  crime  ?"  A  celes- 
tial music  answers  :  "  Purgatory."  He  then  resolves  to  seek 
the  purgatory  of  St.  Patricius,  and  takes  the  road  to  the  same 
mountain  to  which  the  saint  had  conducted  the  king.  Polonia, 
after  her  restoration  to  life,  lived  there  in  solitude,  and  it  is 
she  who  points  out  to  Louis  the  route  he  should  follow.  He  is 
obliged  to  enter  into  a  convent  of  regular  canons  who  guard 
the  cavern  ;  he  addresses  himself  to  them  ;  he  attends  to  their 
exhortations  ;  he  shews  himself  full  of  faith  and  hope  ;  he 
enters  into  the  cavern,  and,  at  the  end  of  some  days,  he  de- 
parts pardoned  and  sanctified.  The  piece  finishes  by  his 
narration  of  what  he  had  seen  in  the  purgatory  of  St.  Patri- 
cius. It  is  a  speech  of  more  than  three  hundred  lines,  and  we 
may  readily  dispense  with  the  perusal  of  it. 

It  may,  perhaps,  be  thought  that  more  than  sufiicient  atten- 
tion has  been  bestowed  on  these  pretended  Christian  dramas, 
which  compose  so  large  a  portion  of  the  Spanish  tlieatre,  and 
of  Calderon  in  particular.  But  we  cannot  pass  them  over  in 
silence  ;  and  especially  at  a  time  when  one  of  the  most  distin- 
guished critics  of  Germany  has  selected  them  as  the  noblest 
pieces  which  human  genius,  seconded  by  the  most  pure  and 
enthusiastic  piety,  has  produced.  It  would  seem  that  by  a  sort 
of  compact,  the  literary  world  of  the  present  day  is  pleased  to 
represent  Spain  as  the  country  of  true  Christianity.  If,  in  a 
work  of  imagination,  a  romance,  or  poem,  French,  English,  or 
German,  it  is  intended  to  represent  a  religious  person  or 
missionary,  animated  by  the  most  tender  charity  and  the  most 
enlightened  zeal,  the  scene  must  be  laid  in  Spain.  The  more 
conversant  we  are  with  Spanish  literature,  the  more  we  find 
such  opinions  injurious  to  true  Christianity.  This  nation  has, 
indeed,  been  richly  endowed.  Genius,  imagination,  depth  of 
thought,  constancy,  dignity,  and  courage,  have  been  lavished 
on  her.  She  seems  in  these  to  outstrip  all  other  countries, 
but  her  religion  has  almost  at  all  times  rendered  these  brilliant 


406  ON   THE    LITERATURE 

qualities  unavailing.  Let  us  then  not  be  deceived  by  names, 
nor  acknowledge  in  thought  or  in  word  that  such  a  religion  is 
our  own. 

The  chivalric  plays  of  Calderon  possess  a  different  kind  of 
interest  as  well  as  merit.  Tliose  which  are  founded  on  intrisue, 
always  present  scenes  of  so  much  interest,  life,  and  gaiety,  that 
the  best  comic  writers  of  France  have  frequently  enriched  the 
stage  with  them.  Often,  indeed,  in  doing  this,  the  interest  of 
the  action,  which  was  more  animated  in  the  Spanish,  has  been 
allowed  to  flag,  and  the  most  attractive  points  in  the  scene  and 
the  language  have  been  lost.  This  appears  to  me  to  be  the 
case  with  the  Geoliei' de  soi-meme :  U Alcaide  de  si  inismo  ; 
from  which  Thomas  Corneille,  after  Scarron,  has  composed  a 
piece  far  less  entertaining  than  the  original.  He  has  sacrificed 
much  of  the  Spanish  wit  to  the  dignity  of  the  Alexandrine  verse, 
and  to  the  adherence  to  the  rules  of  the  French  theatre ;  and 
the  comedies  of  Thomas  Corneille  are  not  so  regular  as  to  allow 
him  to  purchase  that  quality  at  so  high  a  price.  La  Davia 
Duende,  has  furnished  Hauteroche  with  his  Dame  Invisible, 
or  TJEsprit  Follet,  which  is  still  preserved  on  the  stage. 
Quinault  has  translated  under  the  title  of  Coups  de  VAviouret 
de  la  Fortune,  the  piece  entitled  Lances  de  Amor  y  Fortuna  ; 
and  it  is  to  Calderon  that  we  owe  the  Paysan  3Iagistrat  of 
our  own  days,  which  is  little  more  than  a  translation  of  the 
Alcaide  de  Zamalea  ;  but  the  Spanish  piece  has  the  double 
advantage  of  representing  with  great  truth  of  invention, 
nature,  and  consistency,  the  character  of  the  peasant  magis- 
trate, Pedro  Crespo,  and  of  painting  with  not  less  historical 
veracity  the  character  of  a  general,  at  that  time  dear  to  the 
remembrance  of  the  Spaniards,  Don  Lope  de  Figueroa. 

From  a  comedy  of  the  description  last  mentioned,  but 
which  cannot  be  imitated  in  French,  I  shall  proceed  to  give 
some  scenes,  wliich  seem  to  me  to  paint  in  a  very  original 
manner  the  national  character,  and  peculiar  point  of  honour. 
It  is  intitled  El  Medico  de  su  Ilonra.  Don  Guttierre 
Alfonso,  who  is  fondly  attached  to  his  wife,  Donna  Mencia  de 
Acuiia,  discovers  that  she  is  secretly  attached  to  Henry  de 
Transtamare,  brother  of  Peter  the  Cruel,  and  afterwards  his 
successor.  On  one  occasion  he  surprises  this  prince  in  his 
garden ;  at  another  time  lie  finds  his  sword,  which  lie  had 
forgotten,  in  his  house ;  he  has  heard  his  wife  call  on  the 
name  of  Henry;    and  whilst  she  observes  all  the  laws  or 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  407 

honour  and  virtue,  she  has  manifested  a  predilection  which 
had  existed  before  her  marriage,  and  which  she  could  not 
conquer.  He  has  also  detected  a  letter  from  her,  which 
shews  him  that  she  had  been  always  faithful  to  him,  but  that 
her  heart  is  not  at  rest.  He  carefully  conceals  all  these 
proofs,  and  saves  his  wife's  honour  and  his  own.  In  his 
words,  we  find  a  mixture  of  the  most  tender  and  passionate 
love,  and  the  most  delicate  sense  of  high  Spanish  honour. 
When  he  snatches  from  her  hands  the  letter  which  she  had 
written,  she  faints  away;  and  on  recovering  she  finds  the 
following  billet  from  her  husband  : 

"  Love  adores  thee,  but  honour  condemns  thee  :  the  one  dooms  thee 
to  death,  the  other  warns  thee  of  it.  Thou  hast  only  two  hours  to 
live.  Thou  art  a  Christian ;  save  thy  soul ;  as  for  thy  life,  it  is  for- 
feited." "Heaven  be  my  protection  ! "  she  cries,  "Jacintha  !  0  God, 
what  is  this  1  No  one  replies ;  my  terror  increases  ;  my  servants  are 
banished ;  the  door  is  closed ;  I  am  left  alone  in  this  dreadful  emer- 
gency ;  the  windows  are  barred  ;  the  doors  bolted ;  on  whom  shall  I 
call  for  succour  ?  whither  fly  1  the  horrors  of  death  surround  me." 

She  passes  into  her  closet ;  and  in  a  succeeding  scene  Gut- 
tierre  returns  with  a  surgeon,  whom  he  brings  with  his  eyes 
bound,  and  whom  he  has  forced  from  his  house.  He  thus 
addresses  him : 

Thou  must  now  enter  this  closet,  but  first  hear  me  :  This  dagger 
shall  pierce  thy  heart,  if  thou  dost  not  faithfully  execute  my  orders. 
Open  this  door,  and  say  what  thou  seest. 

The  Surgeon.  An  image  of  death  ;  a  corpse  stretched  on  a  bed.  Two 
torches  bum  at  each  side,  and  a  crucifix  is  placed  before  it.  I  know 
not  who  it  may  be,  as  a  veil  covers  the  countenance. 

Gut.  'Tis  well  !  This  living  corpse  that  thou  seest,  it  is  incumbent 
on  thee  to  put  to  death. 

The  Surgeon.  What  are  thy  dreadful  commands  1 

Gut.  That  thou  bleed  her,  and  lettest  her  blood  flow,  until  her 
strength  forsake  her ;  that  thou  leave  her  not  till  from  this  small  wound 
she  has  lost  all  her  blood  and  expires.  Thou  hast  nothing  to  answer. 
It  is  useless  to  implore  my  pity. 

The  surgeon,  after  having  for  some  time  refused,  at  length 
enters  the  apartment,  and  executes  the  orders  given  to  him  ; 
but  on  his  departure  he  places  his  hand,  crimsoned  with 
blood,  on  the  door  of  the  house,  in  order  that  he  may  know 
it  again,  his  eyes  having  been  bandaged.  The  king,  informed 
of  the  circumstance  by  the  surgeon,  repairs  to  the  house  of 
Guttierre,  who  informs  him  that  his  wife,  after  having  been 
blooded  in  the  day,  had,  by  accident,  removed  the  bandage  on 
the  veins,  and  that  he  had  found  her  dead,  and  bathed  in  her 


408  ON    THE   LITERATDRE 

own  blood.  The  king,  in  reply,  orders  him  to  marry  on  the 
instant  a  lady  to  whom  he  had  been  formerly  attached,  and 
who  had  appealed  to  the  king  against  him : 

Gut.  Sire,  if  the  ashes  of  so  great  a  fire 
Be  yet  unquench'd,  will  you  not  grant  me  time 
To  weep  my  loss  ]        King.  You  know  my  wish  !     Obey  ! 

Gut.  Scarce  'scap'd  the  tempest's  wrath,  would  you  again 
Force  me  upon  the  deep  ]     What  shall  I  have 
Henceforth  for  my  excuse?        King.  Your  king's  commands. 

Gut.  Deign  then  to  hear  my  reasons,  which  alone 
To  you  I  dare  dimlge.         King.  'Tis  all  in  vain  ; 

Yet  speak.        Gut.  Shall  I  again  expose  myself 
To  such  unheard-of  insult  as  to  find 
Your  royal  l)rother  nightly  haunt  my  house  ? 

King.  Yield  not  belief  to  such  a  tale.         Gut,  But  if 
At  my  bed's  foot  I  find  Don  Henry's  sword  1 

King.  Think  how  a  thousand  times  servants  have  been 
Suborn'd  to  treachery ;  and  use  thy  reason. 

Gut.  Yet  always  that  may  not  suffice;  if  day 
And  night  I  see  my  house  besieg'd,  how  act  1 

Kino.  Appeal  to  me.         Gut.  But  if,  in  my  appeal, 
A  greater  grief  attend  me  1        King.  It  imports  not ; 
Grief  may  itself  deceive  you.     You  should  know 
That  beauty  is  a  garden,  to  be  fenc'd 
By  strong  walls  'gainst  the  winds.         Gut.  And  if  I  find 
A  letter  from  my  wife  praying  the  Infant 
Not  to  abandon  her  ]        King.  For  eveiy  wrong 
There  is  a  remedy.         Gut.  What !  for  this  last  ] 

King.  There  is.         Gut.  What  is  it  ] 

King.  In  yourself.        Gut.  You  mean  1 —        King.  Blood  ! 

Gut.  Ah  !  what  say  you  1       King.  Mark  your  gates ;  there  is 
A  bloody  sign  upon  them.         Gut.  Sire,  'tis  known 
That  those  who  exercise  an  office,  hang 
Over  their  doors  a  shield  that  bears  their  arms : 
My  office  is  my  honour.     So  my  doors 
Bear  impress  of  a  bloody  hand,  for  blood 
Alone  can  wash  out  injur'd  honour's  stains. 

King.  Give,  then,  thy  hand  to  Leonora ;  well 
She  merits  it.         Gut.  I  give  it  freely,  if 
Leonora  dare  accept  it  bathed  in  blood. 

Leon.  I  marvel  not,  nor  fear.         (Jut.  'Tis  well,  but  I 
Have  been  mine  honour's  own  physician,  nor 
Have  yet  forgot  the  science.     Leon.  Keep  it  then 
To  aid  my  life,  if  it  be  bad.     Gut.  Alone 
On  this  condition  I  now  yield  my  hand. 

This  scene,  with  which  the  piece  closes,  seems  to  me  one 
of  the  most  energetic  on  the  Spanish  stage,  and  one  of  those 
which  alfoid  us  the  best  example  of  the  nicety  of  that  honour, 
and  that  almost  religious  revenge,  which  have  such  a  pow(;r- 
i'ul  influence  on  the  conduct  of  the  Spaniards,   and  which 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  409 

give  so  poetical  a  colouring  to  their  domestic  incidents,  often, 
it  is  true,  at  the  expense  of  morals  and  of  humanity. 

Calderon  was  yet  a  child  at  the  epoch  of  the  expulsion 
of  the  Moors.  But  this  despotic  act,  which  for  ever  alienated 
the  two  people,  and  which  separated  from  the  Spanish 
dominions  all  who  were  not  attached  by  birth,  as  well  as 
by  public  profession,  to  the  religion  of  the  sovereign,  had 
produced  a  powerful  sensation,  and  during  the  seventeenth 
century  led  the  Spaniards  to  regard  every  thing  relating 
to  the  Moors  with  a  degree  of  national  interest.  The  scene 
of  many  of  the  pieces  of  Calderon  is  placed  in  Africa.  In 
many  others  the  Moors  are  mingled  with  the  Christians  in 
Spain,  and,  in  spite  of  religious  hatred  and  national  pre- 
judices, Calderon  has  painted  the  Moors  with  singular  fidelity. 
We  feel  that  to  him,  and  to  all  Spaniards,  they  are  brothers 
united  by  the  same  spirit  of  chivalry,  by  the  same  punctilious 
honour,  and  by  love  of  the  same  country;  and  that  ancient 
wars  and  recent  persecutions  have  not  been  able  to  extinguish 
the  memory  of  the  early  bonds  which  united  them.  But,  of 
all  the  pieces  where  the  Moors  are  brought  upon  the  scene 
in  opposition  to  the  Christians,  no  one  appears  to  me  to 
excite  in  the  perusal  a  more  lively  interest  than  that  which  is 
entitled  Amar  desjmes  de  la  Muerte.  The  subject  is  the 
revolt  of  the  Moors  under  Philip  II.  in  1569  and  1570,  in 
the  Alpuxarra,  the  mountains  of  Grenada.  This  dreadful 
war,  occasioned  by  unheard-of  provocations,  was  the  real 
epoch  of  the  destruction  of  the  Moors  in  Spain.  The 
government,  aware  of  their  strength,  while  it  granted  them 
peace  resolved  to  destroy  them  ;  and  if  its  conduct  had  to  that 
time  been  cruel  and  oppressive,  it  was  thenceforth  always 
perfidious.  It  is  the  same  revolt  of  Grenada,  of  which  Men- 
doza  has  w^ritten  the  history,  and  which  we  have  already  had 
occasion  briefly  to  notice.  But  we  are  made  better  acquainted 
with  it  by  Calderon  than  by  the  details  of  any  historian. 

The  scene  opens  in  the  house  of  the  Cadi  of  the  Moors  of 
Grenada,  v/here  they  celebrate  in  secret,  with  closed  doors, 
on  a  Friday,  the  festival  of  the  Musulmans.  The  Cadi  pre- 
sides, and  they  thus  sing  : 

A  captive  sad,  in  sorrow  bow'd,  Una  voz.  Aunque  en  triste  cautiverio 
Lone  Afric  weeps,  in  sable  shroud,  De  Ala  por  justo  misterio 

Her  empire  lost,  her  glorj-  gone,  Llore  el  Africano  imperio 

And  set  in  night  her  ruling  sun !  Su  misera  suerte  esquiTa. 

'Twas  Allah's  hand  that  bent  the  bow, 
That  laid  our  nation's  honours  low  ; 

VOL.  n,  c  c 


410  QN    THE    LITERATURE 

Dark  and  mysterious  is  his  will,  ToDos.   Su  ley  viva 

But  Allah's  name  he  worsliipji'd  still !  La  voz.  Viva  la  meir.oria  ostraila 

Yet  will  we  hoast  the  golden  time,  De  aquella  gloriosa  hasafia 

When  fierce  from  Afrie's  swarthy  clime.  Que  en  !a  libertad  de  Espafia 

Fair  Spain  was  vanquish'd  by  our  sword,  A  Ls!)ufia  tuvo  cautiva. 

And  Allah's  name  was  all-ador'd  !  Todos.    Su  ley  viva! 

liut  Allah's  hand  hath  bent  the  bow, 

And  laid  our  nation's  honours  low  ; 

Dark  and  mysterious  is  his  will, 

Yet  Allah's  name  be  worshipp'd  still  I 

Their  songs  are  suddenly  interrupted  by  some  one  knock- 
ing violently  against  tlie  door.  This  is  Don  Juan  de  Malec, 
a  descendant  ot  the  Kings  of  Grenada,  and  entitlt^l  from  his 
birth  to  be  the  twenty-fourth  sovereign  of  the  Moorish 
dynasty.  He  had  conformed  to  the  laws  of  Philip,  and 
having  become  a  Christian,  he  had,  in  recompense,  obtained 
a  place  in  the  councils  of  the  city.  He  relates,  that  he 
is  just  returned  from  this  council,  where  an  edict  of  Philip 
was  produced,  by  which  the  Moors  were  subjected  to  new 
vexations  : 

Some  of  these  laws  arc  ancient,  but  rencw"d 
"With  double  rigour  ;  others  newly  pass'd 
To  oppress  us.     Henceforth  none  of  Moorish  race, 
That  race,  the  dying  embers  of  a  fire 
Invincible,  that  once  consum'd  this  land, 
Shall  join  in  dance  or  song  ;  our  very  dress 
Proscrib'd,  our  baths  shut  up,  nor  may  we  use 
O'er  our  own  hearth  our  Arab  tongue,  compell'd 
To  speak  in  pure  Castilian. 

Juan  de  Malec,  the  oldest  of  tlie  counsellors,  had  been  the 
first  to  evince  his  chagrin  and  anxiety  at  these  precipitate 
measures.  Don  Juan  de  Mendoza  answered  him  with 
warmtli,  reproaching  him  with  being  a  INIoor,  and  with 
wishing  to  screen  the  vile  and  abject  race  of  the  Moors  I'rora 
the  punishment  wiiich  was  due  to  them.  Juan  de  Malec 
then  proceeds  : 

0  luckless  we,  to  enter  into  council 

AVithout  our  swords  ;  to  battle  with  the  tongue  ; 
For  words  make  deeper  wounds  than  swords.     Thus  I, 
Mov'd  by  his  arrogance,  provok'd  his  wrath  ; 
And  he — indignant  veugeancc  bums  my  breast  ! 
Snatch"d  from  my  hands  my  statt,  and  tlien — Enough  ! 

1  cannot  speak— you  share  the  shame  with  me. 
I  have  no  son  who  may  wash  out  the  stain 

From  my  grey  hairs  !     Then  hear  me,  valiant  Moors, 

\c  noble  relic  of  the  Afric  race  ! 

The  Christians  have  decreed  your  infamy, 

Declar'd  you  slaves.     But  the  Alpu.xarra  still 

Is  left,  our  mountain  home,  peopled  with  towns, 


OP    THE    SPANIARDS.  4 1  1 

And  castles  well  defended,  all  our  own  ; 

Galera,  Berja,  Gavia,  looking  forth 

Midst  rocks  and  woods  to  the  bright  azure  skies, 

This  beauteous  region  still  is  ours,  and  there 

Will  we  intrench  ourselves.     Now  be  it  yours 

To  choose  a  chief  of  the  illustrious  blood 

Of  Aben  Humeya,  for  that  race  is  still 

Found  in  Castile.     From  slaves  ye  shall  be  lords ; 

I  will  proclaim  my  ^vrongs,  and  summon  all 

To  join  your  ranks,  and  share  in  your  revenge. 

The  Moors,  carried  away  by  this  speech  of  Juan  de  Malec, 
swear  to  revenge  him,  and  then  disperse.  The  scene  now 
changes  to  the  house  of  Malec,  where  Donna  Clara,  his 
daughter,  abandons  herself  to  despair.  The  indignity  offered 
to  her  father,  deprives  her  at  once  of  her  honour,  her  father 
and  her  lover ;  for  Don  Alvaro  Tiizani,  to  whom  she  is 
attached,  will,  she  thinks,  no  longer  regard  her  after  the  dis- 
honour of  her  house.  At  this  moment,  Tuzani  enters  the 
apartment,  and  asks  her  hand,  that  he  may  avenge  the  injury 
as  the  son  of  Malec.  An  indignity  is  not  considered  to  be 
properly  avenged,  unless  the  party  himself,  or  his  son,  or  at 
least  his  brother,  slay  the  offender.  Tuzani  must  thus  marry 
Clara  before  he  can  redeem  the  honour  of  the  aged  Malec. 
Clara  resists,  not  wishing  to  bring  her  dishonour  as  a  dowry 
to  her  husband.  During  tliis  generous  struggle  the  Corre- 
aridor  Zufiiga,  and  Don  Fernando  de  Valor,  another  descendant 
of  the  kings  of  Grenada,  who  liad  also  embraced  Christianity, 
arrive  at  tlie  residence  of  Malec,  and  place  hira  under  arrest, 
having  previously  arrested  Mendoza,  until  a  reconciliation, 
should  be  effected.  Valor  proposes  a  marriage  between 
Donna  Clara,  the  daughter  of  Malec,  and  Mendoza.  Tuzani, 
in  order  to  frustrate  an  arrangement  wliich  destroys  all  his 
hopes,  seeks  Mendoza,  provokes  him  to  fight,  and  hopes  to 
kill  him  before  the  mediators  can  arrive  with  the  proposition, 
which  he  so  much  fears.  The  provocation,  the  duel  in  the 
chamber,  and  all  the  details  in  this  affair  of  honour,  are  ex- 
pressed with  a  fire  and  dignity  truly  worthy  of  a  nation  so 
delicate  on  the  point  of  honour.  But  whilst  they  are 
engaged.  Valor  and  Zuniga  arrive,  to  propose  to  Mendoza 
the  marriage,  as  a  means  of  terminating  the  quarrel.  The 
combatants  are  separated,  and  the  same  propositions  are 
made  to  the  Castilian  which  were  made  to  the  Moor.  Men- 
doza haughtily  rejects  them.  The  blood  of  Mendoza  is  not 
destined,  he  says,  to  submit  to  such  a  stain. 

c  c  2 


412  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

Valor.  Yet  Juan  dc  Malec  is  a  man —         Mendoza.  Like  you. 

Valor.  He  is  ;  for  from  Grenada's  kings  he  boasts 
His  lineage  :  his  aaicestors  and  mine 

Alike  were  kings.         JIend.  Perchance  !     But  mine  were  more 
Than  Moorish  kings,  lords  of  the  mountain  land. 

By  tliis  was  understood  the  Christian  Goths,  who  had  held 
possession  of  tlie  mountains.  Zuniga  throws  down  his  staff 
of  corregidor,  and  unites  witli  Mendoza  in  treating  the 
Moors  with  extreme  contempt.  Tuzani,  as  well  as  Valor 
and  Malec,  feels  himself  injured  by  this  reflection  on  liis 
ancestors. 

Thus  are  we  recompens'd,  who  have  embraced 

The  Christian  faith  ;  thus  is  our  loyalty 

To  Christian  laws  rewarded.     Yet  shall  Spain 

In  bitter  tears  wash  out  the  stain  this  day 

Cast  on  the  blood  of  Valor  and  Tuzani. 

They  then  resolve  upon  revolt,  and  separate. 

Three  years  elapse  between  the  first  and  the  second  act. 
In  this  interval  the  revolt  breaks  out,  and  Don  Jolin  of 
Austria,  the  conqueror  at  Lepanto,  is  called  to  suppress  it. 
Mendoza,  at  the  commencement  of  the  third  act,  points  out 
to  him  the  chain  of  the  Alpuxarra,  which  extends  fourteen 
leagues  along  the  sea-coast,  and  explains  to  him  its  strength, 
as  well  as  its  resources,  consisting  of  thirty  thousand  warriors 
who  inhabit  it.  Like  the  Goths  in  former  times,  he  says, 
they  have  fled  into  the  mountains,  and  Iiope  from  them  to 
reconquer  Spain.  During  three  years  they  have  preserved 
their  secret  with  such  fidehty  that  thirty  thousand  men  who 
were  informed  of  it,  and  who  were  employed  during  this 
long  space  of  time  in  collecting  in  the  Alpuxan-a  arms  and 
ammunition,  have  concealed  it  from  the  detection  of  the  most 
suspicious  of  governments.  Tlie  chiefs  of  the  blood  of  Aben 
Humeya,  who  had  renounced  their  Cliristian  appellations, 
and  the  language,  the  customs,  and  the  manners  of  Castilians, 
liad  divided  themselves  among  the  three  principal  fortresses 
of  the  Alpuxarra.  Fernando  Valor  liad  been  recognized  as 
king  ;  had  assumed  the  government  of  Berja,  and  had 
married  the  beautiful  Isabella  Tuzani,  who,  in  the  first  act, 
was  represented  as  attached  to  Mendoza.  Tuzani  commands 
at  Gavia,  and  he  lias  not  yet  married  Clara,  who  is  in  the 
third  city,  Galera,  where  her  father  commands.  AVhen,  in 
this  manner,  the  unity  of  time  is  renounced,  the  author  is 
obliged  to  enter  into  explanations,  and  to  suspend  the  action, 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  413 

in  order  to  communicate  to  the  spectator  what  has  passed  in 
the  interval  between  the  acts. 

The  scene  is  then  transferred  to  Berja,  to  the  palace  of 
the  Moorish  king.  Malec  and  Tuzani  appear  to  ask  his 
consent  to  the  marriage  of  Tuzani  and  Clara.  Agreeably  to 
the  Musulman  custom,  Tuzani  makes  his  bride  a  present,  as 
the  pledge  of  marriage,  of  a  necklace  of  pearls  and  other 
jewels ;  but  the  nuptials  are  suddenly  broken  off  by  an 
alarm  of  drums  and  the  approach  of  tlie  Christian  army. 
Valor  despatches  Malec  and  Tuzani  to  their  posts  : 

Love  must  forego  liis  joys 
Till  victory  be  won. 

On  separating,  Tuzani  assures  Clara  tliat  he  will  come 
every  night  from  Galera  to  Gavia,  to  see  hex",  though  it  be 
two  leagues  distant,  and  she  promises  to  meet  him  each  night 
on  the  walls.  In  one  of  the  succeeding  scenes  we  see  their 
place  of  meeting,  from  which  they  are  driven  by  tlie  ap- 
proach of  the  Christian  army,  advancing  to  the  siege  of 
Galera.  Tuzani  wishes  to  carry  Clara  with  him  ;  but  the 
loss  of  his  horse  prevents  him,  and  they  part  under  the  hope 
of  being  for  ever  united  on  the  next  day. 

At  the  opening  of  the  third  act,  Tuzani  returns  to  the 
place  of  appointment  ;  but  the  Spaniards  had  discovered, 
beneath  the  rocks  on  which  Galera  was  built,  a  cavern,  which 
they  had  filled  with  powder  ;  and,  at  the  moment  when 
Tuzani  approaches  the  wall,  a  dreadful  explosion  makes  a 
breach  by  which  the  fortress  falls  into  the  hands  of  the 
Spaniards.  Tuzani  precipitates  himself  into  the  flames  to 
save  Donna  Clara  ;  but  the  Castilians  had  penetrated  into 
the  city  by  another  way,  and  having  i*eceived  orders  from 
their  chief  to  spare  no  lives,  Donna  Clara  had  already  been 
poniarded  by  a  Spanish  soldier.  Tuzani  arrives  only  in  time 
to  see  her  die.  We  have  already  mentioned  this  scene,  the 
language  of  which  does  not  correspond  to  the  situation. 
But  Tuzani,  who  breathes  only  revenge,  re-assumes  the 
Castilian  habit,  and  descends  to  the  Christian  camp,  which  ha 
traverses,  and  at  length  finds,  in  the  hands  of  a  soldier,  who 
is  accidentally  placed  with  himself  in  prison,  the  necklace 
he  had  given  to  his  mistress  ;  he  bids  him  relate  his  history, 
and  learns  from  his  own  mouth  that  he  is  the  murderer  of 
Clara.  He  instantly  stabs  him  with  his  dagger,  and  Mendoza, 
drawn  by  the  dying  cries  of  the  soldier,  enters  the  prison. 


414  ON    TIIK    LITERATURE 

TnzANi.  Thou  start'st  in  fear,  Mendoza?     Dost  not  know  me  ? 
Behold  Tuzani,  the  fierce  thunderbolt 
Of  the  Alpuxarra.     Fro.n  my  mountain  height 
1  have  descended  to  avcnj^e  the  death 
Of  her  whom  I  ador'd.     Sweet  is  revenge  ! 
He  loves  not,  who  with  blood  would  not  avenge 
The  wroutrs  of  his  belov'd.     What  wouhlst  thou  with  me  1 
Erewhilc  thou  know'st  I  sought  thee,  challeng'd  tliee 
To  fight ;  our  weapons  equal,  face  to  face. 
If,  in  thy  turn,  thou  seek'st  to  combat  here, 
Come  singly  and  in  honour.     If  by  chance 
Thou  com'st,  then  let  misfortune  be  my  passport, 
The  pledge  of  noble  minds,  and  lead  me  forth 
In  safety.         Mkndoza.  Much  should  I  rejoice,  Tuzani, 
If,  without  violation  of  mine  honour, 
In  such  an  hour  as  this,  I  might  assure 
Thy  safety  ;  but  the  service  of  my  life 
Forbids  it,  and  by  force  I  must  arrest  thee. 

Tuzani.  'Tis  well  I     Free  passage  then  my  sword  shall  yield. 

First  Sold.  I'm  slain  ! — 

Sec.  Sold.  What  fiend  is  here  broke  loose  from  hell  ? 

Tuzani.  You  shall  have  memory  of  me.     You  shall  not 
Forget  Tuzani,  him  whom  fame  shall  blazon 
As  the  avenger  of  his  murder'd  love. 

He  is  then  surrounded,  and  Don  John  of    Austria  and 

Don  Lope  de  Figueroa  come  to  ask  the  cause  of  the  tumult, 

while  Tuzani  still  resists. 

Mendoza.  a  strange  event  1    A  Jloor  has,  from  the  heights 
Of  the  Alpuxarra,  all  alone  descended, 
To  avenge  him  on  a  man  who  kill'd  his  love. 
In  the  storming  of  Galera.         Figueroa.  This  man  slew 
The  lady  that  thou  lov'dst  1        Tuzani.  He  did,  and  I 
Slew  him.         Figueroa.  Thou  hast  done  well  !     My  lord,  command 
His  freedom  ;  such  a  deed  demands  our  praise. 
Not  censure.     You,  my  lord,  yourself  would  slay 
One  who  should  injure  her  you  lov'd,  or  else 
You  were  not  John  of  Austria. 

Don  John  hesitates ;  he  does  not  consent  to  liberate 
Tuzani,  but  that  hero  opens  a  way  for  himself  with  his  sword, 
and  escapes  in  safety  to  the  defiles  of  the  Alpuxarra.  On 
the  other  liand,  the  Moors  accept  tlie  pardon  olfered  to  tliein 
in  the  name  of  Philip  II.  Tliey  surrender  their  arms,  and 
quiet  is  restored  in  the  Alpuxarra. 

The  lurjre  edition  of  tlie  plays  of  Calderon,  published  at 
Madrid  in  1763,  in  eleven  volumes,  octavo,  by  Fernandez  de 
Apontes,  contains  one  hundred  and  nine  pieces,  of  which  I 
have  perused  only  tliirty.  I  know  not  how  far  I  may  liave 
made  the  reader  acquainted  with  those  from  wliich  I  have 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  415 

given  extracts,  or  whether  I  have  succeeded  in  transferring 
to  his  mind  the  sentiments  which  they  have  excited  in  my 
own  ;  admiration  for  the  dignity  of  tlie  characters,  and  their 
noble  elevation  of  mind  ;  indignation  at  the  singular  abuse  of 
religion,  which  in  this  poet  is  almost  always  at  variance  with 
the  interests  of  morality  ;  a  perception  of  the  delightful  flow 
of  his  poetry,  which  captivates  the  senses,  like  music  or  per- 
fumes ;  an  impatience  at  the  abuse  of  talent,  and  of  images 
which  offend  from  their  exuberance  ;  and  astonishment  at  a 
fertility  of  invention  unequalled  by  any  poet  of  any  nation. 
I  shall,  however,  have  attained  my  object,  if  the  extracts 
which  I  have  presented  should  inspii-e  a  wish  for  a  more  inti- 
mate acquaintance  with  this  poet.  Taking  leave,  tlien,  of 
his  dramatic  works,  I  shall  add  only  a  few  words  on  that 
species  of  composition,  to  which,  in  his  old  age,  he  was 
anxious  to  attach  all  his  celebrity,  since  he  regarded  them 
less  as  dramatic  works,  than  as  acts  of  devotion.  I  allude  to 
the  Autos  Sacramentale.%  of  which  I  have  seen  six  volumes, 
published  at  Madrid  in  1717,  by  Don  Pedro  de  Pando  y  Mier. 
I  must  ingenuously  confess,  that  of  seventy-two  pieces  which 
they  contain,  and  which  I  have  partially  inspected,  I  have 
fully  perused  only  the  first,  and  that  even  this  I  should  never 
have  read  through,  if  I  had  not  done  so  through  a  sense  of 
duty.  The  most  incongruous  assemblage  of  real  and  allego- 
rical beings,  of  thoughts  and  sentiments  totally  irreconcile- 
able,  all  that  the  Spaniards  themselves  have,  by  a  word  suffi- 
ciently expressive,  denominated  disparates,  are  found  united 
in  these  pieces.  The  first  of  these  autos  is  intitled,  A  Dlos  por 
razon  de  Estado ;  and  is  preceded  by  a  prologue,  in  which 
appear  ten  allegorical  personages.  Fame  arrives  first  with  a 
buckler  on  her  arm,  and  makes  the  following  proclamation  : 

Be  it  known  to  all  who  have  lived  heretofore,  v/ho  live  now,  and 
who  shall  live,  from  the  day  the  sun  first  commenced  his  course  to  the 
day  when  he  shall  he  no  more,  that  holy  Theology,  the  science  of  Faith, 
to  whom  has  been  given  imperfect  sight,  but  imjDortant  matter,  little 
light  but  splendour  ineffable,  will  this  day  hold  a  tournament  in  the 
university  of  the  world,  called  Maredit,  which,  in  Arabic,  signifies,  the 
Mother  of  sciences,  that  the  triumphant  Mind  may  share  the  honour  of 
Valour.  Here,  then,  she  challenges  all  the  Sciences  who  dare  to  sup- 
port an  allegorical  combat  against  her  propositions,  and  I,  Fame,  am 
charged  as  her  public  herald  to  make  known  this  defiance  to  the 
whole  world  ! 

Theology  then  appears  with  Faith,  her  sponsor,  and  sets 
forth  the  three  propositions  which  she  intends  to  defend  ;  the 


416  ox    THE    LITERATUnE 

presence  of  God  in  the  eucharist,  the  new  life  received  in 
communicating,  and  the  necessity  of  a  fi-equent  cojnniunion. 
Pliilosopliy  presents  herself  to  combat  the  first  of  these  pro- 
positions, and  Nature  is  called  in  as  a  witness.  '1  hey  dispute 
in  a  scholastic  manner,  and  also  engage  in  battle  as  in  a  tour- 
nament, so  that  we  see  at  the  same  time  the  figure  and  the 
thing  which  is  represented  under  it.  Theology  is  of  course 
victorious,  and  Philosophy  and  Nature  throAA^  themselves  at 
her  feet,  and  confess  the  truth  of  the  proposition  wliich  they 
had  opposed.  Medicine  having  Speech  for  sponsor,  tlien 
appears  to  contest  the  second  proposition,  and  is  likewise 
vanquished.  Jurisprudence  comes  in  the  third  place,  having 
Justice  for  her  sponsor,  and  meets  with  a  similar  fate.  After 
her  three  victories,  Theology  announces,  that  she  intends  to 
give  an  entertainment,  and  that  this  entertainment  will  be  an 
auto,  in  which,  agreeably  to  tlie  laws  of  the  woi-ld  in  such 
cases,  it  will  be  proved  by  evidence  that  the  Catholic  is  the 
only  true  faith,  whilst  Reason  and  Propriety  unite  in  its 
favour.  It  is  called,  Dios  po?'  razon  de  Estado.  The  per- 
sonages of  this  eccentric  drama  are : 

The  Spirit,  first  lover.  Penitence. 

Thouoht,  the  fool.  Extreme  Unction. 

Paganism.  Holy  Orders. 

The  Synagogue.  Marriage. 

Africa.  The  Law  of  Nature, 

Atheism.  The  Wiutten  Law. 

St.  Paul.  The  Law  of  Grace. 

Baptism.  Three  singing  Women. 

Confirmation.  A  Choir  of  Music. 

El  Pensamiento  being  masculine,  the  part  of  Thought  is 
represented  by  a  male  actor. 

Thought  and  Mind  are  attracted  by  a  choir  of  music,  whom 
they  hear  singing  these  words  : — "  Great  God  !  who  art  un- 
known to  us,  abridge  this  space  of  time  and  allow  us  to  know 
thee,  since  we  believe  in  thee."  Following  the  music,  they 
are  led  by  their  curiosity  to  the  steps  of  a  temple,  built  on  a 
mountain,  and  consecrated  to  the  unknown  God  of  St.  Paul. 
Their  supi)lications  addressed  to  the  unknown  Deity  are  re- 
newed. Paganism  implores  him  to  descend  and  occupy  the 
temple  which  mankind  have  erected  to  him ;  but  JNIind 
interrupts  tliose  who  are  paying  their  adorations,  inquiring 
how  an  unknown  God  can  be  a  God,  and  thereupon  com- 
mences a  sciiolastic  dispute,  not  less  tedious  than  the  answer 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  417 

made  by  Paganism.  Mind  is  desirous  afterwards  of  discuss- 
ing the  same  point  with  Thought ;  but  the  latter  declines  for 
the  present,  as  she  prefers  dancing.  In  fact,  she  engages  in 
the  dance  which  is  held  in  honour  of  God,  and  Mmd  also 
joins  in  it.  The  dancers  form  themselves  into  the  figure  of 
a  cross,  and  invoke  the  unknown  triune  God.  A  sudden 
earthquake  and  eclipse  disperse  all  the  dancers,  excepting  . 
Paganism,  ]\Iind,  and  Thought,  who  remain  to  dispute  on  the 
cause  of  tlie  earthquake  and  eclipse.  Mind  maintains  that 
the  world  is  at  an  end,  or  that  its  creator  suffers  ;  Paganism 
denies  that  a  God  can  suffer  ;  and,  on  this  point  they  dispute 
together  afresh ;  whilst  Thought,  the  fool,  runs  from  one 
to  the  other,  and  alwavs  coincides  with  the  person  wlio  has 
last  spoken. 

Paganism  departs,  and  Thought  remains  alone  with  Mind. 
The  latter  proposes,  as  there  is  neither  time  nor  place  in  the 
allegory,  to  traverse  the  earth  in  search  of  an  unknown  God 
who  can  suffer,  since  tliis  is  the  one  he  is  anxious  to  adore. 
They  then  take  their  departure  to  America,  in  pursuit  of 
Atheism,  whom  they  question  on  the  formation  of  tlie  uni- 
verse. Atheism,  in  answering  them,  doubts  of  all  things, 
and  shews  himself  indifferent  to  every  thing.  Thought  is 
irritated,  beats  him,  and  puts  him  to  flight.  They  then  go 
in  search  of  Africa,  who  is  expecting  the  prophet  Mahomet, 
and  who  follows  her  God  before  she  knows  his  laws ;  but 
Mind  will  not  allow  her  to  believe  that  every  religion  pos- 
sesses the  power  of  salvation  ;  and  that  revealed  i-eligion  only 
gives  the  means  of  arriving  at  a  higher  degree  of  perfection. 
This  opinion  appears  to  her  a  blasphemy,  and  they  part  with 
mutual  threats.  Mind  next  repairs  to  the  Synagogue  in 
Asia,  but  she  finds  her  troubled  by  a  murder  which  she  had 
committed  on  a  young  man,  who  pretended  to  be  the  Mes- 
siah, and  who  perished  at  the  moment  of  an  earthquake  and 
eclipse.  Another  dispute  arises,  attended  with  fresh  discon- 
tent on  the  part  of  Mind.  But  this  dispute  is  interrupted 
by  lightning,  and  by  a  voice  from  heaven,  crying,  "  Paul, 
why  persecutest  thou  me?"  St.  Paul  is  converted  by  these 
words.  He  tlien  disputes  with  the  Synagogue  and  Mind  in 
support  of  revelation.  St.  Paul  introduces  the  Law  of 
Nature,  the  AVritten  Law,  and  the  Law  of  Grace,  to  shew 
that  they  are  all  united  under  Christianity  ;  and  he  calls  in 
the  seven  Sacraments  to  declare  that  they  are  its  supporters. 


418  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

Mind  and  Thought  are  convinced  ;  Paganism  and  Atheism 
are  converted  ;  the  Synagogue  and  Airica  still  resist  ;  but 
Mind  pronounces  the  following  decree,  and  all  the  choir 
repeat  it  :  "  Let  the  human  mind  love  the  unknown  God, 
and  believe  in  him  for  reasons  of  state,  even  though  faith 
be  wanting." 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

CONCLUSION  OF  THE  SPANISH  DRAMA.  STATE  OP  LETTERS  DURING  THE  REIGN 
OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  BOURBON.  CONCLUSION  OF  THE  HISTORY  OF  SPANISH 
LITEIiATURE. 

Europe  has  wholly  forgotten  the  admiration  with  which, 
for  so  long  a  period,  she  regarded  the  Spanish  stage,  and  the 
transport  with  which  she  received  so  many  new  dramatic 
pieces;  pieces  teeming  with  romantic  incidents,  intrigues, 
disguises,  duels,  ptu'sonages  unknown  to  themselves  or  to 
others,  pomp  of  language,  brilliancy  of  description,  and  fasci- 
nating poetry,  mingled  with  the  scenes  of  active  life.  In  the 
seventeenth  century  the  Spaniards  were  regarded  as  the 
dictators  of  the  drama,  and  men  of  the  first  genius  in  other 
countries  borrowed  from  them  without  scruple.  They  en- 
deavoured, it  is  true,  to  adapt  Castilian  subjects  to  the  taste  of 
France  and  Italy,  and  to  render  them  conformable  to  rules 
which  were  despised  by  the  Spaniards  ;  but  this  they  did 
more  in  deference  to  the  authority  of  the  ancients  than  to  in- 
dulge the  taste  of  the  people,  which,  indeed,  throughout  all 
Europe  was  the  same  as  in  Spain.  At  the  present  day  this 
state  of  things  is  i-eversed,  and  the  Spanish  drama  is  entirely 
unknown  in  France  and  Italy.  In  those  countries  it  is  desig- 
nated only  by  tlie  epithet  of  barbarous  ;  it  is  no  longer  studied 
in  England  ;  and  the  recent  celebrity  which  has  been  attached 
to  it  in  Germany,  is  not  yet  become  a  national  feeling. 

The  Spaniards  have  only  themselves  to  accuse  for  so  rapid 
a  decline  and  so  entire  an  oblivion.  Instead  of  perfecting 
themselves,  and  advancing  in  that  career  of  glory  on  which 
they  had  entered,  they  have  only  copied  themselves,  and  re- 
traced a  thousand  times  their  own  footsteps,  without  adding 
any  thing  to  an  art,  of  which  they  might  have  been  the 
creators,  and  without  introducing  into  it  any  variety.  They 
liad  witnessed  two  men  of  genius,  who  composed  their  plays 
in  the  course  of  a  few  days,  or  rather  hours.     They  thought 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  419 

themselves  obliged  to  imitate  this  rapidity,  and  they  abstained 
from  all  care  and  correction,  not  less  scrupulously  than  u 
dramatic  author  in  France  would  have  insisted  on  them. 
They  considered  it  essential  to  their  fame  to  compose  their 
pieces  without  study  ;  if,  indeed,  we  may  speak  of  fame  when 
they  aspired  to  nothing  further  than  the  transitory  applause 
of  an  idle  populace,  and  the  pleasure  of  novelty,  to  which  a 
pecuniary  profit  was  attaolied  ;  while  the  greater  number  did 
not  even  attempt  to  attract  to  their  pieces  the  attention  of 
their  well-informed  contemporaries,  or  the  judgment  of  pos- 
terity, by  committing  them  to  the  press. 

We  have  elsewhere  spoken  of  the  Commedie  deW  Arte  of 
the  Italians,  those  extemporaneous  masqued  pieces,  with 
given  characters,  often  repeated  jests,  and  incidents  which  we 
have  met  with  twenty  times  before,  but  adapted,  well  or  ill,  to 
a  new  piece.  The  Spanish  school  which  was  contemporary 
with  Calderon,  and  which  succeeded  him,  may  with  propriety 
be  compared  to  these  Commedie  deW  Arte.  Tiie  extempo- 
raneous part  was  produced  with  a  little  more  deliberation  ; 
since,  instead  of  catching  the  moment  of  inspiration  on  the 
stage,  the  author  sought  it  by  some  hours'  labour  in  his 
closet.  These  pieces  wei'e  composed  in  verse,  but  in  the 
running  and  easy  form  of  the  RedondUhax,  which  naturally 
flowed  from  the  pen.  In  other  respects,  the  writer  did  not 
give  himself  more  trouble  to  observe  probability,  liistorical 
facts,  or  national  manners,  than  an  author  of  the  Italian  har- 
lequin pieces  ;  nor  did  he  attempt  in  any  greater  degree 
novelty  in  the  characters,  the  incidents,  or  the  jests,  or  pay 
any  greater  respect  to  raoi-ality.  He  produced  his  plays  as  a 
manufacture  or  article  of  trade  ;  he  found  it  more  easy  and 
more  lucrative  to  write  a  second  than  to  correct  the  first  ;  and 
it  was  with  this  negligence  and  precipitation  that,  under  the 
reign  of  Philip  IV.,  the  stage  was  deluged  with  an  unheard-of 
number  of  pieces. 

The  titles,  the  authors,  and  the  history  of  this  innumerable 
quantity  of  plays,  have  escaped  not  only  the  foreigner,  who 
can  bestow  merely  a  rapid  glance  on  the  literature  of  other 
nations,  but  even  those  Spanish  writers  who  have  exerted 
themselves  most  to  preserve  every  production  which  could 
contribute  to  the  fame  of  their  country.  Each  troop  of 
comedians  had  their  own  repository,  or  collection,  and 
endeavoured  to  retain  tlie  sole  proprietorship  of  them  ;  whilst 


420  ON  Tin:  literature 

the  booksellers,  from  time  to  time,  printed  on  speculation 
pieces  which  were  obtained  from  the  manager  oftener  tlian 
from  the  author.  In  this  manner  were  formed  those  collec- 
tions of  Comedins  varlas,  which  we  find  in  libraries,  and  which 
were  almost  always  printed  without  correction,  criticism,  or 
judgment.  The  works  of  individuals  were  scarcely  ever  col- 
lected or  published  separately  ;  and  chance  more  than  the 
taste  of  the  public  has  saved  some  irom  amongst  the  crowd 
which  have  perished.  Chance,  too,  has  led  me  to  peruse 
many  which  have  not  been  perused  by  Boutterwek,  Schlegel, 
Dieze,  and  other  critics.  Thus  every  opinion  on  the  personal 
merit  of  each  author  becomes  necessarily  vague  and  uncer- 
tain. We  should  have  more  reason  to  regret  this  confusion,  if 
the  character  of  the  poets  were  to  be  found  in  their  writings  ; 
if  it  were  possible  to  assign  to  each  his  rank,  and  to  distin- 
guish his  style  or  principles  ;  but  the  resemblance  is  so  great, 
that  we  could  readily  believe  all  these  pieces  to  have  been 
written  by  the  same  hand  ;  and  if  any  one  of  them  has  an 
advantage  over  the  others,  it  seems  more  attributable  to  the 
happy  choice  of  the  subject,  or  to  some  historical  trait, 
romance,  or  intrigue,  which  the  author  has  had  the  good 
fortune  to  select,  than  to  the  talent  with  which  they  are 
treated. 

Among  the  various  collections  of  Spanish  plays,  the  pieces 
which  have  most  excited  my  curiosity  are  anonymous.  I 
refer  more  particularly  to  those  which  were  published  as  the 
work  of  a  poet  of  the  court  ;  de  un  higenio  de  esta  Corte.  It 
is  known  that  Philip  IV.  wrote  several  pieces  for  the  stage 
under  this  name,  and  we  may  readily  imagine  that  those  which 
were  supposed  to  come  from  his  pen  would  be  more  eagerly 
sought  after  than  others  by  the  public.  It  is  not  impossible 
for  a  ver\'  good  king  to  write  very  bad  plays  ;  and  Philip 
IV.,  who  was  any  thing  rather  than  a  good  king,  or  a  dis- 
tinguished man,  had  still  less  chance  of  succeeding  as  a  poet. 
It  is,  nevertlieless,  curious  to  observe  a  monarch's  view  of 
private  life,  and  what  notion  a  person  entertains  of  society, 
who  is,  by  his  rank,  elevated  above  all  participation  in  it. 
Those  plays,  too,  which,  though  not  the  work  of  the  king, 
were  yet  written  by  some  of  his  courtiers,  his  oihcersof  state, 
or  his  friends,  might,  on  that  account,  attract  our  notice  ; 
but  nothing  can  be  more  vague  than  the  title  of  these  pieces, 
as  an  unknown  individual  may  easily  arrogate  to  himself  a 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  421 

rank  which  we  have  no  means  of  ascertaining  ;  and  the 
Spaniards  often  extend  the  name  of  the  Court  to  every  tiling 
within  the  sphere  of  the  capital.  Be  this,  however,  as  it  may, 
it  is  among  these  pieces  of  a  Court  Poet  that  I  have  found 
the  most  attractive  Spanish  comedies.  Such,  for  instance, 
is  Tlie  Devil  turned  Preacher:  El  Diablo  Predicator,  y 
mayor  contrario  amigo;  the  work  of  a  devout  servant  of  St. 
Francis  and  the  Capuchin  monks.  He  supposes  that  the 
devil  Luzbel  has  succeeded  by  his  intrigues  in  exciting  in 
Lucca  an  extreme  animosity  against  the  Capuchins  ;  every 
one  refuses  them  alms  ;  they  are  ready  to  perish  with  hunger, 
and  are  reduced  to  the  last  extremity;  and  the  first  magis- 
trate in  the  city  at  length  orders  them  to  quit  it.  But  at  the 
moment  that  Luzbel  is  congratulating  himself  on  his  victory, 
the  infant  Jesus  descends  to  earth  with  St.  Michael.  To 
punish  the  devil  for  his  insolence,  he  compels  him  to  clothe 
himself  in  the  habit  of  St.  Francis,  and  then  to  pi'each  in 
Lucca  in  order  to  counteract  the  mischief  he  had  done  ;  to 
ask  alms,  and  to  revive  the  charitable  disposition  of  the 
inhabitants  ;  and  not  to  quit  the  city  or  the  habit  of  the  order, 
until  he  had  built  in  Lucca  another  convent  for  the  followers 
of  St.  Francis,  more  richly  endowed,  and  capable  of  contain- 
ing more  monks  than  the  former.  The  invention  is  whimsical, 
and  the  more  so  when  we  find  the  subject  treated  with  the 
most  sincere  devotion,  and  the  most  implicit  belief  in  the 
miracles  of  the  Franciscans  ;  but  the  execution  is  not  the  less 
pleasing  on  that  account.  The  solicitude  of  the  devil,  who 
endeavours  to  terminate  as  soon  as  possible  so  disagreeable  a 
business  ;  the  zeal  with  which  he  preaches  ;  the  hidden  ex- 
pressions by  which  he  diguises  his  mission,  and  wishes  to  pass 
off  his  chagrin  as  a  religious  mortification  ;  the  prodigious 
success  which  attends  his  exertions  in  opposition  to  his  own 
interests  ;  the  only  enjoyment  which  is  left  him  in  his  trouble, 
to  torment  the  slothful  monk  who  accompanies  him  in  asking 
alms,  and  to  cheat  him  in  his  gormandizing  :  all  this  is  repre- 
sented with  a  gaiety  and  life  which  render  this  piece  very 
amusing  in  the  perusal,  and  which  caused  it  to  be  received 
with  transport  by  the  audience,  when  it  was  a  few  years  ago 
given  on  the  stage  at  Madrid,  in  the  form  of  a  regular  play. 
It  was  not  one  of  the  least  pleasures  of  the  spectators,  to 
laugh  so  long  at  the  expense  of  the  devil,  as  we  are  taught  to 
believe  that  the  laugh  is  generally  on  his  side. 


422  ON    THE    LITERATUUE 

Among  the  rivals  of  Calderon,  one  of  the  most  celebrated 
and  the  most  deserving  of  notice,  wasAugustin  Moreto,  who 
enjoyed,  like  him,  the  favour  of  Philip  IV.  ;  was,  like  him,  u 
zealot  as  well  as  a  comic  poet  ;  and,  like  him,  a  priest 
towards  the  end  of  his  life  :  but,  when  Moreto  entered 
into  the  ecclesiastical  state,  he  abandoned  the  theatre.  He 
possessed  more  vivacity  than  Calderon,  and  his  plots  give 
rise  to  more  amusing  scenes.  He  attempted,  too,  a  more 
precise  delineation  of  character,  and  endeavoured  to  bestow 
on  his  comedies  that  interest,  the  fruits  of  ac(!urate  observa- 
tion, which  is  so  generally  wanting  in  the  Spanish  drama. 
Several  of  his  pieces  were  introduced  on  the  French  stage,  at 
the  time  when  the  authors  of  that  country  borrowed  so  much 
from  Spain.  That  which  is  most  known  to  the  French  people, 
in  consequence  of  being  for  a  lung  time  past  acted  on  Slirove 
Tuesday,  is  the  Don  Japhet  of  Armenia,  of  Scarron,  almost 
literally  translated  from  El  Marque:^  del  Cir/nrral;  but  this 
is  not  amongst  the  best  pieces  of  Moreto.  There  are  to  be 
found  characters  much  more  happily  drawn,  with  much  more 
interest  in  the  plot,  more  invention,  and  a  more  lively 
dialogue,  in  his  comedy  entitled,  No  piiede  ser  :  It  cannot  he  ; 
where  a  woman  of  talent  and  spirit,  who  is  beloved  by  a  man 
of  jealous  disposition,  proposes  to  herself,  before  marrying 
him,  to  convince  him  that  it  is  impossible  to  guard  a  woman 
effectually,  and  that  the  only  safe  mode  is  to  trust  to  her  own 
honour.  The  lesson  is  severe,  for  she  assists  the  sister  of  her 
lover  in  an  intrigue,  although  he  kept  her  shut  up,  and 
watched  her  with  extreme  distrust.  She  contrives  to  arrange 
her  interviews  with  a  young  man  ;  she  aids  the  sister  in 
escaping  from  her  brother's  house,  and  in  marrying  without 
his  consent ;  and  when  she  has  enjoyed  the  alarm  into  which 
he  is  thrown,  and  has  convinced  him  that,  notwithstanding  all 
his  caution  and  all  his  threats,  he  has  been  grossly  duped,  she 
consents  to  give  him  her  hand.  The  remainder  of  the  plot  is 
conducted  with  sullicient  probability,  and  much  originality,, 
and  gives  rise  to  many  entertaining  scenes,  of  which  Moliere 
has  availed  himself  in  his  Kcole  de,s  diaris. 

There  is  a  piece  in  much  the  same  style  by  Don  Fernando 
de  Zarate,  called,  la  Prcsitntida  y  la  Jlerniosa.  "We  lind  in 
it  some  strong  traits  of  character  joined  to  a  very  entertaining 
plot.  There  were  still  to  l)e  found  in  Spain  some  men  of 
taste,  who  treated  with  ridicule  the  affected  style  introduced 


OP    THE    SPANIARDS.  423 

"by  Gongora.  Zarate  gives  to  Leonora  the  most  conceited 
lanofuaare,  which  does  not  differ  much  from  that  of  Gongora, 
or  even  Calderon,  and  he  contrives  at  the  same  time  to  show 
its  absurdity.  His  Gracioso  exclaims  against  the  outrage 
which  is  thus  committed  upon  the  poor  Castilian  tongue.* 
The  two  sisters,  Leonora  and  Vioh^nte,  have  in  this  piece 
nearly  the  same  characters  as  Armande  and  Henriette  in  the 
Femnies  savantcs ;  but  the  Spaniards  did  not  attempt  the  nicer 
shades  of  character ;  those  which  they  drew  were  always 
digressions,  and  had  little  influence  on  the  passing  events. 
The  female  pedant  finds  a  lover  amiable,  noble,  and  rich, 
as  well  as  her  fair  and  engaging  rival  ;  her  preposterous 
character  neither  adds  to,  nor  diminishes  the  chances  of  her 
happiness  ;  a  stratagem,  a  bold  disguise  conceived  and  ex- 
ecuted by  a  knavish  valet,  decides  the  fate  of  all  the  charac- 
ters; and  whatever  interest  there  maybe  in  the  plot,  this  piece 
does  not  rise  beyond  the  common  class  of  Spanish  comedies. 
One  of  the  comic  authors  who  enjoyed  the  highest  reputa- 
tion in  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century,  was  Don 
Francisco  de  Roxas,  knight  of  the  order  of  St.  James,  a  great 
number  of  whose  pieces  we  find  in  the  ancient  collection  of 
Spanish  comedies,  and  from  whom  the  French  stage  has 
borrowed  some  dramas  ;  amongst  others,  the  Venceslas  of 
Rotrou,  and  Don  Dertran  de  Cigarral  of  Thomas  Corneille. 
This  last  piece  is  translated  from  the  one  entitled,  Entre 
hohos  arula  eljuerjo  :  The  Plot  is  laid  amongst  Fools  ;  which 
passes  for  the  best  that  Roxas  has  written.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  I  have  seen  a  play  by  him,  called  The  Patroness 

*  Leonora  is  represented  with  her  sister  in  the  presence  of  a  gentleman  whom  they 
both  love,  and  she  wishes  him  to  decide  between  them. 

Leo.    Distinguid  seuor  don  Juan  Cede  la  nautica  braza 

De  esta  retorica  intacta,  Al  zodiaeo  austral, 

Quien  es  el  Alva  y  el  sol ;  Palustre  sera  la  parca, 

Porque  quando  se  levanta  Avassallando  las  dos 

De  Id  cuna  de  la  aurora  A  las  rafagas  del  Alva. 

La  Delfica  luz,  es  clara  Choc.  Viva  Christo  ;  somos  Indies, 

Consecuencia  visual  Pues  de  esta  suerte  se  habla 

Que  el  Alva,  nevado  raapa,  Entre  Christianos?  For  vida 

Cadaver  de  oristal,  muera  De  la  lengua  castellana 

En  monun-.entos  de  plata:  Que  si  rai  hermana  habla  culto 

Y  assi  en  crepusculos  rizos  Que  me  oculte  de  mi  hermana, 
Donde  se  angelan  las  claras  Al  inculto  barbarismo, 
Pavezas  del  sol,  es  fuerza  O  a  las  lagunas  de  Parla, 

Que  el  sol  brille,  y  fine  el  Alva.  O  a  la  Nefritica  idt^a; 

Juan.  Sefiora,  vos  sois  el  astro  Y  si  algun  critico  trata 

Que  da  el  fulgor  a  Diana;  Morir  en  pecado  oculto, 

Y  violante  es  el  candor  Dios  le  conceda  su  habla 
Que  se  deriva  del  aura.  Para  que  confiesse  a  voces 
.Y  si  el  candor  matutino  Que  es  castellana  su  alma. 


424  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

of  Madrid,  our  Ladij  of  AtorJui,  written  in  antiquated 
language,  apparently  to  give  it  more  respectability,  and  which 
unites  all  the  extravagances,  and  all  the  monstrous  moral 
absurdities  that  we  have  seen  exhibited  in  the  religious 
pieces  of  Cakleron. 

The  critics  of  Germany  and  Spain  have  selected  2^lie 
Piini.iiliment  of  Avarice  :  El  Casligo  de  la  Miseria,  by  Don 
Juan  (le  IIoz,  as  one  of  the  best  in  his  class  of  plays.  This 
piece,  though  highly  Iiumorous,  is  an  instance  of  that  radical 
defect  of  the  Spanish  drama,  which  by  the  intricacy  of  the 
plot  entirely  destroys  the  eflfect  of  cliaracter.  Don  Juan  de 
Hoz  has  painted  the  character  of  tlie  miser  Marcos  in  strong 
colours;  but  the  stratagem  by  which  Donna  Isidora  contrives 
to  marry  him  so  far  distracts  the  attention,  that  the  avarice 
of  the  principal  personage  is  no  longer  the  striking  feature  of 
the  piece.  There  is,  besides,  an  impropriety  and  effrontery  in 
giving  to  a  comedy  a  title  which  announces  a  moral  aim, 
when  it  concludes  with  the  triumph  of  vice,  and  is  marked  by  a 
shameful  dereliction  of  all  probity,  even  in  those  characters 
which  are  represented  as  respectable. 

One  of  the  latest  of  the  dramatic  writers  of  Spain  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  was  Don  Joseph  Cauizarez,  who  flourished 
in  the  reign  of  Charles  II.  He  left  behind  liim  a  number  of 
plays,  in  almost  every  class.  Some  of  tliese  are  historical  as 
Picarillo  en  Espaua,  founded  on  the  adventures  of  a  Frederic 
de  Bra(iueraont,  a  son  of  liini  wlio,  with  Jolin  de  Bethencourt, 
in  1402,  discovered  and  conquered  the  Canaries  ;  but  they 
are  little  less  romantic  than  those  entirely  of  iiis  own  inven- 
tion. To  conclude,  neither  the  comedies  of  Canizarez,  which 
are  the  most  modern,  nor  tliose  of  Guillen  de  Castro  and  Don 
Juan  Ruys  de  Alarcon,  which  are  the  most  ancient,  nor  those 
of  Don  Alvaro  Ciibillo  of  Aragon,  of  Don  Francisco  de 
Leyra,  of  Don  Agustino  de  Zalazar  y  Torres,  of  Don  Chris- 
toval  de  Monroy  y  Silva,  Don  Juan  de  Matos  Fragoso,  and 
Don  Hieronymo  Cancer,  possess  a  character  sufticiently 
marked  to  enable  us  to  discover  in  them  the  manner  and 
style  of  the  author.  Their  works,  like  their  names,  are  con- 
founded with  each  other,  and  after  having  gone  tlirough  the 
Spanish  drama,  whose  richness  at  first  view  astonished  ami 
dazzled  us,  we  quit  it  fatgued  with  its  monotony 

The  poetry  of  Spain  continued  to  flourish  during  the  reigns 
of  the  three  Philips  (looG — 1665),  in  spite  of  the  national 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  425 

decline.     The  calamities  which  befel  the  monarchy,  the  double 
yoke  of  political  and  religious  tyranny,  the  continual  defeats, 
the   revolt   of  conquered  countri'-s,   the    destruction  of  the 
armies,  the  ruin  of  provinces,  and  the  stagnation  of  commerce, 
could  not  -wholly  suppress  the  efforts  of  poetic  genius.     The 
Castilians,  under  Charles  V.,  were  intoxicated  by  the  false 
glory  of  their  monarch,  and  by  the  high  station  which  they  had 
newly  acquired  in  Europe.     A  noble  pride  and  consciousness 
of  their   power   urged   them  on  to  new  enterprises  ;   they 
thirsted  after  distinction  and  renown  ,•  and  they  rushed  for- 
ward with  an  increasing  ardour  in  the  career  which  was  still 
open  to  them.     The  number  of  candidates  for  this  noble  palm 
did  not  diminish  ;  and  as  the  different  avenues  which  led  to 
fame,  the  service  of  their  country,  the  cultivation  of  liberal 
knowledge  and  every  branch  of  literature  connected  with 
philosophy,  were  closed  against  them  ;  as  all  civil  employ  was 
become  tlie  timid  instrument  of  tyranny,  and  as  the  army  was 
humiliated  by  continual  defeats,  poetry  alone  remained    to 
those  who  were  ambitious  of  distinction.     The  number  of 
poets  went  on  increasing  in  proportion  as  the  number  of  men 
of  merit  in  every  other  class  diminished.     But  with  the  reign 
of  Philip   IV.  the  spirit  which  had  till  then   animated  tiie 
Castilians,  ceased.  For  some  time  before,  poetry  had  partaken 
of  the  general  decline,  although  the  ardour  of  its  votaries  had 
not  diminished  ;  and  affectation,   and   bombast,  and  all    the 
faults  of  Gongora,  had  corrupted  its  style.    At  length  the  im- 
pulse which  had  so  long  propelled  them  subsided ;  the  vanity 
of  the  distinction  which  attached  itself  to  an  affected  and 
over-loaded  manner  was  perceived  ;  and  no  means  seemed  to 
remain  for  the  attainment  of  a  better  style.     The  Spanish 
writers  abandoned  themselves  to  apathy  and  rest ;  they  bowed 
the  neck  to  the  yoke  ;  they  attempted  to  forget  the  public 
calamities,  to  restrain  their  sentiments,  to  confine  their  tastes 
to  physical  enjoyments,    to    luxury,  sloth,    and    effeminacy. 
The  nation  slumbered,  and  literature,  with  every  motive  to 
national  glory,  ceased.  The  reign  of  Charles  II.,  who  mounted 
the  throne  in  1665,  at  the  age  of  five  years,  and  who  trans- 
ferred at  his  death,  in   1700,  the  heritage  of  the  house  of 
Austria  to  the  Bourbons,  is  the  epoch  of  the  last  decline  of 
Spain.     It   is  the  period  of  its  perfect  insignificance  in  the 
political  world,  of  its  extreme  moral  debasement,  and  of  its 
lowest  state  of  literature.     The  war  of  the  Succession,  which 

VOL.  II.  D  D 


426  ON   THE    LITERATURE 

broke  out  shortly  afterwards,  though  it  devastated  the  pro- 
vinces of  Spain,  yet  restored  to  their  inhabitants  some  small 
portion  of  tliat  energy  whioh  was  so  completely  lost  under  the 
house  of  Austria.  A  national  sentiment  prompted  them  to 
take  arms ;  pride,  or  affection,  not  authority,  decided  on  the 
part  which  they  adopted  ;  and  as  soon  as  they  learned  once  more 
to  feel  for  tliemselves,  they  began  again  to  reflect.  Still  their 
return  to  literature  was  slow  and  tame  ;  that  flame  of  imagina- 
tion, which,  during  a  century,  had  given  such  numberless 
poets  to  Spain,  was  extinguished,  and  those  who  at  length 
succeeded  possessed  no  longer  the  same  enthusiasm,  nor  the 
same  brilliancy  of  fancy. 

Philip  V.  did  not  influence  the  literature  of  Spain  by  any 
particular  attachment  to  that  of  France.  Of  slender  talents, 
and  possessed  of  little  taste  or  information,  his  grave,  sombre, 
and  silent  character,  was  rather  Castilian  than  French.  He 
founded  the  Academy  of  History,  which  led  the  learned  to 
useful  researches  into  Spanish  antiquities,  and  the  Academy 
of  Language,  which  distinguished  itself  by  the  compilation  of 
its  excellent  Dictionar3^  In  other  respects,  he  left  his  sub- 
jects to  their  natural  bias  in  the  cultivation  of  letters.  Mean- 
while the  splendour  of  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV.,  which  had 
dazzled  all  Europe,  and  which  had  imposed  on  other  nations 
and  on  foreign  literature  the  laws  of  French  taste,  had,  in  its 
turn,  struck  the  Spaniards.  A  party  was  formed  amongst  the 
men  of  letters  and  the  fashionable  world,  by  which  the  regular 
and  classical  compositions  of  the  French  were  decidedly  pre- 
ferred to  the  riches  and  brilliancy  of  Spanish  imagination. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  public  attached  itself  with  obstinacy  to 
a  style  of  poetry  which  seemed  to  be  allied  to  the  national  glory; 
and  the  conflict  between  these  two  parties  was  more  particu- 
larly felt  on  the  stage.  Men  of  letters  regarded  Lope  de 
Vega  and  Calderon  with  a  mixture  of  pity  and  contempt, 
whilst  the  people,  on  the  other  hand,  would  not  allow,  in  the 
theatrical  performances,  any  imitation  or  translaticm  from  the 
French,  and  granted  their  applause  only  to  the  compositions 
of  their  ancient  poets  in  the  ancient  national  taste.  The  stage, 
therefore,  remained,  during  tin;  eighti'(;iith  century,  on  the 
same  footing  as  in  the  time  of  Calderon  ;  except  that  few  new 
pieces  appeared  but  sucli  as  were  of  a  religious  tendency,  as 
in  these,  it  was  imagined,  faith  might  su[)ply  tiie  want  of 
talent.     In  the  early  part  of  the  eighteenth  century  were  pub- 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  427 

iished  01'  represented  dramatic  lives  of  the  saints,  which,  in 
general,  ought  to  have  been  objects  of  ridicule  and  scandal, 
and  which,  nevertheless,  had  obtained  not  only  tlie  permission, 
but  the  approbation  and  applause  of  the  Inquisition.  Such, 
amongst  otliers,  are  two  plays  by  Don  Bernard  Joseph  de 
Reynoso  y  Quinones  ;  the  one  entitled,  The  Sun  of  Faith  at 
Marxeilhs,  and  the  Conversion  of  France  h}j  Saint  Mary 
3far/dalen ;  and  the  other.  The  Sun  of  the  3faf/dalcn  shininrj 
hrifjfiter  in  its  settincj.  The  first  was  represented  nineteen 
times  successively  after  the  feast  of  Christmas,  in  1730  ;  the 
second  was  received  with  not  less  enthusiasm  in  the  following 
year.  The  Magdalen,  Martha,  and  Lazarus,  arrive  at  Mar- 
seilles in  a  vessel  which  is  shipwrecked  by  a  tempest,  and 
appear  walking  tranquilly  on  the  raging  sea.  The  Magdalen, 
called  on  to  combat  with  a  priest  of  Apollo,  is  at  one  time 
seen  by  him  and  by  all  the  people  in  the  heavens  surrounded 
by  the  angels,  and  at  another  time  on  the  same  ground  as 
himself.  She  overthrows,  at  a  word,  his  temple,  and  finally 
commands  the  broken  columns  and  fallen  capitals  to  return  of 
themselves  to  their  places.  The  grossest  pleasantries  of  the 
buffoons  wlio  accompany  her,  the  most  eccentric  burlesque  of 
manners  and  history,  are  mingled  with  the  prayers  and  mys- 
teries of  religion.  I  have  also  perused  two  comedies,  more 
extravagant  if  possible,  by  Don  Manuel  Francisco  de  Arraesto, 
secretary  of  the  Inquisition,  who  published  them  in  1736. 
They  consist  of  tlie  Life  of  the  Sister  Mary  of  Jesus  de  Agreda, 
whom  he  designates  as  tlie  greatest  historian  of  sacred  history  ; 
la  Coro7iista  mas  grande  de  la  mas  sagrada  historia,  parte  pri- 
rnera  y  segunda.  Of  the  many  qualities  with  Avhich  Calderon 
clothed  his  eccentric  compositions,  extravagance  was  the  only 
one  that  remained  to  the  modern  authors.  But  whilst  the 
taste  of  tlie  people  was  so  eager  for  this  kind  of  spectacle,  and 
whilst  it  was  encouraged  by  the  clergy,  and  supported  by  the 
Inquisition,  the  Court,  enlightened  by  criticism  and  by  a 
better  taste,  was  desirous  of  rescuing  Spain  from  the  scan- 
dalous reproach  which  these  pretended  pious  representations 
excited  among  strangers.  Charles  III.  in  1765,  prohibited 
the  further  performance  of  religious  plays  and  Autos  sacra- 
rnentales;  and  the  house  of  Bourbon  had  already  deprived  the 
people  of  another  recreation  not  less  dear  to  them,  the  Autos- 
dafe.  The  last  of  these  human  sacrifices  was  celebrated  in 
1680,  in  conformity  to  tlie  wishes  of  Charles  11.  and  as  a 

D  D  2 


428  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

festival  at  the  same  time  religious  and  national,  which  would 
draw  down  on  him  the  favour  of  heaven.  After  the  extinc- 
tion of  the  Spanish  branch  of  the  house  of  Austria,  the 
Inquisition  was  no  lonjrer  allowed  to  destroy  its  victims  in 
public  ;  but  it  has  continued  even  to  our  own  days  to  exercise 
the  most  outrageous  cruelties  on  them  in  its  dungeons. 

That  party  of  literary  critics  who  endeavoured  to  reform 
the  national  taste,  and  adapt  it  to  the  French  model,  had  at 
its  head,  at  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  a  man  of  great 
talents  and  extensive  information,  who  had   a  considerable 
influence  on  the  character  and  productions  of  his  contempo- 
raries.    This  was  Ignazio  de  Luzan,  member  of  the  Acade- 
mies of  language,  history,  and  painting,  a  counsellor  of  state, 
and  minister  of  commerce.     He  was  attached  to  poetry,  and 
himself  composed  verses  with  elegance.     He  found  in  his 
nation  no  trace  of  criticism,  except  among  tiie   imitators  of 
Gongora,  who  had  reduced  to  rules  all  the  bad  taste  of  their 
school.     It  was  for  the  avowed  purpose  of  attacking  these 
that  he  carefully  studied  the  principles  of  Aristotle  and  those 
of  the  French  authors  ;  and  as  he  was  himself  more  remark- 
able for  elegance  and  correctness  of  style,  than  for  an  ener- 
getic  and  fertile  imagination,   he  sought  less  to  unite  the 
French  correctness  to  the  eminent  qualities  of  his  country- 
men, than  to  introduce  a  foreign  literature  in  the  place  of  that 
possessed  by  the  nation.  In  conformity  with  these  principles, 
and  in  order  to  reform  the  taste  of  his  country,  he  composed 
his  celebrated  Treatise  on  Poetry,  printed  at  Saragossa  in 
1737,  in  a  folio  volume  of  five  hundred  pages.     This  work, 
written  with  great  judgment  and  a  display  of  vast  erudition, 
clear  without  languor,  elegant  and  unaffected,   was  received 
by  men  of  letters  as  a  master-piece,  and  has  ever  since  been 
cited  by  the  classical  party  in  Spain  as  containing  the  basis 
and  rules  of  true  taste.     The  principles  which  Luzan  lays 
down  with  regard  to  poetry,  considered  as  an  useful  and  in- 
structive amusement,  rather  than  as  a  passion  of  the  soul,  and 
an  exercise  of  one  of  tlie  noblest  faculties  of  our  being,  are 
such  as  have  been  repeated  in  all  treatises  of  this  kiiul,  until 
the  time  when  the  Germans  began  to  regard  this  art  from  a 
more  elevated  point  of  view,  and  substituted  for  the  poetics 
of  the  peripatetic  philosopher  a  more  happy  and  ingenious 
analysis  of  the  mind  and  tlie  imagination. 

Some  Spanish  authors,  about  tiie  middle  of  the  last  century, 


OF    THE    SPANIAKDS.  429 

commenced  writing  for  the  theatre,  on  the  principles  of  Luzan, 
and  in  the  French  style.  He  himself  translated  a  piece  of  La 
Chaussee,  and  many  other  dramatic  translations  were  about 
the  same  time  represented  on  the  stage  at  Madrid.  Augustin 
de  Montiano  y  Luyando,  counsellor  of  state,  and  member  of 
the  two  academies,  composed,  in  1750,  two  tragedies,  Virginia 
and  Ataulpho;  which  are,  says  Boutterwek,  drawn  with 
such  exact  conformity  to  the  French  model,  that  we  should 
take  them  rather  for  translations  than  for  original  composi- 
tions. They  are  both,  he  adds,  frigid  and  tame  ;  but  the 
purity  and  correctness  of  the  language,  the  care  which  the 
author  has  taken  to  avoid  all  false  metaphors,  and  the  natural 
style  of  the  dialogue,  render  the  perusal  of  them  highly  agree- 
able. They  are  composed  in  blank  iambics,  like  the  Italian 
tragedies.  Luis  Joseph  Velasquez,  the  historian  of  Spanish 
poetry,  attached  himself  to  the  sam.e  party.  His  work,  entitled 
Origenes  de  la  Poesia  Espa/iola,  printed  in  1754,  shews  how 
much  the  ancient  national  poetry  was  then  forgotten,  since  we 
find  a  man  of  his  genius  and  leaiming,  often  involving  its 
history  in  fresh  confusion,  instead  of  throwing  new  light  upon 
it.  His  work  has  been  translated  into  the  German  tongue, 
and  enriched  with  extensive  observations  by  Dieze.*  These 
critics  were  not  deficient  in  talent  and  taste,  although  they 
were  scarcely  capable  of  appreciating  the  imagination  of  their 
ancestors  ;  but  Spain,  from  the  death  of  Philip  IV.  to  the 
middle  of  the  last  century,  did  not  produce  a  single  poet  who 
could  merit  the  attention  of  posterity. 

The  only  species  of  eloquence  which  had  been  cultivated  in 
Spain,  even  in  the  most  splendid  period  of  her  literature,  was 
that  of  the  pulpit.  In  no  other  profession  was  an  orator  per- 
mitted to  address  the  public.  But  if  tlie  influence  of  the 
monks,  and  the  shackles  with  which  they  had  loaded  the  mind 
of  the  nation,  had  at  length  almost  destroyed  all  poetical 
genius,  we  may  easily  imagine  what  the  art  of  eloquence  would 
be  in  their  hands.  The  preposterous  study  of  an  unintelli- 
gible jargon,  which  was  presented  to  students  under  the  names 
of  logic,  philosophy,  and  scholastic  theology,  inevitably  cor- 
rupted the  minds  of  those  destined  to  the  church.  As  a  model 
of  style,  they  had  no  other  guide  than  Gongora  and  his  school; 
and,  on  this  affected  and  extravagant  manner,  which  had  been 
named  the  cultivated  style,  all  their  discourses  were  formed. 

*  Gottingen,  1769,  1  vol.  12mo. 


430  ON    THE    LITERATDRE 

The  preachers  endeavoured  to  compose  long  and  sounding 
periods,  each  member  of  wliich  was  almost  always  a  lyric 
verse  ;  to  form  an  assemblage  of  pompous  expressions,  how- 
ever inconsistent  with  each  other  ;  to  construct  their  sentences 
on  the  complicated  model  of  the  Latin  tongue  ;  and  by 
fatiguing  and  surprising  the  mind,  to  conceal  from  their  audi- 
tors the  emptiness  of  their  sermons.  Almost  every  phrase 
was  supported  by  a  Latin  (piotation.  Provided  they  could 
repeat  nearly  the  same  words,  they  never  sought  any  con- 
nexion in  the  sense,  but  they  congratulated  themselves,  on 
the  contrary,  as  on  a  felicity  of  expression,  when,  by  applying 
the  words  of  Scri[)ture,  they  could  express  the  local  circum- 
stances, the  names  and  the  qualities  of  their  congregation  in 
the  language  of  the  sacred  writings.  Nor,  in  order  to  procure 
such  ornaments,  did  they  confine  their  researches  to  tiie  Bible  ; 
they  placed  in  re(pjisition  all  their  knowledge  of  antiquity,  and 
more  especially  treatises  on  ancient  mythology;  for,  agreeably 
to  the  system  of  Gongora,  and  the  o])inion  which  was  formed 
of  tlie  cultivated  style,  it  was  an  acquaintance  with  fabulous 
history,  and  a  fx'equent  display  of  it,  which  distinguished  a 
refined  from  a  vulgar  style.  AVitticisms,  a  play  on  words,  and 
equivoques,  appeared  to  them  oratorical  strokes  not  unworthy 
of  the  pulpit  ;  and  popular  preachers  would  not,  have  been 
satisfied,  if  violent  and  repeated  bursts  of  laughter  had  not 
borne  testimomy  to  their  success.  To  attract  and  command 
the  attention  from  tlie  outset,  appeared  to  them  the  essence  of 
art  ;  and  to  attain  tiiis,  they  considered  it  no  impropriety  to 
excite  the  attention  of  their  audience  by  a  jest,  or  to  scanda- 
lize them  by  a  beginning  wliich  seemed  to  be  blasphemous 
or  heretical,  provided  that  the  conclusion  of  the  sentence, 
which  was  always  long  delayed,  explained  in  a  natural  manner 
what  had  at  first  amazed  and  confounded  the  hearer. 

In  the  midst  of  this  scandalous  degradation  of  Christian 
eloquence,  a  man  of  infinite  wit,  a  Jesuit,  who  belonged  to 
that  society  of  reibrmers  of  the  public  taste  which  had  been 
formed  about  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  who 
was  also  connected  with  Augustin  de  Montiano  y  Luyando, 
the  tragic  poet  and  counsellor  of  state,  of  whom  we  have 
recently  spoken,  undertook  to  correct  the  clergy,  and  more 
particularly  the  preachers,  by  a  comic  romance.  He  took  Cer- 
vantes for  his  model,  in  the  hope  of  producing  the  same  im- 
pression on  bad  preachers  by  the  life  of  his  ridiculous  monk, 


OP    THE    SPANIARDS.  431 

as  the  author  of  Don  Quixote  had  made  on  all  bad  romance- 
writers  by  the  adventures  of  his  whimsical  knight.  This  ex- 
traordinary work,  entitled,  The  Life  of  Friar  Gerund  de 
Campazas,  by  Don  Francisco  Lobon  de  Salazar,  appeared  in 
three  volumes,  in  1758.  Under  the  assumed  name  of  Lobon, 
the  Jesuit,  Father  de  I'lsla,  attempted  to  conceal  himself ;  but 
the  many  enemies,  whom  this  lively  satire  raised  against  him, 
soon  detected  the  subterfuge.  The  circumstance  of  giving  to 
works  of  profound  thought  and  serious  import,  the  form  of  a 
romance  and  a  sportive  style,  is  a  peculiar  characteristic  of  Span- 
ish literature.  The  Italians  do  not  possess  a  single  work  to 
place  at  the  side  of  Cervantes,  Quevedo,  or  Father  de  1'  Isla. 
They  consider  it  beneath  them  to  mingle  pleasantries,  or  the 
interest  of  fabulous  adventures,  with  philosophic  reflections. 
They  are  not  on  that  account  the  more  profound  thinkers  ; 
they  are  only  the  less  agreeable.  Their  pedantic  gravity 
repels  all  readers  who  do  not  bestow  on  them  a  serious  atten- 
tion; and  Avhile  they  have  excluded  philosophy  from  the 
world  of  fashion,  it  lias  not  derived  any  advantage  from  its 
banishment.  In  their  literature  therefore  we  find,  perhaps, 
more  taste,  and  an  imagination  fully  as  rich  and  better  regu- 
lated, but  infinitely  less  wit,  than  among  the  Spaniards. 

Friar  Gerund,  the  hero  of  Father  de  ITsla,  is  supposed  to 
be  the  son  of  a  rich  countryman  of  Campazas,  Antonio  Zotes, 
u  great  friend  of  the  monks,  and  who  opens  his  house  and 
granaries  to  them  whenever  they  seek  alms  in  his  village. 
His  conversation  with  the  Capuchins  had  filled  his  head  with 
passages  of  Latin,  which  he  did  not  understand,  and  theo- 
logical propositions,  which  he  received  in  an  inverted  sense. 
But  he  was  the  scholar  of  the  village,  and  the  monks,  grateful 
for  his  abundant  alms,  applauded  every  thing  he  said.  Zotes 
became,  by  anticipation,  proud  of  his  son,  to  whom  he  was 
ambitious  of  giving  a  regular  education.  His  brother,  a 
gymnasiarch  of  San  Gregorio,  had  already  distinguished 
himself  in  his  eyes  by  a  dedicatory  epistle  in  Latin,  which  the 
most  experienced  linguist  could  neither  construe  nor  under- 
stand.*    Gerund  was  not  yet  seven  years  old  when  he  was 

*  This  epistle  is  worthy  of  Rabelais,  whom  in  other  respects  also  Father  de  I'lsla 
often  recalls  to  our  recollection,  by  his  lively  and  exquisite  satire,  by  his  humorous 
travestie  of  pedantry,  and  by  the  address  with  which  he  lashes  not  only  the  particular 
object  of  his  castigation,  but  e.ery  thing  ridiculous  in  his  way.  At  the  same  time  the 
roverend  father,  in  his  imitation  of  Rabelais,  has  never,  like  him,  offended  against 
propriety  of  manners.  We  here  give  the  commencement  of  this  epistle,  and  the 
Castilian  translation  attached  to  it : 

Hactenus 


432  ON   THE    LITERATURE 

sent  to  learn  the  rudiments  of  language  from  the  master  of 
the  school  of  Villa  Ornata ;  and  the  author  hence  takes 
occasion  to  describe,  in  a  burlesque  manner,  the  mode  of  in- 
struction and  pedantry  of  the  village  teachers,  as  well  as  the 
ridiculous  importance  which  was  at  that  time  bestowed  on 
the  disputes  as  to  the  ancient  and  new  orthographj'.  Tlie 
scene  becomes  still  more  amusing,  when  Gerund  appears 
before  the  do/nine  or  governor,  who  enquires  into  his  attain- 
ments. It  is  impossible  to  describe  in  a  more  entertaining 
manner,  the  gravity  of  the  pedant,  who  at  every  opportunity 
gives  Latin  quotations  ;  the  folly  of  the  subjects  on  which 
he  discourses  ;  and  the  admiration  which  lie  endeavours  to 
instil  into  his  pupil,  for  every  thriig  that  is  most  bombastic 
and  ridiculous  in  the  titles  and  dedications  of  books.  Father 
de  risla  takes  this  opportunity  of  making  war  without  dis- 
tinction on  the  dunces  of  all  countries.  Thus  the  governor 
presents  to  the  admiring  Gerund  the  dedicatory  epistle  of  a 
treatise  of  sacred  geography  by  some  German  author.  "To 
the  only  tliree  hereditary  sovereigns  in  heaven  and  earth, 
Jesus  Christ,  Frederic  Augustus,  Electoral  Prince  of  Saxony, 
and  Maurice  William,  Hereditary  Prince  of  Saxe-Zeitz." 
•'  An  excellent  idea  ! "  exclaims  the  governor,  •'  but  you  shall 
shortly  hear  something  much  superior  !  I  allude  to  the  titles 
which  our  incomparable  author  has  invented  to  explain  the 
states  of  whicli  Jesus  Christ  is  hereditary  prince.  Attend 
to  me,  my  children  !  perhaps  in  all  your  lives  you  will  not 
hear  any  thing  more  divine.  If  I  had  been  so  fortunate  as 
to  have  invented  these  titles,  I  should  have  considered  my- 
self an  Aristotle  or  a  Plato.  He  calls,  then,  Jesus  Christ, 
in  pure  and  easy  Latin,  '  The  Crowned  Emperor  of  the 
Celestial  Host,  His  Majesty  the  chosen  King  of  Sion,  Grand 
Pontiff  of  the  Christian  Cliurch,  Archbishop  of  Souls, 
Elector  of  the  Truth,    Archduke  of  Glory,   Duke  of  Life, 

Hactenus  me  intri  vurgam  animi  lite-  '•  Hasta  aqui  la  excelsa  ingratitud  de  tu 

scentis  inipitum,  tua  here  tudoinstar  mihi  sobcnmia  ha  obscurecido  en  el  animo,  a 

luminis  extimandea  de  normam  redubiare  luanera  de  clarissimo  esplendor  las  apaga- 

compellet  sed  antistar  gerras  meeis  anitas  das  antorchas  del  mas  soiioro  clarin,  con 

diributa,   et  posartitum     nasonem    quasi  ecos  luminosos,  a  impulses  balbucientes 

agredula:    quibusdam  lacunis.      Barbur-  de  la  furibunda  fama.     Pero  quando  exa- 

rum     stridoreni     averrucandus    oblatero.  mino  el  rosicler  de  los  dospojos  al  terso 

Vos  etiam  viri  optimi,  ne  mihi  in  anginam  bruflirdel  emisferio  en  el  blando  oroscopo 

vestrae  hispiditatis   amauticataclum  car-  del  argentado  catre,  que  elevado  a  la  re- 

men  irreptet.     Ad  rabem  meam  magico-  gion  de  la  techumbre  inspira  orSculos  al 

pertit :  cicures  qua;  conspicite  ut  alimones  acierto  en  bobedas  de  cristal ;  niloayroso 

roeis  carnaboriis,  quam  ccnsiones  extetis,  admite  mas  competencias,  ni  en  lo  heroyco 

etc.  caben  mas  eloquentes  disonaccias." 


OP    THE    SPANIARDS.  433 

Prince  of  Peace,  Knight  of  the  Gates  of  Hell,  Hereditary 
Ruler  of  Nations,  Lord  of  Assize,  Counsellor  of  State,  and 
Privy  Counsellor  of  the  King  his  Heavenly  Father,  &c.  &c. 
&c."  These  examples  give  a  value  to  criticism,  by  pre- 
senting us  with  reality  in  the  midst  of  fiction,  and  by  con- 
vincing us  that  if  Gerund  and  his  teachers  are  in  themselves 
imaginary  beings,  the  taste  on  which  their  history  is  founded, 
was  but  too  real  and  pi'evailing. 

The  young  Gerund  having  at  length  finished  his  studies, 
instead  of  becoming  a  priest,  allows  himself  to  be  seduced  by 
two  monks,  who  lodge  with  his  father,  and  who  engage  him 
to  enter  into  their  convent.  The  preacher  dazzles  him  by 
his  florid  eloquence,  whilst  the  lay  brother  secretly  gains  him 
over  by  making  him  acquainted  with  the  illicit  indulgences 
which  the  young  monks  find  in  their  convents  ;  indulgences 
which  are  still  augmented,  when,  as  preachers,  they  become 
the  favourites  of  the  women,  and  their  cells  are  replenished 
with  chocolate  and  sweets,  and  all  tlie  offerings  of  i^ious  souls. 

The  young  monk  takes  for  his  model  the  senior  preacher 
of  his  convent,  Friar  Bias,  whose  jiortrait  is  drawn  by  the 
hand  of  a  master.  He  is  a  vain  monk,  who,  above  every 
thing,  seeks  the  suffrages  of  the  women,  of  whom  his  audi- 
ence was  composed,  and  who  endeavours  to  charm  their  eyes 
by  the  fashion  and  elegance  of  his  hood  and  woollen  gown. 
It  is  he  who  furnishes  the  author  with  instances  of  sudden 
surprise,  caused  to  the  audience  by  the  abrupt  introductions 
of  the  preacher.  At  one  time,  preaching  on  the  Trinity,  he 
commences  by  saying  :  "  I  deny  the  proposition  that  God  is 
a  single  essence  in  three  persons."  AH  his  auditors  instantly 
regard  each  other  with  amazement,  when,  after  a  pause,  he 
continues  :  "  Such  is  the  language  of  the  Ebionite,  the  Mar- 
cionite,  the  Arian,  the  Manichean  ;  but,"  &c.  On  another  oc- 
casion, preaching  on  the  Incarnation,  he  exclaims  :  "  To  your 
healths,  gentlemen  !"  and  when  all  his  congregation  are  ready 
to  burst  into  laughter,  he  gravely  adds  :  "This  is  no  subject 
for  laughter  ;  for  to  your  healths,  to  mine,  and  to  that  of  all  the 
world,has  Jesus  Christ  contributed  by  his  glorious  incarnation." 

Meanwhile,  Friar  Gerund,  in  his  turn,  begins  to  preach  ; 
at  first  to  the  refectory,  and  afterwards  to  the  self-disciplin- 
ing penitents  ;  and  as  his  unintelligible  discourses  had  excited 
the  wonder  of  the  people,  and  particularly  of  the  cobbler  of 
the  village,   an  acknowledged  judge  in  the  oratorical  arty 


434  ON    THE    LITEUATURE 

Antonio  Zotes,  who  was  at  that  time  mojor-domo  of  the 
brotherhood  of  the  town  of  Caiu[)azas,  send.s  for  his  son  to 
deliver  his  first  public  sermon  there  on  the  day  of  tlie  feast 
of  tlie  Holy  Sacrament.  Tiie  triumph  of  his  relations,  the 
admiration  of  the  villagers,  tlie  vanity  and  impertinence  of 
the  hero,  are  painted  with  exquisite  truth  by  the  satirical 
Jesuit.  He  describes  the  toilet  of  Gerund,  the  church 
where  he  is  to  preach,  and  the  procession  which  attends  him 
to  the  pulpit.  "  Friar  Gerund,"  he  says,  "  left  his  house 
for  the  church  with  the  train  which  we  have  mentioned  ;  he 
drew  on  himself  the  eyes  of  all  that  could  see  him  ;  he 
walked  gravely  Ibrward,  his  body  erect,  his  head  elevated, 
his  eyes  tranquil,  mild,  and  benignant  ;  making  with  dignity 
and  reserve  inclinations  of  his  head  to  the  right  and  to  the 
left,  in  return  to  those  who  saluted  liim  Avith  their  hats  ;  nor 
did  he  foi'get  to  take  out  from  time  to  time  his  white  cambric 
liandkerchief,  with  four  knots  of  silk  at  the  four  corners,  to 
wipe  away  the  pretended  perspiration,  nor  after  that,  his 
other  handkerchief  of  silk,  of  rose  colour  on  one  side,  and 
pearl  on  the  other,  to  blow  his  nose  when  he  had  no  occasion." 

On  his  arrival  at  the  church,  he  repeats  a  short  prayer, 
and  entering  into  the  vestry  while  mass  begins,  which  is  sung 
by  the  licentiate  Quixano,  his  godfather,  two  curates,  pa- 
rishioners of  the  neighbourhood,  serve  him  as  dean  and  sub- 
dean.  The  choir  is  composed  of  three  sacristans,  also  of  the 
neighbourhood,  wlio  bear  the  palm  from  the  whole  province 
in  chanting  the  Gregorian  hymn  ;  the  carrier  of  the  village 
forms  the  base  with  his  deep  voice,  and  a  boy  of  twelve 
years  of  age,  who  was  intended  for  the  chapel  of  St.  James, 
at  Valladolid,  the  treble.  There  is  no  organ  in  the  church,  but 
its  place  is  supplied  with  advantage  by  two  bagpipes  from  Gali- 
cia,  whom  the  major-domo  of  the  festival,  the  father  of  Gerund, 
had  hired  expressly  for  the  occasion,  promising  to  them 
twenty  reals  apiece,  and  meat  and  drink  at  discretion. 

The  opening  of  the  sermon  and  the  salutation  of  Friar 
Gerund  to  his  native  place,  are  copied  IVdiu  the  text.  The 
satirical  Jesuit  has  in  no  degree  overcharged  them,  and  the 
preposterous  discourse  which  he  gives  us,  is  by  no  means 
more  extraodinary  than  those  which  are  oi'ten  heard  in  the 
churches  of  Spain  and  Italy.     It  is  thus  that  he  commences  : 

If  the  Holy  Ghost  lias  spoken  to  us  the  truth  by  the  mouth  of 
Jesus  Christ,  how  uuhappy  a  wretch  ain  I  !     I  shall  be  lost  and  utterly 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  435 

confounded,  for  this  oi-acle  lias  declared  that  no  man  can  be  a  preacher 
or  a  prophet  iu  his  own  country  :  Nemo  Propheta  in  patrid  mui.  How 
rash,  then,  have  I  been  to  stand  forward  as  a  preacher  this  day  in  mine  ! 
But,  my  brethren,  suspend  your  judgment  for  a  moment ;  for,  to  my 
great  comfort,  I  find  from  the  sacred  writings,  that  all  are  not  alike 
subjected  to  the  truths  of  the  Evangelist :  Non  omnes  ohediunt  Evan- 
gelio  ;  and  who  knows  but  this  may  be  one  of  those  numerous  proposi- 
tions, which,  according  to  the  opinion  of  a  philosopher,  are  only  put 
there  to  terrify  us  :  ad  ferrorem. 

These,  my  brethren,  are  the  first-fruits  of  my  oratorical  labours,  the 
exordium  of  my  duties  in  the  pulpit ;  or,  to  speak  more  clearly  to  the 
most  ignorant,  this  is  the  first  of  all  my  sermons,  according  to  the  text 
of  the  sacred  oracles :  Primum  sermonem  feci,  0  Theophile !  But 
whither  doth  the  bark  of  my  discourse  direct  its  voyage  !  Attend  to 
me,  my  friends  !  Every  thing  here  presages  a  happy  event.  From 
every  side  I  perceive  prophetic  glimpses  of  felicity.  We  must  either 
refuse  our  faith  to  the  history  of  the  Evangelist,  or  the  Anointed  him- 
self preached  his  first  sermon  in  the  place  where  he  received  sacred 
ablution  from  the  purifying  waters  of  baptism.  It  is  true  that  the 
evangelical  narration  does  not  reveal  thi.s,  but  it  tacitly  supposes  it. 
The  Lord  received  the  frigid  purification  :  Baptizatus  est  Jesus ;  and 
the  azure  taffety  curtain  of  heaven  was  rent  .  Et  ecce  aperti  sunt  cceli  ; 
and  the  Holy  Ghost  descended  in  the  form  of  a  fluttering  dove  :  Et  vidi 
Spiritum  Dei  descendentem  sicut  cohimbam.  Behold  !  the  Messiah 
receives  the  baptism  !  the  celestial  veil  is  rent  !  the  Holy  Spirit 
descends  on  his  head.  And  do  we  not  here  trace  the  vestiges  of  it  1 
Does  not  the  celestial  dove  still  hover  around  the  head  of  the  preacher  1 

But  all  explanation  is  superfluous,  when  the  words  of  the  oracle  are 
so  clear.  It  is  further  said,  that  Jesus,  when  baptized,  retired  to  the 
desert,  or  that  he  was  led  thither  by  the  Devil :  Ductus  est  in  deserttcm 
ut  tentaretur  a  Diabolo.  He  there  remained  some  time  :  he  there 
watched  and  prayed,  and  was. tempted;  and  the  first  time  that  he  went 
out  was  to  preach  in  a  field  iu  a  country  place :  Stetit  Jesus  in  loco 
campestri.  How  is  it  possible  not  to  recognize  in  all  this  the  lively 
picture  of  all  that  has  happened  to  me '?  I  was  baptized  in  this  illus- 
trious parish  ;  I  retired  into  the  desert  of  religion,  if  the  devil  indeed 
did  not  lead  me  thither  :  Ductus  est  a  sjiiritu  in  desertum,  ut  tentaretur 
a  Diabolo.  And  what  else  can  a  man  do  in  the  desert,  than  watch, 
pray,  fast,  and  endure  temptation  !  And  I  escaped  from  the  desert  to 
preach.  To  preach  where  .'  In  loco  campestri ;  in  a  country  place,  at 
Campazas ;  a  place  which  recalls  to  mind  the  fields  of  Damascus,  which 
raises  envy  in  the  plains  of  Pharsalia,  and  condemns  to  oblivion  the  fields 
of  Troy,  et  campus  ubi  Trojafuit. 

I  never  liad  the  ^ood  fortune  to  hear  a  sermon  from  a 
Spanish  monk  ;  but  I  once,  when  travelling,  met  by  chance 
with  an  Italian  barber,  who  made  a  trade  of  selling  sermons 
to  monks  who  were  themselves  too  ignorant  to  compose  them. 
He  had  an  ear  not  insensible  to  a  certain  degree  of  harmony, 
and  he  succeeded  in  constructing  a  succession  of  sounding 
periods,  to  which  nothing  was  wanting  but  the  sense.     He 


436  ox    THE    LITKRATURE 

understood  a  little  French,  and  had  the  curiosity  to  turn  over 
many  old  books.  In  order  to  compose  these  marketable 
snrmon;-,  he  collected  together  the  shreds  and  tatters  of 
Christian  preachers  which  he  had  discovered  in  some  old 
library  ;  and  it  was  by  no  means  easy  to  detect  his  i)lagiar- 
isras,  as  he  began  and  ended  his  theft  always  in  the  middle 
of  a  sentence.  He  consulted  me  on  one  of  his  sermons,  but 
without  acquainting  me  with  the  secret,  andlAvas  not  a  little 
astonished  at  those  pompous  periods,  the  conclusion  of  which 
never  corresponded  with  the  beginning,  and  of  which  the 
different  parts  had  never  been  intended  for  one  another. 
When  he  confessed  to  me  in  what  way  he  had  composed 
them,  I  endeavoured,  in  the  best  way  1  could,  to  unite  the 
two  ends  of  the  sentences  ;  but  both  my  time  and  my  patience 
failed  me,  and  I  returned  his  sermon  to  him  not  unworthy  of 
Friar  Gerund.  A  little  time  afterwards  it  was  preached  by 
the  monk  who  bought  it,  and  obtained  as  high  applause  as 
that  of  our  hei'o  of  Campazas. 

This  Jesuit,  who  ridiculed  with  so  much  courage  the  bad 
taste  of  the  monks,  and  who  was  not  afraid  of  exciting 
scandal  by  jesting  on  sacred  subjects,  was  in  other  respects  a 
sincerely  religious  man,  and  one  who  was  even  scrupulous 
and  rigid  in  his  profession.  All  the  sciences  connected  witli 
church  eloquence  are  incidentally  laid  down  in  his  work,  and 
he  introduces  on  repeated  occasions  the  superiors  of  Friar 
Gerund,  who  endeavour,  by  advice  full  of  wisdom  and  reli- 
gion, to  lead  him  into  a  better  style.  The  Jesuit  at  the  same 
time  directs  some  part  of  his  satire  against  the  new  philoso- 
phy, which  was  at  tliat  time  rising  in  France  and  England. 
He  not  only  combats  irreligion,  but  the  abandonment  of 
the  ancient  systems  ;  he  ridicules  natural  philosophy,  and 
wishes  to  revive  the  study  of  scholastic  theology ;  he  appeals 
often  to  the  authority  of  the  Inquisition,  and  invokes  its 
aid  against  tiiose  preachers  who  disfigure  their  composi- 
tions by  profane  applications  ;  and,  in  short,  he  shews 
himself  through  liis  whole  book  very  warmly  and  sin- 
cerely attached  to  his  church.  But  all  his  zeal  could  not  save 
him  from  tlie  animosity  of  a  portion  of  the  clergy,  and 
particularly  of  the  mendicant  order,  wlio  considered  themselves 
as  more  immediately  the  subject  of  his  attack.  They  dis- 
covered him  uiider  the  assumed  name  by  which  he  had  en- 
deavoured to  conceal  himself  ;  they  loaded  him  with  invec- 


OF    THE    SrANIARDS.  437 

tives,  and  engaged  him  in  a  literary  warfare,  whicli  probably 
embittered  his  days,  though  he  always  obtained  the  advan- 
tage in  his  arguments.  Their  hatred  is  nevertheless  only  in- 
creased his  reputation,,  and  the  Historij  of  Friar  Gerund  is 
regai'ded  with  reason  as  the  first  work  of  genius  which  Spain 
produced  in  the  eighteenth  century. 

In  the  latter  part  of  that  century,  a  love  of  national  litera- 
ture seemed  to  revive  in  the  narrow  circle  of  Spanish  writers. 
The  correctness  of  the  French  style  did  not  wholly  satisfy 
them ;  they  felt  an  attachment  to  the  poets  of  the  sixteenth 
and  seventeenth  centuries,  and  some  men  of  real  merit  at- 
tempted to  unite  Spanish  genius  with  classical  elegance. 

The  first  in  this  poetical  band  wiio  ventured  to  attack  the 
French  style,  was  Vincent  Garcias  de  la  Iluerta,  a  member 
of  the  Spanish  academy,  and  librarian  to  the  king.  It  seems 
to  me,  that  without  in  any  manner  allowing  the  superiority 
of  the  Spanish  over  the  French  literature,  we  ought  always  to 
regard  with  approbation  the  attempts  of  a  writer  to  restore  to 
his  country  its  original  genius,  to  re-establish  its  peculiar  cha- 
racter, and  the  imagination  which  it  has  received  from  its 
ancestors,  and  to  prevent  it  from  declining  into  a  monotonous 
and  fatiguing  uniformity.  The  attempt  of  Huerta  to  revive 
the  ancient  literature  of  his  country,  by  calling  into  action 
the  national  pride,  was  the  more  likely  to  be  attended  with 
success,  as,  before  he  applied  himself  to  criticism,  he  had 
already  deservedly  obtained  the  name  of  a  poet.  A  piscatory 
eclogue,  which  he  recited  in  1760,  in  a  distribution  of  prizes 
made  by  the  academy,  had  attracted  the  attention  of  the  pub- 
lic ;  and  his  romances  in  the  ancient  style,  his  commentaries, 
and  his  sonnets,  bore  still  stronger  testimony  to  his  poetical 
talents.  At  length,  in  1778,  he  had  the  courage  to  imitate 
the  ancient  masters  of  the  Spanish  stage,  who  for  the  last  hun- 
dred years  had  been  considered  as  barbarous.  He  composed 
his  tragedy  of  Rachel,  in  which  he  proposed  to  unite  the 
brilliant  imagination  of  Spanish  poetry  with  the  dignity  of  the 
French,  and  to  avoid  the  conventional  forms  of  the  French 
drama  without  sacrificing  its  better  qualities. 

The  public,  with  transport,  seconded  his  patriotic  intentions. 
Rachel  was  performed  in  all  the  theatres  of  Spain,  and  every 
where  received  with  enthusiasm.  Before  it  was  printed,  two 
thousand  copies  of  it  had  been  written,  which  had  been  for- 
warded to  various  parts  of  the  Spanish  dominions   and  to 


438  ON    THK    LITEUATURE 

America.  Yet  this  piece  is  by  no  means  perfect  ;  it  is  merely 
an  honourable  proof  of  tlie  poetical  and  national  sentiment  of 
a  man  of  genius,  who  was  desirous  of  contributing;  to  the  re- 
establishment  of  the  art  in  his  native  country.  The  subject 
is  taken  from  the  ancient  history  of  Castile.  Alfonso  IX, 
who  was  defeated  by  the  Moors  in  the  dreadful  battle  of 
Alarcos,  in  119o,  was  attached  to  a  beautiful  Jewess,  called 
Rachel,  whom  the  nobles  and  people  accused  as  the  cause  of 
the  calamities  which  had  befallen  the  monarchy.  He  is  en- 
treated to  terminate  a  passion  which  all  his  court  regarded  as 
dishonourable.  He  balances  ior  a  lou^  time  betwixt  duty  and 
love,  when  a  rebellion,  which  he  had  with  diificulty  suppressed, 
broke  out  afresh.  Rachel,  whilst  the  king  is  absent  hunting, 
is  surprised  in  the  palace  by  the  rebels ;  her  wretched  coun- 
sellor Reuben,  is  compelled  to  kill  her,  in  order  to  save  his 
own  life ;  and  he  is  himself  slain  by  the  king  on  his  return 
home.  The  piece  is  divided  into  three  acts  or  jornadas, 
agreeably  to  the  ancient  usage  of  Spain.  In  other  respects  we 
may  easily  perceive  that  this  great  opponent  of  the  French 
drama  has  not  himself  escaped  the  contagion  of  the  taste 
which  he  was  combating.  The  dialogue  is  wholly  in  un- 
rhimed  iambics,  without  any  intermixture  of  sonnets  or  lyric 
verses,  and  there  is  no  striking  scene,  although  the  deaths  at 
the  conclusion  are  represented  on  the  stage.  The  language 
is  dignilied  throughout,  and  many  scenes  are  highly  pathetic  ; 
but  the  characters  are  badly  managed.  The  beautiful  Rachel 
does  not  appear  sufficiently  often  ;  her  counsellor  Reuben  is 
disagreeable  ;  and  the  monarch  is  too  I'eeble.  It  seems  that 
Huerta  wished  to  flatter  not  only  the  love  of  the  Spaniards 
for  their  ancient  drama,  but  also  their  hatred  of  the  Jews. 
In  another  piece,  called  Af/amemnon  veiujado,  he  attempted 
to  apply  the  romantic  style  to  a  classical  subject  ;  he  mingled 
iambics  with  octaves  and  lyric  verses,  and  he  thus  advanced  a 
step  further  in  his  approach  to  Calderoii.  It  was  after  he  had 
acquired  this  title  to  the  respect  of  the  public,  that  Huerta, 
in  oi'der  to  re-establish  the  reputation  of  the  ancient  drama- 
tists, published,  in  1785,  his  Teatro  Espn/~ioI,  in  sixteen 
volumes,  small  octavo,  in  which  he  has  inserted  his  criticisms 
and  invectives  against  the  French  stage.  He  has  not,  how- 
ever, himself  ventured  to  expose  his  favourite  authors  to  a 
still  more  severe  criticism.  He  has  given  in  his  collection 
i'ew  pieces  except  comedies  of  the  chah  and  iliesicord,  and  he 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  439 

has  not  admitted  a  single  play  of  Lope  de  Vega,  the  historical 
pieces  of  Calderon,  or  any  of  his  Autos  Sacramentales.  He 
was  too  well  aware  of  the  violent  hostilities  to  which  such 
compositions  would  have  exposed  him.  With  almost  the  same 
views,  Don  Juan  Joseph  Lopez  de  Sedano  published,  in 
1768,  his  Parnaso  Espanol,  to  place  before  the  eyes  of  his 
countrymen  the  ancient  monuments  of  her  poetical  fame. 

On  the  other  hand,  celebrity  has  attended  some  comic  poets, 
almost  of  our  own  day,  who  have  introduced,  with  success, 
the  French  style  on  the  Spanish  stage.  In  some  instances,  in 
imitation  of  Marivaux,  they  have  painted  elegant  manners, 
fashionable  sensibility,  and  the  slighter  interests  of  the  heart ; 
in  others,  they  have  attempted  the  higher  drama,  and  some- 
times they  have  even  risen  to  comedies  of  character.  Nicolas 
Fernandez  de  Moratin  is  known  as  an  autiior  of  regular  tra- 
gedy, Leandro  Fernandez  de  Moratin  as  a  comic  author,  and 
Don  Luciano  Francisco  Cornelia  as  approaching  nearer  than 
either  of  the  two  others  to  the  ancient  national  style.  Their 
works  have  not,  hitherto,  found  their  way  into  other  countries  ; 
and  as  they  appear  to  have  few  pretensions  to  originality, 
they  excite  our  curiosity  in  a  slighter  degree.  Of  all  the 
authors  of  this  new  school,  there  is  only  one  with  whose 
pieces  I  am  acquainted,  and  that  imperfectly  ;  those  of  Don 
Ramon  de  la  Cruzycano  published  in  1788,  and  consisting  of 
a  great  number  of  comedies,  dramas,  interludes,  and  saynetes. 
The  last  seem  to  have  retained  all  the  ancient  national 
gaiety.  The  poet  has  taken  a  pleasure  in  painting  in  these 
little  pieces  the  manners  of  the  people,  and  introduces  market- 
women,  sellers  of  chesnuts,  carpenters,  and  artisans  of  every 
kind.  The  vivacity  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  South,  their 
passionate  sentiments,  their  vivid  imagination,  and  their  pic- 
turesque language,  preserve,  even  among  the  people,  some- 
thing poetical  ;  and  ennoble  the  characters  drawn  from  this 
class  of  society.  Don  Ramon  de  Cruzycano  has  written,  under 
the  ancient  name  of  Loa,  prologues  for  the  comedies  repre- 
sented before  the  Court,  and  we  there  find  allegorical  beings 
conversing  with  men  agreeably  to  the  ancient  taste.  Thus,  in 
the  Vaqueros  de  Aranjucz,  which  served  as  a  prologue  to  a 
translation  of  The  Barber  of  Seville,  the  Tagus,  the  Escurial, 
Madrid,  and  Loyalty,  appeared  at  the  same  time  with  Shep- 
herds and  Shepherdesses.  It  is  true,  indeed,  that  the  allegory 
is  not.  throughout,  treated  with  the  ancient  gravity,  and  that 


440  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

the  shepherds  occasionally  indulge  in  a  jest  on  these  eccentric 
interlocutors  assuming  the  human  form.  The  pieces  of  Don 
Ramon  are  lil<e  those  of  the  early  times,  composed  in  rednn- 
dilhas  assn»ant(>s,  and  lyric  verses  are  occasionally  mingled  with 
them  to  express  passion  or  sensibility  ;  but  this  similarity  of 
exterior  form  only  renders  tlu;  contrast  of  manners  more 
striking  ;  we  think.  our.<elves  transported  into  another  world, 
and  we  cannot  conceive  how  Spanish  words  can  express  senti- 
ments so  opposite  to  those  of  the  ancient  Spaniards.  There 
is  no  longer  any  trace  in  the  higher  ranks  of  the  courteous 
gallantry  of  the  cavalier,  of  the  mixed  reserve  and  passion  of 
the  women,  of  suspicious  jealousy  in  the  husband,  of  the  cruel 
severity  often  shewn  by  fixthers  and  brothers,  or  of  that  irri- 
table point  of  honour,  so  destructive  to  the  happiness  of 
lovers.  A  cavalier  servente  in  the  Italian  manner,  under  the 
name  of  Cortejo,  is  admitted  to  an  intimacy  with  the  young 
wife  ;  his  rights  are  acknowledged  ;  to  him  solely  belong  the 
private  conversation,  the  first  place  by  her  side,  the  honour 
of  dancing  with  her,  and  all  the  tender  sentiments  and  endear- 
ments of  marriage  ;  whilst  the  husband,  exposed  to  caprice, 
and  ill  humour,  neglected  or  overlooked  by  all  the  guests  in 
the  house,  has  no  part  left  but  that  of  paying  the  expenses. 
The  two  little  pieces  of  The  Ball  and  The  Ball  seen  from 
behind:  El  Sarao,  y  el  recerao  del  Sarao ;  prove  to  us  that 
Spain  has  exactly  adopted  the  manners  of  Italy.  Another 
piece,  taken  i'rom  fashionable  life,  El  Dirorzio  feliz.  The 
happy  Divorce,  shews  that  the  Spaniards  were  also  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  character  of  a  man  of  successful  gallantry  ; 
and  that  the  frivolous  pride  of  these  conquests  had  assumed 
the  place  of  the  ancient  distinctions  of  honour. 

The  latter  part  of  the  last  century  also  gave  birth  to  some 
lyrical  poets,  and  to  some  works  of  originality.  Tomas  de 
Yriarte,  principal  keeper  of  the  records  of  the  Supreme  Coun- 
cil, in  his  Fabidas  Litterarias,  published  in  1782,  attained 
in  some  degree  to  the  grace  and  simplicity  of  La  Fontaine  ; 
and  their  merit  was  the  more  felt,  as  at  that  period  no  good 
fabulist  had  appeared  in  Spain.  He  never  displayed  more 
grace  tiian  when  he  borrowed  the  redundilhas  of  the  ancient 
Castilian  romances. 

Two  of  the  fables  of  this  author  I  shall  here  translate.  The 
first;  2'he  asf  and  ihejlute,  is  adapted  to  a  favourite  popular 
air : 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS. 


441 


THE    ASS    AND   THE    FLUTE. 

You  must  know  that  this  ditty, 

This  little  romance, 
(Be  it  dull,  be  it  witty) 

Arose  from  mere  chance. 

Near  a  certain  enclosure, 

Not  far  from  my  manse. 
An  ass,  with  composure. 

Was  passing  by  chance  : 
As  he  went  along  prying, 

With  sober  advance, 
A  shepherd's  flute  lying 

He  found  there  by  chance. 

Our  amateur  started 

And  eyed  it  askance. 
Drew  nearer,  and  snorted 

Upon  it  by  chance. 

The  breath  of  the  brute.  Sir, 
Drew  music  for  once  ; 

It  enter'd  the  flute,  Sir, 
And  blew  it  by  chance. 

"  Ah  !'  cried  he,  in  wonder, 

"  How  comes  this  to  pass? 
Who  will  now  dare  to  slander 

The  skill  of  an  ass » " 
And  asses  in  plenty 

I  see  at  a  glance, 
Who,  one  time  in  twenty, 

Succeed  by  mere  chance. 


EL    BOREICO    T    LA   FLACTA. 
Esta  fabulilla, 
Saiga  bien  o  mal, 
Me  ha  ocufrido  ahora 
For  casualidad. 

Cerca  de  unos  prados 
Que  hai  en  mi  lugar, 
Passaba  un  borrico 
Por  casualidad. 

Una  flauta  en  ellos 
Hallo,  que  un  zagal 
Se  dexcj  olvidada 
Por  casualidad. 

Acercose  a  olerla. 
El  dicho  animal, 

Y  dio  un  resoplido 
Por  casualidad. 

En  la  flauta  el  aire 
Se  hubo  de  colar, 

Y  sono  la  flauta 
Por  casualidad. 

Oh  !  dixo  el  borrico 
due  bien  se  tocar! 

Y  diran  que  es  mala 
La  musica  asnal? 

Sin  reglas  del  arte 
Borriquitos  hai 
Que  una  vez  aciertan 
Por  casualidad. 


The  following,  The  Bear  and  the  Monkey,  is  written  in 
simple  7-edondilhas,  rhymed  like  the  ancient  romances : 


THE    BEAR   AND   THE   MONKEY. 

A  bear  with  whom  a  Piedmontese 
Join'd  company  to  earn  their  bread, 

Essay'd  on  half  his  legs  to  please 
The  public,  where  his  master  led. 

With  looks  that  boldly  claim'd  applause. 

He  ask'd  the  ape,  "  Sir,  what  think  you?  " 
The  ape  was  skill'd  in  dancing-laws. 

And  answer'd,  "  It  will  never  do." 
"  You  judge  the  matter  wrong,  ray  friend," 

Bruin  rejoin'd  ;  "  you  are  not  civil ! 
Were  these  legs  given  for  you  to  mend 

The  ease  and  grace  with  which  they  swivel  ?' 
It  chanced  a  pig  was  standing  by  : 

"  Bravo  !  astonishing  !  Encore !  " 
Exclaim'd  the  critic  of  the  sty, 

"  Such  dancing  we  shall  see  no  more!" 

Poor  Bruin,  when  he  heard  the  sentence. 

Began  an  inward  calculation ; 
Then,  with  a  face  that  spoke  repentance, 

Express'd  aloud  his  meditation. 

"  When  the  sly  monkey  call'd  me  dunce, 

1  entertain'd  some  slight  misgiving ; 
But,  pig!  thy  praise  has  proved  at  once 

That  dancing  will  not  earn  my  living." 
Let  every  candidate  for  fame 

Rely  upon  this  wholesome  rule  ;^ 
"  Your  work  is  bad,  if  wise  men  blame. 

But  worse,  if  lauded  by  a  fool !  " 

VOL.  II.  E  E 


LOSO    Y    LA   MONA. 

Un  oso,  con  que  la  vida 
Ganaba  un  Piamontes, 
La  no  muy  bien  aprendida 
Danza  ensayaba  ed  dos  pies. 

Queriendo  hacer  de  persona, 
Dixo  a  una  mona :  Que  tal  ? 
Era  perita  la  mona, 

Y  rispondiole  :  muy  mal. 

Yo  creo,  replico  el  oso. 
Que  me  haces  poco  favor, 
Pues  que  ?  mi  aire  no  es  garboso  ? 

'     No  hago  el  paso  con  priraor? 

Estaba  el  cerdo  presente, 

Y  dixo  bravo  !  bien  va  ! 
Baylarin  mas  excelente 
No  se  ha  visto  ni  vera. 

Echo  el  oso,  al  vir  esto, 
Sus  quentas  alia  entre  si, 

Y  con  ademan  modcsto 
Hubo  de  exclamar  asi. 

Quando  me  desaprobaba 
La  Mona,  llegue  a,  dudar, 
Mas  ya  que  el  cerdo  me  alaba 
Muy  mal  debo  de  baylar. 

Guarde  para  su  regalo 
Esta  sentencia  un  autor  : 
Si  el  sabio  no  aprueba,  malo ; 
Si  el  necio  aplaude,  peor. 


442 


ON    THE    LITERATURE 


Yriarte  also  wrote  a  didactic  poem  on  music,  which  ob- 
tained a  considerable  reputation  ;  but  which,  notwithstanding 
the  poetical  ornaments  witli  which  the  author  has  occasionally 
interspersed  it,  is,  in  the  scientific  portion  of  it,  little  more 
than  rhymed  prose. 

Boutterwek,  in  conclusion,  celebrates,  as  a  favourite  of  the 
Graces,  and  as  a  poet  worthy  of  the  best  times  of  S[)anish 
literature,  Juan  Melendez  Valdes,  who  is,  probably,  still  alive, 
and  who,  at  the  close  of  the  last  century,  was  Doctor  of  Laws 
in  Salamanca.  His  poems  were  printed  at  Madrid,  in  two 
volumes,  octavo,  1785.  From  his  youth  he  was  a  follower  of 
Horace,  Tibullus,  Anacreon,  and  Villegas  ;  and,  if  he  has  not 
attained  the  voluptuous  grace  of  the  last,  he  has  still  adorned 
his  poetry  with  a  moral  delicacy,  to  which  Villegas  had  little 
pretension.  The  pleasures,  the  pains,  and  the  joys  of  love,  the 
festivals,  the  leisure,  and  the  tranquil  hours  of  a  country  life, 
are  the  subjects  which  Melendez  delighted  to  celebrate.  His 
lively  and  romantic  genius  would  characterise  him  as  a  Spa- 
niard ;  but  tlic  turn  of  his  thoughts  is  more  allied  to  England 
and  Germany.  Some  of  his  idyls  have  all  the  grace  of  Gessner, 
joined  to  the  harmonious  language  of  the  South.  I  shall  annex 
in  a  note,  an  example  from  Boutterwek ;  *  and  this  is  the  last 
specimen  of  Spanish  poetry  which  I  shall  present  to  the  reader. 

We  shall  here  close  the  history  which  we  proposed  to  give 
of  the  literature  of  Spain  ;  and  it  is  with  regret  that  we  per- 
ceive the  brilliant  illusions  which  illustrious  names  and 
chivalric  manners  at  first  excited  in  us,  successively  vanishing 
from  our  eyes.  The  poem  of  the  Cid  first  presented  itself  to 
us  amongst  the  Spanish  works,  as  the  Cid  himself  amongst 


*  The  following  is  an  idyl  of  Melendez: 
Siendo  yo  nirto  tierno, 
Con  la  niiia  Dorila, 
Me  andaba  per  la  selva 
Cogiendo  florecillas, 
De  que  alegres  guirnaldas 
Con  gracia  pcregrina 
Para  ambos  coronarnos 
Su  mano  disponia. 
Asi  en  niiteces  tales 
De  juegos  y  delicias 
Pasabamos  felices 
Las  horas  y  los  dias. 
Con  illos  poco  k  poco 
La  cdad  corrio  de  prisa, 
Y  fue  de  la  inocencia 
Saltando  la  malicia. 
Yo  no  se;  mas  al  verme 
Durila  se  leia, 


Y  A  mi,  de  solo  hablarla 
Tambien  me  daba  risa. 
Luego  al  darle  las  flores 
El  pecho  me  l.itia, 

Y  al  ella  coronarme 
Quedabase  cmbebida. 
Una  tarde  tras  esto 
Vimos  dos  tortolillas 
Que  con  tremulos  picos 
Se  halagaban  amigas. 
Alentonos  su  exemplo, 

Y  entre  honestas  caricias, 
Nos  contamos  turbados 
Nucstras  dulccs  fatigas. 

Y  en  un  pun  to,  qual  sombia 
Volo  de  nuestra  vista 

La  niiles;  mas  en  torno 
Nos  diu  el  amor  sus  dicbas. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  443 

the  heroes  of  Spain  ;  and  after  him  we  find  nothing  in  any 
degree  equalling  either  the  noble  simplicity  of  his  real  cha- 
racter, or  the  charm  of  the  brilliant  fictions  of  which  he  is  the 
subject.  Nothing  that  has  since  appeared  can  justly  demand 
our  unqualified  admiration.  In  the  midst  of  the  most  brilliant 
efforts  of  Spanish  genius,  our  taste  has  been  continually 
wounded  by  extravagance  and  affectation,  or  our  reason  has 
been  offended  by  an  eccentricity  often  bordering  on  folly.  It 
is  impossible  to  reconcile  the  alliance  of  so  rich  an  imagination 
with  so  whimsical  a  taste,  and  such  an  elevation  of  soul  with 
so  great  a  perversion  of  truth.  It  may  be  observed  that  we 
have  seen  the  Italians  fall  into  the  same  error ;  but  they 
retrieved  their  reputation,  and  the  age  which  gave  birth  to 
Metastasio,  Goldoni,  and  Alfieri,  may,  if  it  does  not  rival  that 
of  Ariosto  and  Tasso,  at  least  bear  a  comparison  with  it 
without  humiliation.  But  the  feeble  efforts  of  Luzan,  of  la 
Huerta,  of  Yriarte,  and  of  IMelendez,  the  only  boast  of  their 
nation  for  a  whole  century,  convince  us  how  low  their  country 
has  fallen.  The  inspiration  of  the  earlier  ages  is  extinct,  and 
modern  culture  has  been  too  imperfect,  and  too  restricted,  to 
supply  the  place  of  those  riches  no  longer  accorded  by  genius. 
The  Italians  had  three  periods  of  letters,  divided  by  two  long 
intervals  of  rest ;  that  of  original  vigour,  when  Dante  seemed 
to  draw  his  inspiration  from  the  force  and  plenitude  of  his  own 
sentiments  ;  that  of  classical  taste,  when  the  study  of  the 
ancients  presented  new  treasures  to  Ariosto  and  to  Tasso ; 
and  lastly,  that  of  reason  and  mind  devoted  to  the  arts,  when 
the  elevation  of  thought  and  manly  eloquence  of  Alfieri,  and 
the  exquisite  observation  of  Goldoni,  atone  for  the  want  of 
that  fervent  imagination  which  began  to  be  exhausted.  But 
the  literature  of  Spain  has,  strictly  speaking,  only  one  period, 
that  of  chivalry.  Its  sole  riches  consist  in  its  ancient  honour 
and  frankness  of  character.  Its  imagination  is  supported 
only  by  its  ignorance,  and  creates  prodigies,  adventures,  and 
intrigues  in  abundance,  as  long  as  it  feels  itself  unrestrained 
by  the  bounds  of  the  possible  and  the  probable.  Spanish 
literature  shines  forth  in  all  its  splendour  in  the  ancient  Cas- 
tilian  romances ;  all  the  fund  of  sentiments,  ideas,  images,  and 
adventures,  of  which  she  afterwards  availed  herself,  is  to  be 
found  in  this  original  treasure.  Boscan  and  Garcilaso,  indeed, 
gave  it  a  new  foi'm,  but  not  a  new  substance  and  a  new  life. 
The  same  thoughts,  the  same  romantic  sentiments  are  found 

E  e2 


444  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

in  tliese  two  poets  and  in  their  school,  with  the  addition  only 
of  a  new  dress  and  a  form  almost  Italian.  The  Spanish 
drama  awoke ;  and,  for  the  third  time,  this  primitive  source 
of  adventures,  images,  and  sentiments,  was  brought  into 
action  in  a  new  shape.  Lope  de  Vega  and  Calderon  introduced 
on  the  stage  the  subjects  of  the  early  romances,  and  trans- 
ferred to  the  dramatic  dialogue  the  language  of  the  national 
songs.  Thus,  under  an  apparent  variety,  the  Spaniards  have 
been  wearied  with  monotony.  The  prodigality  of  their  images 
and  the  brilliancy  of  their^ poetry,  discover  only  a  real  poverty. 
If  their  minds  had  been  properly  disciplined,  and  if  they  had 
enjoyed  freedom  of  thought,  the  Spanish  writers  would  ulti- 
mately have  extricated  themselves  Irom  this  dull  routine,  and 
woukl  have  run  the  same  career  as  those  of  other  nations. 

This  fund  of  images  and  adventures  of  which  the  Spaniards 
have  so  frequently  availed  themselves,  is  that  to  which  in  our 
days  the  name  of  romance  has  been  particularly  attached. 
We  here  find  the  sentiment?,  the  opinions,  the  virtues,  and 
the  prejudices  of  the  middle  ages  ;  the  picture  oi  that  good 
old  time  to  which  all  our  habits  attach  us  ;  and  since  chivalric 
antiquity  has  been  placed  in  opposition  to  heroic  antiquity,  it 
is  interesting,  even  in  a  literary  point  of  view,  to  see  the 
manner  in  which  it  has  been  treated  by  a  lively  and  sensitive 
people,  who  rejected  all  new  ideas,  all  foreign  assistance,  and 
the  results  of  experience  derived  from  other  principles.  This 
observation  may,  perhaps,  teach  us  that  the  manners  and  pre- 
judices of  the  good  old  time  present,  in  fact,  an  abundance  of 
riches  to  the  poet,  but  that  it  is  necessary  to  be  elevated 
above  them  to  employ  them  with  advantage  ;  and  that,  in 
appropriating  these  materials  from  remote  ages,  it  is  requisite 
to  treat  them  in  the  spirit  of  our  own  times.      Sophocles  and 
Euripides,  when  they  represent   to  us  with  so  much   sub- 
limity the  heroic  age,  are  themselves  raised  above  it,  and 
employ  the  philosophy  of  the  age  of  Socrates  to  give  a  just 
idea  of  the  sentiments  of  the  ages  of  CEdipus  and  Agamemnon. 
It  is  only  by  an  accurate  knowledge  of  the  times,  and  the 
truth  of  all  its  history,  that  we  can  expect  to  give  a  new  in- 
terest to  the  age  of  chivalry.     But  the   Spaniards  of  modern 
days  were  in  no  wise  superior  to  the  personages  who  were  the 
subject  of  their  poetry.    They  were,  on  the  contrary,  inferior 
to  them  ;  and  they  found  themselves  unqualified  to  render 
justice  to  a  theme  of  which  they  were  not  masters. 


OF    THE    SPANIARDS.  445 

In  another  point  of  view  also,  the  literature  of  Spain  pre- 
sents to  us  a  singular  phenomenon,  and  an  object  of  study  and 
observation.  Whilst  its  character  is  essentially  chivalric, 
we  find  its  ornaments  and  its  language  borrowed  from  the 
Asiatics.  Thus,  Spain,  the  most  western  country  of  Europe, 
presents  us  with  the  flowery  language  and  vivid  imagination 
of  the  East.  It  is  not  my  design  to  inculcate  a  preference  of 
the  oriental  style  to  the  classical,  nor  to  justify  those  gigantic 
hyperboles  which  so  often  olfend  our  taste,  and  that  profusion 
of  images  by  which  the  poet  seems  desii'ous  to  inebriate  our 
senses,  investing  all  his  ideas  with  the  charm  of  sweetest 
odours,  of  beautiful  colours,  and  of  harmonious  language.  I 
would  only  wish  to  remark  that  the  qualities  which  continually 
surprise  us,  and  sometimes  almost  disgust  us  in  the  poetry  of 
Spain,  are  the  genuine  characteristics  of  the  poetry  of  India, 
Persia,  Arabia,  and  the  East ;  poetry,  to  which  the  most 
ancient  nations  of  the  world,  and  those  which  have  had  the 
greatest  influence  on  civilization,  have  concurred  in  yielding 
their  admiration  ;  that  the  sacred  writings  present  to  us  in 
every  page  instances  of  that  highly  figurative  language,  which 
we  there  receive  with  a  kind  of  veneration,  but  which  is  not 
allowed  in  the  moderns  ;  that  hence  we  may  perceive  that  there 
are  difierent  systems  in  literature  and  in  poetry;  and  that,  so  far 
far  from  assigning  to  any  one  an  exclusive  preference  over  the 
rest,  we  ought  to  accustom  ourselves  to  estimate  them  all  with 
justice,  and  thus  to  enjoy  their  distinct  and  several  beauties. 
If  we  regard  the  literature  of  Spain  as  revealing  to  us,  in 
some  degree,  the  literature  of  the  East,  and  as  familiarizing 
us  with  a  genius  and  taste  differing  so  widely  from  our  own, 
it  will  possess  in  our  eyes  a  new  interest.  We  may  thus  in- 
hale, in  a  language  allied  to  our  own,  the  perfumes  of  the 
East,  and  the  incense  of  Arabia.  We  may  view  as  in  a 
faithful  mirror,  those  palaces  of  Bagdad,  and  that  luxury  of 
the  caliphs,  which  revived  the  lustre  of  departed  ages  ;  and 
we  may  appreciate,  through  the  medium  of  a  people  of 
Europe,  that  brilliant  Asiatic  poetry,  which  was  the  parent 
of  so  many  beautiful  fictions  of  the  imagination. 


446  ON   THE    LITERATURE 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

STATE    OP  PORTUQUESE   LITERATURE    UNTIL   THE    MIDDLE   OF    THE  SIXTEENTH 

CENTURY. 

There  now  remains  to  be  considered  only  one  other 
lanjcuage  of  those  which  are  denominated  the  Romance,  or 
such  as  are  compounded  of  tlie  Latin  and  Teutonic  tongues  ; 
and  we  here  approach  the  Portujjuese.  We  liave  ah'eady  ob- 
served the  rise  and  progress  of  the  Provencal,  the  Roniance- 
Wallon,  the  Italian,  the  Castilian,  and,  indeed,  of  all  of  those 
mixed  tongues  peculiar  to  the  South  of  Europe,  from  the  ex- 
treme point  of  Sicily  to  the  Levant  ;  and  we  next  prepare  to 
trace  their  progress  as  far  as  the  western  extremity  of  the 
same  region,  in  Lusitania.  "We  shall  thus  have  completed  a 
view  of  the  chief  part  of  the  European  languages,  those  which 
may  be  said,  more  particularly,  to  owe  their  existence  to  the 
Roman.  In  the  Sclavonian  and  Teutonic  tongues  there  yet 
remain  two  distinct  subjects  of  consideration.  Tlie  former  of 
these  have  never  yet  been  carried  to  a  sufficiently  high  point 
of  cultivation  to  exhibit  those  powers  of  which  they  might  be 
rendered  capable  among  a  more  civilized  people,  and  in  a 
more  advanced  state  of  society.  But  we  look  foi-ward  to  a 
period  when  we  may  direct  our  enquiries  both  to  the  western 
and  eastern  regions  of  the  North  of  Europe  ;  and  after  dwell- 
ing upon  the  more  abundant  resources  of  the  English  and 
German,  the  two  most  distinguished  among  the  Teutonic 
nations,  we  shall  proceed  to  take  a  more  rapid  view  of  the 
respective  literatures  of  Holland,  Denmark,  and  Sweden. 
Thence  extending  our  researches  into  the  Polish  and  the 
Russian,  we  shall  have  completed  the  very  enlarged  outline 
of  our  original  design,  and  shall  have  traced  the  progress  and 
developement  of  the  human  mind  throughout  the  diiferent 
countries  of  Europe. 

Th(!  kingdom  of  Portugal  forms,  in  fact,  only  an  int<>gral 
portion  of  Spain,  and  was  ibrmerly  considered  in  this  light  by 
the  Portuguese,  who  even  assumed  the  name  of  Spaniards, 
conferring  on  their  neighbours  and  rivals,  with  whom  they 
participated  its  sovereignty,  the  appellation  of  Castilians. 
Portugal,  nevertheless,  possesses  a  literature  of  its  own  ;  and 
its  language,  so  far  from  being  ranked  as  a  mere  dialect  of  the 
Spanish,  was  regarded  by  an  independent  people  as  the  cha- 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  447 

racteristic  of  their  freedom,  and  was  cultivated  with  propor- 
tional assiduity  and  delight.  Hence  the  most  celebrated 
among  the  Portuguese  devoted  their  talents  to  confer  lustre 
on  the  literary  character  of  tlieir  country,  emulating  each  other 
in  every  species  of  excellence,  in  order  that  their  neighbours 
might,  in  no  branch  whatever,  boast  of  any  advantage  over 
them.  This  national  spirit  has  given  to  their  productions  a 
character  quite  distinct  fi'om  the  Castihan.  It  is  true,  indeed, 
that  their  literature  will  be  found  much  more  complete  than 
abundant  ;  with  examples  of  almost  every  kind  of  excellence, 
it  is  really  rich  in  nothing,  if  we  except  its  lyric  and  bucolic 
poetry.  Its  reputation  triumphed  but  a  short  time  ;  and  we 
must  consider  that  the  most  distinguished  among  a  nation,  by 
no  means  very  formidable  in  point  of  number,  produced  many 
of  their  works  in  the  Castilian  language.  We  may  add,  that 
its  literary  treasures  were,  in  a  manner,  locked  up  from  the 
rest  of  Europe.  The  Portuguese  holding  little  communication 
with  the  more  civilized  portions  of  the  globe,  were  too  seri- 
ously engaged  with  their  views  of  aggrandizement  in  India, 
as  long  as  their  national  energy  continued,  and  have  since 
been  too  far  sunk  in  apathy,  to  bestow  much  attention  on  their 
literary  celebrity  abroad.  Of  this,  my  frequent  journeys,  and 
my  researches  into  the  most  celebrated  libraries,  which  have 
enabled  me  only  to  procure  a  very  small  proportion  of  their 
works,  have  made  me  but  too  fully  sensible.  Not  unfre- 
quently,  among  a  hundred  thousand  volumes,  collected  at  im- 
mense expense,  we  scarcely  meet  with  a  single  Avork  written  in 
the  Portuguese  tongue  ;  insomuch  that,  without  referring  to 
the  labours  of  Boutterwek,  it  would  have  been  difficult  to 
give  a  sketch,  however  imperfect,  of  the  literature  of  this 
country. 

Although  the  greater  number  of  the  Portuguese  poets  occa- 
sionally composed  in  Castilian  verse,  the  transition  from  one 
language  to  the  other  was  by  no  means  so  easily  effected  as 
we  might  at  first  be  led  to  suppose.  The  Portuguese  is,  in 
truth,  a  sort  of  contracted  Spanish  ;  but  this  curtailment  of 
the  words  has  been  most  frequently  such  as  to  deprive  them 
of  their  characteristic  sounds.  The  language  is,  moreover, 
softened  ;  as  is  generally  the  case  with  all  dialects  spoken  on 
the  coasts  and  downs,  in  distinction  to  the  more  wild  and 
sonorous  forms  of  speech  prevailing  in  mountainous  regions. 
Such  is  the  relation  between  the  High  German  and  the  Dutch, 


448  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

between  the  Danish  and  the  Swedish,  and  between  the  dialects 
of  Venice  and  llomagna.  * 

The  Teutonic  conquerors  of  Portugal  very  probably  spoke  a 
different  language  from  those  of  the  rest  of  8[)ain;  and  if  any 
monuments  oftiiefiuniliar  language  ofthe  middle  ages  remained, 
it  would,  perhaps,  appear  that  among  the  Vandals  and  the  Suevi, 
who  never  mingled  much  with  the  Visigoths,  those  peculiar  con- 
tractions of  speech  were  made  use  of,  which  influenced,  from 
the  period  of  their  invasion,  the  common  idiom  of  Galicia  and 
Portugal.  It  is  probable,  likewise,  that  the  Roman  subjects 
were  more  numerous  in  the  western  provinces,  after  the  con- 
quest of  the  Barbarians,  as  Ave  may  observe  the  Portuguese 
bears  a  stronger  affinity  than  the  Castilian  to  the  Roman, 
and  also  preceded  it  in  point  of  time.  But  the  invasion  of 
the  Moors,  occurring  at  a  period  when  the  people  of  Spain 
had  not  yet  begun  to  write  in  the  vulgar  tongue,  renders  such 
researches  altogether  uncertain  ;  although,  at  the  same  time, 
the  most  learned  writers  Portugal  can  boast,  maintain  that 
their  own  particular  dialect  prevailed  among  the  Christians 
under  the  dominion  of  the  Arabs,  and  had  been  already  ap- 
plied to  poetical  composition. f 

*  The  contraction  of  the  Portuguese  language  from  the  Spanish  is  eflected 
chiefly  by  the  suppression  of  the  consonants;  the  consonant  in  the  middle  of 
the  words  being  generally  that  fixed  upon  for  expunction  ;  a  retrenchment  the 
most  perplexing  of  any  to  the  etymologist.  It  is  thus  that  dolor  becomes  dur, 
grief;  celos,  ceos,  heaven;  maijor,  mor ;  nello,  no;  dello,  do,  &c.  There  appear  to  be 
some  letters  for  which  the  Portuguese  entertain  an  absolute  aversion.  The  letter  I  is 
even  expelled  from  their  proper  names,  as  Alfonso  is  written  .'//ohso;  Alhoquaque, 
Aboquerque ;  or  it  is  sometimes  changed  into  an  r;  hlando  becomes  brando;  and 
plaija,  praja.  The  double  /  is  changed  into  ch ;  for  llegar  we  have  chegar ;  tor  llcnu, 
clieo.  The  consonant,/,  not  aspirated,  but  pronounced  as  it  is  in  French,  sometimes  takes 
the  place  of  y.  and  sometimes  of  g.  The  /  is  used  instead  of  A;  hidalgo  bein^fidaljo. 
M  is  invariably  substituted  for  ?;  at  the  end  of  words;  and  the  nasalsyllablesof  joh,  are 
changed  into  the  nasal  ones  of  «rl.  Thus  7(oo/oh  becomes  wflfoii ;  iiai'igacio>i,naviga<;a6. 
fin  his  Europa  Porliiguesu,  Manuel  de  Faria  y  Sousa  presents  us  with  fragments 
of  an  historical  poem,  in  verses  of  artr  viayor,  and  which  he  asserts  had  been  dis- 
covered in  the  beginning  of  the  twelfth  century,  in  the  castle  of  Lousam,  when  it  was 
taken  from  the  Moors.  The  manuscript  containing  them,  appeared  even  then,  he 
observes,  to  have  been  defaced  by  time,  from  which  he  would  infer,  that  the  poem 
may  be  attributed  to  the  period  of  the  conquest  of  the  Arabs.  But  the  fact  itself 
seems  to  rest  on  very  doubtful  authority,  and  the  verses  do  not  appear  either  in 
their  construction,  in  their  language,  or  even  in  their  ideas,  to  lay  claim  to  so  high  an 
antiquity.  This  earliest  monimicnt  of  the  Romance  langu.iges  is,  however,  sufliciently 
curious  to  merit  attention ;  and  three  stanzas  are  therefore  here  subjoined : 
A  Juliara  et  Horpas  a  saa  grei  damin-  Julian  and  Horpas,  with  the  adultrous  blood 
hos,  [fornezinhos,        Of  Agar,  fiercest  spoilers  of  the  land. 

Que  em  sembra  co  os  netos  de  Agar    These  changes  wrought.     They  call'd  fierce 
Huma  atimarom  prasmadafazanha,  Islam's  brood'  [band 

Ca  Muza,  et  Zariph  com  basta  com-         'Neath  the  Miramolin's  sway;  a  numerous 
panha,  Of  shameless  priests  and  nobles.     Musa  stood, 

De  juso  da  sina  do  Miramolino,  And  Zariph  there,  upon  the  Iberian  strand. 

Com  falsa  infan^om  et  Prcstes  ma-    Hail'd  by  the  false  count,  who  betray'd  tho 

linho,  [panha.  power 

De  Cepta  aduxeron  ao  solar  d'Ks-    Of  Ba'tica,  and  yielded  shrine  and  tower. 

JEt 


OF   THE   PORTUGUESE.  449 

The  antiquity  of  the  earliest  specimens  of  the  language 
seems  to  unite  with  historical  accounts,  in  leading  us  to  the 
supposition  that  the  Christians  under  the  Moorish  govern- 
ment had  retreated  to  the  western  coasts  of  Spain,  while  the 
eastern  parts  were  occupied  by  the  Arabs,  ambitious  of  com- 
mandinjr  the  commerce  of  tlie  east  of  Africa.  The  kingdom 
of  Leon  had  been  recovered  from  the  Moors  long  before  New 
Castile,  as  the  latter  preceded  the  conquest  of  Saragossa, 
lying  in  the  very  heart  of  Aragon.  As  the  Christians  gained  ^ 
ground  in  Spain,  they  appear  to  have  carried  their  conqiKsts 
in  the  direction  rather  of  a  diagonal  line,  from  the  north- 
west to  the  south-east,  than  of  one  parallel  to  the  equator  ; 
and  we  are  justified  in  supposing,  that  the  provinces  first  re- 
conquered were  those  which  previous  to  their  subjection  had 
been  inhabited  chiefiy  by  Mo(;arabian  Christians,  who  pro- 
moted the  views  of  their  liberators. 

The  little  county  of  Portugal,  comprehending  only  at  that 
time  the  modern  province  of  Tra  los  Jllontes,  or  tlie  district 
of  Braganza,  together  with  a  very  small  portion  of  the  Minho, 
succeeded,  like  Galicia,  in  throwing  off  the  Mahometan  yoke, 
a  short  time  after  their  invasion.  But  as  long  as  the  dominion 
of  the  Ommiades  Caliphs  continued,  the  Portugese,  confining 
themselves  to  their  mountains,  rather  evinced  a  wish  of 
remaining  unmolested,  than  of  attempting  fresh  conquests. 
The  dissensions  which  ensued  amonsj  the  Moors,  on  the  death 
of  Hescham  el  Mowajed,  the  last  of  the  Ommiades  of  Cor- 
dova, in  1031,  and  which  continued  until  1087,  when  Joseph, 
the  son  of  Teschfin  the  Morabite,  brought  the  Moors  of 
Spain  under  the  dominion  of  Morrocco,  gave  both  the  Portu- 

Et  porque  era  for^a,  adarve  et  foijado  He  led  them  safely  to  that  rockj'  pile, 

Da  Betica  almina,  et  o  seu  Casteval  Gibraltar's  strength.     Though  stored  with 

O  Conde  por  encha,  et  pro  comunal,  rich  resource                                      [while 

Em  terra  os  encreos  poyaroii  a  saa-  Of  full  supplies,  though  men  and  arms  the 

grade.  Bristled  its  walls,  its  keys  without  remorse 

Et  Gibaraltar,  maguer  que  adornado,  Or  strife  he  gave,  a  prey,  by  shameless  guile, 

Et  CO  compridouro  per  saa  defensao,  To  that  vile  unbelieving  herd,  the  curse 

Pello  susodeto  sem  algo  de  afao  Of  Christian  lands,  who,  rifling  all  its  pride, 

Presto  foy  delles  entrado  et  filhado.  To  slavery  doom'd  the  fair;  the  valiant  died. 

E  OS  ende  filhados  leaes  aa  verdade,  And  died  those  martyrs  to  the  truth,  who 

Os  hostes  sedentos  do  sangue  de  on-  clung                                                [ing  ill ; 

judos  To  their  dear  faith,  midst  every  threaten- 

Metero  a  cutelo  apres  de  rendudos,  Nor  pity  for  the  aged  or  the  young 

Sem  que  esguardassem  nem  spixo  ou  Stay'd  their  fierce  swords,  till  they  had  drunk 

idade ;  their  fill ;                                                [hung 

E  tendo  atimada  a  tal  crueldade.  No  sex  found  mercy,  though,  unarm'd,  they 

O  templo  e  orada  de  Deos  profana-  Round  their  assassins' knees,  rejoic'd  to  kill; 

rom,                                           [rarom  And  Moors,  within  the  temples  of  the  Lord, 

Voltando  em  mesquita,  hu  logo  ado-  Worshipp'd  their  prophet  false  with  rites  ab- 

Sa  besta  Mafoma  a  medes  maldade.  horr'd. 


450  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

gucse  and  tlie  Castilians  time  to  recover  themselves,  and  to 
arrange  plans  of  future  aggrandizement. 

About  tlie  same  period,  Alfonso  VI.  on  his  return  from 
the  conquest  of  Toledo,  united  two  of  his  daughters  in 
marriage  with  two  princes  of  the  family  of  Burgundy,  related 
to  the  royal  house  of  France  ;  to  one  of  whom  he  presented, 
as  a  portion,  the  province  of  Galicia,  and  to  the  other  the 
county  of  Portugal.  Henry  of  Burgundy,  its  first  acknow- 
ledged sovereign,  at  the  head  of  such  adventurers  as  had 
followed  him,  succeeded  in  gradually  enlarging  his  small 
territories  from  the  year  1G90  to  1112,  at  the  expense  of 
the  surrounding  Moors.  His  son  Alfonso  Henriquez,  the 
real  founder  of  the  Portuguese  monarchy,  successively  ac- 
quired, during  a  life  of  ninety-one,  and  a  reign  of  seventy- 
three  years,*  nearly  the  whole  of  Portugal,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  kingdom  of  Algarves.  The  efforts  of  the 
Almoravides  to  keep  the  lesser  princes  of  Spain  in  subjection 
to  the  empire  of  Morocco,  appear  to  have  afforded  a  short 
respite  to  the  Christians  ;  while  the  very  formidable  number 
of  Mogarabian  Christians  in  these  provinces,  doubtless  pro- 
moted a  conquest,  which  might  more  justly  be  considered  a 
revolution,  inasmuch  as  it  introduced  a  new  dynasty  and 
a  new  religion,  without  otlierwise  changing  tlie  people. 
Under  the  reign  of  the  same  Alfonso  was  achieved  the 
memorable  victory  of  Ouriquc,  obtained  over  the  Moors  on  the 
twenty-sixth  of  July,  1139,  in  which  five  Moorish  kings 
were  defeated,  and  which  was  followed  by  the  adoption  of  the 
title  of  kingdom,  in  place  of  the  county,  of  Portugal.  The 
Cortes,  asseml)led  at  Lamego  in  1145,  conferred  a  free 
constitution  upon  the  new  people,  who,  by  the  acquisition 
of  Lisbon  a  few  years  after,  came  into  possession  of  a 
powerful  caj)ital,  with  an  immense  population  and  an  ex- 
tensive commerce. 

The  great  wealth  and  power  enjoyed  by  this  vast  capital  of 
a  small  nation,  soon  exercised  a  decisive  influence  on  the 
genius  and  manners  of  the  people.  From  the  earliest  times, 
the  Portuguese  had  been  habituated  to  a  life  of  active  inter- 
course with  society  and  mankind,  rather  than  to  one  of 
monkish  seclusion  in  their  castles.  They  were,  therefore, 
far  less  haughty  and  fanatical ;  while  at  the  same  time,  in 
consequence  of  the  greater  number  of  Mo{;;arabians  incorpo- 
«•  *  Between  1112  and  U85. 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  451 

rated  with  tlie  nation,  the  influence  of  Eastern  manners  was 
diffused  over  them,  more  generally  than  over  the  Castilians. 
The  passion  of  love  seemed  to  occupy  a  larger  share  of  their 
existence  ;  it  was  at  once  more  impassioned  and  contem- 
plative; and  their  poetry  was  mingled  with  a  sort  of  worship 
pf  the  idols  of  their  affections,  more  enthusiastic  than  that  of 
any  other  people  of  Europe. 

In  the  finest  country  in  the  world,  a  land  covered  with 
orange  groves,  and  upon  wliose  hills  the  most  exquisite  vines 
seem  to  invite  the  hand  of  the  inhabitant,  we  are  surprised 
to  observe  tiiat  agriculture  should  have  obtained  so  small  a 
share  of  the  public  enquiry  and  regard.  One  side  of  the  fine 
banks  of  the  Tagus  is  at  this  day  almost  uncultivated  ;  and 
we  proceed  over  a  spacious  and  fertile  plain,  without  even 
meeting  a  cottage,  a  blade  of  corn,  or  the  slightest  appear- 
ance of  human  industry  and  existence.  The  open  grounds 
are  devoted  to  pasturage,  and,  compared  with  the  rest  of  the 
population,  the  number  of  the  shepherds  is  very  great  ; 
insomuch  that  the  Portuguese  have,  indeed,  some  grounds  for 
considering  a  rural  life  as  always  connected  with  the  care  of 
guarding  flocks.  Tiie  nation,  divided  into  hardy  navigators, 
soldiers,  and  shepherds,  seemed  better  calculated  for  the  dis- 
play of  energy  and  courage  than  for  active  and  persevering 
industry.  Love,  and  the  desire  of  glory  and  adventure, 
always  supported  the  Portuguese  under  the  severest  labours 
and  privations.  As  seamen  and  shepherds,  they  were  inured 
to  hardships,  and  ready  to  encounter  the  greatest  dangers  ; 
but  as  soon  as  the  excitement  of  the  passions  ceased,  an 
habitual  and  thoughtful  indolence  resumed  its  sway.  The 
indulgence  of  this  propensity,  peculiar  to  the  people  of 
the  South,  does  not  appear  to  enervate  the  mind  as  in 
more  northern  regions.  The  pleasures  to  which  they 
abandon  themselves  are  of  a  refined  nature,  and  are  found  in 
the  enjoyment  of  contemplative  feelings,  and  the  pleasing  in- 
fluences of  the  climate.  In  the  moments  when  they  appear 
least  active,  they  are  really  alive  to  emotions  derived  from 
external  nature.  However  fallen  the  Portuguese  may  appear 
to  us  in  these  latter  ages  from  the  gloiy  of  their  ancestors, 
they  still  delight  in  the  recollection  of  the  proud  station 
which  they  at  one  time  occupied  in  the  annals  of  the  world. 
A  mere  handful  of  brave  knights  achieved  the  conquest  of  a 
kingdom  in  less  than  a  single  age,  and  for  eight  centuries 


452  ON    THE  LITERATURE 

following  the  frontiers  of  this  little  kingdom  were  never 
known,  at  least  in  Europe,  to  have  been  encroached  upon  or 
thrown  back.  Heroic  battles  against  the  Moors  acquired  for 
them  a  country  which  they  contended  for,  inch  by  inch.  In 
many  of  their  cliivalric  expeditions,  they  even  volunteered 
their  aid  to  their  powerful  neighbours  the  Castilians  ;  and 
the  Christian  monarchs  of  Spain  never  offered  battle  to  the 
Moors,  in  any  of  those  signal  exploits  which  illustrate  the 
period,  without  the  assistance  of  the  Portuguese,  who  always 
occupied  an  honourable  station.  The  same  chivalric  spirit, 
early  in  the  fifteenth  century,  led  them  beyond  the  straits  of 
Gibraltar,  and  they  undertook  to  found  a  new  Christian 
empire  on  the  very  frontiers  of  Fez  and  of  Morocco.  A 
more  enlarged  ambition,  and  views  still  more  extensive, 
flattered  the  heroes  who  reigned  over  Portugal  during  the 
middle  of  the  same  century.  The  Infant  Don  Henry,  third 
son  of  John  I.,  Alfonso  V.,  and  John  II.,  were  the  first  to 
divine  the  real  peninsular  form  of  Africa,  and  the  vast 
ocean  which  embraces  the  world.  Various  hardy  navigators 
traversed  the  torrid  zone,  then  supposed  uninhabitable,  passed 
the  line,  and,  launching  into  an  unknown  sea,  steered  their 
course  by  the  aid  of  constellations  in  a  heaven  which  was 
equally  unknown  to  them.  It  was  then  that  they  first  doubled 
the  appalling  Cape  of  storms,  called  by  King  John  II.  with 
happy  ibresight,  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope.  They  pointed  out 
to  Europe  an  unknown  track  to  India  ;  and  the  conquest  of 
its  richest  kingdoms,  equalling  in  extent  and  resources  the 
modern  possessions  of  the  English,  was  the  work  of  a  little 
band  of  adventurers.  Their  dominion  there  is,  indeed,  now 
no  more  ;  but  the  Portuguese  language  still  remains,  as  a 
monument  of  their  past  greatness,  the  medium  of  the  com- 
mercial transactions  of  India  and  Africa  ;  and  is  made  use  of 
in  all  kind  of  communications,  like  the  Frank  language  in  the 
Levant. 

Tlie  poetry  of  Portugal  dates  its  origin  as  early  as  the 
monarchy  itself,  if,  indeed,  we  are  not  to  refer  it  to  a  still 
remoter  period,  in  the  time  of  the  Mo9arabians,  or  Christian 
Moors.  Manuel  de  Faria  y  Sousa  has  preserved  some 
specimens  of  ballads  ascribed  to  Gonzalo  Hermigues,  and 
Egaz  Moniz,  two  knights  who  flourished  under  Alfonso  I., 
the  last  of  whom  is  represented  by  Camoens  as  a  perfect 
model  of  heroism.     We  are  assured  that  he  really  died  of 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  453 

grief,  on  learning  the  infidelity  of  the  beautiful  Violante,  the 
lady  to  whom  his  love-songs  were  addressed.  What  I  have 
seen,  however,  of  his  poetry,  appears  to  me  nearly  unintelli- 
gible* As  the  productions  of  these  two  heroes  constitute 
the  monuments  of  the  language  and  poetry  of  the  twelfth 
century,  so  several  obscure  and  half-barbarous  fragments  still 
remain,  which  are  ascribed  to  the  two  succeeding  ages.  The 
enquiries  of  the  antiquary  have  been  more  particularly 
directed  to  the  recovery  of  the  verses  written  by  King 
Dionysius,  the  legislatoi',  who  reigned  betAveen  the  years 
1279  and  1325,  and  who  was  one  of  the  greatest  characters 
Portugal  ever  produced.  Those,  likewise,  attributed  to  his 
son  Alfonso  IV.  who  succeeded  him,  and  those  of  his  natural 
son,  Alfonso  Sanchez,  were  eagerly  sought  after.  Belonging 
to  the  same  remote  period,  we  meet  with  a  few  sonnets  written 
in  Italian  metre,  evidently  modelled  on  those  of  Petrarch,  from 
which  we  gather  that  the  extensive  commerce  of  Lisbon  soon 
introduced  the  great  Italian  poets  of  the  fourteenth  century  to 
the  notice  of  the  Portuguese,  and  that  the  latter  availed  them- 
selves of  these  master-pieces  of  song,  which  were  not  imitated 
until  a  much  later  period  in  Spain.  But  such  vestiges  of  the 
early  poetry  of  Portugal,  during  three  centuries,  between 
the  years  1100  and  1400,  may  be  said  to  belong  rather  to 
antiquarian  than  to  literary  research  ;  and  serve  to  mark  the 
progressive  changes  of  the  language  much  more  than  the 
degrees  of  intellectual  cultivation  and  the  developement  of 
character. 

In  fact,  it  is  not  until  the  fifteenth  century  that  we  begin 
to  perceive  the  rise  of  Portuguese  literature ;  a  period 
ennobled,  likewise,  by  the  most  striking  manifestations  of 
national  character.  Having  been  in  possession  for  more  than 
one  hundred  and  fifty  years  of  the  same  boundaries  which 
they  at  present  retain,  the  Portuguese  under  Alfonso  III.,  as 
early  as  1251,  made  themselves  masters  of  the  kingdom  of  the 
Algarves.  They  were  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  the  people 
of  Castile,  and  no  longer  bordered  upon  the  confines  of  the 
Moors  ;  and  the  sanguinary  wars  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
in  wliich  they  engaged,  had  failed  to  enlarge  the  limits  of  the 
monarchy.  In  the  early  part  of  the  fifteenth  century,  the 
spirit   of  chivalry  seemed  to   acquire   fresh  energy,  and  to 

*  Manuel  de  Faria,  who  cites  them  in  his  Europa  Portuguesa,  confesses  that  he 
himself  can  comprehend  only  a  few  of  the  words,  without,  however,  heing  able  to 
collect  their  meaning.— £Mro^o  Portugueia;  vol.  iii.  p.  iv.  c.  ix.  page  379,  &c. 


454  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

spread  through  all  ranks  of  the  people.  King  John  I.  led 
an  army  of  adventurers  into  Africa,  and  was  the  first  to  dis- 
play the  banner  of  the  five  escutcheons  on  the  walls  of  the 
powerful  city  of  Ceuta,  which  was  considered  as  the  key  of 
the  kingdom  of  Fez  ;  a  place  which  his  son  prince  Fernando, 
the  Inflexible  Prince  of  Calderon,  refused  to  yield  up,  even  to 
preserve  his  own  life  and  liberty.  In  the  succeeding  reigns 
of  his  sons,  and  of  his  grandson  Alfonso,  called  the  African, 
many  other  cities  were  captured  from  the  Moors,  on  the 
coasts  of  Fez  and  Morocco.  It  is  not  unlikely  that  the 
Portuguese  would  have  taken  the  same  advantage  of  the 
weakness  of  these  barbaric  powers,  as  their  ancestors  had 
done  of  that  of  the  Moors  of  Spain,  had  not  the  discovery  of 
the  coasts  of  Senegal  and  the  Sea  of  Guinea  at  the  same 
epoch,  divided  their  efforts,  and  withdrawn  their  attention 
from  that  object. 

But  the  astonishing  activity  displayed  by  the  Portuguese, 
at  this  period,  was  far  from  subduing  their  natural  ardour 
for  the  more  tender  and  enthusiastic  passions,  which  they 
arrayed  in  all  those  touching  and  imaginative  charms  on 
which  they  so  much  delighted  to  dwell.  Their  existence 
seemed  to  be  divided  between  war  and  love,  and  their  en- 
thusiasm for  poetry  and  glory  soon  arrived  at  its  highest 
pitch.  The  adjacent  people  of  Galicia,  whose  language  very 
nearly  resembled  the  Portuguese,  were,  above  all,  remarkable, 
even  in  that  romantic  age,  for  their  warmth  and  vivacity  of 
feeling,  and  for  the  profuseness  of  poetic  imagery  with  which 
they  embellished  the  passion  of  love.  Among  such  a  people 
romantic  poetry  seemed  to  have  taken  up  its  seat,  extending  its 
influence,  by  degrees,  over  the  poets  of  Castile  and  of  Portugal. 
From  the  time  of  the  Marquis  de  Santillana,  the  Castilians 
almost  invariably  selected  the  Galician  language  to  embody 
their  feelings  of  love,  while  the  effusions  of  the  poets  of 
Portugal  were,  at  the  same  time,  received  in  Castile  under 
the  title  of  Galician  poems.  The  master-spirit  of  this  agree- 
able school  of  warm  and  poetical  lovers,  was  3fncia.%  justly 
entitled  L'Enaniorado.  He  may  be  said  to  belong  equally 
to  the  literature  of  both  people,  and  is  thus  considered  as  the 
common  boast  of  all  the  Spains. 

Macias  was  likewise  distinguished  as  a  hero  in  the  wars 
against  the  Moors  of  Grenada.  He  attached  himself  to  the 
celebrated  Marquis  of  Villena,  the  governor  both  of  Castile 


OF   THE   PORTUGUESE.  455 

and  Aragon,  and  the  domineering  favourite  and  minister  of  his 
own  kings.  Villena  set  a  just  value  on  the  talents  and  ability 
of  Macias,  but  was  seriously  displeased  when  he  found  him 
inclined  to  mix  his  poetical  loves  and  reveries  with  the  more 
weighty  affairs  of  state.  He  even  expressly  forbade  our  poet 
to  continue  an  intrigue  into  Avhich  he  had  entered  with  a 
young  lady,  brought  up  in  Villena's  own  house,  and  already 
married  to  a  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Porcuna.  Macias, 
believing  that  it  behoved  him,  as  a  true  knight,  to  proceed 
with  the  adventure  at  all  risks,  soon  incurred  the  jealousy  of 
the  husband,  as  well  as  the  anger  of  his  master,  who  threw 
him  into  a  prison  belonging  to  the  order  of  Calatrava,  at 
Jaen,  of  which  Villena  himself  was  the  grand  master.  There 
the  lover  poured  forth  the  chief  portion  of  those  songs,  in 
which  he  seems  to  have  dismissed  all  idea  of  the  hardships  of 
captivity,  in  order  that  he  might  more  largely  indulge  in 
descriptions  of  the  severer  pangs  of  absence.  Porcuna 
having  intercepted  one  of  these  poetical  appeals  to  the  lady's 
tenderness,  in  a  fit  of  jealousy,  immediately  set  out  for  Jaen, 
where,  recognising  Macias  through  the  bars  of  his  prison,  he 
took  deadly  aim  at  him  with  his  javelin,  and  killed  him  on 
the  spot.  The  instrument  of  his  death  was  suspended  over 
his  tomb  in  the  church  of  St.  Catherine,  with  the  following 
simple  notice:  A  qui  yace  Macias  cl  Enamorado ;  which 
may  be  said  to  have  consecrated  the  appellation. 

Nearly  all  the  productions  of  this  unfortunate  poet,  once 
admired  and  imitated  throughout  Portugal  and  Spain,  are  now 
lost.  Sanchez,  however,  has  preserved  for  us  the  very  stanzas 
which  were  the  cause  of  his  untimely  end.  They  every 
where  breathe  that  deep  melancholy  of  passion  for  which  the 
poets  of  Portugal  were  so  early  distinguished,  presenting  us 
with  a  very  striking  contrast  to  their  heroic  exploits,  to  their 
obstinate  preserverance,  and,  not  unfrequently,  to  their  cruelty. 
In  the  following  stanzas  are  embodied  the  most  striking  sen- 
timents of  this  effusion,  so  intimately  connected  with  the 
untimely  fate  of  the  author  : 

Though  captive,  it  is  not  my  chains  What  should  I  say?     Now  do  I  learn 

That  strike  each  pityi.ig  heart  with  fear ;  The  wretch  who  dares  thus  madly  soar, 

All  ask  what  more  than  mortal  pains  (Long  shall  I  rue  tho  lesson  stern) 

Speak  in  each  throb,  each  bitter  tear.  Has  mounted  but  to  fall  the  lower. 

I  aim'd  at  fortune  proud  and  high  If  to  desire  her  were  to  see, 

To  reach  a  blessing  still  more  dear ;  Then  should  I  see  my  love  once  more. 

Wherefore  it  is  I  lowly  lie.  My  heart  confess'd  my  destiny, 

No  friend  to  soothe  my  latest  hour,  And  warn'd  me  still,  with  bodings  vain, 

Or  say  she  heeds  the  tears  I  pour.  Of  love  despis'd  and  cold  disdain. 

Sanchez,  t.  i.  p.  13S,  §  212  to  221. 


456  ON    XnE    LITERATURE 

We  are  assured  on  the  nutliority  of  Portuguese  antiquaries, 
that  the  poetical  followers  of  Macias  were  extremely  nu- 
merous, and  that  the  fifteenth  century  was  adorned  with 
poets  of  a  romantic  character,  who  vied  with  each  other  in 
the  degree  of  tender  enthusiasm  and  reflective  melanclioly 
which  they  breathed  into  their  effusions,  superior  to  any  of 
the  same  kind  which  the  Castilians  had  to  boast.  But  their 
works,  though  collected  in  the  form  of  Canciono'i,  under  the 
reign  of  John  II.,  are  no  longer  to  be  met  with  in  other  parts 
of  Europe.  The  indefatigable  exertions  of  Boutterwek  have 
been  in  vain  directed  to  the  different  libraries  throughout 
Germany  in  pursuit  of  them,  while  my  own  researches  into 
those  of  Italy  and  Paris  have  only  had  a  similar  result ;  inso- 
much that  this  very  brilHant  period,  which  is  said  to  have 
decorated  the  literary  annals  of  Portugal,  escapes  altogether 
from  our  observation.* 

The  real  epoch  of  Portuguese  glory  was  at  length  arrived. 
At  the  time  when  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  were  still  engaged 
in  their  wars  with  the  Moors,  Portugal  was  rapidly  extending 
her  conquests  in  Africa  and  the  Indies,  while  the  very  hero- 
ism of  chivalry  seemed  united  in  her  people  with  all  the 
persevering  activity  peculiar  to  a  commercial  state.  The 
Infant  Don  Henry  had  now  directed  the  energies  of  the 
nation  for  a  period  of  forty-three  years  (1420  to  1463)  ;  the 
western  coast  of  Africa  appeared  covered  with  Portuguese 
factories  ;  that  of  St.  George  de  la  Mine  had  already  become 
a  colony  ;  and  the  whole  kingdom  of  Benin  and  of  Congo, 
embracing  the  Christian  faith,  recognized  the  sovereignty  of 
the  crown  of  Portugal.  Vasco  de  Gama  at  length  appeared, 
and  doubling  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  already  discovered  by 
Bartolomeo  Diaz,  was  the  first  to  unfurl  a  sail  in  the  immense 
seas  which  led  him  to  the  Indian  shores.  A  rapid  succession 
of  heroes,  whose  valour  has  never  been  surpassed,  conferred 
lustre  on  this  unknown  world.  In  the  year  1507,  Alfonso 
d' Albuquerque  possessed  himself  of  the  kingdom  of  Ormuz, 

*  A  member  of  the  Academy  of  Lisbon,  Joaquim  Jose  Fereira  Gordo,  was  com- 
missioned by  the  academy  in  the  year  171)0,  to  examine  the  Portuguese  boohs 
preserved  in  the  Spanish  libraries  at  Madrid.  He  there  discovered  a  Portuguese 
Caneioneiro,  VrTitten  in  the  lifteenth  century,  and  containing  the  verses  of  one  hundred 
and  fifty-five  poets,  whose  names  he  records.  All  these  poems  are  in  the  burlesque 
style,  but  no  specimens  of  them  are  given. — Memoriasde  LelteraturaPotugueza,  iii.60. 

This  Cancioneiro,  the  first  of  its  kind,  is  of  extreme  rarity.  A  copy  is  preserved  in 
the  College  of  the  Nobles  at  Lisbon.  Anotlier  is  in  the  possession  of  Sir  Charles 
Stuart,  the  English  ambassador  at  the  Court  of  France.  No  other  copy  is  known. 
The  Cancioneiro  of  Reysendc,  which  was  published  at  a  subsequent  period,  is  more 
frequently  met  with. 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  457 

and  in  1510,  of  Goa  ;  thus  within  a  few  years,  adding  an  im- 
mense empire  to  the  crown  of  Portugal. 

About  the  same  period,  under  the  reign  of  the  great 
Emmanuel,  between  the  years  1495  and  1521,  appeared 
Bernardin  Ribeyro,  one  of  the  earliest  and  best  poets  of  Por- 
tugal, who  rose  to  very  distinguished  eminence  in  his  art. 
He  had  received  a  learned  education,  and  after  studying  the 
law,  entered  into  the  service  of  the  king,  Don  Emmanuel. 
Hei-e  he  indulged  a  passion  for  one  of  the  ladies  of  the  Court, 
which,  while  it  gave  rise  to  some  of  his  most  exquisite  effu- 
sions, was  the  cause  of  his  subsequent  unhappiness.  It  is 
supposed  that  the  object  of  his  admiration  was  the  king's  own 
daughter,  Beatrice  ;  although  the  poet,  throughout  his  works, 
seems  every  where  exti'emely  cautious  of  betraying  the  secret 
of  his  soul.  His  imagination  became  wholly  devoted  to  the 
object  of  his  love,  and  received  so  deep  and  lasting  an  impres- 
sion, that  he  is  said  to  have  passed  whole  nights  among  the 
woods,  or  beside  the  banks  of  a  solitary  stream,  pouring  forth 
the  tale  of  his  woes  in  strains  of  mingled  tenderness  and  de- 
spair. But  we  are  relieved  by  hearing,  on  the  other  hand, 
that  it  is  well  known  he  was  married,  and  was  affectionately 
attached  to  his  consort ;  and  as  we  are  not  in  possession  of 
the  respective  eras  of  his  life,  we  are  doubtful  in  what  man- 
ner these  apparent  contradictions  are  to  be  reconciled. 

Ribeyro's  most  celebrated  pieces  consist  of  eclogues  ;  and 
he  was  the  first  among  the  poets  of  Spain  who  represented 
the  pastoral  life  as  the  poetical  model  of  human  life,  and  as 
the  ideal  point  from  which  every  passion  and  sentiment 
ought  to  be  viewed.  This  idea,  which  threw  an  air  of 
romantic  sweetness  and  elegance  over  the  poetry  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  but  at  the  same  time  gave  to  it  a  monoto- 
nous tone,  and  an  air  of  tedious  affectation,  became  a  sort  of 
poetical  creed  with  the  Portuguese,  from  which  they  have 
rarely  deviated.  Their  bucolic  poets  may  justly,  then,  be  re- 
garded as  the  earliest  in  Europe.  The  scene  of  Ribeyro's 
pastorals  is  invariably  laid  in  his  own  country.  We  are  led 
along  the  banks  of  the  Tagus  and  the  Mondego,  and  wander 
amidst  the  scenery  of  the  sea-shores.  His  shepherds  are  all 
Portuguese,  and  his  peasant  girls  have  all  of  them  Christian 
names.  We  often  feel  sensible,  however,  of  a  sort  of  relation 
and  resemblance,  which  we  do  not  quite  understand,  between 
the  events  belonging  to  this  pastoral  world,  and  that  in  which 
VOL.  n.  F  P 


4o8  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

the  author  really  moved  at  court.  Under  the  disguise  of  fic- 
titious characters,  he  evidently  sought  to  place  before  the 
eyes  of  his  beloved  mistress  the  feelings  of  his  own  breast ; 
and  the  wretchedness  of  an  impassioned  lover  is  always  the 
favourite  theme  of  his  rural  muse.  His  style  is  much  like  that 
of  the  old  romances,  mixed  with  something  yet  more  touching 
and  voluptuous.  It  has,  moreover,  a  tinge  of  conceit,  which 
we  must  not  expect  to  avoid  in  perusing  Spanish  poetry,  even 
of  the  earliest  date  ;  but  it  has  all  the  merit  which  earnestness 
and  simplicity  of  feeling,  blended  with  gracefulness  of  man- 
ner, can  be  supposed  to  confer.  His  eclogues  are,  for  the 
most  part,  written  in  redondtlhas,  in  a  verse  consisting  of  four 
trochees,  and  a  stanza  of  nine  or  ten  lines.  The  eclogue  is 
always  divided  into  two  parts,  one  of  which  is  a  recital  or 
dialogue,  by  way  of  introduction,  and  the  other  a  lyric  song 
by  a  shepherd,  on  which  a  more  particular  degree  of  poetic 
care  and  polish  is  bestowed.  Such,  with  very  slight  altera- 
tions, was  the  method  pursued  by  Sanazzaro,  which  most 
probably  served  as  a  model  for  Ribeyro  ;  though  the  intro- 
ductory pieces  of  the  Italian  poet  are  given  in  each  eclogue 
in  a  sort  of  measured  prose  instead  of  verse  ;  a  form  which 
was  likewise  adopted  at  a  later  period  by  the  Portuguese. 

Of  all  species  of  poetry,  perhaps,  the  lyric  and  bucolic  are 
least  susceptible  of  being  rendered  into  another  tongue. 
They  lose  the  very  essence  of  their  beauty;  and  an  exquisite 
passage  in  the  third  eclogue  of  Ribeyro,  has  made  me  too 
fully  sensible  of  this  truth.  The  frequent  repetitions  of  the 
same  words,  and  of  the  same  ideas,  and  the  enchanting  flow 
of  this  veiy  mellifluous  language,  seem  calculated  to  exhibit 
to  the  reader  the  inmost  workings  of  the  melancholy  soul  of 
a  love-fond  poet  ;  but  it  is  to  be  feared  that  the  whole  charm 
may  have  escaped  in  the  following  version  : 

Oh,  wTetched  lover!  whither  flee?  Triste  de  mi,  que  sera? 

Wliat  refuge  from  the  ills  I  bear?  O  coitado  que  farei, 

None  to  console  me,  or  lo  free,  Que  nam  sei  onde  me  vi 

And  none  with  whom  my  griefs  to  share!  Com  quern  me  consolarief 

Sad,  to  the  wild  waves  of  the  sea  Ou  quern  me  consolara? 

I  lell  the  tale  of  my  despair  Ao  longo  das  Uibeiras, 

In  broken  accents,  passion  fraught,  Ao  som  das  suas  agoas, 

As  wandering  by  some  rocky  steep,  Chorarei  muitas  canceiras, 

I  teach  the  echoes  liow  to  weep       [taught.  Minhas  magoas  derradeiras, 

In  dying  strains,    strains    dying  love  hath  Minhas  derradeiras  magoas. 
There  is  not  one  of  all  I  loved                              Todos  fogcm  ja  de  mim, 

But  fail'd  mc  in  my  sufTering  hour,  Todos  me  desempararcm, 

And  saw  my  silent  tears  unmoved.  Meus  males  sos  me  ficarem, 

Soon  may  these  throbbing  griefs  o'erpower  I'cra  me  darem  a  fim 

Both  life  and  love,  so  Heaven  approved !  Com  que  nunca  se  acabaram. 

For  she  hatli  bade  me  hope  no  more.  De  todo  bcm  desespero, 


OF    THE   PORTUGUESE.  459 

I  would  not  wish  her  such  a  doom  :  Pois  me  desespera  quern 

No  !  though  she  break  this  bruised  heart,  Me  quer  mal  que  Uie  nam  quero , 

I  cou  d  not  wish  her  so  to  part  [tomb.  Nam  ll>e  quero  se  nam  bem 

.From   all   she  loved,  to  seek,  like  me,  the  Bem  que  nunca  delha  espero. 

How  long  these  wretched  days  appear,  O  mens  desd.tosos  dias 

Consumed  in  vain  and  weak  desires  ;  O  mens  diasde.dto.os 

T^agined  joys  that  end  in  fear,  Como  vos  his  saudo.os, 

ABu  ^-«4  hopes  and  wild  love's  fires.  Saudosos  de  alegrias, 

At  last  then,  lei  f. o,,e  to  bear  D'alegrias  desejosos; 

The  lot  my  sorrowing  spiriv  1^,0,1  Deixame  ja  descansar. 

For  length  of  days  fresh  sorrow  brings .  Poisque  eu  vos  fap o  tristes, 

I  meet  the  coming  hours  with  grief—  Xii^tes,  porque  meu  pesar 

Hours  that  can  bring  me  no  relief,  Me  den  os  umlps  que  vistes, 

But  deeper  anguish  on  their  silent  wings.  E  muitos  mais  por  passar. 

We  have  already  oberved  that  Ribeyro  entered  into  the 
marriage  state,  and  his  biographers  agree  in  giving  him  the 
character  of  an  affectionate  and  constant  husband.  In  one 
of  his  cantigas,  howevei-,  which  has  been  handed  down  to 
us,  he  contrasts  the  passion  that  he  entertained  for  his  mis- 
tress with  the  matrimonial  fidelity  due  to  his  wife,  in  a 
manner  by  no  means  flattering  to  the  latter. 

I  am  not  wed.     No,  lady,  no;  Lady,  how  much  they  are  your  own; 

Though  with  my  hand  I  seal'd  the  vow.  Oh,  freely  yours !  and  yours  alone. 

My  heart,  unmarried,  fondly  turns  to  xhey  say.  Love's  union,  to  be  blest 

you-  On  either  part,  should  meet  with  free, 

Ere  yet  I  gazed  upon  your  face,  Unfetter'd  souls ;  and  you  may  see, 

Unconscious  that  I  err'd,  I  gave  My  thoughts,  my  liberty,  my  rest. 

One  trifling  hand,  nor  cared  to  save  Are  all  shrin'd  in  one  gentle  breast; 

Its  freedom,  keeping  in  its  place  Glad  that  though  one  poor  hand  I  lost, 

Both  eyes  and  heart,  where  you  may  You  still  my  heart  and  soul  and  love  may 

trace,  boast. 

We  think,  however,  that  we  can  discover  a  strain  of  spor- 
tiveness  running  through  this  little  piece,  which  might  serve 
to  tranquillize  the  feelings  of  his  consort.  It  was  with  a  very 
different  expression  of  feeling  that  Ribeyro  had  sung  his 
early  loves,  in  the  depth  and  seriousness  of  his  soul. 

There  remains,  likewise,  a  singular  work  of  the  same  hand 
in  prose,  consisting  of  a  romance,  entitled,  Menina  e  Moga  : 
The  Innocent  Young  Girl;  and  it  is  equally  remarkable  as 
being  the  earliest  Portuguese  production  written  in  prose, 
aiming  at  an  elevation  of  language  and  the  expression  of  the 
more  impassioned  sentiments  of  the  heart.  It  is  a  mere  frag- 
ment, and  the  author  has  added  to  its  obscurity  by  a  studied 
concealment  of  his  own  adventures.  Lost  in  a  labyrinth  of 
passions,  we  are  frequently  at  a  loss  to  follow  him  through  the 
various  intrigues  and  surprises  intermingled  with  each  other. 
It  maybe  considered  in  the  light  of  a  mixed  pastoral  and  chi- 
valric  story,  which  served  as  a  model  for  the  other  poets  of 
Portugal,  and,  in  particular,  for  Montemayor.  Here,  there- 
fore, we  find  the  source  of  the  Diana,  and  of  the  prolific 

FF  2 


^^^  ON   THE   LITERATURE 

race  of  Spanish  romances,  as  well  as  of  the  Astrea,  and  its 
no  less  numerous  offspring,  in  the  literary  annals  of  France. 

Next  follows  Christoval  Fal9am,  a  Knight  of  the  Cross, 
an  Admiral,  and  Governor  of  Madeira,  lie  was  contem- 
porary Avith  Ribeyro,  and,  like  him,  composed  ec^'^e^^-'^ 
equally  full  of  romantic  mysticism  and  tl'"  <i'cams  and  sor- 
rows of  love.  The  genius  of  P^i  LUguese  poetry  is  certainly 
of  a  more  mournful  cast  than  any  thing  we  find  in  that  of 
Castile.  There  is  in  it  a  melancholy  flowing  from  the  heart, 
and  breathing  the  accents  of  truth,  with  little  apparent  study 
or  research,  which  the  Castilians  have  rarely  evinced. 
Versed  in  public  affairs,  and  a  military  man,  Fal9am  was 
acquainted  with  the  passions,  not  only  as  they  exist  in  poetry, 
but  in  the  world.  There  are  still  remaining  some  lines 
written  by  him  in  prison,  where  he  was  actually  confined  for 
five  years,  for.  having  married  against  the  wishes  of  his 
parents.  An  eclogue,  likewise,  of  more  than  nine  hundred 
lines  may  be  found  at  the  end  of  his  romance  of  Menina  e 
Moga;  a  work  which  contains  nearly  the  whole  of  the 
Portuguese  poetry  that  appeared  before  the  reign  of  John  III. 

In  the  same  work  we  also  meet  with  several  gloses,  or 
voltas,  upon  a  variety  of  devices  and  canzonets,  which  are 
often  very  laboriously  studied,  while  they  occasionally  dis- 
cover something  of  antique  simplicity  and  grace.* 

The  brilliant  reign  of  the  great  Emmanuel  was  succeeded 
by  that  of  John  III.,  which  continued  from  the  year  1521  to 
1557  ;  but  this  prince  failed  in  securing  for  his  subjects  the 
same  prosperity  which  they  had  enjoyed  under  his  father. 
He  involved  himself  in  imprudent  wars  in  Asia,  and  invaded 
the  civil  and  religious  rights  of  his  European  subjects.     In 

*  The  following  is,  perhaps,  one  of  the  most  simple  and  pleasing  of  these  pieces : 

Nam  posso  dormir  as  noites,  Todo  o  bem  he  ja  passado 

Amor,  nam  as  posso  dormir.  E  passado  em  mal  presente: 

Desque  mens  olhos  olharom  9.  sentido  desvelado 

Em  vos  seu  mal  e  seu  bem,  ^  coraca6  descontente ; 

Se  algum  tempo  repousarom,  ^  juizo  qiie  esto  sente 

Ja  nenhura  repouso  tem.  ^°™°  ^'^  ^^'■'^  ^f  "'""l     ' 

Dias  vam  e  noutes  vem  1^°"'=''  '"^=»''='  dormir. 
Sem  vos  ver  nam  vos  ouvir ;  Como  nam  vi  o  que  vejo 

Como  as  poderei  dormir?  Cos  clhos  do  corafam, 

Meu  pensamento  ocupado  Nam  me  deito  sem  dessejo 

Na  causa  de  seu  pesar,  ^em  me  erguo  sem  paixam. 

Acorda  sempre  o  cuidado  9'  "^"^  '^"'  ''°'  "'"'  "?"'' 

Para  nnnca  descuidar.  As  noites  sem  vos  ouvir. 

As  noites  do  repousar  '^^  ^  °a™  P°sso  dormir. 
Dias  sam  oo  meu  sentir, 
Noutes  de  meu  nam  dormir. 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  461 

1540,  he  introduced  into  his  states  the  Spanish  Inquisition, 
in  order  to  enshive  the  minds  and  dictate  to  the  consciences 
of  his  people.  He  bestowed  all  the  power  at  his  court  upon 
the  Jesuits  ;  and  he  confided  to  their  care  the  education  of  his 
gi-andson,  Don  Sebastian,  whose  fanaticism  subsequently  led 
to  the  destruction  of  the  country.*  But,  whilst  his  weakness 
and  folly  were  thus,  during  a  long  reign,  preparing  the  down- 
fal  of  the  monarchy,  his  taste  for  letters,  and  the  patronage 
he  afforded  to  them,  raised  the  literature  of  Portugal  to  a 
high  degree  of  excellence. 

Among  the  first  of  the  classic  poets  who  distinguished 
themselves  at  his  court,  was  Saa  de  Miranda,  already  known 
to  us  in  the  character  of  a  Castilian  writer.  We  have  seen 
that  his  eclogues  in  that  tongue,  are  among  the  first  in  point 
of  time,  and  are  the  most  respectable  in  point  of  merit.  All 
the  Portuguese  poets  equally  cultivated  the  two  languages. 
Regarding  their  own  as  best  adapted  to  soft  and  impassioned 
sentiment,  they  had  recourse  to  the  Castilian  when  they 
wished  to  embody  more  elevated  and  heroic  thoughts  ;  and 
sometimes,  when  they  treated  amusing  and  burlesque  themes, 
as  if  the  mere  employment  of  a  foreign  dialect  gave  a 
ludicrous  air  to  the  ideas.  Several  of  the  finest  poems  of 
Saa  de  Miranda,  nearly  the  whole  of  those  of  Montemayor, 
and  a  few  pieces  of  verse  at  least  from  the  pens  of  all  the 
other  Portuguese  poets,  are  in  the  language  of  Castile,  while 
there  is  scarcely  an  instance  of  any  Spanish  poet  expressing 
his  poetical  feelings  in  the  Portuguese  tongue. 

The  birth  of  Saa  de  Miranda  took  place  at  Coimbra,  about 
the  year  1495.  Of  noble  parentage,  he  was  early  intended 
for  the  legal  profession,  and  he  became  professor  of  law  in 
the  university  of  his  native  place.  These  pursuits,  however, 
were  too  little  in  unison  with  his  tastes  and  talents,  to  be 
continued  beyond  the  life-time  of  his  father,  out  of  a  regard 
for  whose  feelings  he  had  hitherto  been  led  to  persevere. 
When  he  was  no  more,  his  son  renounced  the  professor's 
chair,  and,  visiting  Spain  and  Italy,  soon  formed  an  intimate 
acquaintance  with  the  language  and  poetry  of  those  countries. 
On  his  return,  he  obtained  a  situation  at  the  court  of  Lisbon, 
where  he  was  generally  regarded  as  one  of  the  most  pleasing 

*  A  long  letter  from  this  king  to  Joao  de  Castro,  on  the  method  of  introducing 
Christianity  into  the  Indies,  is  cited  by  L.  F.  de  Andrada,  in  the  life  of  the  governor 
of  the  Indies,  as  a  monument  of  the  king's  piety:  booki.  pp.  74 — 86.  It  displays  only 
the  excess  of  his  intolerance,  his  despotism,  and  the  narrowness  of  his  mind. 


462  ON   THE    LITKRATTJRE 

characters,  although  not  unfrequently  suffering  under  the 
dominion  of  a  deep  and  settled  melancholy.  So  liable,  indeed, 
was  he  to  its  sudden  inlluence,  that  often,  while  engaged  in 
the  animated  scenes  of  life,  surrounding  objects  seemed  at 
once  as  it  were  to  disappear  from  his  view  ;  his  voice  faltered  ; 
the  tears  started  into  his  eyes  ;  and  it  was  only  when  he  was 
forcibly  roused  from  this  state  of  wretchedness,  that  he  was 
conscious  of  having  given  way  to  his  emotions.  Philosophi- 
cal studies  were  blended  with  his  love  of  poetry,  and  he  ap- 
pears to  have  conceived  as  ardent  an  affection  for  Grecian  as 
for  Roman  literature.  To  music  he  is  said  to  have  been 
passionately  devoted,  and  to  have  been  a  fine  performer  on 
the  violin.  In  consequence  of  a  quarrel  fiistened  upon  hira 
by  one  of  the  favoui-ite  courtiers,  he  was  constrained  to 
retire  to  his  country  seat  of  Tapada,  near  Ponte  de  Lima, 
between  the  Douro  and  Minho.  There  he  devoted  the  re- 
mainder of  his  days  to  the  pleasures  of  a  country  life,  and  to 
the  studies  which  he  so  much  loved.  He  was  extremely 
happy  in  his  matrimonial  choice,  to  the  object  of  which, 
though  neither  very  young  nor  very  beautiful,  he  is  said  to 
have  been  tenderly  attached.  He  lived  admired  and  beloved 
by  all  his  contemporaries,  and  died,  much  regretted,  in  the 
year  1558. 

About  the  period  when  Saa  de  Miranda  attained  his 
highest  celebrity,  Italian  taste  rose  into  such  high  repute  with 
the  Castilians,  as  nearly  to  produce  a  revolution  in  the 
national  literature.  But  its  introduction  into  Portugal  some 
time  before,  had  been  attended  with  less  sensible  effects  ;  and 
her  favourite  poet,  following  the  dictates  of  his  feelings,  and 
writing  from  the  heart  to  the  heart,  never  deigned  to  become 
an  imitator.  Even  in  Miranda's  sonnets,  a  species  of  compo- 
sition on  which  other  poets  have  rarely  conferred  a  distinctive 
character,  we  discover  no  traces  of  a  servile  pen.  The  fol- 
lowing sonnet  presents  a  favourable  specimen  of  the  style 
of  this  poet. 

SONNET. 

I  know  not,  lady,  by  what  nameless  charm 

Those  looks,  tliat  voice,  that  smile,  have  each  the  power 
Of  kindling  lol'tier  thoughts,  and  feelings  more 

llesolved  and  high.     Even  in  your  silence,  warm 

Soft  accents  seem  my  sorrows  to  disarm  ; 
And  when  with  tears  your  absence  I  deplore, 
Where'er  I  turn,  your  influence,  as  before, 

Pursues  me,  in  your  voice,  your  eye,  your  form. 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  463 

Whence  are  those  mild  and  mournful  sounds  I  hear, 
Through  every  land,  and  on  the  pathless  sea  ? 
Is  it  some  spirit  of  air  or  fire,  from  thee, 

Subject  to  laws  I  move  by  and  revere  ; 

Which,  lighted  by  thy  glance,  can  ne'er  decay — 

But  what  I  know  not,  why  attempt  to  say  P 

If  we  are  pleased  with  the  depth  and  delicacy  of  feeling 
displayed  in  this  sonnet,  we  shall  perhaps  be  no  less  gratified 
with  the  striking  picture  of  a  sunset  in  the  following,  where 
Nature  appears  in  her  truest  and  happiest  colours,  and  the 
reflections  rising  out  of  the  scene  harmonize  beautifully  with 
its  external  character.  Whatever  degree  of  praise  may  have 
been  bestowed  by  modern  critics  upon  a  boldness  of  imagina- 
tion, which,  in  other  times,  would  have  been  censured  as  ex- 
travagance, fine  description  and  reflection  have  their  own 
peculiar  merits;  and  these,  under  the  inspiration  of  a  true 
poet,  are  always  sure  to  command  the  emotions  of  his  readers, 
and  to  attract  them  by  the  force  of  truth. 

SONNET. 

As  now  the  sun  glows  broader  in  the  West, 
Birds  cease  to  sing,  and  cooler  breezes  blow, 
And  from  yon  rocky  heights  hoarse  waters  flow. 

Whose  music  wild  chases  the  thoughts  of  rest ; 

With  mournful  fancies  and  deep  cares  oppress' d, 
I  gaze  upon  this  fleeting  worldly  show. 
Whose  vain  and  empty  pomps  like  shadows  go, 

Or  swift  as  light  sails  o'er  the  ocean's  breast. 

Day  after  day,  hope  after  hope,  expires  ! 

Here  once  I  wander'd,  'mid  these  shades  and  flowers. 
Along  these  winding  banks  and  green-wood  bowers, 

Fill'd  with  the  wild-bird's  song,  that  never  tires. 

Now  all  seems  mute — all  fled  !     But  these  shall  live, 

And  bloom  again  :  alone  unchanged,  I  grieve. 

But  it  was  in  the  pastoral  world  that  Saa  de  Miranda 
seemed  to  breathe  and  live  ;  a  world  of  his  own.  His 
thoughts  and  his  affections  continually  recui-red  to  it  ;  and  his 
other  productions  every  where  bear  the  stamp  of  his  idyls 
and  his  romance.     His  most  delightful  eclogues,  it  is  true,  as 

*  Nam  sei  que  em  vos mas  vejo,  nao  sey  que  Em  verdade  nao  sey  que  lie  isto  que  anda 

Mais  oufoet  sintoao  virvosso,  etfallar;  Entre  nos,  ou  se  he  ar,  como  pareee, 

Nao  sey  que  entendo  mais,  te  no  callar,  Ou  logo  d'outra  sorte,  et  d'outra  ley, 
Nem,quando  vos  nam  vejo,  alma  que  vee. 

Que  Ihe  aparece  em  qual  parte  que  este,  Em   que   ando,   de   que   vivo,   et  nuuca 

Olhe  0  Ceo,  olhe  a  terra,  ou  oihe  omar,  abranda 

Etriste  aquelle  vosso  susurrar,  Por  ventura  que  a  vista  resplandece. 

Em  que  tan  to  mais  vai,  que  direy  quee?  Ora  o  que  eu  sey  tao  mal  como  direy  ? 


464  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

wc.  have  before  seen,  were  written  in  Spanish,  leaving  only 
two  in  his  native  language  ;  and  these  are  not  unfrequently 
obscured  by  a  mixture  of  popular  phrases  and  allusions  to  the 
customs  of  the  country.* 

Miranda  was  the  first  who  introduced  poetical  epistles  to 
the  notice  of  the  Portuguese.  In  these  he  united  a  sort  of 
pastoral  language,  more  peculiarly  his  own,  to  an  imitation  of 
his  favourite  author,  Horace  ;  together  forming  an  union  of 
romantic  and  didactic  verse,  whose  attractions  consist  in 
the  truth  and  feeling  it  displays,  but  which  is,  on  the  other 
hand,  somewhat  verbose  and  superficial.  Unfortunately, 
Miranda  was  too  much  subjected  to  monastic  authority  to 
develope  his  thoughts  clearly  and  boldly  to  the  world.  He 
did  not  venture  to  prefix  the  Latin  title  of  EpistolcB  to  this 
portion  of  his  productions,  lest  it  might  seem  to  imply  a 
classical  imitation,  to  which  he  by  no  means  aspired  ;  merely 
denominating  them  Cartas,  or  Letters,  in  allusion  to  their 
modern  style.  In  these  we  easily  recognize  the  courtier  and 
the  man  of  the  world,  no  less  than  the  poet  and  lover  of  rural 
scenes.  The  following  stanza  of  the  first  Epistle,  addressed  to 
the  king,  would  furnish  a  very  good  maxim  : 

The  man  of  single  soul,  in  all  Homem  de  hum  so  parecer, 

Consistent,  one  in  faith,  in  face,  D'hum  so  rostro,  hud  so  ti'. 

Who  cannot  stoop,  tliough  he  may  fall,  D'antes  quebrar  que  torcer, 

Will  fearless  go  wherever  Fate  may  call,  EUe  tudo  pode  ser, 

Except  to  court,  to  pension,  and  to  place.  Mas  de  corte  homem  nao  he. 

In  the  fifth  Epistle  we  likewise  meet  with  a  singular  passage, 
respecting  the  progress  of  a  luxurious  and  dissipated  taste  in 

*  These  consist  of  the  fourth  addressed  to  Don  Manuel  of  Portugal,  and  the  eighth 
to  Nun  Alvarez  Pereira.  In  the  latter,  Miranda  has  turned  into  verse  the  satiric 
fable  of  Pierre  Cardinal  on  the  rain  which  produced  madness.  The  original  Pro- 
venpal  is  cited  in  the  fifth  chapter;  vol.  i.  p.  197.  We  now  rarely  meet  with  tlie  old 
fictions  of  the  Troubadours  in  modern  verse,  which  renders  this  the  more  remarkable. 
Its  application,  however,  is  different. 

BiEiTo,  Str.  31.  Assi  entam  Ihe  pareceo. 

Come  de  toda  a  vianda,  ^"^'  vista  as  sanceadas 

Nam  andes  nesses  antejos  ^^J"^^'  1"«  ""''^  '"^'^  P"'o. 

Nam  sejas  tam  vindo  a  banda,  \'°  """"•  ^«  ^ovoadas 

Temte  a  volta  cos  desejos.  Alongou  mais  as  passadas, 

Anda  por  onde  o  carro  anda ;  ^"y^e  acolhendo  ao  cuberto. 
Vez  conio  OS  mundos  sau  feitos;  33 

Somos  muitos,  tu  so  cs :  Ac  outro  dia,  hum  Ihe  dava 

Poucos  sao  OS  satisfeitos,  Paparotes  no  nariz, 

Hum  esquerdo  entre  os  direitos  Vinha  outro  que  o  escornava, 

Parece  que  anda  ao  revez.  Ei  tambem  era  o  juiz 


32 


Que  de  riso  se  finava. 

Bradava  elle,  honiens  olhay  1 
Dia  de  Mayo  choreo;  Hiam  Ihe  co  dedo  ao  olho ; 

A  quantos  agoa  alcanfou  Disse  entam,  pois  assi  vay 

A  tantos  endoudeceo ;  Nam  creo  logo  em  meu  pay, 

Ouve  hum  so  que  se  salvou,  Se  me  desta  agoa  nam  molho. 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  465 

Portugal,  imbibed  during  its  commerce  with  the  East.     It 
will  be  found  to  run  as  i'oUows  : 

So  rude  were  our  forefathers  in  the  lore  Dizem  dos  nossos  passados, 

Of  letters,  that  they  scarce  knew  how  to  read ;  Que  os  mais  nao  sabiam  ler,   ^ 

Though  valiant  all  and  virtuous  :  not  the  more  Eram  bons,  eram  ousados  ; 

I  praise  their  ignorance;  but  I  would  plead  Eu  nam  gabo  o  nam  saber, 

For  the  grave  manners  by  our  sires  of  yore  Conio  algus  as  gramas  dados. 

Obser>ed,  which  now  their  sons  no  longer  heed.  Gabo  muito  os  seus  costumes: 

Whence  springs  the  change?  From  letters .'  No;  from  Doeme  se  oje  nam  sam  tais. 

gay  Mas  das  letras,  ou  perfumes, 

And  frivolous  customs  of  the  modern  day.  De  quais  veo  o  dano  mais  ? 

Destes  mimos  Indianos 

I  fear  for  thee,  my  country ;  and  I  sigh  Ey  gram  medo  a  Portugal, 

To  see  thee  ape  the  slavish  climes  of  Ind ;  Que  venhao  a  fazerlhe  os  danos 

To  see  thee  lose  in  feeble  sloth  the  high  Que  Capua  fez  a  Anibal 

Proud  name  thou  ownest;  like  that  conqueror  blind  Vencedor  de  tantos  annos. 

And  madly  weak,  who  triumph'd  but  to  die ;  A  terapestade  espantosa 

He  whom  Rome's  proudest  generals  could  not  bind,  De  Trebia,  de  Trasimeno, 

Nor  Trebia,  Thrasimene,  nor  Cannae  tame,  De  Canas,  Capua  vifosa 

To  Capua's  vices  yielded  up  his  fame.  Venceo  em  tempo  pequeno. 

The  prediction  of  Miranda  was  but  too  soon  fulfilled. 
After  the  conquest  of  the  Indies,  luxury  and  corruption 
spread  their  baneful  influence  over  Portugal.  The  accumu- 
lation of  riches,  frequently  obtained  by  the  infliction  of  the 
most  atrocious  cruelties,  was  moi-e  regarded  than  the  preser- 
vation of  integrity  and  honour  ;  while  the  excesses  to  which 
indolence  and  profusion  gave  rise,  were  considered  as  the 
just  heritage  of  nobility,  and  the  reward  of  heroic  toils. 

Miranda  was,  likewise,  the  author  of  hymns  addressed  to 
the  Virgin,  of  many  popular  songs  and  ballads,  and  of  an 
elegy  of  a  very  mournful  and  devotional  character,  in  which 
he  deplores  the  death  of  his  son,  killed  in  Africa,  probably  in 
the  great  battle  of  the  18th  April,  1553  ;  and  not,  as  it  has 
been  supposed,  in  that  of  Alcazar,  which  did  not  take  place 
until  twenty  years  after  the  death  of  Saa  de  Miranda  himself. 
But  the  confidence  which  it  breathes,  that  his  boy,  falling  in 
combat  against  infidels,  had  achieved  for  himself  glory  in 
heaven,  although  it  served  to  allay  his  paternal  griefs,  was 
but  little  calculated  to  heighten  the  poetic  embellishment  of 
the  subject. 

In  imitation  of  the  classic  Italian  writers  whom  he  admired, 
Miranda  was  desirous  of  conferring  a  classical  theatre  upon 
his  own  country,  similar  to  that  of  the  Romans,  or  to  that 
which  was  patronized  by  Leo  X.  in  Italy.  He  successively 
emulated  the  dramas  of  Ariosto  and  of  Machiavel,  of  Plautus 
and  of  Terence  ;  and  he  produced,  among  others,  two  come- 
dies which  maybe  referred  to  the  class  of  erudite  comedies  in 
the  literature  of  Italy,  quite  opposite  in  character  to  a  species 


466  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

of  comedies  of  art,  at  that  time  played  on  the  boards  of 
Portugal.  One  of  these  dramas  by  Miranda  is  entitled,  Os 
Estrun<iciros :  The  Strangers;  the  other,  Os  VUlalpandios, 
the  name  of  two  Spanish  soldiers  introduced  upon  the  scene. 
The  action  is  placed  in  Italy,  but  the  poet  would  have  suc- 
ceeded better  in  imitating  the  manners  of  his  native  country, 
with  Avhich  he  was  conversant,  than  in  representing  those  of 
a  different  people.  These  comedies  are  not  to  be  found  in 
the  edition  of  Miranda's  works,  now  in  my  possession  ;  and 
I  am  indebted  to  Boutterwek  ibr  the  knowledge  of  two 
extracts  from  them,  one  of  which  is  an  evident  imitation  of 
the  Adelpld  of  Terence.  The  dialogue,  written  in  prose, 
is  very  spirited.  In  his  representations  of  common  life, 
Miranda  sought  to  give  dignity  to  his  subject,  as  he  had 
before  refined  and  elevated  the  language  of  the  shepherds  in 
his  ecloirues. 

Contemporary  with  Miranda,  and  approaching  nearest  to 
him  in  the  taste  and  genius  of  his  compositions,  was  Monte- 
mayor.  Though  a  Portuguese  by  birth,  he  seems  to  have 
refused  to  hold  a  station  in  the  literary  history  of  his  country. 
The  only  specimens  of  his  Portuguese  poetry  which  remain, 
are  two  little  songs  to  be  found  in  the  seventh  book  of  his 
Diana,  and  almost  too  trifling  to  deserve  our  notice.  The 
succeeding  age,  however,  produced  a  poet,  who  dedicated  his 
talents  to  his  country  ;  who  laboured  to  reconcile  the  genius 
of  his  native  language  with  classical  poetry  ;  and  who  merited 
from  his  countrymen  the  title  of  the  Horace  of  Portugal. 

Antonio  Ferreira  was  born  at  Lisbon  in  the  year  1528, 
and  being  destined  by  his  friends,  who  were  connected  with 
the  higliest  authorities  of  the  robe,  to  move  in  public  life,  was 
sent  with  this  view  to  acquire  a  knowledge  of  the  law  at 
Coimbra.  About  this  period,  it  was  usual  for  the  students 
and  other  literary  characters  of  the  university,  to  exhibit  their 
poetic  skill  in  tlie  production  of  Latin  verses.  But  Ferreira, 
inspired  by  those  patriotic  sentiments  which  he  already  began 
to  entertain,  adopted  and  strictly  adhered  to  the  plan  of 
writing  only  in  his  native  tongue.  He  did  not  hesitate,  how- 
ever, to  avail  himself  of  the  qualities  he  so  much  admired  in 
the  poets  of  Italy,  and  in  particular  in  his  favourite  model, 
Horace.  He  bestowed  the  pains  of  classical  correction,  both 
on  his  ideas  and  on  his  language  ;  and  confining  himself 
almost  exclusively  to  the  Italian  metres,  he  never  devoted 


OP    THE    POKTUGUESE.  467 

his  time  to  the  composition  of  redondilhas,  or  of  any  other 
species  of  verse  in  tlie  old  national  manner.  The  greater 
part  of  the  sonnets  that  appear  in  his  works,  were  written 
before  he  left  the  university.  After  having  filled  a  professor's 
chair  at  Coimbra,  he  visited  the  court,  where  he  occupied  a 
distinguished  situation.  Here  he  was  soon  regarded  as  the 
oracle  of  the  critics,  and  as  a  model  of  good  taste  to  all  young 
poets.  A  brilliant  career  appeared  to  be  opening  to  his 
view,  when  he  was  suddenly  carried  off  by  the  plague  which 
raged  in  the  year  1569. 

■  In  the  opinion  of  Ferreira,  the  nicest  degree  of  correction, 
both  of  tliought  and  language,  was  requisite  to  the  poetical 
beauty  of  every  finished  performance.  It  was  one  of  his  ob- 
jects to  banish  eveiy  species  of  orientalism  from  the  literature 
of  his  country;  and  he  sought  to  avoid  in  his  writings  the 
appearance  of  singularity  as  much  as  of  mere  common-place. 
He  aimed  rather  at  noble  than  at  novel  ideas  ;  and  the  quali- 
ties which  most  distinguished  him  were  those  of  correctness, 
picturesque  power,  and  variety  of  expression,  together  with 
v/hat  may  be  termed  the  poetry  of  language.  By  an  union  of 
these,  lie  attempted  to  prove  that  the  popular  simplicity  and 
sweetness  of  the  Portuguese  language  were  not  inconsistent 
with  the  dignity  of  didactic  verse,  or  with  the  flow  of  rhythm 
necessary  to  the  highest  poetical  style.  But  in  his  endeavours 
to  improve  the  national  literature,  he  departed  too  far  from 
the  national  taste  ;  which  may,  perhaps,  have  occasioned  his 
productions  to  be  better  relished  by  strangers  than  by  his  own 
countrymen.  They  are,  at  the  same  time,  the  easiest  to  be 
understood  of  any  in  the  language  ;  while  they  approach  the 
nearest,  among  the  Portuguese,  to  those  of  the  Roman 
tongue.  If  we  ai'e  unable  to  detect  many  defects  in  the  poe- 
try of  Ferreira,  we  are,  on  tlie  other  hand,  at  a  loss  to 
discover  any  of  those  higher  efforts  of  genius,  which  strike 
the  imagination  or  fire  the  soul.  When  a  poet  fails  in  bring- 
ing tlie  vivid  creations  of  genius  before  our  eyes  ;  when  he  no 
longer  stirs  the  heart  with  the  tenderness  or  the  violence  of 
the  passions ;  and  more  than  all,  when  the  leaden  hand  of 
fanaticism  weighs  down  the  vigour  of  his  thoughts  ;  however 
he  may  attempt  to  interest  us  by  a  display  of  feeling  and  re- 
flection, and  however  much  we  may  applaud  the  force,  ease, 
and  elegance,  of  his  descriptions,  we  are  never  borne  away 
by  the  strength  of  his  illusions,  and  never  seem  to  lose  our- 


468  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

selves  with  him  for  a  moment.  The  power  wliich  such  a  poet 
exercises  over  us,  is  still  further  lost  in  a  translation.  The 
sonnets  of  Ferreira  remind  us  of  Petrarcli,  and  his  odes,  of 
Horace  ;  but  in  neitlier  of  these  departments  does  the  imita- 
tor rival  the  excellence  of  his  models.  Of  his  elegies,  the 
greater  part  are  fdled  with  expressions  of  regret,  which  do  not 
appear  to  have  proceeded  from  the  heart  of  the  writer,  being 
chiefly  written  on  tlie  death  of  some  illustrious  personage, 
whom  the  poet  was  bound  to  celebrate.  Others  are  rather  of 
a  luxurious  than  a  pathetic  cast  of  sentiment.  Such  is  one  of 
the  happiest  of  these  pieces,  written  on  the  return  of  the 
month  of  May,  and  giving  a  very  pleasing  description,  in 
terza  rima,  of  the  glowing  freshness  of  Spring,  and  the  re- 
viving reign  of  tlie  Mother  of  the  Loves.  The  eclogues  of 
Ferreira  possess  little  merit  beyond  what  ease  and  sweetness 
of  diction  may  be  supposed  to  confer.  In  truth,  his  genius 
was  not  of  a  pastoral  turn.  His  Epistles,  forming  by  iar  the 
most  voluminous  portion  of  his  works,  are,  likewise,  in  the 
opinion  of  Boutterwek,  the  most  excellent.*  Tiiey  were 
written  at  a  time  when  the  author,  who  resided  at  the  court, 
had  arrived  at  the  maturity  of  his  powers,  adding  to  his 
acquisitions  in  ancient  literature  and  philosophy,  an  intimate 
acquaintance  with  the  existing  world. 

I  shall  not,  however,  have  recourse  to  the  authority  of 
Boutterwek  in  estimating  the  dramatic  works  of  Ferreira, 
although  so  greatly  indebted,  on  many  occasions,  to  his 
researches  into  Portuguese  literature.  To  me  they  appear  to 
be  of  a  far  higher  order  than  his  lyric  poems  ;  but  their  au- 
thor must,  alter  all,  be  referred  to  the  school  of  modern 
imitators  of  the  ancients  ;  a  school  wliich  all  the  German 
critics  have  so  loudly  denounced.  Ferreira  produced  a  tra- 
gedy on  the  national  subject  of  Inez  de  Castro,  a  story  which 
so  many  Portuguese  poets  have  since  celebrated.  He  had 
then  no  other  model  than  the  ancients  ;  the  Spanish  theatre 

*  As  some  examiilc  of  the  miscellaneous  pieces  of  Ferreira,  we  adduce  a  sonnet 
which  appears  to  have  been  addressed  to  his  mistress,  Marilia : 
Quando  entoar  comef  o,  com  voz  branda,      Tudo  se  ri,  se  alegra  e  reverdece. 

Vosso  nome  d'amor  doce  c  soave,    [ave,        Todo  mundo  parece  que  renova, 

A  terra,  o  mar,  vtnto,  agoa,  flor,  folha,        Nem  ha  triste  planeta  ou  dura  sorte. 

Aobrando  som  s'alegra,  movecabraiida.     ^  minh'  alma  s6  chora,  e  se  entristece. 
Nem  nuvem  cobre  o  ceo,  nem  na  gente        Maravilha  d'amor  cruel  e  nova ! 

anda  O  que  a  todos  traz  vida,  a  mim  traz 

Trabalhoso  cuidado,  ou  peso  grave.  morte. 

Nova  cor  toma  o  sol,  ou  se  erga,  ou  lave 

No  claro  Tejo,  e  nova  luz  nos  manda 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE. 


469 


had  as  yet  no  existenf"^,  ""J  tl^at  of  Italy  had  only  just  risen 
into  not^o".  I'he  death  of  Trissino  occurred  only  nine  years 
oetbre  that  of  Ferreira  ;  so  that  his  Sophonisba  could  not 
very  long  have  preceded  the  Inez  de  Castro  of  the  Portuguese 
poet.  Besides,  the  few  tragedies  which  had  till  then 
appeared  in  Italy,  exhibited  only  on  occasions  of  great  public 
solemnity,  formed  very  imperfect  models  for  an  author  just 
entering  upon  his  career.  Ferreira  thus  wrote  his  tragedy 
without  any  dramatic  instruction,  and  without  pretending  to 
divine  the  popular  taste  of  an  audience  not  yet  in  being.  But 
by  carefully  adhering  to  the  great  dramatic  models  of  Greece 
he  succeeded,  as  it  appears  to  me,  in  raising  himself  far  above 
any  of  the  contemporary  writers  of  Italy. 

The  story  of  Inez  de  Castro  is  very  generally  known.  She 
was  the  object  of  his  son  Don  Pedro's  passion,  and  was 
assassinated  by  order  of  King  Alfonso  IV.  to  prevent  an  un- 
equal union.  Ferreira,  desirous  of  blending  dignity  with 
clemency  in  the  character  of  Alfonso,  attempts  to  palliate  the 
cruelty  of  the  act  on  the  plea  of  religious  and  political  expe- 
diency, artfully  impressing  upon  the  minds  of  the  audience 
the  same  feeling  of  popular  resentment  which  is  supposed  to 
have  actuated  all  parties  against  the  unfortunate  Inez,  She 
had  long  been  the  idol  of  the  young  prince,  while  his  late 
consort  was  still  in  being.  She  had  even  been  induced  to 
stand  at  the  baptismal  font  with  the  infant  of  that  wife  in  her 
arms,  and  her  subsequent  union  with  the  father  was  con- 
sidered as  little  less  than  incestuous.  The  court  and  the 
people  equally  disliked  the  idea  of  giving  a  stepmother  to  the 
legitimate  heir  of  the  throne.  The  chorus  in  the  play,  and 
even  the  friend  of  the  prince  himself,  everywhere  proclaim 
this  universal  feeling  ;  and  from  the  opening  to  the  close,  we 
behold  two  unfortunate  beings  struggling  with  the  madness 
of  passion  against  the  overwhelming  tide  of  national  displea- 
sure. Thus  Alfonso,  driven  on  by  his  ministers,  and  anxious 
to  ensure  the  public  safety  by  the  death  of  Inez,  is  by  no 
means  calculated  to  inspire  us  either  with  horror  or  disgust ; 
his  weakness  is  mingled  with  a  certain  degree  of  dignity  and 
kindness  ;  and  when,  yielding  to  the  advice  of  his  council,  he 
deplores  the  wretchedness  of  a  royal  lot,  we  are  strongly  re- 
minded by  Ferreira  of  the  lofty  language  of  Alfieri : 

He  only  is  a  king,  who,  like  a  king 

Free  from  base  fears,  and  empty  hopes  and  wishes. 


470  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

(Howbeit  his  name  be  iicror  i.ruited  forth) 
Passes  his  days.     0  blissful  days,  ho\v  gi^aiy 
Whole  years  of  weary  life,  thus  Avorn  with  toils, 
Would  I  exchange  for  you  !     I  fear  mankind  : 
Some  men  there  are  with  whom  I  must  dissemble  ; 
Others,  whom  I  would  strike,  I  dare  not  reach  at. 
What  !  be  a  king  ami  dare  not ']    Ay  !  the  monarch 
Is  awed  by  his  own  people  ;  doom'd  to  suffer, 
And  smile  and  simulate.     So,  I  feel  I  am 
No  king,  but  a  poor  captive. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  third  act,  Inez  relates  to  her  nurse 
a  terrific  dream,  which  gives  her  a  presentiment  of  some 
approaching  evil.  This  is  described  in  very  elevated  lan- 
guage, full  of  poetic  beauty  and  conceived  in  the  most 
touching  strain  of  sorrow.  It  breathes  a  glow  of  maternal 
tenderness,  which  the  more  lofty  style  of  tragedy  might  not 
deem  quite  admissible,  but  which  goes  to  the  very  heai't  of 
the  reader.  Of  such  a  kind,  are  the  following  lines  of  this 
beautiful  scene  : 

Inez.  Oh  bright  and  glorious  sun  !  how  pleasant  art  thou 
To  eyes  that  close  in  fear,  lest  never  more 
They  meet  thy  beams  upon  the  morrow  !     Xight ! 

0  fearful  night !  how  heavy  hast  thou  been. 
How  full  of  phantoms  of  strange  grief  and  terror  ! 
Methought,  so  hateful  were  my  dreams,  the  object 
Of  my  soul's  love  for  ever  disappear'd 

From  these  fond  eyes.     Methought  I  left  for  ever. 
And  you,  my  babes,  in  whose  sweet  countenances 

1  see  the  eyes  and  features  of  your  father. 
Here  you  remain'd,  abandon'd  by  your  mother. 
Oh  fatal  dream,  how  hast  thou  mov'd  my  soul  ! 
Even  yet  I  tremble  at  the  direful  vision, 

And  lowly  thus  beseech  the  pitying  Heavens 
To  turn  such  portents  from  me. 

Inez  is  yet  ignorant  of  the  dangers  to  which  she  is  exposed. 
These  are  announced  to  her  by  tlie  chorus  in  the  succeeding 
scene  : 

Chorus.  Too  piteous  tidings, 
Tidings  of  death  and  woe.  alas  !  we  bring  ; 
Too  cruel  to  be  heard,  unhappy  Inez. 
Thou  hast  not  merited  the  dreadful  fate 
Which  surely  waits  thee  now.        Nukse.  What  say  youl — Speak  ! 

Chorus.  Tears  choke  my  words. 

Inez.  Why  ?  wherefore  should  you  weep  ? 
■  Chop.us.  To  gaze  upon  that  face — those  ej'cs —        Inez.  Alas  ! 
Wretch  that  I  am  !  what  woes,  what  greater  woes 
Await  me  now?    Oh,  speak.         Chorus.  It  is  thy  death  ! 

Inez.  Ye  gracious  powers  !  my  lord,  my  husband's  dead. 


OF    THE   PORTUGUESE.  471 

This  exclamation  of  impassioned  grief  from  a  being  who 
can  imagine  no  calamity  equal  to  that  which  threatens  the 
object  nearest  to  her  soul,  may  be  regarded  as  an  instance  of 
the  real  sublime.  Slie  is  soon,  however,  undeceived  ;  the 
victim  is  herself.  She  now  trembles  at  the  idea  of  meeting 
her  fate ;  and  she  mourns  over  the  sweet  and  delightful 
scenes  she  is  about  to  leave  for  ever.  But  her  generosity 
seems  half  to  vanquish  her  fears  ;  and  the  interest  which 
we  now  feel  for  her  becomes  more  painfully  intense,  as  we 
see  that  her  character  partakes  still  more  of  that  of  the 
woman  than  of  the  heroine  : 

Fly,  fly,  dear  nurse  ! 
Far  from  the  vengeance  that  pursues  me ;  here, 
Here  will  I  wait  alone,  with  innocence 
Mine  only  shield  ;  nor  other  arms  I  crave. 
Come,  Death  !  but  take  me  an  unspotted  victim.  ] 
In  you,  sweet  pledges  of  our  mutual  truth, 
In  you  I  still  shall  live ;  though  now  they  tear  you 
From  my  fond  heart,  and  Heaven  alone  can  help  me. 
Yet  haste  to  succour,  haste,  ye  pitying  virgins  ! 
All  noble-hearted  men  who  aid  the  innocent ! 
Weep,  weep  no  more,  my  boys  !     'Tis  I  should  giieve 
For  you ;  but  yet,  while  you  can  call  me  mother, 
Love  me,  cling  to  me,  wretchedest  of  mothers  ; 
Be  near  me  every  friend  ;  surround  and  shield  me 
From  dreaded  death  that  even  now  approaches. 

The  different  choruses  which  divide  the  acts  seem  imbued 
with  the  very  spirit  of  poetry.  In  one  we  have  a  majestic 
ode  lamenting  the  excesses  to  which  the  age  of  youth  is  so 
liable,  and  the  violence  of  the  passions.  The  recitation 
aifords  the  spectators,  as  it  were,  leisure  to  breathe,  between 
the  agonizing  scenes  in  which  they  behold  the  victim 
struggling  in  the  storm  of  contending  passions  and  involved 
in  a  shroud  of  grief,  of  terror,  and  of  dying  love,  till  she 
disappears  wholly  from  their  eyes.  It  has  tlie  effect  of 
enabling  us  to  contemplate  human  destiny  from  a  loftier 
elevation,  and  it  teaches  us  to  triumph  over  the  vicissitudes 
of  life  by  the  aid  of  philosophy  and  by  the  exertion  of  the 
mental  energies.  On  the  opening  of  the  fourth  act, 
Inez  appears  before  the  king  attended  by  his  two  con- 
fidential advisers,  Coelho  and  Pacheco  ;  and  the  scene  that 
follows  is  a  noble  combination  of  pathos,  eloquence,  and  fine 
chivalric  manners.  After  she  has  appealed  to  the  justice, 
the  compassion,  and  generosity  of  the  monarch  in  behalf  of 


472  ON  THE    LITERATURE 

her  offspring  at  her  side,  wliom  ^he  presents  to  him,  the  king 
replies  to  her  in  these  words  : 

It  is  thy  sins  that  kill  thee,  think  on  them. 

[    On  which  she  answers  : 

Alas  !  whate'er  my  sins. 
None  dare  accuse  my  loyalty  to  thee, 
Most  gracious  prince  !     My  sins  towards  God  are  many : 
Yet  doth  not  Heaven  hear  the  repentant  voice 
That  sues  for  pity?    God  is  just,  but  merciful, 
And  pardons  oft  where  he  might  punish  ;.  oft 
Long  suflcring,  reprieves  the  wretch,  who  lives  ; 
For  Heaven  is  watchful  still  to  pardon  sinners, 
And  such  th'  example  once  you  gave  your  subjects ; 
Nor  change  your  generous  nature  now  to  me  ! 

Coelho  informs  her  that  she  is  already  condemned,  and 
that  it  is  time  she  should  prepare  her  soul,  in  order  that  she 
may  avoid  a  still  more  tremendous  doom.  At  these  words, 
turning  towards  her  executioners,  she  appeals  to  their  knightly 
honour,  and  to  their  ancestral  chivalry.  It  is  here  that  her 
confidence  in  the  prevailing  laws  of  honour,  contrasted  with 
the  dark  counsels  of  political  convenience,  produces  the  finest 
effect : 

Have  T  no  friend  1  where  are  my  friends  ?  who  else 

Should  now  appease  the  anger  of  the  king  ] 

Implore  him  for  me  ;  help  to  win  his  pity  ! 

And  ye,  true  knights,  who  succour  the  oppress'd. 

Let  not  the  innocent  thus  unjustly  suffer  : 

If  you  can  see  me  die,  the  world  will  say, 

'Twas  you  who  bade  me  suffer. 

One  might  imagine  that  such  language  would  have  blunted 
the  weapons  of  her  destroyers  ;  but  the  reply  of  Coelho, 
intent  upon  her  death  and  about  to  strike  the  fatal  blow,  is 
calm  and  dignified  : 

I  do  beseech  you,  Inez,  by  these  tears 

You  shed  in  vain,  to  snatch  the  few  short  moments 

That  still  are  yours,  to  render  up  your  soul 

In  peace  and  prayer  to  God  !     Tis  the  king's  will, 

And  it  is  just.     We  did  attend  him  hither 

For  this,  to  save  his  kingdom,  not  to  punish 

The  innocent ;  it  is  a  sacrifice 

Which,  would  to  Heaven  !  might  be  averted  from  us. 

But  as  it  may  not  be,  forgive  the  king : 

He  is  not  cruel ;  and  if  we  appear  so 

In  having  given  him  counsel,  go  where  thou 

May'st  cry  for  vengeance  just,  upon  thy  foes 

At  the  eternal  throne.     We  have  condemn'd  thee 

Unjustly,  as  it  seems ;  yet  we  shall  follow 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  473 

Thy  steps  ere  long,  and  at  the  judgment-seat 

Render  account  before  the  Judge  supreme 

Of  that  which  thou  complain'st  of— of  this  deed. 

Notwithstanding  the  great  beauty  and  pathos  of  the 
dialogue,  there  is  perhaps  too  little  variety  of  action  in  this 
play.  After  granting  the  pardon  of  Inez,  the  king  permits 
his  followers  to  pursue  and  assassinate  her  behind  the  scenes, 
at  the  end  of  the  fourth  act.  The  prince,  Don  Pedro,  never 
once  appears  during  the  whole  performance,  except  to  acquaint 
his  confidant  with  his  passion  in  the  first  act,  and  to  lament 
his  misfortune  in  the  last  ;  but  without  holding  a  single 
dialogue  with  the  object  of  his  affections,  or  ever  attempting 
to  avert  her  fate.  It  would  be  unjust,  however,  not  to  con- 
sider the  extreme  disadvantage  under  which  the  author 
laboured,  in  producing  a  tragedy  without  having  any  acquaint- 
ance with  a  theatre,  or  with  the  feelings  of  the  public. 

The  classical  school,  instituted  by  Saa  de  Miranda,  and  in 
particular  by  Antonio  Ferreira,  in  Portugal,  obtained  a  con- 
siderable number  of  followers.  Pedro  de  Andrade  Caminha, 
one  of  the  most  celebrated  of  these,  was  a  zealous  ft-iend  and 
imitator  of  Ferreii'a.  His  writings  possess  the  same  degree 
of  chaste  elegance  and  purity  of  style  ;  but  they  are  more 
deficient  in  poetic  spirit  than  their  original.  His  eclogues 
are  cold  and  languid  in  the  extreme.  His  epistles  have  more 
merit  ;  they  have  much  of  the  animation  requisite  in  didactic 
compositions,  joined  to  an  agreeable  variety  of  style.  They, 
are  not,  however,  so  full  of  matter  and  reflection  as  those  of 
Ferreira,  who  was  himself,  indeed,  deficient  in  originality 
and  power.  Throughout  twenty  tedious  elegies,  there  is  not 
found  a  single  one  in  which  the  author  leads  us  to  sympa- 
thise with  the  imaginary  sorrows  of  his  muse.  More  than 
eighty  epitaphs,  and  above  two  hundred  and  fifty  epigrams, 
will  complete  the  catalogue  of  Andrade's  works.  The 
author's  correct  taste  and  perspicuity  of  style,  have  conferred 
on  these  effusions  all  the  merit  of  which  they  were  susceptible; 
but  in  these,  as  in  the  rest  of  his  works,  we  trace  the  labours 
of  the  critic  and  the  man  of  taste,  endeavouring  to  supply  the 
want  of  genius  and  inspiration.  We  may  applaud  his  exertions, 
but  we  reap  neither  pleasure  nor  profit  from  their  perusal. 

Diego  Bernardes  was  the  friend  of  Andrade  Caminha,  and 
another  disciple  of  Ferreira.  He  was  some  time  employed  as 
secretary  to  the  embassy  from  the  court  of  Lisbon  to  Philip  II. 

VOL.  n.  G  G 


474  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

of  Spain.  He  afterward.'^  followed  King  Sebastian  to  the 
African  war,  and  was  made  prisoner  by  the  Moors,  in  the 
disastrous  battle  of  Alcacer,  in  which  that  monarch  fell.  On 
recovering  his  liberty,  lie  returned  and  resided  in  his  own 
<;ountry,  where  he  died  in  1596.  He  labours  under  the 
imputation  of  a  flagrant  plagiarism,  in  having  wished  to 
appropriate  to  himself  some  of  the  lesser  productions  of 
Camoens.  His  works,  collected  under  the  title  of  O  Lyvia, 
the  name  of  a  river  celebrated  by  him,  and  on  whose  banks 
the  scene  of  his  pastorals  is  laid,  contain  no  less  than  twenty 
long  eclogues,  and  thirty-three  epistles.  We  may  frequently 
trace  in  the  charms  of  the  language,  and  in  the  elegance  and 
native  sweetness  of  the  verse,  a  degree  of  resemblance  to  the 
poems  of  Camoens  ;  but  the  spirit  of  the  compositions  is  by 
no  means  the  same.  We  are  no  where  affected  by  powerful 
touclies  of  truth  and  nature  ;  the  poet  always  appears  in  a 
studied  character,  and  not  as  the  interpreter  of  the  irresistible 
dictates  of  the  heart.  He  attempts,  by  force  of  conceit,  and 
a  play  of  words,  to  acquire  a  degree  of  brilliancy  foreign 
to  his  subject ;  and  the  monotony  of  pastoral  life  is  but 
poorly  relieved  by  sallies  of  wit  and  fancy  inconsistent  with 
genuine  taste.  The  first  eclogue  is  a  lament  for  the  death  of 
a  shepherd,  Adonis,  who  appears,  however,  to  have  no  sort  of 
relation  to  the  fabulous  lover  of  old.  The  following  specimen 
of  it  may  not  be  unacceptable  : 

Serrano.      0,  hriglit  Adonis  !  brightest  of  our  train  ! 

For  thee  our  mountain  pastures  greenest  sprung. 
Transparent  fountains  water'd  every  plain, 

And  hvvish  nature  pour"d,-  as  once  when  young, 
Spontaneous  fruits,  that  ask'd  no  Ibstering  care  ; 

With  thee  our  flocks  from  dangers  wander'd  free 
x\long  the  hills,  nor  did  the  fierce  wolf  dare 

To  snatcli  by  stealth  thy  timorous  charge  from  thee  ! 

Sylvio.        Come  pour  with  mc  your  never-ceasing  tears ; 
Come,  every  nation,  join  our  sad  lament. 
For  woes  that  fill  our  souls  with  pains  and  fears ; 
Woes,  at  which  savage  natures  might  relent. 
Serrano.      Let  every  living  thing  that  walks  the  earth, 

Ur  wings  the  heavens,  or  sails  the  oozy  deep, 
Unite  their  sighs  to  ours.     Adieu  to  mirth, 
Pleasures,  and  joys,  adieu,  for  we  must  weep. 

Sylvio.        Oh,  ill-starr'd  day  !  oh  day  that  brought  our  woe, 

Sacred  to  grief  !  that  saw  those  bright  eyes  close, 
And  Death's  cold  hand,  from  the  unsullied  snow 
Of  thy  fair  cheek,  pluck  forth  the  blooming  rose. 


OF    THE    rORTUGTJESE.  475 

Serrano.     Faint  and  more  faint,  the  tender  colours  died, 
Like  the  sweet  lily  of  the  summer  day, 
Found  by  the  plough-share  in  its  fragrant  pride, 
And  torn,  unsparing,  from  its  stem  away. 

We  might  suppose  from  the  conceited  turns  of  the  original, 
that  we  were  here  presented  witli  the  brilliant  flights  of 
Marini.  The  colours  are,  in  part,  so  vivid,  as  almost  to  con- 
ceal the  design  itself  from  our  view  ;  the  imagery  is  far  more 
striking  than  correct ;  and  the  expressions  of  regret  are  so 
fantastic  as  to  relieve  the  reader  from  any  apprehension  of 
the  author  feeling  the  wretchedness  which  he  so  ingeniously 
describes.  We  are  now  only  just  entering  on  the  history  of 
Portuguese  poetry;  yet  we  already  seem,  in  Bernardes,  to 
have  attained  its  opposite  limits.  The  mistaken  admiration 
which  the  poets  of  this  nation  indulged  for  pastoral  compo- 
sitions, induced  them  to  lavish  the  whole  of  their  poetical 
resources,  far  sooner  than  the  poets  of  any  other  nation,  and 
carried  them  prematurely  to  the  termination  of  their  career. 

Many  other  writers  might  yet  be  mentioned,  who  likewise 
shed  a  lustre  on  the  same  period.  Amongst  these  are  Jorge 
Ferreira  de  Vasconcellos,  the  author  of  several  comedies,  and 
of  a  romance  founded  on  the  Round  Table ;  Estevan  Rodri- 
guez de  Castro,  a  lyric  poet  and  a  physician  ;  Fernando 
Rodriguez  Lobo  de  Soropita,who  edited  the  poems  of  Camoens, 
which  he  also  very  happily  imitated ;  and  Miguel  de  Cabedo 
de  Vasconcellos,  particularly  celebrated  for  the  beauty  of 
his  Latin  verses.  But  there  is  one  man  who  stands  alone  ; 
who  reflects  unequalled  lustre  on  the  literary  character  of  his 
times  ;  and  who  deserves  to  occupy  our  attention  as  long  as 
all  the  other  poets  belonging  to  the  Portuguese  nation.  We 
scarcely  need  to  add,  that  it  is  to  the  genius  of  Camoens  that 
we  hasten  to  dedicate  the  labours  of  the  ensuing  chapters. 


CHAPTER    XXXVII. 

LUIS    DE    CAMOENS  :    LUSIADAS. 

We  next  proceed  to  consider  the  merits  of  the  illustrious 
man  who  has  long  been  considex'ed  the  chief  and  almost  the 
only  boast  of  his  country.  Camoens,  indeed,  is  the  sole  poet 
of  Portugal,  whose  celebrity  has  extended  beyond  the  Penin- 
sula, and  whose  name  appears  in  the  list  of  those  who  have 

G  G  2 


476  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

conferred  honour  upon  Europe.  Such  is  the  force  of  genius 
in  a  single  individual,  that  it  may  be  said  to  constitute  the 
renown  of  a  whole  people.  It  stands  in  solitary  greatness 
before  the  eyes  of  posterity;  and  a  crowd  of  lesser  objects 
disappear  in  its  superior  light. 

Luis  de  Canioens  was  descended  from  a  noble,  though  by 
no  means  a  wealthy,  family.  He  was  the  son  of  Simon  Vas 
de  Camoeiis.  One  of  his  ancestors,  of  the  name  of  Vasco 
Perez,  who  had  acquired  some  reputation  as  a  Galician  poet, 
quitted  tlie  service  of  the  court  of  Castile,  in  1370,  and 
attached  himself  to  that  of  Portugal.  Simon  Vas  de  Camoens 
was  commander  of  a  ship  of  war,  which  was  wrecked  on  the 
coasts  of  India,  where  he  perished.  His  wife,  Anna  de  Sa- 
Macedo,  was  likewise  of  noble  birth.  The  exact  date  of  the 
birth  of  their  son  Luis  has  never  been  ascertained.  In  the 
life  prefixed  to  the  splendid  edition  of  his  great  poem,  by 
M.  de  Sousa,  it  is  supposed,  agreeably  to  the  previous  con- 
jecture of  Manoel  de  Faria,  to  have  taken  place  in  the  year 
1525.  It  is  certain  that  he  pursued  his  studies  at  Coimbra, 
where  he  obtained  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  history 
and  mythology  then  in  repute.  AV'liile  still  at  the  university 
he  produced  several  sonnets  and  other  verses,  which  have 
been  preserved  ;  but  whatever  degree  of  talent  he  there  dis- 
played, he  failed  to  conciliate  the  friendship  of  Ferreira,  and 
of  other  distinguished  characters,  then  completing  their  studies 
at  Coimbra.  Engaged  in  bestowing  on  Portuguese  poetry  its 
utmost  degree  of  classical  perfection,  they  affected  to  look  down 
on  the  ardent  imagination  of  young  Camoens  with  an  eye 
of  pity  and  contempt.  After  having  completed  his  studies, 
he  went  to  Lisbon,  where  he  conceived  a  passion  for  Catha- 
rina  de  Atayde,  a  lady  of  the  court  ;  and  so  violent  was  the 
affection  with  which  slie  inspired  him,  that  for  some  time  he 
is  said  to  have  renounced  all  his  literary  and  worldly  pursuits. 
We  are  unacquainted  with  the  views  which  he  at  that  time 
entertained,  as  well  as  with  his  means  of  subsistence  ;  but  it 
is  certain  that  \n>  attachment  gave  rise  to  some  unpleasant 
circumstances,  in  consequence  of  which  he  received  an  order 
to  leave  Lisbon.  He  was  banished  to  Santarem,  where  he 
produced  several  of  those  poems  which,  while  they  served  as 
fuel  to  his  passion,  increased  the  dangers  of  his  situation. 
His  ill  success  and  disappointed  atfection  at  last  led  him 
to  the  resolution  of  embracing  a  military  life,  and  he  volun- 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  4m 

teered  his  services  into  the  Portuguese  fleet,  then  employed 
against  the  African  powers.  It  was  not  witliout  a  feeling  of 
pride  that  he  thus  united  the  character  of  a  hero  and  a  poet ; 
continuins,  in  the  intervals  of  the  most  arduous  services,  to 
court  the  attentions  of  the  muse.  In  an  engagement  before 
Ceuta,  in  which  he  greatly  distinguished  himself,  he  had  the 
misfortune  to  lose  his  right  eye.  He  then  returned  to  Lisbon 
in  the  expectation  that  his  services  might  acquire  for  him  the 
recompense  which  had  been  refused  to  him  as  a  poet; 
but  no  one  evinced  the  least  disposition  to  serve  him.  All 
his  efforts  to  distinguish  himself  in  laudable  enterprises  and 
pursuits  were  successively  thwarted,  and  his  small  resources 
daily  became  less.  While  his  soul  was  the  seat  of  lofty 
thoughts  and  patriotism,  he  felt  that  he  was  neglected  and 
contemned  by  the  country  he  loved.  Yielding  to  a  feeling  of 
indignation,  like  that  of  Scipio,  he  exclaimed  with  him, 
Ingrata  patria  nee  ossa  quidem  habehis!  and  came  to  the 
resolution  of  leaving  it  once  more.  With  this  view,  in  the 
year  1553,  he  embarked  for  the  East  Indies.  The  squadron 
with  which  he  set  sail  consisted  of  four  vessels.  Three  of 
these  foundered  at  sea,  and  that  only  in  which  Camoens  sailed 
reached  the  port  of  Goa  in  safety.  But  our  poet  did  not,  as 
he  had  flattered  himself,  obtain  employment  even  here  ;  and 
he  found  himself  compelled  once  more  to  offer  his  services  as 
a  volunteer  in  a  company  of  auxiliaries  sent  by  the  viceroy 
of  India  to  the  King  of  Cochin.  Nearly  all  his  companions 
in  arms  fell  victims,  during  this  campaign,  to  the  fatal  insalu- 
brity of  the  climate.  Camoens,  however,  survived  its  effects, 
and  returned  to  Goa  after  having  contributed  to  the  triumph 
of  his  country's  ally.  Still  destitute  of  employment  and 
resources,  he  next  joined  an  expedition  against  the  Corsairs 
of  the  Red  Sea.  Passing  the  winter  in  the  isle  of  Ormuz,  he 
had  there  full  leisure  to  indulge  his  poetical  pursuits,  and  to 
complete  a  portion  of  his  poems.  Every  object  around  him 
seemed  to  assume  a  poetic  dress  ;  and  the  love  of  his  country 
revived  with  fresh  force,  while  he  trod  those  eastern  scenes, 
rendered  famous  by  the  exploits  of  his  countrymen.  But  the 
abuses  of  the  <>;overnment  excited  his  strongest  feelincrs 
of  indignation,  and  instead  of  attempting  to  conciliate  an  ad- 
ministration which  had  yet  shown  him  no  favour,  he  wrote  a 
bitter  satire  on  its  conduct.  The  Disparates  na  India,  op 
Follies  in  India,  was  a  severe  mortification,  on  its  appear- 


478  ON    TI12    LITERATURE 

ance,  to  the  feelings  of  tlie  viceroy.  He  immediately  banished 
the  unfortunate  2:>oet  to  the  Isle  of  Macao,  situated  on  the 
coast  of  China  ;  and  wliile  tliere,  Camoens  made  an  excur- 
sion into  the  Moluccas.  But  here,  as  he  himself  relates, 
wiiile  in  one  hand  he  bore  his  books,  and  in  the  other 
his  sword  : 

N'huma  mao  livros,  n'outra  ferro  ct  aoo, 
N'hiima  mao  sempre  a  cspada,  u'outra  a  pena ; 

in  neither  career  did  he  meet  witli  the  success  which  he 
deserved.  His  necessities  at  last  compelled  him  to  accept  the 
situation  of  commissary  for  the  effects  of  tlie  deceased,  ;;/-o- 
vedurvior  dos  dcfimtos,  at  J\Ia(;ao,  He  remained  there  five 
years,  and  employed  his  time  in  completing  that  great  epic 
work  which  was  to  hand  down  his  name  to  posterity.  There 
is  still  to  be  seen  on  tlie  most  elevated  point  of  the  isthmus 
wliich  unites  the  town  of  Macao  to  the  Chinese  continent,  a 
sort  of  natural  gallery  formed  out  of  the  rocks,  apparently 
almost  suspended  in  the  air,  and  commanding  a  magnificent 
prospect  over  both  seas,  and  the  lotty  chain  of  mountains 
wliich  rise  above  their  shores.  Here  he  is  said  to  have 
invoked  the  genius  of  tlie  epic  muse,  and  tradition  has  con- 
ferred on  this  retreat  the  name  of  the  grotto  of  Camoens. 
Soon  afterwards,  Constantino  de  Braganza,  the  new  viceroy, 
gave  him  permission  to  return  to  Goa  Tbut  he  was  shipwrecked 
on  his  passage  at  tlie  mouth  of  the  river  Gambia.  Pie  saved 
himself  by  clinging  to  a  })lank,  and  of  all  his  little  property, 
succeeded  only  in  saving  his  poem  of  the  Lusiad,  deluged 
with  the  waves  as  he  bore  it  in  his  hand  to  shore.  A  short 
time  after  his  return  to  Goa,  he  was  accused  of  malversation 
in  the  office  he  had  exercised  at  Macao;  and  though  he 
successfully  repelled  these  unjust  suspicions,  he  was,  never- 
theless, suffered  to  linger  in  prison.  The  claims  of  his 
creditors  detained  him  still  in  confinement,  and  it  was  only 
by  the  generous  intervention  of  a  few  sympathizing  lovers  of 
the  muses,  that  he  was  enabled  to  discharge  liis  debts,  to 
recover  his  liberty,  and  take  his  passage  to  his  own  country. 
In  the  year  1569  he  arrived  at  Lisbon,  after  an  absence  of 
sixteen  years,  and  without  having  realized  any  fortune  in  a 
part  of  the  world,  where  so  many  of  his  countrymen  had 
amassed  immense  treasures. 

At  the  moment  wh('n  Camoens  set  his  foot  on  his  native 
shore,  a  dreadful  plague  was  prosecuting  its  ravages  in  the 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  479 

kingdom  of  Portugal.  In  the  midst  of  universal  sorrow 
and  alarm,  no  attention  Avas  bestowed  on  poetry,  and  no  one 
evinced  the  least  curiosity  respecting  the  poet  and  his  Lusiad, 
the  sole  remaining  property  and  hope  of  the  unfortunate  Ca- 
moens.  King  Sebastian  was  yet  a  minor,  and  completely  under 
the  authority  of  the  priests,  who  betrayed  him  not  many  years 
afterwards  into  the  fatal  expedition  to  the  coast  of  Africa. 
He  consented,  however,  to  permit  Camoens  to  dedicate  his 
poem  to  him,  although  the  only  return  he  made  was  a 
wretched  pension  of  fifteen  milreas.*  Camoens  was  sub- 
jected to  the  most  distressing  embarrassments.  Not  unfre- 
quently  he  was  in  actual  want  of  bread,  for  which  he  was  in 
part  indebted  to  a  black  servant  who  had  accompanied  him 
from  the  Indies,  and  who  was  in  the  habit  of  soliciting 
charity  at  night  in  the  open  streets,  to  obtain  a  precarious 
subsistence  for  his  master  ;  a  poet  who  was  destined  to  con- 
fer celebrity  on  his  country.  Yet  more  aggravated  evils 
were  in  store  for  the  wretched  Camoens.  Sebastian  had 
enrolled  the  whole  chivalry  of  Portugal  in  his  fatal  expedition 
against  Morocco.  He  there  perished  in  the  disastrous  battle 
of  Alcacer-Quivir,  or  AlcaQar  la  Grande,  in  1578  ;  and  with 
him  expired  the  royal  house  of  Portugal  ;  as  the  only  re- 
maining branch,  an  aged  cardinal,  on  whom  the  crown  de- 
volved, died  after  a  reign  of  two  years ;  having  had  the 
mortification  of  seeing  all  Europe,  while  he  was  yet  alive, 
contending  for  the  succession  of  his  kingdom.  The  glory  of 
the  Portuguese  nation  was  suddenly  eclipsed  :  her  indepen- 
dence did  not  long  survive ;  and  the  future  seemed  pregnant 
only  with  calamity  and  disgrace.  It  was  now  that  Camoens, 
who  had  so  nobly  supported  his  own  misfortunes,  was  bowed 
down  by  the  calamities  of  his  country.  He  was  seized  with 
a  violent  fever  in  consequence  of  his  many  aggravated  suffer- 
ings. He  observed  in  one  of  his  letters,  a  short  time  before 
his  death  :  "  Who  could  have  believed  that  on  so  small  a 
theatre  as  this  wretched  couch,  Fortune  would  delight  in 
exhibiting  so  many  calamities  ?  And  as  if  these  were  not 
sufficient,  I  seem  to  take  part  with  them  against  myself ;  for 
to  pretend  to  resist  such  overwhelming  misery,  seems  to  me 
a  kind  of  vain    impertinence.''|     The  last  days  of  his  life 

*  [Not  quite  five  pounds  a  year.  It  is  doubtful  whether  this  sum  was  not  merely 
his  regular  half-pay. — Tr.] 

■)•  Quem  ouvio  dizer  que  em  tao  pequeno  teatro,  corao  o  de  hum  pobre  leito,  quisesse 
.1  fortuiia  representar  tao  grandes  desventuras  ?    E  eu,  como  se  ellas  nao  bastassem, 


480  ON    THE    LITEUATURE 

were  passed  in  the  company  of  some  monks  ;  and  it  is  ascer- 
tained that  he  died  in  a  public  hospital,  in  the  year  1579. 
There  was  no  monument  erected  to  liis  memory  until  sixteen 
years  after  his  decease.  Tiie  earliest  edition  of  the  Lusiad 
appeared  in  the  year  1572.* 

The  poem  on  which  the  general  reputation  of  Camoens 
depends,  usually  known  under  the  name  of  the  Lusiad,  is 
entitled  by  the.  Portuguese,  Os  Lusiados,  or  the  Lusitanians. 
It  appears  to  have  been  the  object  of  the  author  to  produce  a 
■work  altogether  national.  It  was  the  exploits  of  his  fellow- 
countrymen  that  he  undertook  to  celebrate.  But  though  the 
great  object  of  the  poem  is  the  recital  of  the  Portuguese  con- 
quests in  the  Indies,  the  author  has  very  happily  succeeded  in 
embracing  all  the  illustrious  actions  perl'ormed  by  his  com- 
patriots in  other  quarters  of  the  woi-ld,  together  with  whatever 
of  splendid  and  heroic  achievement,  historical  narration  or 
popular  fables  could  supi)ly,  It  is  by  mistake  that  Vasco 
de  Gama  has  been  represented  as  the  hero  of  Camoens, 
and  that  those  portions  of  the  work  not  immediately  con- 
nected with  that  commander's  expedition,  are  regarded  as 
episodes  to  the  main  action.  There  is,  in  truth,  no  other 
leading  subject  than  his  country,  nor  are  there  any  epi- 
sodes except  such  parts  as  are  not  immediately  connected 
with  her  glory.  The  very  opening  of  the  Lusiad  clearly 
expresses  this  patriotic  object : 

Arms  and  the  heroes,  who  from  Iiisbon's  shore.  As  armas  e  os  Baroes  assinalados 

Through  seas  where  sail  was  never  spread  before.  Que  da  occidental  praja  Lusitana 

Beyond  where  Ceylon  lifts  her  spicy  breast,  Pormaresnuncad'antesnavegados, 

And  waves  her  woods  above  the  wat'ry  waste,  Passaram  aindaalenidaTaprobana: 

AVith  prowess  more  than  human  forc'd  tlieir  way  Queemperigoseguerrasesforfados 

To  the  fair  kingdoms  of  the  rising  day  :  Mais  do  que  promettia  a  forcajbiu- 
What  wars  they  wag'd,  what  seas,  what  dangers  mana, 

past,  Entre  gente  remota  edificdram 

What  glorious  empire  crown'd  their  toils  at  last  Novo  reiuo  que  tanto  sublimaram. 
Vent'rous  1  sing,  on  soaring  pinions  borne, 

And  all  my  country's  wars  the  song  adorn  ;  Etambem  as  memoriasgloriosas 

What  kings,  what  heroes  of  my  native  land  D'aquelles  reisqueforam  dilatando 

Thunder'd  on  Asia's  and  on  Afric's  strand  :  A  fe,  o  imocrio,  e  as  terras  viciosas 

me  ponho  ainda  da  sua  parte.     Porque  procurar  resistir  a  tantos  males,  pareceria 
es])ecie  de  desavergonhamento. 

*  The  negligence  and  indifference  shewn  towards  Camoens  have  been  recently 
atoned  for  by  the  ])atriotic  zeal  of  I),  .lose  Maria  de  Souza  liotelho.  It  was  his  wish 
to  raise  the  noblest  and  most  splendid  monument  to  the  first  of  tlie  Portuguese  poets  ; 
and  to  this  he  devoted  a  great  share  of  his  fortune  and  of  his  time.  He  produced  his 
splendid  edition  of  the  Lusiad,  at  Paris,  IS17,  in  folio,  after  having  revised  the  text 
with  the  most  scrupulous  care,  and  embellished  it  with  all  that  the  arts  of  typography, 
design,  and  engraving  could  lavisli  on  a  book,  intended  to  be  presented  as  an  orna- 
ment to  the  most  celebrated  libr.iries  of  Europe,  Asia,  and  America.  He  would  not 
even  jiermit  a  single  copy  to  be  sold,  in  order  that  not  the  remotest  suspicion  of 
emolument  might  attach  to  so  disinterested  and  patriotic  an  undertaking. 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  481 

Illustrious;  shades,  who  levell'd  in  the  dust  De  Africa  e  de  Asia  andaram,  de- 
The  idol-temples  and  the  shrines  of  lust ;  vastando  : 

And  where,  erewhile,  foul  demons  were  revtr'd,  E  aquellas  que  por  obras  valerosas 

To  holy  faith  unnumber'd  altars  rear'd:  Se  vao  da  lei  da  morte  libertando, 

Illustrious  names,  with  deathless  laurels  crown'd,  Cantandoespalharei por toda parte, 

^Vhile  time  rolls  on  in  every  clime  renown'd!*  Se  a  tanto  me  ajudar  o  engenho,  e 

arte. 

At  the  period  in  which  Camoens  wrote,  we  must  remember 
that  there  had  in  fact  appeared  no  epic  poem  in  any  of  the 
modern  tongues.  Trissiiio  had,  indeed,  attempted  the  subject 
of  the  liberation  of  Italy  from  the  Goths,  but  had  not  suc- 
(^eeded.  Several  of  the  Castilians  had,  likewise,  dignified  witli 
the  title  of  epics  their  histories  of  modern  events,  related  in 
rhyme,  but  possessing  nothing  of  the  spirit  of  poetry.  Ariosto, 
and  a  crowd  of  romance  writers,  had  tlirown  enchantment 
round  the  fictions  of  chivalry,  which  were  painted  in  the  hap- 
piest and  most  glowing  colours  ;  but  neither  Ariosto,  nor  any 
of  "those  whom  he  so  far  surpassed  in  that  kind  of  composition, 
ever  aspired  to  the  character  of  epic  writers.  Tasso,  it  is  well 
known,  did  not  publish  his  Jerusalem  Delivered  until  the 
year  after  the  death  of  Camoens.  The  Lusiad,  moreover, 
was  composed  almost  entirely  in  India,  so  that  its  author  could 
only  have  been  acquainted  with  such  works  as  had  already 
appeared  before  the  year  1553,  in  which  he  left  Portugal.  He 
appears,  nevertheless,  to  have  studied  his  Italian  contempora- 
ries, and  to  have  appreciated  in  common  with  them  the  excel- 
lences of  the  models  of  antiquity.  We  may  trace,  between  the 
poetical  works  of  Camoens  and  those  of  the  Italian  school, 
resemblances  much  more  remarkable  and  striking  tlian  any 
we  meet  with  between  the  Spanish  poets  and  the  Italians. 
For  his  verse  he  made  choice  of  the  heroic  iambic,  in  rhvmed 
octave  stanzas,  the  metre  of  Ariosto,  in  preference  to  the  verso 
sciolto  of  Trissino,  or  unrhymed  iambic.  He  approaches 
nearer,  likewise,  to  Ariosto  than  to  Trissino,  or  to  any  of  the 
Spanish  writers,  when  he  considers  the  epic  poem  as  a  crea- 
tion of  the  imagination,  and  not  as  a  history  in  verse.  But 
he  contended,  like  Tasso,  whom  he  preceded,  that  this  poetical 
creation  ought  to  form  a  consistent  whole  and  to  preserve  per- 
fect harmony  in  its  unity;  that  the  ruling  principle  and  object 
of  tlie  poet,  like-the  actuating  motives  of  his  heroes,  ouglit  to 
be  always  present  to  the  imagination  of  the  reader ;  and  that 
richness  and  variety  of  detail  can  never  supply  the  want  of 
majesty  in  the  general  scope  of  the  work.     But  Camoens  has 


*  [The  passages  quoted  from  the  Lusiad  are  extracted  from  Sir.  Mickle's  transla- 
tion.—rr.] 


482  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

invested  his  subject  with  a  degree  of  passionate  tenderness, 
visionary  passion  and  love  of  pleasure,  which  the  more  stoical 
ancients  seem  always  to  have  considered  as  beneath  the  dig- 
nity of  the  epic  muse.  With  all  the  enthusiasm  of  Tasso,  and 
all  the  luxurious  fancy  of  Ariosto,  he  enjoyed  an  advantage 
over  the  latter,  in  combining  the  finest  affections  of  the  heart 
and  soul  with  the  glowing  ])ictures  of  the  imagination.  The 
circumstance  which  essentially  distinguishes  him  from  the 
Italians,  and  which  forms  the  everlasting  monument  of  his 
own  and  his  country's  glory,  is  the  national  love  and  pride 
breathing  tlirough  the  wliole  performance.  It  was  written  at 
a  time  when  the  fame  of  his  country  had  risen  to  its  highest 
pitch,  when  the  world  appeared  to  have  assumed  a  different 
aspect  from  the  influence  of  the  Portuguese,  and  when  the 
most  important  objects  had  been  attained  by  the  smallest  states. 
For  half  a  century  before  Camoens  wrote,  Europe,  beginning" 
to  emerge  out  of  the  narrow  limits  until  then  assigned  her, 
had  already  learned  the  extent  of  the  universe,  and  felt  how 
small  were  her  population,  her  wealth,  and  her  dominions, 
Avhen  put  in  comparison  with  the  extensive  empires  of  Asia. 
But  she  had  likewise  learned  to  appreciate  the  superiority  of 
the  powers  of  thought  and  will  over  mere  imposing  pomp  and 
numbers,  and  she  was  first  indebted  to  the  Portuguese  for  the 
discovery.  Camoens,  little  foreseeing  the  approach  of  the  fatal 
period,  which  was  to  deprive  his  country  of  its  independence, 
and  to  hasten  his  steps  towards  the  tomb,  wrote  in  the  trium- 
phant tone  of  national  enthusiasm,  and  succeeded  in  impress- 
ing on  his  readers,  however  remotely  interested  in  the  honour 
of  Portugal,  the  same  national  and  ennobling  feelings.  In 
the  dedicatory  portion  of  his  poem  to  king  Sebastian  he  has 
the  following  lines  : 

Yet  now  attentive  hoar  the  muse's  lay 

While  thy  Kreen  years  to  manhood  speed  away  : 

The  youthful  terrors  of  thy  brow  suspend. 

And,  oh  !  propitious,  to  the  song  attend, 

The  numerous  song,  by  patriot-i)assion  fir'd, 

And  by  the  glories  of  thy  race  inspir'd  : 

To  be  the  henild  of  my  country's  fame. 

My  first  ambition  and  my  dearest  aim  : 

Nor  conquests  fabulous,  nor  actions  vain, 

The  muse's  pastime,  here  adom  the  strain  : 

Orlando's  fury,  an<l  Itugero's  rage. 

And  all  the  heroes  of  the  Aonian  page. 

The  dreams  of  bards  surpass'd  the  world  shall  view 

And  own  their  boldest  fictions  may  be  true ; 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  483 

Surpass'd,  and  dimm'd  by  the  superior  blaze 

Of  Gama's  mighty  deeds,  which  here  bright  Truth  displays.* 

Great  public  virtues  invariably  exercise  over  the  mind  a 
power  which  no  individual  passion  can  command,  communi- 
cating a  sort  of  electric  feeling  from  heart  to  heart.  The 
patriotic  spirit  of  Camoens,  devoting  a  whole  life  to  raise  a 
monument  worthy  of  his  country,  seems  never  to  have  in- 
dulged a  thought  which  was  not  true  to  the  glory  of  an 
ungrateful  nation.  We  are  every  where  deeply  sensible  of 
this.  Our  noblest  and  best  affections  accompany  him  in  his 
generous  enterprise,  and  Portugal  becomes  interesting  to  us 
as  having  been  the  beloved  country  of  so  great  a  man.  It  is, 
nevertheless,  doubtful,  whether  the  subject  selected  by 
Camoens  is  of  the  most  happy  description  for  an  epic  poem. 
The  discovery  of  the  passage  to  the  Indies  ;  the  reciprocal 
communication  between  those  countries  where  civilization  first 
appeared,  and  those  whence  it  now  proceeds  ;  the  empire  of 
Europe  extended  over  the  rest  of  the  world  ;  are  all  events 
of  universal  importance,  and  which  have  produced  lasting 
effects  upon  the  destinies  of  mankind.  But  the  consequences 
resulting  from  such  a  discovery,  are  of  greater  importance 
than  the  event  itself ;  and  the  interest  attending  a  perilous 
enterprise  by  sea,  depending  almost  wholly  upon  particular 
and  domestic  incidents,  is  rendered,  perhaps,  more  impressive 
by  the  simple  language  of  truth,  than  by  any  poetic  colouring. 
Besides,  if  Camoens  had  been  desirous  of  treating  only  of  the 
voyage  of  Gama  and  the  discovery  of  the  East,  he  would  have 
confined  his  attention,  in  a  greater  degree,  to  descriptions  of 
the  striking  and  magnificent  scenery  with  which  the  southern 
and  eastern  hemispheres  abound,  and  whose  features  exhibit 
such  distinct  peculiarities  from  that  around  the  banks  of  the 
Tagus.  But  it  was  his  ambition  to  comprehend  all  the  glory 
of  ills  country  in  the  narrow  limits  which  he  had  traced  out  ; 
to  celebrate  the  history  of  its  kings  and  of  its  wars  ;  and  to 
include  the  lives  of  the  distinguished  heroes,  whose  chivalrous 
adventures  had  become  the  theme  of  its  old  romances.  In  the 
same  manner,  we  are  made  acquainted  with  all  the  succeeding 
events  and  discoveries  which  were  to  complete  the  system  of 
the  world,  but  faintly  perceived  by  Gama  ;  and  all  the  ulterior 
conquests  of  those  immense  regions,  of  which  Gama  only 
touched  the  extreme  shores.     These  different  portions  of  the 

*  Canto  i.  str.  10. 


484  ON    THE    LITKRATURE 

work,  embracing  the  past,  the  present,  and  the  future,  were 
all  intimately  blended  witli  th(j  national  glory,  and  were  in- 
tended to  complete  the  poet's  design  of  dedicating  a  noble 
monument  to  the  genius  of  his  country.  At  the  same  time 
they  necessarily  threw  into  the  sliade  the  nominal  liero  of  the 
poem,  and  while  they  weakened  the  impression  which  a  more 
enlarged  account  of  Lybia  and  of  India  miglit  have  produced, 
they  involved  tiie  reader  in  a  labyrinth  of  events,  none  of 
which  were  calculated  to  make  a  very  lasting  impression  on 
his  mind.  Tasso,  in  his  Jerusalem,  seemed  to  gather  spirit 
and  enchantment  from  the  nature  of  his  theme,  and  his  poetry 
possessed  all  the  romantic  cliarm  attached  to  the  sacred  wars 
which  he  sung  ;  while  Camoens,  on  the  other  hand,  conferred 
on  his  subject  a  degree  of  interest  whicli  it  did  not  originally 
possess.  It  called  ibr  an  exertion  of  the  highest  powers,  and 
for  the  most  seductive  influence  of  poetry,  to  induce  the 
reader  to  enter  into  the  details  of  a  history,  of  little  interest 
to  any  but  the  author ;  and  it  was  only  by  a  continual  sacri- 
fice of  tlie  poet,  tliat  he  was  enabled  to  cek:brate  the  memory 
of  his  heroes.  But  he  accomplished  the  difficult  task  of 
reconciling  an  liistorical  view  of  Portugal  with  poetical  fiction  ; 
and  he  has  every  where  thrown  light  upon  it,  Avith  a  mastei'ly 
degree  of  art.  His  success,  though  very  surprising,  is  hardly 
to  be  justified,  if  we  consider  the  great  poetical  risk,  and  the 
extreme  imprudence  of  tlie  attempt.  In  the  epic,  perhaps, 
more  than  in  any  otiier  class  of  composition,  the  poet  lias  less 
power  of  commanding  the  attention,  and  lias  greater  dif- 
ficulties to  overcome  in  communicating  interest,  pathos,  and 
terror.  He  ought,  therefore,  to  devote  all  his  resources  to  its 
support,  instead  of  expending  the  smallest  portion  on  an 
ungrateful  theme.  Camoens  presents  us  with  long  and  tedious 
chronological  details,  which  are  yet  so  happily  interwoven 
witli  his  subject,  tiiat  they  recall  only  the  noblest  recollections  ; 
and  he  leads  us  to  regret  tliat  the  author  should  not  have 
bestowed  those  ])owers  on  a  theme  wliich  might  liave  been  in- 
trinsically endowed  with  all  that  interest  which  his  superior 
genius  alone  enabled  liim  to  give  to  tlie  subject  of  his  choice. 
Camoens  was  fully  aware  that,  in  thus  treating  an  historical 
subject,  he  must  assume  a  loftier  tone  than  was  adopted  by 
Ariosto  in  celebrating  his  imaginary  heroes,  and  he  uniformly 
preserves  a  noble  dignity  both  of  style  and  imagery.  He 
never,  like  Ariosto,  seems  to  throw  ridicule  on  his  reader  and 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  485 

his  heroes.  Proposing  Virgil  rather  than  the  chivalric  ro- 
mances for  his  model,  he  marches  with  rapid  and  majestic 
steps  to  his  object,  and  confers  on  his  poem  that  classical  cha- 
racter sanctioned  by  the  greatest  geniuses  of  antiquity,  and 
emulated  by  all  their  successors,  who  invariably  considered  it 
as  an  essential  portion  of  their  art.  Thus,  from  the  first 
canto,  we  find  every  thing  modelled  according  to  that  regular 
system,  which  has  been  perhaps  too  closely  adhered  to  in  all 
epic  productions.  The  first  three  stanzas  consist  of  an  ex- 
position of  the  subject  ;  the  fourth  is  an  invocation  to  the 
nymphs  of  the  Tagus  ;  and  at  the  sixth,  the  poet  addresses 
himself  to  King  Sebastian,  recommending  the  poem  to  his 
auspices.  But  although  this  must  be  allowed  to  be  the  esta- 
blished usage  in  every  epic,  we  could  have  wished  a  little 
more  variety  on  a  subject  which  certainly  depends  less  upon 
any  of  the  essentials  of  the  poetic  art,  than  upon  the  authority 
of  early  examples. 

It  is  much  upon  the  same  principle  that  the  marvellous  has 
been  considered  as  an  indispensable  recjuisite  in  all  epic  pro- 
ductions, leaving  to  the  poet  only  the  choice  of  the  difierent 
mythologies  ;  as  if  the  ancients  themselves  had  ever  borrowed 
such  machinery  from  foreign  fables,  or  from  other  resources 
than  their  own.  As  little  did  they  invent  the  subject  and 
events  of  which  their  poems  were  composed.  With  them  the 
marvellous  formed  a  part  of  the  popular  fictions  and  recollec- 
tions, and  the  actions  of  their  heroes  were  drawn  from  the 
same  source.  Confining  themselves  to  the  developement  of 
these,  they  gave  them  new  life  by  the  creative  energies  of  the 
poetic  mind.  But  they  would  never  have  succeeded  in 
making  such  mythology  the  animating  principle  of  their 
works,  if  it  had  not  already  obtained  popular  credit,  both  among 
authors  and  readers. 

Camoens  regarded  the  mythological  system  of  the  ancients 
as  essential  to  their  poetic  art.  A  collegiate  education,  and 
an  assiduous  perusal  of  the  classics,  had  given  these  fictions 
an  influence  approacliing  to  something  like  that  of  faith. 
Love,  whenever  introduced  into  verse,  necessarily  assumc^d 
the  form  attributed  to  the  son  of  Venus  ;  valour  was  personi" 
fied  in  the  arms  of  Mars  ;  and  wisdom,  by  Minerva.  This 
species  of  deification,  now  so  trite  and  insupportable  to  us  in 
epic  poems,  still  meets  with  a  degree  of  favour  from  the  lyric 
muse.     We  find  the  odes  of  Lebrun  as  full  of  invocations 


486  ox   XnE   LITERATURE 

to  Minerva,  to  Mars,  and  to  Apollo,  as  we  might  have  ex- 
pected  in  the  sixteenth  century,  when  a  pedantic  education 
presented  the  imagination  only  with  the  mythological  systems 
of  antiquity.     But  what  is  quite   peculiar  to  the  work  of 
Camoens  is,  that  while  it  exliibits  a  borrowed  mythology,  it 
contains  another  adopted  by  his  heroes,  by  his  nation,  and  by 
the  poet  himself,  with  an  equal  degree  of  faith.    The  conquest 
of  India  was  not  supposed  to  be  achieved  by  Vasco  de  Gama, 
without  the  aid  of  celestial  interposition  ;  and  the  Almighty 
Father,  tlie  Virgin,  and  the  hosts  of  Saints  and  Powers,  were 
all    equally  interested  in  the  accomplishment  of  the  great 
work  ;  not  in  the  spirit  of  a  ruling  providence  foreseeing 
and  disposing  of  all  events  to  come,  but  like  frail  and  erring 
mortals,  whose  passions  lead  them  to  interfere  with  the  state 
of  human  affiiirs.     This  species  of  miraculous  interference 
was  indeed  a  portion  of  the  poet's  creed.     It  mingled  very 
naturally  with  his  argument ;  so  much  so,  that  being  unable 
to  exclude  it,  he  found  himself  embarrassed  with  two  contra- 
dictory machineries  which  it  required  some  pains  to  reconcile, 
and  of  which  one  was  essential  to  his  poetry,  and  the  other  to 
his  faith.     Such  a  mixture  of  celestial  elements  has  in  it 
something  extremely  revolting  ;  but  national  education  and 
prejudice  sufficiently  account  for  this  apparent  inconsistency 
in  so  great  a  man,  and  this  consideration  should  prevent  us 
from  forming   a  wrong  judgment  on  the  remainder  of  tlie 
work.     We   have   already    had   occasion   to  notice   several 
Spanish  poets  guilty  of  the  same  error  ;  and  we  observe  these 
two  contending  mythologies  struggling  for  precedency  in  the 
Nnmantin  of  Cervantes,  and  in  the  Diana  of  IMontemayor. 

The  Lusiad  is  divided  into  ten  cantos,  containing  only  eleven 
hundred  and  two  stanzas,  and  it  is  therefore  not  to  be  compared 
in  point  of  length  to  the  Jerusalem  Delivered,  or  indeed  to 
most  epic  poems.  It  is,  likewise,  less  generally  known,*  and 
entitled  therefore  to  a  more  particular  consideration;  especially 
as  it  contains  all  the  most  interesting  information  which  can 
be  afforded  respecting  Portugal.     The  extracts  we  proceed 

*  The  Lusiad  is  now  more  generally  known  than  when  I  first  jiublished  this  work. 
Both  careful  editions  and  translations  of  this  national  poem  have  multiplied.  Tliatof 
M.  Briccolani,  just  published  in  Italian,  is  better  adapted  th m  any  other  to  convey  a 
correct  impression  of  the  work  to  readers  unacquainted  with  the  Portuguese.  While 
the  translator  scrupulously  adheres  to  the  sense,  to  the  allegory,  and  to  the  original 
form,  even  so  far  as  to  render  verse  for  verse  in  the  same  metre,  he  has  preserved  the 
inspiration  of  brilliant  poetry.  See  "  I  Lusi.idi  del  Camoens  reeati  in  ottava  rima  da 
A  Briccolani,"    Parigi,  F.  Didot,  1826. 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  487 

to  give,  will  at  once  throw  liglit  upon  the  argument  of  the 
poem,  and  upon  the  history  of  the  people  to  whose  glory  it 
was  consecrated  : 

Now  far  from  land,  o'er  Neptune's  dread  abode 

The  Lusitanian  fleet  triumphant  rode ; 

Onward  they  traced  the  wide  and  lonesome  main, 

Where  changeful  Proteus  leads  his  scaly  train ; 

The  dancing  vanes  before  the  zephyrs  flow'd, 

And  their  bold  keels  the  trackless  ocean  plow'd  ; 

Unplow'd  before  the  green-tinged  billows  rose, 

And  curl'd  and  whiten'd  round  the  nodding  prows. 

When  Jove,  the  god  who  with  a  thought  controls 

The  raging  seas,  and  balances  the  poles, 

From  heaven  beheld,  and  will'd,  in  sovereign  state, 

To  fix  the  Eastern  World's  depending  fate  : 

Swift  at  his  nod  th'  Olympian  herald  flies, 

And  calls  th'  immortal  senate  of  the  skies ; 

Where,  from  the  sovereign  throne  of  earth  and  heaven, 

Tb'  immutable  decrees  of  fate  are  given. 

Instant  the  regents  of  the  spheres  of  light. 

And  those  who  rule  the  paler  orbs  of  night, 

With  those,  the  gods  whose  delegated  sway 

The  burning  South  and  frozen  North  obey ; 

And  they  whose  empires  see  the  day-star  rise. 

And  evening  Phoebus  leave  the  western  skies  ; 

All  instant  pour'd  along  the  milky  road. 

Heaven's  crystal  pavements  glittering  as  they  strode  : 

And  now,  obedient  to  the  di-ead  command. 

Before  their  awful  Lord  in  order  stand.* 

When  the  assembly  had  met,  Jupiter  informs  them  that, 
according  to  an  ancient  order  of  the  Destinies,  the  Portuguese 
were  to  surpass  every  thing  that  had  been  recorded  as  most 
glorious  in  the  annals  of  the  Assyrians,  the  Persians,  the 
Greeks,  or  the  Romans.  He  dwells  on  their  recent  victories 
over  the  Moors,  and  over  the  more  formidable  Castilians,  and 
on  the  glory  acquired  of  old  by  Viriatus,  and  then  by  Serto- 
rius,  in  checking  the  career  of  the  Romans.  He  next  points 
them  out  as  traversing  in  their  vessels  the  untried  seas  of 
Africa,  to  discover  new  countries,  and  establish  kingdoms  in 
the  reffions  of  the  rising:  sun.  It  is  his  will  that  after  navi- 
gating  through  the  winter  they  should  meet  with  a  hospitable 
reception  on  the  coast  of  Africa,  in  order  to  recruit  their 
forces  for  renewed  exploits,  Bacchus  then  speaks  :  he  seems 
apprehensive  that  the  Portuguese  may  eclipse  the  glory 
already  acquired  by  himself  in  his  conquest  of  India,  and  he 

*  Canto  i.  str.  19. 


488  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

frankly  declares  against  tliem.  Venus,  on  the  other  hand, 
so  much  honoured  and  cherished  by  the  Portuguese,  imagines 
she  has  again  i'ound  lier  ancient  Romans  ;  their  language 
appears  to  her  to  be  the  same,  with  a  few  slight  variations ; 
and  slie  promises  to  aid  their  enterprise.  The  whole  synod  of 
Olympus  is  then  divided  between  the  two  divinities,  and  the 
tumult  of  their  deliberations  is  described  in  one  of  the  happiest 
and  most  brilliant  images,*  l\Iai"s,  equally  favourable  to  the 
Portuguese,  at  last  prevails  upon  the  Thundei'er  to  support 
them  and  to  send  Mercury  to  direct  them  in  their  course  ; 
and  tlie  deities  then  severally  depart  to  their  accustomed  seats. 
After  thus  introducing  us  to  the  councils  of  the  gods, 
Camocns  recalls  our  attention  to  the  heroic  personages  of  his 
poem.  They  were  navigating  the  straits  which  separate  the 
isle  of  IMadagascar  from  the  Ethiopian  shore,  and  after 
doubling  Cape  Prasso,  they  discovered  new  islands  and  a  new 
sea.  Vasco  de  Gama,  the  brave  commander  of  the  Portu- 
guese, who  appears  for  the  first  time  only  in  the  forty-fourth 
stanza,  was  preparing  to  proceed  onwards,  when  a  number  of 
small  canoes  advanced  from  one  of  the  islands,  and  suri'ounded 
liim  on  all  sides,  demanding,  in  Arabic,  some  account  of  the 
nature  of  the  voyage.  Here,  for  the  first  time,  the  Portu- 
guese, after  sailing  many  hundred  leagues,  met  with  a  language 
which  they  understood,  and  discovered  traces  of  civilization 
in  the  arts  and  commerce  of  the  people  around  them.  They 
novv^  cast  anchor  at  one  of  these  islands,  named  Mozambique, 
a  sort  of  emporium  for  the  trade  of  tlie  kingdoms  of  Quiloa, 
Momba9a,  and  Sofala.  The  floors  who  had  interrogated 
Gama  were  themselves  foreign  mercliants  trading  in  the 
country.  AVhen  they  heard  of  the  invincible  heroism  of 
Gama,  traversing  unknown  seas  to  discover  India  by  an 
untried  route,  and  at  the  same  time  learned  that  he  com- 
manded a  Cliristian  and  Portuguese  fleet,  tliey  attempted  to 
dissuade  him  from  his  enterprise.  Bacchus,  appearing  under 
the  figure  of  an  old  man  before  the  Clieik  of  Mozambique, 
exasperates  him  against  the  Portuguese,  and  induces  him  to 
prepare  an  ambuscade  near  some  fresh  springs,  wliither  they 
are  just  repairing  to  supply  themselves  witli  water.     With 

*  Qual  austro  fero  ou  Boreas,  naespessura     Brama  toda  a  montanha,  o  som  murmur?, 
De  sylvestre  arvoredo  abastecida,  Homj'cmse  as  folhas.  ferv-easerraerguida, 

Ronipendo  os  ramos  vao  damata  escura,       'J  al  andava  o  tuniulto  levantado 
Com  iinpeto  e  braveza  dcsmedida,  Entre  os  Ucoscs  no  Olympo  consagrado. 

Canto  i.  sir.  35. 


OF   THE   PORTUGUESE.  489 

this  design,  Gama  is  proceeding  very  peaceably  towards  the 
fountain,  with  three  boats,  when  he  is  surprised  by  the 
appearance  of  a  party  of  Moors  prepared  to  repulse  him  from 
the  spot.  On  tlieir  proceeding  to  insult  the  Christians,  a 
contest  ensues.  The  Musulmans  spring  from  their  ambuscade 
to  join  their  countrymen,  but  by  the  superiority  of  fire  arms 
they  are  soon  thrown  into  confusion,  and  take  to  flight.  They 
are  even  on  the  point  of  abandoning  their  town  ;  and  the 
Cheik  considers  himself  fortunate  in  being  permitted  to  renew 
the  peace ;  but  he  does  not  the  less  flatter  himself  with  hopes 
of  revenge.  He  had  already  promised  to  supply  Gama  with 
a  pilot  to  conduct  him  to  India,  and  he  makes  choice  of  one 
to  whom  he  gives  secret  instructions  to  betray  the  Portuguese 
into  certain  destruction.  The  pilot  accordingly  informs  them 
he  will  guide  them  to  a  powerful  kingdom  inl>abited  by 
Christians.  The  Portuguese  entertain  no  doubt  of  its  being 
that  of  Prester  John,  of  whom,  as  being  their  natural  ally, 
they  had  been  every  where  in  search,  while  the  real  object  of 
the  pilot  is  to  take  them  to  Quiloa,  whose  sovereign  was  suffi- 
ciently powerful  to  crush  them  at  a  blow.  -  Venus,  however, 
countei-acts  the  intended  treachery,  and  directs  the  vessel 
towards  Momba9a,  where  the  pilot  likewise  informed  Gama 
that  he  would  meet  with  Christians.  It  is  hardly  likely  that 
by  this  assertion  the  Moors  intended  to  deceive  the  Portuguese: 
they  answered  that  in  the  country  whither  they  were  desirous 
of  conducting  them,  there  were  a  great  number  of  infidels, 
who  went  under  the  generic  name  of  Giaour,  indifferently 
applied  among  the  Arabs,  to  Guebres,  idolaters,  and  Chris- 
tians. It  was  impossible  that  in  a  language,  which  both  parties 
very  imperfectly  understood,  the  ignorant  interpreters  should 
be  able  to  explain  the  peculiar  distinctions  of  sects  known 
only  to  the  learned,  by  whom  they  were  all  equally  despised. 
The  second  canto  opens  with  the  arrival  of  the  Christians 
at  Momba9a,  where  the  king  had  been  already  apprised  of 
their  voyage,  and  where  Bacchus  was  in  readiness  to  plot 
their  destruction  by  new  artifices.  Gama  despatches  two  of 
his  soldiers  with  presents  for  the  king,  giving  them  at  the 
same  time  instructions  to  observe  the  manners  of  the  place, 
and  to  ascertain  what  degree  of  confidence  might  be  placed 
in  the  professions  of  the  Moors.  Bacchus,  in  order  to  induce 
them  to  suppose  that  Christians  inhabit  Momba9a,  affects  to 
receive  them  with  hospitality,  and  himself  presides  over  the 

VOL.  II.  H    H 


490  ox    THE    LITERATURE 

feast  in  an  edifice  ornamented  like  a  temple.  The  Virgin 
Mary  and  the  Holy  Ghost  are  represented  on  the  altar  ;  the 
statues  of  the  Apostles  embellish  the  portico  of  the  temple  ; 
while  Bacchus  himself,  assuming  the  character  of  a  priest, 
worships  tlie  true  God  of  the  Christians.  In  order  to  com- 
prehend this  singular  fiction,  we  ought  to  bear  in  mind,  that 
in  the  eyes  of  the  Catholic  doctors,  the  gods  of  the  Pagans 
are  no  other  than  real  fiends,  invested  with  actual  power  and 
existence,  and  tliat  in  opposing  the  Divinity,  they  are  only 
maintaining  the  rebellion  of  old.  Bacchus  here  plays  the 
same  part  assigned  to  Beelzebub  and  Ashtaroth  in  the  work 
of  Tasso.  It  may  also  be  observed  that  the  nxirvellous  inci- 
dent thus  introduced  by  Camoens,  was  on  historical  record 
amongst  the  Portuguese.  These  hardy  navigators  were,  in 
fact,  received  at  Momba9a,  in  a  house  where  they  observed 
the  rites  of  Christian  worship  ;  and  it  is  known  they  were 
in  use  among  the  Nestorians  of  Abyssinia.  These  sec- 
taries were,  however,  heretics  ;  a  circumstance  sufiicient  in 
the  eyes  of  theologians  to  justify  the  denunciations  of  the 
church  against  their  religion,  as  an  illusion  of  tlie  Evil  One. 
But  it  must  be  allowed  that  the  mythology  of  Camoens  is 
almost  always  unintelligible,  and  that  the  interest  is  by  no 
means  hitherto  sufficiently  excited.  The  opening  of  the  poem 
was  imposing,  but  the  narrative  soon  begins  to  languish.  The 
circumstances  of  the  voyage  are  recounted  with  historical 
correctness  ;  yet  Camoens  presents  us  with  little  more  than 
we  meet  with  in  the  fourth  book  of  the  first  Decade  of  Bar- 
ros,  in  which  is  given  a  history  of  the  Portuguese  conquests 
in  India.  We  miglit  almost  imagine  that  he  drew  his  materials 
from  this  source,  rather  than  from  his  own  adventures  and 
researches  in  those  unknown  regions.  His  ornaments  appear 
to  have  been  wholly  borrowed  from  Grecian  ial)le  ;  nor  has 
he  sufficiently  availed  himself  of  the  advantages  affijrded  him 
by  the  climate,  manners,  and  imagination  of  these  oriental 
realms.  But  let  us  only  proceed,  and  we  shall  find  beauties 
scattered  so  profusely  over  the  whole  poem,  and  of  such  a 
superior  order,  as  not  only  to  redeem  his  defects,  but  to  com- 
pensate us  for  all  our  labour. 

Encouraged  by  the  report  of  his  messenger,  and  the  press- 
ing invitation  of  the  King  of  Mombasa,  Gama  resolves  to 
enter  the  port  on  the  ensuing  day.  He  weighs  anchor,  and 
with  swelling  sails  arrives  at  the  place  destined  for  his  de- 


OF    THE   PORTUGUESE.  491 

struction  ;  when  Venus,  hastening  to  his  rescue,  addresses 
herself  to  the  nymphs  of  the  sea,  beseeching  them  by  their 
common  origin  from  the  bosom  of  the  waves,  and  by  the  love 
they  bear  her,  to  fly  to  the  assistance  of  her  favoured  people, 
and  avert  the  impending  doom.  The  Nereids  throng  aftec- 
tionately  round  the  goddess  ;  and  a  Triton,  delighted  with 
his  burden,  wafts  her  along  the  sea,  bounding  before  his  com- 
panions. The  rest  of  the  ocean  deities  then  hasten  to  impede 
the  passage  of  the  ships.  The  fair  Dione  presents  her  white 
and  delicate  bosom  before  the  admiral's  prow,  and  alters  its 
course  in  spite  of  the  winds  that  swell  the  sails,  and  the  ma- 
noeuvres of  the  crew.*  The  whole  squadron  is  lost  in  wonder 
at  the  miracle  ;  the  Moors  imagine  that  their  treachery  is  dis- 
covered, and  precipitate  themselves  into  the  sea ;  the  pilot 
himself  escapes  by  swimming  ;  while  Vasco  de  Gama,  con- 
jecturing their  perfidy  by  their  fears,  steers  away  from  the 
port,  and  places  himself  in  an  attitude  of  defence. 

In  the  mean  time,  Venus  hastens  to  Olympus  to  solicit 
Jupiter's  aid  in  favour  of  the  Portuguese;  and  her  graceful 
appearance  and  progress  through  the  heavens,  with  her  sup- 
plications at  the  throne  of  the  Thunderer,  are  described  with 
an  ease,  tenderness,  and  even  voluptuousness,  not  surpassed 
by  the  old  poets,  whose  worship  of  Venus  formed  a  part  of 
their  religion. — Jupiter  receives  her  with  kindness,  and  con- 
soles her  by  assuring  her  of  the  future  glory  of  the  Portu- 
guese, the  great  triumphs  which  they  would  achieve  in  the 
Indian  Seas,  the  foundation  of  the  empire  at  Goa,  the  double 
conquest  of  Ormuz,  and  the  ruin  of  Calicut.  He  then  com- 
mands Mercury  to  conduct  Vasco  de  Gama  into  the  kingdom 
of  Melinda,  whose  inhabitants,  although  Moors,  will  receive 
him  with  open  arms,  and  provide  him  with  every  thing  of 
which  he  may  be  in  want. 

The  King  of  Melinda,  struck  with  wonder  at  their  hardy 
enterprise,  and  impressed  with  the  highest  opinion  of  the 
superior  power  of  the  Portuguese,  is  desix'ous  of  enter- 
ing into  an  alliance  with  the  strangers.  He  supplies  them 
with  provisions  and  other  accommodations,  of  which  they 
stood  in  need,  and  even  consents  to  embark  in  order  to 
hold  a  conference  with  the  admiral,  who  will  not  be  pre- 
vailed upon  to  land.  He  then  expresses  a  curiosity  to 
hear  the  adventures  of  the  Europeans,  of  which  the  poet 

«  »  Canto  ii.  str.  22.  t  Canto  ii.  str.  33  to  38. 

HH  2 


492  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

avails  himself  to  give  a  long  recital  from  the  mouth  of  his 
hero,  not  only  of  his  past  adventureSj  but  of  the  general 
history  of  his  country.  This  nunative  alone  occupies  nearly 
one-third  of  the  poem,  and  though  very  important,  according  to 
the  plan  laid  down  by  Camoens,  is  certainly  introduced  in  a 
much  less  natural  manner  than  either  that  of  Ulysses,  deli- 
vered to  the  Phaeacians,  or  that  of  ^neas  to  Dido,  both  of 
whicli  he  had  before  him  as  his  models.  The  Moorish  king, 
to  whom  it  is  addressed,  having  no  previous  acquaintance 
with  Europe,  its  laws,  its  wars,  or  its  religion,  must  have 
been  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  the  greatest  part  of  a  narrative, 
which,  if  understood,  could  only  have  had  tlie  effect  of  pre- 
possessing him  against  his  guest,  an  hereditary  enemy  of  the 
Mahometan  religion  and  of  the  Moorish  race.  Considered  by 
itself,  however,  the  whole  discourse  may  be  pronounced 
almost  a  perfect  model  of  the  narrative  style. 

The  hero  begins  his  relation  with  a  description  of  Europe; 
that  portion  of  the  world  whence  the  conquerors  and  the  in- 
structors of  the  universe  are  destined  to  arise.  The  passage  is 
noble  and  poetical ;  pourtraying  the  characteristic  features  of 
the  various  people  who  occupy  these  regions  of  the  world.  We 
are  told  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  Scandinavian  snows,  who  boast 
the  glory  of  having  first  vanquished  the  Romans  ;  of  the  Ger- 
mans ;  of  the  Poles,  and  the  Russians,  who  succeeded  the  Scy- 
thians ;  of  the  Thracians  subjected  to  the  Ottoman  yoke  ;  and  of 
theinhabitantsof  the  famed  land  of  valour,  genius,  and  manners; 
the  land  that  gave  birth  to  the  most  eloquent  hearts  and  the 
brightest  and  most  imaginative  spirits,  who  carried  arms  and 
letters  to  a  pitch  of  glory  never  witnessed  in  any  country 
but  Greece,  After  the  Greeks  follow  the  Italians,  formerly 
so  greatly  renowned  in  arms,  but  whose  glory  now  consists  in 
an  implicit  submission  to  the  authority  of  the  vicar  of  Ciirist. 
The  Gauls,  whose  fame  is  coeval  with  the  triumphs  of  Cassar, 
are  next  noticed  ;  and,  at  last,  the  poet  arrives  at  the  hills  of 
the  Pyrenees,  and  thus  continues  : 

And  now,  as  head  of  all  the  lordly  train 

Of  Europe's  realms,  appears  illustrious  Spain. 

Alas,  what  various  fortunes  has  she  known  ! 

Yet  ever  did  her  sons  her  wrongs  atone  : 

Short  was  the  triumph  of  her  haughty  foes. 

And  still  with  fairer  bloom  her  honours  rose. 

Where,  lock'd  with  land,  the  struggling  currenta  boil. 

Famed  for  the  god-like  Theban's  latest  toil. 


OF    THE   PORTUGUESE.  498 

Against  one  coast  the  Punic  strand  extends, 
And  round  her  breast  the  midland  ocean  bends  : 
Around  her  shores  two  various  oceans  swell. 
And  various  nations  in  her  bosom  dwell  ; 
Such  deeds  of  valour  dignify  their  names, 
Each  the  imperial  right  of  honour  claims. 
Proud  Aragon,  who  twice  her  standard  rear'd 
In  conquer'd  Naples  ;  and  for  art  revered, 
Galicia's  prudent  sons  ;  the  fierce  Navar ; 
And  he,  far  dreaded  in  the  Moorish  war, 
The  bold  Asturian  :  nor  Sevilia's  race, 
Nor  thine,  Grenada,  claim  the  second  place, 
Here  too  the  heroes  who  command  the  plain 
By  Betis  watefd  ;  here,  the  pride  of  Spain, 
The  brave  Castilian  pauses  o'er  his  sword, 
His  country's  dread  deliverer  and  lord. 
Proud  o'er  the  rest,  with  splendid  wealth  array'd, 
As  crown  to  this  wide  empire,  Europe's  head. 
Fair  Lusitania  smiles,  the  western  bound. 
Whose  verdant  breast  the  rolling  waves  surround, 
Where  gentle  evening  pours  her  lambent  ray. 
The  last  pale  gleaming  of  departing  day  : 
This,  this,  0  mighty  king,  the  sacred  earth, 
This  the  loved  parent-soil  that  gave  me  birth. 
And  oh,  would  bounteous  Heaven  my  prayer  regard, 
And  fair  success  my  perilous  toils  reward. 
May  that  dear  land  my  latest  breath  receive. 
And  give  my  weary  bones  a  peaceful  grave. 

Gama  tlien  goes  on  to  describe  the  formation  of  the  king- 
dom of  Portugal,  a  recital,  we  imagine,  more  interesting  to 
ourselves  than  to  the  King  of  Melinda.  The  author  presents 
us  with  the  history  of  his  country  arrayed  in  a  poetical  garb; 
and  brings  before  our  view  every  thing  calculated  to  inspire 
us  with  the  loftiest  virtues,  or  the  most  touching '  griefs. 
Still,  however,  we  must  expect  to  meet  with  more  real  in- 
struction than  romantic  interest  in  the  course  of  our  pro- 
gress through  the  Lusiad.  It  was  the  object  of  Camoens  to 
exhibit  in  his  epic  every  incident  with  which  history  fur- 
nished him,  most  glorious  to  the  character  of  his  country; 
and  he  endeavoured  to  recommend  his  subject  by  the  charm 
of  verse,  as  he  was  aware  that  his  theme  could  bestow  little 
attraction  on  his  poem.  He  succeeded  in  handing  down  the 
national  records  to  the  notice  of  posterity,  but  he  could  not 
divest  them  of  the  peculiar  character  attached  to  them  as 
national  records  only.  The  account  given  by  Gama  will 
supply  us  with  the  following  short  abridgment  of  the  history 
of  Portugal. 


» 


494  ON  THE   LITERATURE 

At  the  time  when  King  Alfonso  VI.  by  the  conquest  of 
Toledo,  had  drawn  together  from  all  parts  an  army  of  adven- 
turers ready  to  consecrate  their  swords  to  the  cross,  and  had 
extended  his  dominion  as  far  as  the  shores  of  the  western 
ocean,  he  resolved  to  reward  these  valiant  knights  by  pre- 
senting them  with  the  government  of  the  conquered  pro- 
vinces. For  this  purpose  he  made  choice  of  Henry,  second 
son  of  the  King  of  Hungary,  according  to  Camoens,  for 
their  chief,  although  most  genealogists  agree  that  he  was  the 
son  of  Robert  le  Vieux,  grandson  to  Hugh  Capet,  and 
founder  of  the  first  house  of  Burgundy.  Alfonso  VI. 
created  the  same  Henry  Count  of  Portugal  ;  presented  him 
with  a  portion  of  the  territories  of  the  country;  and  gave 
him  in  marriage  his  own  daughter  Teresa.  Henry,  though  left 
to  his  own  resources,  soon  extended  his  dominion  over  fresh 
provinces,  which  he  wrested  from  the  enemies  of  the  faith. 

On  his  decease,  full  of  years  and  glory,  Henry  expected 
to  leave  the  crown  to  his  son  Alfonso.  But  Teresa,  having 
contracted  a  second  marriage,  asserted  her  claims  to  the 
kingdom,  on  the  ground  that  her  father  had  conferred  it  on 
her  as  a  portion,  and  she  excluded  her  son  from'  all  share  in 
the  succession.  Alfonso,  however,  refused  to  submit  to  these 
terms,  and  the  Portuguese,  impatient  of  the  least  dependence 
upon  Castile,  ardently  embraced  his  cause.  The  armies  met 
in  the  plains  of  Guimaraens,  where,  for  the  first  time,  in  the 
year  1128,  Portuguese  blood  was  shed  in  a  civil  war.  Vic- 
tory declared  in  favour  of  Alfonso  I. ;  his  mother  and  his 
step-father  fell  into  his  hands  ;  and  the  whole  of  their  for- 
tresses opened  their  gates  to  him.  In  a  paroxysm  of  anger, 
he  ordered  his  mother  to  be  thrown  into  irons,  and  thus  drew 
down  upon  himself  the  vengeance  of  Heaven,  no  less  than 
that  of  the  Castilians  ;  who,  approaching  in  great  force,  laid 
siege  to  Guimaraens.  Unable  to  oppose  them,  Alfonso  was 
compelled  to  otler  complete  submission  :  and  pledged  for  its 
performance  the  word  of  Egaz  jVIoniz,  a  Portuguese  noble- 
man, his  former  tutor,  and  the  same  individual  who  is  cele- 
brated a?  tin;  earliest  poet  of  Portugal.  But  tlie  immediate 
danger  being  once  removed,  Alfonso  felt  his  reluctance  to 
submit  to  foreign  authority,  and  to  pay  a  foreign  tribute, 
again  revive.  Egaz  Moniz  was  as  unwilling  to  nMnain 
pledged  for  the  word  of  a  perjured  prince,  as  to  contribute, 
in  order  to  save  his  own  life,  to  the  ruin  of  his  countrv. 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  495 

When  Egas  to  redeem  his  faith's  disgrace 
Devotes  himself,  his  spouse,  and  infant  race  : 
In  gowns  of  wliite,  as  sentenced  felons  clad, 
When  to  the  stake  the  sons  of  guilt  are  led. 
With  feet  unshod  they  slowly  mov'd  along, 
And  from  their  necks  the  knotted  halters  hung. 
And  now,  0  king,  the  kneeling  Egas  cries, 
Behold  my  perjui'ed  honour's  sacrifice  : 
If  such  mean  victims  can  atone  thine  ire. 
Here  let  my  wife,  my  babes,  myself  expire. 
If  generous  bosoms  such  revenge  can  take, 
Here  let  them  perish  for  the  father's  sake : 
The  guilty  tongue,  the  guilty  hands  are  these, 
Nor  let  a  common  death  thy  wrath  appease  ; 
For  us  let  all  the  rage  of  torture  burn. 
But  to  my  prince,  thy  son,  in  friendship  turn. 
He  spoke,  and  bow'd  his  prostrate  body  low. 
As  one  who  waits  the  lifted  sabre's  blow, 
When  o'er  the  block  his  languid  arms  are  spread. 
And  death,  foretasted,  whelms  the  heart  with  dread. 
So  great  a  leader  thus  in  humbled  state. 
So  firm  his  loyalt}',  and  zeal  so  gi'cat. 
The  brave  Alonzo's  kindled  ii-e  subdued. 
And  lost  in  silent  joy  the  monarch  stood  ; 
Then  gave  the  hand,  and  sheath'd  the  hostile  sword, 
And  to  such  honour  honour'd  peace  restored.* 

After  the  civil  wars  of  Alfonso  L  Vasco  de  Gama  proceeds 
to  recount  tlie  exploits  of  that  prince  against  the  Moors,  and, 
in  particular,  the  victory  of  Ourique,  gained  on  the  twenty- 
sixth  of  July,  1139,  wdiich  first  consolidated  the  foundations 
of  the  kingdom  of  Portugal.  Five  Moorish  kings  were 
vanquished  in  one  battle  by  Alfonso;  and  this  prince  resolving 
to  place  himself  at  least  upon  an  equality  with  those  he  had 
overcome,  assumed  the  title  of  King  instead  of  that  of  Count, 
adopting  for  the  arms  of  his  new  kingdom,  five  escutclieons 
ranged  in  the  form  of  a  cross,  on  which  were  represented  the 
thirty  pieces,  the  price  for  which  Jesus  was  betrayed.  The 
strongest  places  in  Portugal,  still  occupied  by  the  Moors, 
were  reduced  to  submission  after  this  victory.  The  city  of 
Lisbon,  founded,  if  we  are  to  believe  the  Portuguese,  by 
Ulysses,  was  taken  in  1147,  with  the  aid  of  the  knights  of 
England  and  Germany,  forming  part  of  the  second  crusade  ; 
and  in  the  same  manner  Sylves  fell,  in  the  following  reign, 
by  the  help  of  the  Christian  armies  of  Richard  and  of  Philip 
Augustus,  proceeding  on  the  third  crusade.     Alfonso  pursued 


*  Canto  iii.  str.  38. 


496  ON   THE   LITERATURE 

his  career  of  success,  defeated  the  Moors  in  repeated  engage- 
ments, and  possessed  himself  of  tlieir  fortresses.  He,  at  last, 
advanced  as  far  as  Badajoz,  which  he  likewise  added  to  his 
other  conquests.  But  the  divine  vengeance,  though  late, 
overtook  the  conqueror  of  Portugal  ;  and  the  maledictions  of 
his  mother,  whom  he  had  retained  captive,  were  fulfilled. 
He  had  reached  his  eightieth  year  at  the  taking  of  Badajoz, 
but  his  strength  seemed  still  nearly  equal  to  his  gigantic 
size,  while  neither  treaties,  nor  ties  of  blood,  formed  any  bar 
to  his  ambition.  Badajoz  ought  to  have  been  delivered  up, 
by  stipulation,  to  Ferdinand,  King  of  Leon,  his  son-in-law 
and  ally,  but  Alfonso  resolved  rather  to  stand  a  siege,  and 
even  attempted  to  cut  his  way,  sword  in  hand,  through  the 
army  of  Ferdinand.  He  was,  however,  thrown  from  his 
horse  ;  his  leg  was  fractured,  and  he  was  taken  prisoner. 
Mistrusting  his  future  fortunes,  he  then  resigned  the 
administration  of  his  kingdom  into  the  hands  of  his  son  Don 
Sancho.  But  he  no  sooner  learned  that  the  latter  was 
besieged  in  the  town  of  Santarem  by  thirteen  Moorish  kings, 
and  the  Erain  el  Mumenim,  than,  summoning  his  veteran 
troops,  the  old  hero  of  Portugal  hastened  to  the  deliverance  of 
his  son,  and  gained  a  battle  in  which  the  Emperor  of  Morocco 
was  slain.  Nor  was  it  until  he  had  attained  his  ninety-first 
year,  that  the  founder  of  the  Portuguese  monarchy  yielded  at 
last  to  the  combined  force  of  sickness  and  age,  in  1 185. 

Gama  next  proceeds  to  relate  the  victories  of  Alfonso's 
son  Don  Sancho  ;  the  capture  of  Sylves  from  the  Moors, 
and  of  Tui  from  the  King  of  Leon.  These  are  followed  by 
the  conquest  of  Alcazar  do  Sal,  by  Alfonso  IL,  and  by  the 
weakness  and  cowardice  of  Don  Sancho  IL,  who,  sunk  in 
sloth  and  pleasure,  was  deposed,  in  order  to  make  way  for 
his  brother  Alfonso  HL  the  conqueror  of  the  kingdom  of 
Algarves.  To  him  succeeded  Dionysius,  the  legislator  of 
Portugal  and  the  founder  of  the  University  of  Coimbra,  a 
monarch  whose  declining  years  were  embittered  by  the  rest- 
less ambition  of  his  son  Alfonso  IV.  ;  who  afterwards 
acquired  the  surname  of  Tlie  Brave,  by  his  exploits  during 
a  warfare  of  twelve  years  with  the  Castilians.  When, 
however,  the  dominions  of  the  Christian  princes  were  threat- 
ened by  a  fresh  invasion  of  the  Alrnoades  Moors,  conducted 
by  the  P^mperor  of  Morocco,  Alfonso  brought  an  army  of 
auxiliaries  to  the  assistance  of  the  King  of  Castile,  to  whom 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  497 

he  had  inarried  his  daughter,  and  bore  a  share  in  the  brilliant 
victory  of  Tarifa,  obtained  on  the  thirtieth  of  October, 
1340.  Towards  the  close  of  this  reign  the  fatal  incident 
occurred  upon  which  is  founded  the  episode  of  the  unfortunate 
Inez  de  Castro,  who,  after  her  death,  was  proclaimed  Queen 
of  Portugal  on  the  accession  of  her  lover  to  the  throne  ;  an 
episode  the  most  affecting  and  beautiful  of  any  in  the  poem;  and 
one  which  affords  a  fine  relief,  by  its  highly  dramatic  interest, 
to  the  historical  details  in  which  Caraoens  so  much  indulsred. 

'Twas  thou,  0  love,  whose  dreaded  shafts  control 
The  hind's  rude  heart,  and  t'^ar  the  hero's  soul ; 
Thou  ruthless  power,  with  bloodshed  never  cloy'd, 
'Twas  thou  thy  lovely  votaiy  destroy 'd. 
Thy  thirst  still  burning  for  a  deeper  woe. 
In  vain  to  thee  the  tears  of  beauty  flow : 
The  breast  that  feels  thy  purest  flames  divine, 
With  spouting-  gore  must  bathe  thy  crael  shrine. 
Such  thy  dire  triumphs  ! — Thou,  0  nymph,  the  while,* 
Prophetic  of  the  god's  unpitying  guile, 
In  tender  scenes  by  love-sick  fancy  wrought. 
By  fear  oft  shifted  as  by  fancy  brought, 
In  sweet  Mondego's  ever-verdant  bowei-s 
Languish'd  away  the  slow  and  lonely  houi*s  . 
While  now,  as  terror  waked  thy  boding  fears, 
The  conscious  stream  received  thy  pearly  tears  ; 
And  now,  as  hope  revived  the  brighter  flame, 
Each  echo  sigli'd  thy  princely  lover's  name. 
Nor  less  could  absence  from  thy  prince  remove 
The  dear  remembrance  of  his  distant  love  : 
Thy  looks,  thy  smiles,  before  him  ever  glow. 
And  oer  his  melting  heart  endearing  flow  : 
By  night  his  slumbers  bring  thee  to  his  arms. 
By  day  his  thoughts  still  wander  o'er  thy  charms  : 
By  night,  by  day,  each  thought  thy  loves  employ, 
Each  thought  the  memory  or  the  hope  of  joy. 
Though  fairest  princely  dames  invok'd  his  love, 
No  princely  dame  his  constant  faith  could  move  : 
For  thee  alone  his  constant  passion  burn'd, 
Por  thee  the  profFer'd  royal  maids  he  scorn'd. 
Ah,  hope  of  bliss  too  high — the  princely  dames 
Refused,  dread  rage  the  father's  breast  inflames  ; 
He,  with  an  old  man's  wintry  eye,  surveys 
The  youth's  fond  love,  and  coldly  with  it  weighs 
The  people's  murmurs  of  his  son's  delay 
To  bless  the  nation  with  his  nuptial  day. 
(Alas,  the  nuptial  day  was  past  unknown. 
Which  but  when  crown'd  the  prince  could  dare  to  own.) 
And  with  the  fair  one's  blood  the  vengeful  sire 
Resolves  to  quench  his  Pedro's  faithful  fire. 
''  *"  Canto  iii.  str.  120,  121. 


498  ON    THE    LITERATUKE 

Oh,  thou  dread  sword,  oft  stain'd  with  heroes'  gore, 
Thou  awful  terror  of  the  prostrate  Jloor, 
What  rage  could  aim  thee  at  a  feuuilc  breast, 
Unarm'd,  by  softness  aud  by  love  possessed  ! 

Dragg'd  from  her  bower  by  murdcrou-;  ruffian  haucl^^, 
Before  the  frowning  king  fair  Inez  stands; 
Her  tears  of  artless  innocence,  her  air 
So  mild,  so  lovely,  and  her  face  so  fair, 
Moved  the  stern  'monarch  ;  when  with  eager  zeal 
Her  fierce  destroyers  urged  the  public  weal ; 
Dread  rage  again  the  tyrant's  soul  possess'd, 
And  his  dark  brow  his  cruel  thoughts  confessed  : 
O'er  her  fair  face  a  sudden  paleness  spread. 
Her  throbbing  heart  with  generous  anguish  bled. 
Anguish  to  view  her  lover's  hopeless  woes, 
And  all  the  mother  in  her  bosom  rose. 
Her  ])eautcous  eyes  in  treml)ling  tear-drops  drown'd. 
To  heaven  she  lifted,  but  her  hands  were  bound ; 
Then  on  her  infants  turnd  the  piteous  glance, 
The  look  of  bleeding  woe  ;  the  babes  advance. 
Smiling  in  innocence  of  infant  age, 
Unawecl,  unconscious  of  their  grandsire's  rage ; 
To  whom,  as  bursting  sorrow  gave  the  flow. 
The  native  heart-sprung  eloquence  of  woe, 
The  lovely  captive  thus  :*— O  monarch,  hear, 
If  e'er  to  "thee  the  name  of  man  was  dear. 
If  prowling  tigers,  or  the  wolfs  wild  brood. 
Inspired  by  nature  with  the  lust  of  blood, 
Have  yet  been  moved  the  weeping  babe  to  spare, 
Kor  left,  but  tended  with  a  nurse's  care, 
As  Rome's  great  founders  to  the  world  were  given ; 
Shalt  thou,  who  wear'st  the  sacred  stamp  of  heaven. 
The  human  form  divine,  shalt  thou  deny 
That  aid,  that  pity,  which  e'en  beasts  supply  ! 
O,  that  thy  heart  were,  as  thy  looks  declare, 
Of  human  mould,  superfluous  were  my  prayer; 
Thou  could'st  not  then  a  helpless  damsel  slay 
Whose  sole  ott'cnce  in  fond  aft'ection  lay, 
In  faith  to  him  who  first  his  love  confess'd. 
Who  first  to  love  allured  her  virgin  breast. 
In  these  my  babes  shalt  thou  thine  image  see. 
And  still  tremendous  hurl  thy  rage  on  me  ] 
Me,  for  their  .sakes,  if  yet  thou  wilt  not  spare. 
Oh,  let  these  infants  prove  thy  pious  care  ! 
Yet  pity's  lenient  current  ever  flows 
From  that  brave  breast  where  genuine  valour  glows; 
That  thou  art  brave,  let  vanquish'd  Afric  tell,t 
Then  let  thy  pity  o'er  mine  anguish  swell ; 
Ah,  let  my  woes,  unconscious  of  a  crime. 
Procure  mine  exile  to  some  barbarous  clime  : 


Canto  iii.  str.  125.  t  Canto  iii.  str.  12S. 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  -499 

Give  me  to  wander  o'er  the  burning  plains 

Of  Lybia's  deserts,  or  the  wild  domains 

Of  Scythia's  snow-clad  rocks  and  frozen  shore ; 

There  let  me,  hopeless  of  return,  deplore. 

Where  ghastly  horror  fills  the  dreary  vale, 

Where  shrieks  and  howlings  die  on  every  gale, 

The  lions'  roaring,  and  the  tigers'  yell, 

There  with  mine  infant  race  consign'd  to  dwell, 

There  let  me  try  that  piety  to  find. 

In  vain  by  me  implored  from  human  kind  : 

There,  in  some  dreary  cavern's  rocky  woml), 

Amid  the  horrors  of  sepulchral  gloom, 

Por  him  whose  love  I  mourn,  my  love  shall  glow. 

The  sigh  shall  murmur,  and  the  tear  shall  flow  : 

All  my  fond  wish,  and  all  my  hope,  to  rear 

These  infant  pledges  of  a  love  so  dear. 

Amidst  my  griefs  a  soothing,  glad  employ, 

xYmidst  my  fears  a  woeful,  hopeless  joy. 

In  tears  she  utter'd :  as  the  frozen  snow 
Touch'd  by  the  spring's  mild  ray,  begins  to  flow. 
So  just  began  to  melt  his  stubborn  soul 
As  mild-ray "d  pity  o'er  the  tyrant  stole. 
But  destiny  forbade  :  with  eager  zeal, 
Again  pretended  for  the  public  weal, 
Her  fierce  accusers  urged  her  speedy  doom  ; 
Again  dark  rage  diffused  its  horrid  gloom 
O'er  stern  Alonzo's  brow  :  swift  at  the  sign. 
Their  swords  unsheath'd  around  her  brandish'd  shine. 
Oh,  foul  disgrace,  of  knighthood  lasting  stain, 
By  men  of  arms  an  helpless  lady  slain  ! 

Thus  Pyrrhus,  burning  with  unmanly  ire,* 
FulfiU'd  the  mandate  of  his  furious  sire ; 
Disdainful  of  the  frantic  matron's  prayer. 
On  fair  Polyxena,  her  last  fond  care, 
He  rush'd,  his  blade  yet  warm  with  Priam's  gore. 
And  dash'd  the  daughter  on  the  sacred  floor ; 
While  mildly  she  her  raving  mother  eyed, 
Resign'd  her  bosom  to  the  sword,  and  died. 
Thus  Inez,  while  her  eyes  to  heaven  appeal. 
Resigns  her  bosom  to  the  murdering  steel : 
That  snowy  neck,  whose  matchless  form  sustain'd 
The  loveliest  face  where  all  the  graces  reign'd. 
Whose  charms  so  long  the  gallant  prince  inflamed. 
That  her  pale  corse  was  Lisboa's  queen  proclaim'd  ; 
That  snowy  neck  was  stain'd  with  spouting  gore. 
Another  sword  her  lovely  bosom  tore. 
The  flowers  that  glisten'd  with  her  tears  bcdew'd. 
Now  shrunk  and  languish'd  with  her  blood  imbrued. 
As  when  a  rose,  erewhile  of  bloom  so  gay. 
Thrown  from  the  careless  virgin's  breast  away. 


*  Canto  iii.  str  131  to  135. 


500  ON    TUE    LITERATUKE 

Lies  faded  on  the  plain,  the  living  red, 

The  snowy  white,  and  all  its  fragrance  fled ; 

So  from  her  cheeks  the  roses  died  away. 

And  pale  in  death  the  beauteous  Inez  lay  : 

AVith  dreadful  sniiles,  and  crimson'd  with  her  blood, 

Kound  the  wan  victim  the  stern  murderers  stood, 

Unmindful  of  the  sure,  though  future  hour. 

Sacred  to  vengeance  and  her  lover's  power. 

0  Sun,  couldst  thou  so  foul  a  crime  behold. 
Nor  veil  thine  head  in  darkness,  as  of  old 
A  sudden  night  unwonted  horror  cast 
O'er  that  dire  banquet,  where  the  sire's  repast 
The  son's  torn  limbs  supplied  ! — Yet  you,  ye  vales  ! 
Ye  distant  forests,  and  ye  flowery  dales! 
When  pale  and  sinking  to  the  dreadful  fall. 
You  heard  her  quivering  lips  on  Pedro  call  ; 
Your  faithful  echoes  caught  the  parting  sound. 
And  Pedro  !  Pedro  !  mournful,  sigh'd  around. 
Nor  less  the  wood-nymphs  of  Mondego's  groves 
Bewail'd  the  memory  of  her  hapless  loves : 
Her  griefs  they  wept,  and  to  a  plaintive  rill 
Transform'd  their  tears,  which  weeps  and  murmurs  still. 
To  give  immortal  pity  to  her  woe 
They  taught  the  riv'let  through  her  bowers  to  flow. 
And  still  through  violet  beds  the  fountain  pours 
Its  plaintive  wailing,  and  is  named  Amours. 
Nor  long  her  blood  for  vengeance  cried  in  vain  : 
Her  gallant  lord  begins  his  awful  reign. 
In  vain  her  murderers  for  refuge  fly, 

Spain's  wildest  hills  no  place  of  rest  supply.  ' 

The  injur'd  lover's  and  the  monarch's  ire,  1 

And  stern-brow'd  justice  in  their  doom  conspire  :  > 

In  hissing  flames  they  die,  and  yield  their  souls  in  fire,  j 

Don  Pedro,  after  the  loss  of  his  mistress,  giving  way  to  his 
ferocious  feelings,  signalized  his  reign  only  by  acts  of  cruelty  ; 
^vhile  his  successor,  Ferdinand,  on  the  contrary,  was  of  a 
mild,  weak,  and  even  effeminate  character.  Eleonora,  whom 
he  had  espoused,  after  tearing  her  from  the  arms  of  her  former 
husband,  dishonoured  his  reign  by  her  dissipated  and  aban- 
doned conduct.  lie  left  behind  liim  only  one  daughter, 
named  Beatrice,  whom  the  Portuguese  would  not  consent  to 
acknowledge.  Don  John,  a  natural  brother  of  Ferdinand, 
was  in  consequence  elevated  to  the  throne.  The  Castilians, 
upon  tbis,  invaded  Portugal  with  a  numerous  army,  in  order 
to  establish  the  claim  to  the  throne  of  one  of  their  princes, 
who  had  espoused  Beatrice.  Many  of  the  Portuguese  were 
undecided  in  regard  to  the  party  tliey  should  adopt  ;  but 
Don  Nuiio  Alvarez  Pereira,  by  his  eloquence  in  the  national 
council,  prevailed  upon  the  nobles  of  the  land  to  rally  round 


OF    THE    PORTUaUESE.  501 

their  king.  The  speech  attributed  to  him  by  Camoens, 
preserves  throughout  all  that  chivalric  fire  and  dignity, 
together  with  that  bold  and  masculine  tone,  which  charac- 
terized the  eloquence  of  the  middle  age.*  In  the  same  spirit 
as  he  had  spoken,  Nuno  Alvarez  fought  for  the  independence 
of  his  country.  In  the  battle  of  Aljubarotta,  the  most 
sanguinary  which  had  ever  taken  place  between  the  Portu- 
guese and  the  Castilians,  he  found  himself  opposed  to  his 
brothers,  who  had  embraced  the  party  of  Castile  ;  and  with 
a  handful  of  men  he  stood  the  charge  of  a  numerous  body  of 
the  enemy.  This  engagement  is  described  with  all  the 
splendour  which  the  poet's  art  could  confer,  as  the  hero  v/as 
no  less  a  favourite  of  Camoens  than  of  the  whole  nation 
of  Portugal,  Whilst  the  king,  Don  John,  remained  master 
of  the  field  of  battle  at  Aljubarotta,  Nuno  Alvarez  followed 
up  his  victory,  and  penetrating  as  far  as  Seville,  he  com- 
pelled it  to  surrender,  and  dictated  the  terms  of  peace  to  the 
haughty  people  of  Castile. 

After  this  signal  victory  over  the  Castilians,  Don  John 
was  the  first  Christian  prince  who  passed  into  Africa  to 
extend  his  conquests  among  the  Moors.  He  seems  to  have 
transmitted  the  same  spirit  of  chivalry  to  his  children. 
During  the  reign  of  his  son  Edward,  the  renewed  hostilities 
with  the  infidels  were  rendered  memorable  by  the  captivity  of 
Don  Fernando,  the  heroic  Inflexible  Prince  celebrated  by 
Calderon  as  the  Regulus  of  Portugal.  Next  follows  Alfonso 
V.  distinguished  for  his  victories  over  the  Moors,  but  van- 
quished, in  his  turn,  by  the  Castilians.  whom  he  had  attacked 
in  conjunction  with  Ferdinand  of  Aragon.  He  was  succeeded 
by  John  II.,  the  thirteenth  king  of  Portugal,  who  was  the 
first  to  attempt  the  discovery  of  a  path  to  those  regions  which 
first  meet  the  beams  of  the  sun.  He  sent  out  adventurers  on 
a  journey  of  discovery,  by  way  of  Italy,  Egypt,  and  the 
Red  Sea  ;  but  the  unfortunate  travellers,  after  arriving  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Indus,  fell  victims  to  the  climate,  and  never 
regained  their  native  country.  Emmanuel,  succeeding  to  the 
throne  of  John  II.,  likewise  prosecuted  his  discoveries.  We 
are  informed  by  the  poet,  that  the  rivers  Ganges  and  Indus 
appeared  in  a  vision  to  the  monarch,  inviting  him  to  under- 
take those  conquests,  which  from  the  beginning  of  ages  had 
been  reserved  for  the  Portuguese.     Emmanuel  made  choice, 

*  Canto  iv.  str.  14  to  20. 


502  0\    THE    LITEKATUEE 

for  this  purpose,  of  Vasco  de  Gama,  who,  in  the  fifth  book, 
commences  the  recital  of  his  own  voyage  and  discoveries. 


CHAPTER  XXXYIII. 

SEQUEL   OF   THE    LUSIAD. 

Aerivep,  as  we  now  arc,  at  a  period  when  every  sea  is 
traversed  in  every  direction,  and  for  every  purpose;  and  when 
the  phenomena  of  nature,  observed  throughout  the  different 
regions  of  the  earth,  are  no  longer  a  source  of  mystery  and 
alarm,  we  look  back  upon  the  voyage  of  Vasco  de  Gama  to 
the  Indies,  one  of  the  boldest  and  most  perilous  enterprises 
achieved  by  the  courage  of  man,  with  far  less  admiration  than 
it  formerly  excited.      The  age  preceding  that  of  th<',  great 
Emmanuel,  though   devoted  almost  wholly  to  maritime  dis- 
coveries, had  not  yet  prepared  the  minds  of  men  for  an  under- 
taking of  such  magnitude  and  extent.  For  a  long  period  Cape 
Non,  situated  at  the  extremity  of  the  empire  of  Morocco,  had 
been  considered  as  tlie  limits  of  European  navigation  ;  and  all 
the  honours  awarded  by  the  Infant  Don  Henry,  with  the  addi- 
tional hopes  of  plunder,  on  a  coast  purposely  abandoned  to  the 
cupidity  of  adventurers,  were  necessary  to  induce  the  Portu- 
guese to  approach  the  borders  of  the  great  desert.  Cape  Boja- 
dor  soon  presented  a  new  barrier,   and   excited  new  fears. 
Twelve  years  of  fruitless  attempts  passed  away  before  they 
summoned  resolution   to  double  this  Cape,  and  to  proceed 
farther  in  the  same  track.     Having  explored  scarcely  sixty 
leagues  of  the  coast,  there  yet  remained  more  than  two  thou- 
sand to  be  traversed  before  they  could  attain  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope.     P2ach  step  that  marked  their  progress  along  the 
line  of  coast,  towards  the  discovery  of  Senegal,  of  Guinea, 
and   of  Congo,  presented  them   with  new  phenomena,  with 
fresh  apprehensions,  and  not  Unfrequently  with  fresh  perils. 
Successive  navigators,  iiowever,  gradually  advanced  along  the 
African  shores,  whose  extent  far  surpassed  every  thing  known 
in  European   navigation,  without  discovering  any  traces  of 
civilization  or  commerce,  or  entering  into  any  alliances  which 
might  enable  them,  at  such  a  distance  iVom  their  country,  to 
supply  their  exhausted  magazines,  to  recruit  their   strength, 
and  to  repair  the  various  disasters  of  the  sea  and  climate. 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  503 

But  at  length,  in  1486,  the  vessel  of  Bartolomeo  Diaz  was 
carried  by  a  violent  storm  beyond  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope, 
which  he  passed  without  observation.  He  then  remarked  that 
the  coast,  instead  of  preserving  its  direction  invariably  towards 
the  south,  appeared  at  length  to  take  a  northern  course ;  but  with 
exhausted  provisions  and  companions  dispirited  and  fatigued, 
he  was  compelled  to  abandon  to  some  more  fortunate  successor 
the  results  of  a  discovery,  from  which  he  was  aware  what 
great  advantages  might  arise.  Such  was  the  degree  of  infor- 
mation already  acquired  by  the  Portuguese  relating  to  the 
navigation  of  these  seas,  when  King  Emmanuel  made  choice 
of  Gama  to  attempt  a  passage  to  the  Indies  by  the  same  route. 
There  still  remained  a  tract  of  two  thousand  leagues  to  be 
discovered  before  arriving  at  the  coast  of  Malabar  ;  an  extent 
of  territory  as  great  as  that  which  it  had  required  the  whole 
of  the  preceding  century  to  explore.  The  Portuguese  were  like- 
wise uncertain,  whether  the  distance  might  not  be  twice  the 
extent  here  stated  ;  a  consideration  to  which  we  must  add 
their  inexperience  of  the  winds  and  seasons  most  favourable 
for  the  navigation.  Nor  were  they  without  their  fears,  that, 
on  reaching  a  country  which  presented  so  many  difficulties, 
they  might  have  to  encounter  new  and  powerful  enemies, 
equal  to  themselves  in  point  of  civilization  and  the  arts  of 
war,  ready  to  overpower  them  on  their  arrival.  The  whole 
fleet  destined  for  such  an  enterprise  consisted  only  of  three 
small  vessels  of  war  and  a  transport,  of  which  the  united 
crews  did  not  exceed  more  than  one  hundred  and  forty-eight 
hands  fit  for  service.  They  wei'e  commanded  by  Vasco  de 
Gama,  by  Paul  de  Gama,  his  brother,  and  by  Nicholas  Coelho  ; 
and  set  sail  from  the  port  of  Belem,  or  Bethleem,  about  a 
league  distant  from  Lisbon,  on  the  eighth  of  July,  1497.  The 
description  of  the  sailing  of  this  little  fleet  is  given  in  the  fol- 
lowing terms  by  Vasco  de  Gama,  in  his  narration  to  the  King 
of  Melinda  : 

Where  foaming  on  the  shore  the  tide  appears, 
A  sacred  fane  its  hoary  arches  rears  : 
Dim  o'er  the  sea  the  evening  shades  descend. 
And  at  the  holy  shrine  devout  we  bend  : 
There,  while  the  tapers  o'er  the  altar  blaze, 
Our  prayers  and  earnest  vows  to  heaven  we  raise. 
"  Safe  through  the  deep,  where  every  yawning  wave 
"  Still  to  the  sailor's  eyes  displays  his  grave ; 
"  Through  howling  tempests,  and  through  gulfs  untried, 
'•■  0  !  mighty  God  !  be  thou  our  watchful  guide." 


504  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

While  kneeling  thus  before  the  sacred  shrino 

In  holy  faith's  most  solemn  rite  we  join, 

Our  peace  with  heaven  the  bread  of  peace  confirms, 

And  meek  contrition  every  bosom  warms  : 

Sudden  the  lights  extinguishd,  all  around 

Dread  silence  reigns,  and  midnight  gloom  profound  ; 

A  sacred  horror  pants  on  every  breath, 

And  each  firm  breast  devotes  itself  to  death, 

An  ofler'd  sacrifice,  sworn  to  obey 

My  nod,  and  follow  where  I  lead  the  way. 

Now  prostrate  round  the  hallow"d  shrine  we  lie, 

Till  rosy  morn  bespreads  the  eastern  sky  ; 

Then,  breathing  fix'd  resolves,  my  daring  mates 

March  to  the  ships,  while  pour'd  from  Lisbon's  gates, 

Thousands  on  thousands  crowding,  press  along, 

A  woeful,  weeping,  melancholy  throng. 

A  thousand  white-robed  priests  our  stops  attend, 

And  prayers  and  holy  vows  to  heaven  ascend. 

A  scene  so  solemn,  and  the  tender  woe 

Of  parting  friends,  constrain'd  my  tears  to  flow. 

To  weigh  our  anchors  from  our  native  shore —     ^ 

To  dare  new  oceans  never  dared  before —  > 

Perhaps  to  see  my  native  coast  no  more —  ) 

Forgive,  0  king,  if  as  a  man  I  feel, 

1  bear  no  bosom  of  obdurate  steel — 

(The  godlike  hero  here  sujipres.sed  the  sigh, 

And  wiped  the  tear-drop  from  his  manly  eye ; 

Then  thus  resuming — )     All  the  peopled  shore 

An  awful,  silent  look  of  anguish  wore  ; 

Affection,  friendship,  all  the  kindred  ties 

Of  spouse  and  parent  languish'd  in  their  eyes  : 

As  men  they  never  should  again  behold, 

Self-off"er'd  victims  to  destruction  sold. 

On  us  they  fixed  the  eager  look  of  woe, 

AVhile  tears  o'er  every  cheek  began  to  flow  ; 

When  thus  aloud,  Alas  !  my  son,  my  son  !* 

A  hoary  sire  exclaims  ;  oh,  whither  run, 

My  heart's  sole  joy,  my  trembling  age's  stay, 

To  yield  thy  limbs  the  dread  sea-monster's  prey? 

To  seek  thy  burial  in  the  raging  wave. 

And  leave  me  cheerless  sinking  to  the  grave  1 

Was  it  for  this  I  watch'd  thy  tender  years. 

And  bore  each  fever  of  a  father's  fears  i 

Ala.s  !  my  boy  ! — his  voice  is  heard  no  more, 

The  female  shriek  resounds  along  the  shore  : 

With  hair  dishevell'd,  through  the  jielding  crowd 

A  lovely  bride  springs  on,  and  screams  aloud  : 

Oh  !  where,  my  husband,  wliere  to  seas  unknown, 

Where  wouldst  thou  fly  me,  and  my  love  disown  ! 

And  wilt  thou,  cruel,  to  the  deep  consign 

That  valued  life,  the  joy,  the  soul  of  mine  : 


•  Canto  iv.  str.  90,  yi. 


OF    Till:    rORTUGUESE.  505 

And  must  our  lores,  and  all  the  kindred  train 
Of  rapt  endearments,  all  expire  in  vain?_ 
All  the  dear  transports  of  the  warm  embrace  ; 
AVhen  mutual  love  inspired  each  raptured  face  ; 
Must  all,  alas  !  be  scatter'd  in  the  wind, 
Nor  thou  bestow  one  lingering  look  behind  ? 

Such  the  lorn  parents'  and  the  spouses'  woes. 
Such  o'er  the  strand  the  voice  of  wailing  rose  ; 
From  breast  to  breast  the  soft  contagion  crept, 
]\Ioved  by  the  woeful  sound  the  children  wept ; 
Tne  mountain  echoes  catch  the  big-swoln  sighs, 
And  through  the  dales  prolong  the  matron's  cries ; 
The  yellow  sands  with  tears  are  silvefd  o'er, 
Our  fate  the  mountains  and  the  beach  deplore. 
Yet  firm  we  march,  nor  turn  one  glance  aside 
On  hoary  parent  or  on  lovely  bride. 
I'hough  glory  fired  our  hearts,  too  well  we  knew 
"What  soft  affection  and  what  love  could  do. 
The  last  embrace  the  bravest  worst  can  bear  : 
The  bitter  yearnings  of  the  parting  tear 
Sullen  we  shun,  unable  to  sustain 
The  melting  passion  of  such  tender  pain. 

Now  on  the  lofty  decks  prepared  we  stand, 
"When  towering  o'er  the  crowd  that  veil'd  the  strand, 
A  reverend  figure  fix'd  each  wondering  eye, 
And  beckoning  thrice  he  waved  his  hand  on  high. 
And  thrice  his  hoary  curls  he  sternly  shook. 
While  grief  and  anger  mingled  in  his  look  ; 
Then  to  its  height  his  faltering  voice  he  reard. 
And  through  the  fieet  these  awful  words  were  heard  : 

0  frantic  thirst  of  honour  and  of  fame, 
The  crowd's  blind  tribute,  a  fallacious  name ; 
"What  stings,  what  plagues,  what  secret  scourges  cui-st, 
Torment  those  bosoms  where  thy  pride  is  nurst ! 
What  dangers  threaten,  and  what  deaths  destroy 
The  hapless  youth,  whom  thy  vain  gleams  decoy  ! 
By  thee,  dire  tyrant  of  the  noble  mind,  '     • 
What  dreadful  v.-oes  are  pour'd  on  human  kind  ; 
Kingdoms  and  empires  in  confusion  hurl'd, 
Yv''hat  streams  of  gore  have  drench'd  the  hapless  ivorld  ! 
Thou  dazzling  meteor,  vain  as  fleeting  air. 
What  new  dread  horror  dost  thou  now  prepare  ! 
High  sounds  thy  voice  of  India's  pearly  shore, 
Of  endless  triumphs  and  of  countless  store  : 
Of  other  worlds  so  tower'd  thy  swelling  boast. 
Thy  golden  dreams,  when  Paradise  was  lost. 
When  thy  big  promise  steep'd  the  world  in  gore. 
And  simple  innocence  was  known  no  more. 
And  say,  has  fame  so  dear,  so  dazzling  charms^* 
Must  brutal  fierceness  and  the  trade  of  arms, 

*  Cauto  iv.  str.  &9,  100,  101. 
VOL.  IT.  I  I 


506  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

Conquest,  and  laurels  dipp'd  in  blood,  be  pri/.cd. 
While  life  is  scorn'd,  and  ;ill  its  joys  despised  ] 
And  say,  does  zeal  for  holy  faith  inspire 
To  spread  its  mandates,  thy  avow'd  desire  ] 
Behold  the  Ilagarene  in  armour  stands, 
Treads  on  thy  borders,  and  the  foe  demands  : 
A  thousand  cities  own  his  loi'dly  sway, 
A  thousand  various  shores  his  nod  obey. 
Through  all  these  regions,  all  these  cities,  scorn'd 
Is  thy  religion  and  thine  altars  spurn'd. 
A  foe  renown'd  in  arms  the  brave  require  ; 
That  high-plumed  foe,  renown'd  for  martial  fire. 
Before  thy  gates  his  shining  spear  displays, 
Whilst  thou  wouldst  fondly  dare  the  watry  maze. 
Enfeebled  leave  thy  native  land  behind. 
On  shores  unknown  a  foe  unknown  to  find. 
Oh  !  madness  of  ambition  !  thus  to  dare 
Dangers  so  fruitless,  so  remote  a  war  ! 
That  fame's  vain  flattery  may  thy  name  adorn, 
And  thy  proud  titles  on  her  flag  be  borne  ; 
Thee,  lord  of  Persia,  thee,  of  India  lord, 
O'er  Ethiopia  vast,  and  Araby  adoi'ed  ! 

"Whilst  the  old  man  was  thus  speaking,  the  vessels  had 
.already  set  sail : 

From  Leo  now,  the  lordly  star  of  day. 

Intensely  blazing,  shot  his  fiercest  ray  ; 

When  slowly  gliding  from  our  wishful  eyes. 

The  Lusian  mountains  mingled  with  the  skies : 

Tago's  loved  stream,  and  Cintra's  mountains  cold 

Dim  fading  now,  we  now  no  more  behold ; 

And  still  with  yearning  hearts  our  eyes  explore. 

Till  one  dim  speck  of  land  appears  no  more. 

Our  native  soil  now  fivr  behind,  we  ply 

The  lonely  dreary  waste  of  seas  and  boundless  sky.* 

Vasco  de  Gama  next  proceeds  to  relate  his  voyage  along 
the  western  coast  of  Africa.  He  describes  Madeira,  the  first 
island  peopled  by  the  Portuguese,  the  burning  shores  of  the 
Zanhagan  desert,  tlie  passage  of  the  Tropic,  and  the  cold 
Avaters  of  the  dark  Senegal,  They  touch  lor  refreshments  at 
San  Jago,  where  they  renew  their  provisions,  pass  the  rocky 
precipices  of  Sierra  Leone,  the  island  on  which  they  bestowed 
the  name  of  St.  Tlioinas,  and  the  kingdom  of  Congo,  watered 
by  the  great  river  Zaiiir,  and  already  converted  to  the  Chris- 
tian faith  ;  till  at  lengtli,  having  crossed  the  line,  they  behold 
a  new  pole  rising  above  the  horizon,  but  less  richly  studded 
with  the    consteUalions  of  heaven.      Gama  enumerates    the 

*  Canto  V.  str.  3. 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  507 

phenomena  which  they  witnessed  in  these  hitherto  uritraversed 
seas,  and  presents  us  with  a  very  striking  and  poetical  descrip- 
tion of  the  M'^ater-spout  seen  at  sea.  To  whatever  shores,  how- 
ever, they  direct  their  course,  they  in  vain  seek  to  obtain  infor- 
raation  from  countries  whose  savage  inhabitants  attempt  to  sur- 
prise and  cut  them  off  by  treachery.  At  length,  after  an  anxious 
voyage  of  five  months,  they  arrive  in  the  latitude  of  the  Cape 
of  Good  Hope,  where,  enveloped  in  gathering  clouds  which  fore- 
boded storms,  a  terrific  vision  is  supposed  to  meet  their  eyes  : 

*I  spoke,  when  rising  through  the  darken'J  air, 
Appall'd  we  saw  a  hideous  phantom  glare  ; 
High  and  enormous  o'er  the  flood  he  tower'd, 
And  thwart  our  way  with  sullen  aspect  lour  d  : 
An  earthly  paleness  o'er  his  cheeks  was  spread, 
Erect  uprose  his  hairs  of  wither'd  red  ; 
Writhing  to  speak,  his  sable  lips  disclose, 
Sharp  and  disjoin'd,  his  gnashing  teeth's  blue  rows  ; 
His  haggard  beard  flow'd  quivering  on  the  wind, 
Revenge  and  horror  in  his  mien  combined  ; 
His  clouded  front,  by  withering  lightnings  scared,' 
The  inward  anguish  of  his  soul  declared. 
His  red  eyes  glowing  from  their  dusky  caves 
Shot  livid  fires.     Far  echoing  o'er  the  waves 
His  voice  resounded,  as  the  cavern'd  shore 
With  hollow  groan  repeats  the  tempest's  roar. 
Cold  gliding  horrors  tlirill'd  each  hero's  breast ; 
Our  bristling  hair  and  tottering  knees  confess'd 
Wild  dread  ;  the  while  with  visage  ghastly  wan, 
His  black  lips  trembling,  thus  the  fiend  began  : 

0  you,  the  boldest  of  the  nations,  fired 
By  daring  pride,  by  lust  of  fame  inspired. 
Who  scornful  of  the  bowers  of  sweet  repose. 
Through  these  my  waves  advance  your  fearless  prows, 
Regardless  of  the  lengthening  wat'ry  way. 
And  all  the  storms  that  own  my  sovereign  sway, 
Who  mid  surrounding  rocks  and  shelves  explore 
Where  never  hero  braved  my  rage  before  ; 
Ye  sons  of  Lusus,  who  with  eyes  profane 
Have  view'd  the  secrets  of  my  awful  reign. 
Have  pass'd  the  bounds  which  jealous  Nature  drew 
To  veil  her  secret  shrine  from  mortal  view  ; 
Hear  from  my  lips  what  direful  woes  attend, 
And  bursting  soon  shall  o'er  your  race  descend. 

With  every  bounding  keel  that  dares  my  rage, 
Eternal  war  my  rocks  and  storms  shall  wage; 
The  next  proud  fleet  that  through  my  drear  domain. 
With  daring  search  shall  hoise  the  streaming  vane, 
That  gallant  navy,  by  my  whirlwinds  toss'd, 
And  raging  seas,  shall  perisli  "n  my  coast  : 

*  Canto  V.  s:r.  39,  &'c. 

I  I  2 


o08  ON'    THE    LITERATUnu 

Thcu  lie  who  first  my  secret  reign  descried, 

A  iKikcd  corse  wide  fioatiiiq;  o'er  tlie  tide 

Shall  (hive.*     Unless  my  heart's  full  raptures  fail, 

O  Lusua  !  oft,  shah,  thou  thy  childron  wail ; 

Each  year  thy  shipwreek'd  sons  shalt  thou  deplore, 

Each  year  thy  sheeted  masts  shall  strew  my  shore. 

With  trophies  plumed  lichold  a  hero  come  ; 
Ye  dreary  wilds,  in-eparc  his  yawning  lomh  ! 
Though  smiling  fortune  bless'd  his  youthful  morn. 
Though  glory's  rays  his  laurell'd  brows  adorn, 
EuU  oft  though  he  beheld  with  sparkling  eye 
The  Turkish  moons  in  wild  confusion  fly. 
While  he,  jiroud  victor,  thunder'd  in  the  rear. 
All,  all  his  mighty  fame  shall  vanish  here. 
<.,!uiIoa's  sons  and  thine,  Momba/.c,  shall  sec 
Their  concjucror  bend  his  laurell'd  head  to  me  ; 
"While  proudly  mingling  with  the  tempest's  sound, 
'I'heir  shouts  of  joy  from  every  elifl' rebound.f 

The  howling  bla.st,  yc  slumbering  storms,  prepare  I 
A  youthful  lover  and  his  beauteous  fairj 
Triumphant  sail  from  India's  ravaged  land  ; 
His  evil  angel  leads  him  to  my  strand. 
Through  the  torn  hulk  the  dashing  waves  shall  roar, 
Tiie  shatter'd  wrecks  shall  blacken  all  my  shore. 
Themselves  escaped,  despuil'd  l)y  savage  hands. 
Shall  naked  wander  o'er  the  burning  s:uuls. 
Spared  by  the  waves  far  deeper  woes  to  bear. 
Woes  even  by  me  acknowledged  with  a  tear. 
Their  infant  race,  the  promised  heirs  of  joy, 
Shall  now  no  more  a  hundred  hands  employ  ; 
J5y  cruel  want,  beneath  the  parent's  eye. 
In  these  wide  wastes  their  infant  race  shall  die. 
Through  dreary  wilds  where  never  pilgrim  trod, 
AVherc  caverns  yawn  and  rocky  fragments  uod, 
The  hapless  lover  and  his  bride  shall  stray, 
i)y  night  unsheltcr'd,  and  forlorn  by  day. 
In  vain  the  lover  o'er  the  trackless  jilain 
Shall  dart  his  eyes,  and  cheer  his  spouse  in  vain, 
llcr  tender  limbs,  and  breast  of  mountain  snow. 
Where  ne'er  before  intruding  blast  might  blow, 
I'arch'd  by  the  sun,  and  shrivell'd  by  the  cold 
Of  dewy  night,  shall  he,  fond  man  !  behold. 
Thus  wandering  wide,  a  thousand  ills  o'erpast, 
In  fond  end)races  they  shall  sink  at  last ; 
While  jiilying  tears  their  dying  eyes  o'erflow. 
And  the  last  sigh  shall  wail  each  other's  woe. 

*  B.irtolomeo  Diaz,  who  discovered  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  before  the  time  of 
(Jama,  and  wlio  perished  tlicre  with  three  vessels  in  the  expedition  of  Alvarez  C'abrul, 
in  the  year  l.'iOO. 

I  Franceseo  d'Alincida,  first  viceroy  of  tlie  Iiiilica,  v.ho  was  killed  hy  the  CanVos  of 
the  Cape  in  tlie  year  150!). 

:|   Maiuiel  lie  Souza  and  liia  wife.     Canto  v.  sir.  •IC  to  13. 


OF    THE   PORTUGUESE.  509 

Some  few',  the  saJ  companions  of  their  fate, 
Shall  yet  survive,  protected  by  my  hate. 
On  Tagus'  banks  the  dismal  tale  to  tell, 
Plow  blasted  by  my  frown  your  heroes  fell. 

lie  paused,  in  act  still  farther  to  disclose 
A  long,  a  dreary  prophecy  of  ^yocs  : 
When  springing  onward,  loud  my  voice  resounds, 
And  midst  liis  rage  the  threatening  shade  confounds  : 
What  art  thou,  horrid  form,  that  rid'st  the  air? 
]3y  heaven's  eternal  light,  stern  fiend,  declare  ! 
His  lips  he  writhes,  his  eyes  far  round  he  throws. 
And  from  his  breast  deep  hollow  groans  arose  ; 
Sternly  askance  he  stood  :  with  wounded  pride 
And  anguish  torn  :  In  me,  behold,  he  cried,,- 
While  dark-red  sparkles  from  his  eyeballs  roll'd. 
In  me  the  spirit  of  the  Cape  behold, 
Tliat  rock  by  you  the  Cape  of  Tempests  named,  i 

By  Neptune's  rage  in  horrid  earthquakes  framed,  > 

When  Jove's  red  bolts  o'er  Titan's  offspring  llamed.         j 
With  wide-streteh'd  piles  I  guard  the  pathless  strand, 
And  Afric's  southern  mound  unmoved  I  stand  : 
Nor  Koman  prow,  nor  daring  Tyrian  oar 
Ere  dash'd  the  white  wave  foaming  to  my  shore  ; 
Nor  Greece  nor  Carthage  ever  spread  the  sail 
On  these  my  seas  to  catch  the  trading  gale. 
You,  you  alone  have  dared  to  plough  my  main. 
And  with  the  human  voice  disturb  my  lonesome  reign. 

lie  spoke,  and  deep  a  lengthcn'd  sigh  lie  drew, 
A  doleful  sound,  and  vauish'd  from  the  view; 
The  frightcn'd  billows  gave  a  rolling  swell, 
And  distant  far  prolong'd  the  dismal  yell ; 
Faint  and  more  faint  the  howling  echoes  die, 
And  the  black  cloud  dispersing  leaves  the  sky. 
High  to  the  angel  host,  whose  guardian  care 
Had  ever  round  us  watch'd,  my  hands  1  rear, 
And  heaven's  dread  King  implore.     As  o'er  our  head 
The  fiend  dissolved,  an  empty  shadow,  fled  ; 
80  may  his  curses  by  the  winds  of  heaven 
Far  o'er  the  deep,  their  idle  sport,  be  driven  ! 

With  sacred  horror  thrill'd,  Melinda's  lord* 
Held  up  the  eager  hand,  and  caught  the  v.ord  : 
Oh  wondrous  faith  of  ancient  days,  he  cries, 
Conceafd  in  mystic  lore,  and  dark  disguise  ! 
Taught  by  their  sires,  our  hoary  fathers  tell. 
On  these  rude  shores  a  giant  spectre  fell, 
What  time  from  heaven  the  rebel  band  were  thrown ; 
And  oft  the  wandering  swain  has  heard  his  moau. 
While  o'er  the  wave  the  clouded  moon  appears 
To  hide  her  weeping  face,  his  voice  he  rears 

*  [The  story  of  Adamastor's  metamorphosis,  which  Mickle  here  assigns  to  the  King 
of  Jleliiida,  is  related  in  tlie  oriijiiuil  by  ihe  spectre  himself. — Tr-] 


510  ox    THE    LITERATURE 

O'er  the  wild  storm.     Deep  in  the  days  of  yore 
A  holy  pilgrim  trod  the  nightly  shore  ; 
Stern  groans  he  heard  ;  by  ghostly  spells  controll'd, 
Jlis  fate,  mysterious,  thus  the  spectre  told  : 

By  forceful  Titan's  warm  embrace  compress'd, 
The  rock-riljb'd  mother  Earth  his  love  confess'd. 
The  hundred-handed  giant  at  a  birth 
And  me  she  bore  :  nor  slept  my  hopes  on  earth  ; 
My  heart  avow'd  my  sire's  ethereal  tlame  : 
Great  Adamastor  then  my  dreaded  name. 
In  my  bold  brother's  glorious  toils  engaged, 
Tremenilous  war  against  the  gods  I  waged  : 
Yet  not  to  reach  tlie  throne  of  heaven  1  try 
With  mountain  piled  on  mountain  to  the  sky : 
To  me  the  conquest  of  the  seas  befel. 
In  his  green  realm  the  second  Jove  to  quell. 
jSTor  did  ambition  all  my  passions  hold, 
'Twas  love  that  prompted  an  attempt  so  bold. 
Ah  me,  one  summer  in  the  cool  of  day 
I  saw  the  Nercifis  on  the  sandy  bay 
With  lovely  Thetis  from  the  wave  advance 
In  mirthful  frolic,  and  the  naked  dance. 
In  all  her  charms  reveal'd  the  goddess  trode  ; 
With  fiercest  fires  my  struggling  bosom  glow'd ; 
Yet,  yet  1  feel  them  burning  in  my  heart. 
And  hopeless  languish  with  the  raging  smart. 
For  her,  each  godder^s  of  the  heavens  I  scorn'd, 
For  her  alone  my  fervent  ardour  burn'd. 
In  vain  I  woo'd  her  to  the  lover's  bed  ; 
From  my  grim  form  with  horror  mute  she  fled. 
^Madd'ning  with  love,  by  force  I  ween  to  gain 
The  silver  goddess  of  the  blue  domain  : 
To  the  hoar  mother  of  the  Nereid  liand 
I  tell  my  purpose,  and  her  aid  command  : 
]iy  fear  impcU'd,  old  Doris  tries  to  move, 
And  win  the  spouse  of  I'cleus  to  my  love. 
The  silver  goddess  with  a  smile  replies  : 
What  nymph  can  yield  her  charms  a  giant's  prize  1 
Yet  from  tlie  horrors  of  a  war  to  save. 
And  guard  in  peace  our  empire  of  the  wave, 
Whate'er  with  honour  he  may  hope  to  gain. 
That  let  him  hojje  his  wish  sliall  soon  attain. 
The  promised  grace  infused  a  bolder  fire. 
And  shook  my  mighty  limbs  with  fierce  desire. 
But  ah.  what  error  spreads  its  dreamful  night, 
What  phantoms  hover  o'er  the  lover's  .'■ight  ! 
The  war  rfsign'd,  my  steps  by  Doris  led. 
While  gentle  eve  her  shadowy  mantle  spread. 
Before  my  steps  the  snowy  Thetis  shone 
In  all  her  charms,  all  naked,  and  alone. 
Swift  as  the  wind  with  open  arms  I  sprung, 
And  round  her  waist  with  joy  delirious  clung  : 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  511 

In  all  tlie  transports  of  the  warm  embrace, 

A  hundred  kisses  on  her  angel  face,   • 

On  all  its  various  charms  my  rage  bestows, 

And  on  her  cheek  my  cheek  enraptured  glows. 

When,  oh,  what  anguish  while  my  shame  I  tell  ! 

What  fix'd  despair,  what  rage  my  bosom  swell  ! 

Here  was  no  goddess,  here  no  heavenly  charms ; 

A  rugged  mountain  fill'd  my  e.iger  arms. 

Whose  rocky  top  o'erhung  with  matted  brier, 

lleceived  the  kisses  of  my  amorous  fire. 

Waked  from  my  dream  cold  horror  freezed  my  blood; 

Fix'd  as  a  rock  before  the  rock  I  stood  ;* 

0  fairest  goddess  of  the  ocean  train. 
Behold  the  triumph  of  thy  proud  disdain  ! 
Yet  why,  I  cried,  with  all  I  vvish'd  decoy, 
And  when  exulting  in  the  dream  of  joy, 

A  horrid  mountain  to  mine  arms  convey  1 — 
!Madd"ning  I  spoke,  and  furious  sprung  away. 
Far  to  the  south  I  sought  the  world  unknown, 
Where  I  unheard,  unscorn'd,  might  wail  alone, 
My  foul  dishonour  and  my  tears  to  hide, 
And  shun  the  triumph  of  the  goddess'  pride. 
My  brothers  now  by  Jove's  red  arm  o'erthrown. 
Beneath  huge  mountains  piled  on  mountains  groan  ; 
And  I  who  taught  each  echo  to  deplore. 
And  tell  my  sorrows  to  the  desert  shore, 

1  felt  the  hand  of  Jove  my  crimes  pursue  ; 
My  stifi'ening  flesh  to  earthy  ridges  grew, 

And  my  huge  bones,  no  more  liy  marrow  warm'd, 
To  horrid  piles  and  ribs  of  rock  transform'd. 
Yon  dark-l)row'd  cape  of  moastrous  size  became. 
Where  round  me  still,  in  triumph  o'er  my  shame. 
The  silvery  Thetis  bids  her  surges  roar, 
And  waft  my  groans  along  the  dreary  shore.f 

I  have  thus  given,  in  full,  two  of  the  finest  episodes  con- 
tained in  the  whole  poem  of  tlie  Lusiad  ;  those  of  Inez  de 
Castro  and  of  Adamastor.  No  extracts  are  sufficient  to  con- 
vey a  true  feeling  of  the  creative  power,  and  the  combination 
of  sublimity  and  pathos,  which  characterize  a  great  poet ; 
while  a  version,  unfortunately,  is  still  less  calculated  to  attain 
such  an  object.     The  music  of  the  language,  the  force  and 

•  Oh  que  nao  sei  de  noja  como  o  conte  :  +  Convertese  me  a  came  em  terra  dura. 

Que  crendo  ter  nos  bra^'os  queni  amava,  Em  penedos  os  ossos  se  fizeram ; 

Abracpado  me  achei  co  hum  duro  monte  Estes  membros  que  vos,  e  esta  figura, 

De  aspero  mato  e  de  espessura  brava,  Por  estas  longas  agoas  se  estenderam  : 

Estando  co  hum  penedo  fronts  a  froute  Em  fim,  minha  grandis-ima  estatura 

Que  eu  pelo  rosto  angelico  apertava,  Ncsle  remoto  cabo  converteram 

Naofiquei  homem  nao,  mas  mudoequedo,  Os  Deoses,  e  por  mais  dobradas  mdgoas, 

E  junto  dc  hum  penedo  outro  penedo.  Me  anda  Thetis  ccrcando  destas  agoas. 

Canto  y.   str.  56.  Canto  v.  str.  5V. 


ol2  ON    TUE    LITERATURE 

purity  of  expression,  and  a  tliousand  beauties  of  the  verse, 
admit  of  no  imitation  ;  and  a  slijj;lit  acquaintance  with  the 
native  tonQ;ue  of  Camoens  will  attbrd  the  reader  more  true 
pleasure  in  perusing  the  original,  than  he  could  derive  from 
the  most  perfect  translation. 

Gama  continues  the  account  of  hi?  voyage  along  the  eastern 
side  of  Africa  ;  his  passage  beyond  the  island  where  Diaz 
first  checked  his  course  ;  and  his  arrival,  at  length,  at  the 
spot  which  they  distinguished  b}'  the  name  of  the  port  of 
Good  JProinisc,  on  account  of  the  Arabic  language  being 
there  first  understood,  the  appearance  of  vessels  with  sails 
there  in  use,  and  the  information  they  obtained  relating  to 
the  Indies.  These  traces  of  civilization  served  to  revive  their 
Iiopes  at  a  time  they  most  stood  in  need  of  consolation  ;  as  a 
scorbutic  disease  had  broken  out,  and  was  making  fatal 
progress  among  the  crew^  The  expedition  then  passes  by 
the  ports  of  Mozambique  and  Mombasa,  and  ultimately 
arrives  at  Melinda. 

Gama's  long  recital  being  concluded,  the  poet  resumes  the 
thread  of  his  story,  on  the  opening  of  the  sixth  book,  in  his 
own  person.  The  Portuguese  admiral  enters  into  an  alliance, 
strengthened  by  the  sacred  rites  of  hospitality,  with  the 
King  of  Melinda.  He  assures  him  that  the  vessels  of  Por- 
tugal shall  always,  in  future,  cast  anchor  on  his  shores,  and 
he  recer'ves  from  the  monarch,  in  return,  a  faithful  pilot  to 
conduct  him  over  the  great  gulf  which  separates  Africa  from 
the  Indies.  But  Bacchus,  foiled  in  his  hopes  of  arresting  the 
progress  of  the  Portuguese  with  the  assistance  of  the  celestial 
deities,  has  recourse  to  those  of  the  ocean,  and  visits  the 
palace  of  Neptune,  where  the  divinities  of  the  sea  are  as- 
sembled. Camoens  here  takes  occasion  to  describe  in  very 
picturesque  and  striking  colours  this  portion  of  the  old 
mythology,  in  a  manner  not  unworthy  of  the  classics  of 
antiquity,  as  far  as  an  imitation  can  possibly  rival  its  model. 
The  gods  of  the  sea,  excited  by  Bacchus,  consent  to  let  loose 
the  winds  and  waves  upon  the  daring  navigators  who  thus 
venture  to  explore  the  secrets  of  the  deep. 

Before  the  council  of  marine  deities  had  adopted  this  llatal 
resolution,  the  Portuguese  adventurers,  steering  their  courFe 
in  full  security,  had  stationed  their  watches  for  the  night. 
The  second  had  already  commenced  its  oilice  ;  and  the  men 
were  striving  to  chase  slumber  from  their  eyes  by  recounting 


OF    THE   PORTUGUESE,  513 

to  each  other  amusing  stories  ;    wlien  Leonardo,  himself  a 
lover,  begged  his  companions  to  relate  their  lovc-adveutures: 

111  timed,  alas,  the  brave  Veloso  cries, 

The  tales  of  love,  that  melt  the  heart  and  eye--. 

The  dear  enchantmeuts  of  the  fair  I  know, 

The  fearful  transport  and  the  rapturous  woe  : 

But  with  our  state  ill  suits  tlie  grief  or  joy  ; 

Let  war,  let  gallant  war  our  thoughts  employ  : 

With  dangers  threaten'd,  let  the  tale  inspire  - 

The  scorn  of  danger,  and  the  hero's  fire.* 

He  is  then  requested  to  narrate  some  proud  feat  of  war, 
and  he  recites  tlie  history  of  the  Knights  of  PortU2;al  called 
the  Twelve  of  England.  During  the  reign  of  John  I.  in 
Portugal,  and  of  Richard  II.  in  lingland,  towards  the  close 
of  the  fourteenth  century,  several  English  knights,  conceiving 
themselves  insulted  by  some  ladies  of  the  court,  ventured  to 
make  free  with  their  reputations,  and  offered  to  prove  by 
knightly  feat  of  arms,  that  those  by  whom  they  had  been 
offended  were  no  longer  entitled  to  the  rankof  honourable  dames. 
None  were  found  in  England  bold  enough  to  accept  their  chal- 
lenge, as  they  were  considered  to  be  the  most  redoubtable 
championsof  their  time.  But  the  Duke  of  Lancaster,  who  had 
fought  for  the  Portuguese  in  the  wars  of  Castile,  and  had  mar- 
ried his  own  daughter  to  King  John,  advised  the  ladies,  whose 
honour  had  been  thus  aspersed,  to  look  for  champions  in  the 
kingdom  of  Portugal,  and  he  recommended  to  them  twelve  noble 
cavaliers  from  among  those  whom  he  best  knew.  He  caused 
each  of  the  twelve  ladies  to  select  by  lot  the  true  knight  des- 
tined for  the  defence  of  her  honour ;  after  which,  the  ladies 
wrote  conjointly  to  King  John,  and  each  separately  to  the 
cavalier  whom  she  had  chosen ;  while  the  Duke,  on  his  side, 
addressed  letters  to  all.  This  invitation  to  battle,  from  these 
unknown  beauties,  was  considered  in  the  light  of  a  favour 
by  the  noble  Portuguese  ;  who,  after  obtaining  the  sanction 
of  their  monarch,  equipped  themselves  with  arms  and  steeds, 
and  took  ship  at  Oporto,  on  their  way  to  England.  One 
only,  of  the  name  of  Magri^o,  wished  to  go  by  land  as  far 

*  This  stanza  is  more  vigorously  rendered  by  Lord  Strangford  : 

"  Perish  that  thought!"  the  bold  Veloso     "  No — rather  some  tremendous  tale  devise 

cries ;  [treincs  !         "  Of  war's  alarms,  for  such  our  state  be- 

•'  Who  talks  of  Love  hi  danger's  dire  ex-  seems —  [learn 

"  Shall  we,  while  giant  perils  round  us  rise,     "  So  shall  we  scorn  our  present  ills,  and 

"  Shall   we    attend    to   those   enerving    "  To  cope  those  coming  toils  my  prophet 

themes?  eyes  discern." 

Stanza  xli.  p.  III. 


514  ON    THE    LITKRATUUE 

as  the  frontiers  of  La  Mancha,  but  entreated  his  companions, 
that  in  the  event  of  his  not  joining  tliein  on  the  a|)|)ointed 
day,  they  would  boldly  maintain  bis  honour  with  their  own, 
in  the  same  manner  as  if  he  had  himself  been  present. 

After  having  passed  through  Spain  and  France,  this 
knight  was  in  fact  detained  by  contrary  winds  at  a  port  in 
Flanders,  and  his  eleven  compeers  entered  into  the  lists  with- 
out him  to  engage  the  twelve  English  kniglits.  Each  of  tht^ra 
bore  the  colours  of  tlie  lady  whose  cliampion  be  J)rofes^ed  to 
be,  and  tlie  King  presided  at  the  combat.  At  lliis  moment 
Magri9o  rode  forward,  embraced  his  companions,  and  ranged 
himself  by  tiieir  side.  Accustomed  to  sucli  engagements,  and 
doubtless  as  weary  as  his  readers  of  tlie  frequent  poetical 
encounters  of  tlie  sword  and  the  lance,  the  author  spares  us 
the  recital  of  the  particulars  of  this  scene,  contenting  liimself 
with  proclaiming  tiie  victory  in  favour  of  the  twelve  knights 
of  Portugal.  After  enjoying  the  brilliant  festivals  given  by 
the  Duke  of  Lancaster  and  the  ladies  in  honour  of  their 
prowess,  tlie  champions  repair  to  their  own  country.  On 
their  route,  tliey  are  supposed  to  meet  with  many  glorious 
adventures,  which  are  about  to  be  celebrated  in  song,  when 
the  pilot  calls  loudly  on  the  ship's  crew  to  stand  on  their 
guard,  as  he  observes  a  violent  storm  ready  to  burst  upon 
their  heads,  from  a  dark  cloud  overhanging  tlie  horizon.  He 
orders  them  in  vain  to  take  in  the  main-sail ;  it  is  shivered 
into  pieces  before  he  can  be  obeyed,  and  the  vessel  thrown 
upon  her  beam-ends,  is  already  tilling  with  water.  That  of 
Paul  Gama  has  her  main-mast  carried  away,  and  Coelho's 
ship  is  in  little  less  danger,  although  tlie  pilot  succeeded 
in  furling  her  sails  before  they  yielded  to  the  storm.  Here, 
for  the  first  time,  we  are  presented  with  the  picture  of  a 
tempest  at  sea,  by  a  poet,  who,  having  traversed  half  the 
circumference  of  tiie  world,  had  acquired  a  real  knowledge  of 
the  terrific  action  of  the  winds  and  waves,  in  their  stormiest 
moods.  We  everywhere  trace  the  hardy  navigator,  in  the 
truth  as  well  as  in  the  vividness  of  the  images.  In  this  ex- 
treme danger,  Gama  addresses  his  prayers  to  the  God  of  the 
Christians  ;  but  in  order  to  preserve  the  mythology  adopted 
throughout  the  whole  poem,  it  is  not  to  the  Deity  that  the 
hero,  at  last,  owes  his  deliverance.  Venus,  whose  glowing 
star  already  rose  above  the  iiorizon,  summons  her  nymphs  to 
attend  her,   and  to   adorn  themselves  with  garlands  of  the 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  515 

freshest  flowers,  the  better  to  seduce  tlie  boisterous  winds. 
These  powers,  beguiled  by  the  flattering  charm,  and  by  the 
blandishments  of  love,  soon  become  calm.  The  ship-boy  at 
the  mast-head  raises  a  joyful  cry  of  land,  re-echoed  by  the 
whole  crew,  while  the  pilot  of  Melinda  informs  the  Portu- 
guese that  they  are  now  approaching  the  kingdom  of  Calicut, 
the  object  of  their  voj'nge. 

Nations  are  very  frequently  observed  to  be  elated  by  their 
magnitude  ;  as  if  the  increased  number  of  their  citizens  did 
not  detract  from  the  portion  of  renown  due  to  each  in- 
dividual, in  the  collective  exploits  of  the  people  ;  as  if 
individual  importance  were  not  merged  in  the  overwhelming 
influence  of  aggregate  bodies  ;  and  as  if  individual  existence 
were  of  any  account  among  the  millions  to  which  it  belongs. 
But  the  honour  which  a  citizen  attaches  to  the  smallness  of 
his  native  state,  is  of  a  far  more  genuine  description,  inasmuch 
as  it  implies  the  accomplishment  of  great  designs,  with  very 
inadequate  means.  It  is  only  the  inhabitants  of  circumscribed 
dominions,  who  may  justly  venture  to  boast  of  possessing  a 
distinguished  share  in  the  fame  and  acliievements  of  their 
country.  Each  man  feels  that  his  personal  influence  has  been 
exerted  in  deciding  the  fate  of  his  country  ;  and  it  is  in 
giving  expression  to  this  fine  sentiment,  that  Camoens  opens 
the  seventh  book  of  his  Lusiad  : 

*Hail,  glorious  chief  !  where  never  chief  before 
Forced  his  bold  way,  all  hail  on  India's  shore  ! 
And  hail,  ye  Lusian  heroes  !  for  and  wide 
What  groves  of  palm,  to  haughty  Rome  denied, 
For  you  by  Ganges'  lengthening  banks  unfold  ! 
What  laurel  forests  on  the  shores  of  gold 
For  you  their  honours  ever  verdant  rear. 
Proud  with  their  leaves  to  twine  the  Lusian  spear  ! 

Ah  heaven  !  what  fury  Europe's  sons  controls  ! 
What  self  consuming  discord  fires  their  souls  ! 
'Gainst  her  own  breast  her  sword  Germania  turns ; 
Through  all  her  states  fraternal  rancour  burns; 
Some,  blindly  wandering,  holy  faith  disclaim, 
And  fierce  through  all  wild  rages  civil  flame. 
High  sound  the  titles  of  the  English  crown, 
King  of  Jerusalem,  his  old  renown  ! 
Alas,  delighted  with  an  airy  name. 
The  thin  dim  shadow  of  departed  fame, 
England's  stern  monarch,  sunk  in  soft  repose. 
Luxurious  riots  mid  his  northern  snows  : 
Or  if  the  starting  burst  of  ragR  succeed. 
His  brethren  are  his  foes,  and  Christians  bleed  • 


*  Canto  vii.  str.  2,  3,  4. 


516  ON    THE    LITEKATURE 

While  ITagar's  brutal  race  his  titles  stain,  j 

In  weeping  Salcni  unmolested  reign,  > 

And  with  their  rites  impure  her  holy  shrines  profane.     S 

Camoens  then  describes  the  English,  the  French,  and  the 
Italians,  in  a  similar  way,  reproaching  tliem  for  tlieir  profane 
wars  and  luxury,  -while  they  ought  to  have  been  engaged  in 
opposing  the  enemies  of  the  faith  : 

Yet  sleep,  yc  powers  of  Europe,  careless  sleep  I 
To  you  in  vain  your  eastern  brethren  weep  ; 
Yet  not  in  vain  their  woe-wrung  tears  shall  sue; 
Tliough  small  the  Lusian  realms,  her  legions  few, 
The  guardian  oft  by  heaven  ordain'd  before. 
The  Lusian  race  shall  guard  Messiah's  lore. 
AVhcn  heaven  decreed  to  crush  the  Moorish  foe, 
Heaven  gave  the  Lusian  spear  to  strike  the  blow. 
AVlien  heaven's  own  laws  o'er  Afric's  shores  were  heard, 
The  sacred  shrines  the  Lusian  heroes  rear'd  : 
Nor  shall  their  zeal  in  Asia's  bounds  expire, 
Asia  subdued  shall  fume  with  hallo w'd  fire  : 
"When  the  red  sun  the  Lusian  shore  forsakes,     , 
And  on  the  lap  of  deepest  west  awakes, 
O'er  the  wild  plains,  beneath  unincensed  skies 
The  sun  shall  view  the  Lusian  altars  rise. 
And  could  new  worlds  by  human  step  be  trod, 
Those  worlds  .should  tremble  at  the  Lusian  nod. 

Camoens  proceeds  to  describe,  with  more  geograpliical  cor- 
rectness, perhaps,  than  poetic  colouring,  the  western  peninsula 
of  India,  the  shores  of  Malabar,  and  Calicut,  the  capital  of  the 
Zamorira.  where  Gama  had  landed.  The  Portuguese  there 
met  with  a  Moor  of  Barbary,  named  Moncaide,  who  recog- 
nizing the  Spanish  dress,  spoke  to  them  in  the  Castilian 
tongue,  and  gave  them  a  hospitable  reception.  He  seemed  to 
remember  only  his  former  proximity  to  them,  forgetting  the 
numerous  injiu-ies  which  his  persecuted  race  had  sustained  at 
their  hands.  After  receiving  Gama's  messenger  in  his  house, 
he  went  himself  onboard  the  Portuguese  vessel,  and  gave  his 
guests  a  particular  account  of  every  thing  he  had  learned  re- 
lating to  India.  The  Zamorim  next  invites  Gama  to  repair 
to  an  audience  ;  who  sets  out  in  a  palanquin,  accompanied  by 
his  soldiers  on  foot.  Mon9aide  acts  as  an  interpreter  ; 
requesting  in  the  name  of  the  King  of  Portugal,  the  friend- 
ship of  the  Emperor  of  Calicut,  and  proposing  to  grant  him 
the  commerce  of  Europe  in  exchange  for  that  of  India.  Tlie 
emperor,  before  he  returns  an  an.swer,  wishes  to  have  the 
opinion  of  his  council ;  inquires  of  MoiiQaide  some  particulars 
respecting  Portugal,  and  orders  the  ships  arrived  in  his  port 


OF    THE    rORTUGUESE.  517 

to  be  visited  by  his  officers.  The  arrival  of  the  Catual,  or 
minister  of  the  Zaraorim,  on  board  the  ships,  and  his  exami- 
nation of  the  historical  portraits  which  meet  his  eye,  afford 
occasion  for  another  digression,  in  wliich  Camoens  discusses 
the  antiquities  of  Portugal.  But  he  first  addresses  himself  to 
the  nymphs  of  the  Tagus,  lamenting  the  many  disappoint- 
ments which  he  had  suft'ered  in  the  service  of  the  Muses  : 

*Where  ■would  I  speed,  as  madd'ning  in  a  dream, 
AVithout  your  aid,  ye  Xymphs  of  Tago's  stream  ! 
Or  yours,  ye  Dryads  of  Mondego's  l)Owers  ! 
AVithout  your  aid  how  vain  my  wearied  powers  ! 
Long  yet  and  various  lies  my  arduous  way 
Tlirougli  louring  tempests  and  a  boundless  sea. 
Oil  then,  propitious  hear  your  son  implore, 
And  guide  my  vessel  to  the  happy  shore. 
Ah  !  see  how  long  what  per'lous  daj's,  what  woes 
On  many  a  foreign  coast  around  me  rose. 
As  dragg"d  by  fortune  s  chariot  wheels  along 
I  sooth'd  my  sorrows  with  the  warlike  song  ; 
"Wide  ocean's  horrors  lengthening  now  around, 
And  now  my  footsteps  trod  the  hostile  ground  ; 
Yet  mid  each  danger  of  tumultuous  war 
Your  Lusian  heroes  ever  claim'd  my  care  : 
As  Canacef  of  old,  ere  self-destroy'd, 
One  hand  the  pen,  and  one  the  sword  employ 'd. 
Degraded  now,  by  poverty  abhorr'd. 
The  guest  dependent  at  the  lordling's  board  : 
Now  blest  with  all  the  wealth  fond  hope  could  crave, 
Soon  I  beheld  that  wealth  beneath  the  wave 
Eor  ever  lost ;  myself  escaped  alone. 
On  the  wild  shore  all  friendless,  hopeless,  thrown  ; 
My  life,  like  Judah"s  hcaven-doom'd  king  of  yore, 
By  miracle  prolong'd  •  yet  not  the  more 
To  end  my  sorrows  :  woes  succeeding  woes 
Belied  my  earnest  hopes  of  sweet  repose  : 
In  place  of  bays  around  my  brows  to  shed 
Their  sacred  honours,  o'er  my  destined  head 
Foul  calumny  proclaim'd  the  fraudful  tale, 
And  left  me  mourning  in  a  dreary  jail. 
Such  was  the  meed,  alas  !  on  me  bestow'd,  ^ 

Bestow'd  by  those  for  whom  my  numbers  glow'd,  j- 

By  those  who  to  my  toils  their  laurel  honours  owed.    5 

Ye  gentle  nymphs  of  Tago's  rosy  bowers. 
Ah,  see  what  letter'd  patron-lords  are  yours  ! 
Dull  as  the  herds  that  graze  their  flowery  dales ; 
To  them  in  vain  the  injur'd  muse  bewails  : 

*  Canto  vii.  str.  78. 

+  The  daughter  of  jEolus,  whose  illegitimate  children  were  condemned  to  death. 
Ovid  attributes  to  her  one  of  his  Jleroids. 


518  ON    TIIK    LITERATURE 

No  fostering  care  their  Larbarous  liands  Ijcstow, 

Tliough  to  the  muse  their  fairest  fame  they  owe. 

Ah,  cold  may  prove  the  future  priest  of  fame 

Taught  by  my  fate  :  yet  will  I  not  disclaim 

Your  smiles,  ye  Muses  of  Alondego's  shade, 

Be  still  my  dearest  joy  your  happy  aid  ! 

And  hear  my  vow  :  Nor  king,  nor  loftiest  peer 

Shall  e'er  from  me  the  song  of  flattery  hear  ; 

Nor  cVafty  tyrant,  who  in  office  reigns, 

Smiles  on  his  king,  and  binds  the  land  in  chains ; 

His  king's  worst  foe  :  nor  he  whose  raging  ire, 

And  raging  wants,  to  shape  his  course,  conspire  : 

True  to  the  clamours  of  the  blinded  crowd. 

Their  changeful  I'roteus,  insolent  and  loud  : 

Nor  he  whose  honest  mien  secures  applause, 

Grave  though  he  seem,  and  father  of  the  laws. 

Who,  but  half-patriot,  niggardly  denies 

Each  othei''s  merit,  and  withholds  the  prize  : 

AVho  spurns  the  muse,  nor  feels  the  raptured  strain. 

Useless  by  him  esteem'd,  and  idly  vain  : 

For  him,  for  these,  no  wreath  my  hand  shall  twine ; 

On  other  brows  th'  immor'.al  rays  shall  shine  : 

He  who  the  path  of  honour  ever  trod. 

True  to  his  king,  his  country,  and  his  God, 

On  his  blest  head  my  hands  shall  fix  the  crown 

Wove  of  the  deathless  laurels  of  renown. 

The  eighth  hook,  which  foUows  this  vfery  affecting  appeal, 
will  scai'cely,  we  fear,  suit  our  purpose,  in  the  Ibrin  of 
extracts.  The  heroes  of  Portugal,  from  the  tirae  of  Lusus, 
one  of  the  companions  of  Bacchus,  who  conferred  his  name 
on  Lusitania,  and  of  Ulysses  the  founder  of  Lisbon,  down  to 
the  Infants  Don  Pedro  and  Don  Henrique,  the  conquerors  of 
Ceuta,  are  all  represented  in  the  portraits  of  Gama,  and  are 
likewise  characterized  by  appropriate  verses,  interesting  only 
to  such  readers  as  may  possess  an  intimate  acquaintance  with 
the  early  history  and  fictions  of  the  country. 

In  the  mean  while  the  Zauiorim  has  recourse  to  the  ora- 
cles of  his  false  gods,  who,  according  to  tiie  strange  mythology 
sanctioned  by  Camocns,  as  well  as  by  all  the  Spanish  poets, 
do  not  fail  to  reveal  to  him  the  real  truth  ;  for  we  every  where 
find  miraculous  powers  very  inconsistently  attributed  by  them 
to  these  false  and  lying  idols.  Tliruugli  these  oracles  the 
Emperor  of  Calicut  is  made  acquainted  with  the  future  do- 
minion of  the  Portuguese  over  the  Indies,  and  the  consequent 
downfal  of  his  own  empii-e.  All  the  Mahometans  throughout 
his  dominions,  actuated  by  either  religious  or  commercial  mo- 
tives, conspire   against   the  Portuguese  ;  and  endeavour  to 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  519 

irritate  the  Zamorim,  and  to  corrupt  his  ministers.      In  the 
next  audience  with  Vasco  de  Gaina,  the  emperor  questions 
the  truth  of  their  embassy  from  the  Portuguese  king,  and 
cannot  be  brought  to  believe  that  a  nionarcii    so  remotely 
situated  should  really  interest  himself  in  the  affairs  of  India. 
He  declares  his  suspicions  that  Gama  is  only  the  captain  of  a 
band  of  corsairs,  and  requires  him  to  reveal  the  real  truth. 
The  hero  repels  such  an  accusation  with  becoming  dignity  ; 
avowing  at  the  same  time  that  ardent  zeal  for  discovery  which 
had  led  so  many  of  the  Portuguese  monarchs  to  track  their 
way,  step  by  step,  along  the  great  coast  of  Africa  ;  and  he 
then  requires  the  king's  permission  to  re-embark  in  order  to 
carry  back  to  his  country  the  tidings  of  an  open   passage  to 
the  Indies.      The  tone  in  which  Gama  speaks  convinces  the 
emperor  of  his  sincerity.      He  consents  to  his  departure  ;  but 
his  ministers,   and  particularly  the  Catual,  seduced   by  the 
presents  of  the  Moors,  will  not  allow  the  commander  to  return 
to  his  fleet.      He  is  strictly  watched,  and  it  is   not  without 
difficulty  that,  by  delivering  up  to  the  Indians  the  whole  of 
his  merchandize,  as  surety  for  his  person,  he  obtains  permis- 
sion once  more  to  re-embark.     Nearly  all  these  details  have 
the  recommendation  of  historical  truth,  as  we  scarcely  find  a 
circumstance  anywhere  recounted  which  may  not  be  referred 
to  the  fourth  book  of  the  first  decade  of  John  de  Barros.    The 
strange  mixture,  however,  arising  from  the  interference  of 
Venus,  who  inspires  Gama  with  his  eloquent  discourse,  and 
the  jealousy  of  Bacchus,  who  excites  a    Mahometan  priest 
against  the  Christians  by  appearing  to  him  in  a  dream,  gives 
an  air  of  ridicule  and  improbability  to  a  fiction  so  perfectly  at 
variance  with    all    the    modern    feelings  and   passions  with 
which    it    is    associated.     We    have    already  observed    that 
Camoens  composed  a  portion  of  his  epic  poem  at  Macao.  An 
exile  at  the  farthest  extremity  of  Asia,  he  dwelt  with  poetic 
enthusiasm  only  upon  the  recollections  of  Europe.     The  my- 
thology of  the  Greeks,  the  object  of  his  studies   Avhile    at 
Coimbra,  served  to  revive  the  delightful  impressions  of  his 
childhood  and  his  youth.      Had  he  deferred  the  com  position 
of   his  work    until    his    return    to  Europe,  his  imagination 
would,  perhaps,  have  luxuriated  as  fondly  amidst  the  enchant- 
ing clime  and  scenery  which  he  had  quitted  ibr  ever.      He 
would  then  have  conferred  upon  his  poem   a  more  oriental 
character,  and  greater  local  charms  and  colouring  ;  he  would 


o20  ON    THE    LITERATCRE 

have  opposed  the  wikl  fictions  of  India  to  the  miracles  of 
Christianity,  and  liis  genius  would  have  been  enriched  by  his 
voyages,  from  which  his  poetry  now  appears  to  have  derived 
but  little  advantage. 

The  two  ftxctors  who  had  been  sent  with  the  Portuguese 
merchandize  to  Calicut,  remained  there  a  considerable  period, 
without  being  able  to  dispose  of  any  ;  for  tlie  Moors  wished 
to  defer  their  departure,  until  time  should  have  been  given 
for  the  fleet  of  Mecca,  returning  every  year  to  India, 
to  arrive,  which  they  expected  would  be  sufficiently  powerful 
to  overwhelm  the  Christians.  But  the  Moor  Mongaide, 
to  whom  this  project  had  been  confided  by  his  countrymen, 
moved  by  compassion  for  the  Portuguese,  who  had  been  his 
guests,  informed  them  of  the  approaching  danger.  lie  then 
renounced  his  religion,  and  embarked  on  board  one  of  the 
vessels,  in  order  to  follow  them  into  Portugal.  Gama  gave 
orders  to  the  two  factors  whom  he  had  sent  on  land,  to 
reship  their  cargo  and  join  him  as  secretly  as  possible.  But 
the  Indians  did  not  allow  them  time,  and  Gama,  in  oi'der  to 
obtain  their  freedom,  seized  several  merchants  of  Calicut, 
engaged  in  selling  precious  stones  on  board  the  fleet,  wliom 
he  at  length  consented  to  exchange  for  his  two  companions.* 
He  then  weighed  anchor,  without  delay,  to  regain  the  shores 
of  Europe,  whither  he  was  desirous  of  conveying  the  intelli- 
gence of  his  discoveries. 

*  The  queen  of  love,  Ly  heaven's  eternal  grace, 
The  guardian  goddess  of  the  Liisian  race ; 
The  queen  of  love,  elate  with  joy,  surveys 
Her  heroes,  happy,  plough  the  watery  maze  : 
Their  dreary  toils  revolving  in  her  thought, 
And  all  the  woes  by  vengeful  Bacchus  wrought ; 
These  toils,  these  woes  her  yearning  cares  employ, 
To  bathe  and  balsam  in  the  streams  of  joy. 
Amid  the  bosom  of  the  watery  waste. 
Near  where  the  bowers  of  Paradise  were  placed, 
An  isle,  array'd  in  all  the  pride  of  flowers, 
Of  fruits,  of  fountains,  and  of  fragrant  bowers, 
She  means  to  offer  to  llicir  homeward  prows, 
The  phice  of  glad  repast  and  sweet  repose ; 
And  there  before  their  raptured  view  to  raise 
The  heaven-topp'd  column  of  their  deathless  praiss-t 


*  [In  the  version  of  Miekle,  this  portion  of  tlie  original  is  omitted,  and  the  libera- 
tion of  the  factors  is  cfrocted  by  a  victory  obtained  by  Gama  over  ti\c  ludi.'.us.  Micklc 
jf;serts,  for  this  purpose,  about  tJirec  hundred  lines  of  his  own. — Tr.] 

t  Canto  ix.  str.  18. 


OF    THE   PORTUGUESE.  521 

It  Is  in  this  manner  that  Camoens  introduces  a  very  sin- 
gular, but  easy  and  agreeable  episode,  recounting  the  love 
adventures  of  his  heroes  in  one  of  the  islands  of  the  ocean.* 
The  real  Deity  of  Camoens,  who  had  selected  Venus  to  pro- 
tect the  warriors,  seems  to  have  approved  of  the  conduct  of 
the  goddess  in  amusing  them  in  her  own  way.  Venus  departs 
in  search  of  her  son,  throughout  all  his  realms,  to  implore  his 
aid  ;  and  the  truly  classical  description  given  of  her  progress 
is  one  of  the  most  seductive  of  its  kind.  She  arrives,  at 
length,  at  the  place  where  Love's  artillery  and  arms  aro 
forged;  a  busy  scene  of  little  winged  boys  and  nymphs  work- 
ing under  his  orders  : 

Nor  these  alone,  each  rank,  debased  and  rude, 
Afean  objects,  worthless  of  their  love,  pursued  : 
Their  passions  thus  rebellious  to  his  lore, 
The  god  decrees  to  punish  and  restoi'e. 
The  little  loves,  light  hovering  in  the  air, 
Twang  their  silk  bow-strings,  and  their  arms  prepare  : 
Some  on  th'  immortal  anvils  point  the  dart, 
With  power  i-csistless  to  enflamc  the  heart : 
Their  arrow  heads  they  tip  vv'ith  soft  desires, 
And  all  the  warmth  of  love's  celestial  tires ; 
Some  sprinkle  o'er  the  shafts  the  tears  of  woe, 
Some  store  the  quiver,  some  steel-spring  the  bow  ; 
Each  chanting  as  he  woi-ks  the  tuneful  strain 
Of  love's  dear  joys,  of  love's  luxurious  pain  : 
Charm'd  was  the  lay  to  conquer  ami  refine, 
Divine  the  melody,  the  song  divine/j- 

Venus  intercedes  with  her  son  in  favour  of  the  Portuguese, 
and  explains  to  him  her  design  in  the  following  terms  : 

Then  bend  thy  bow  and  wound  the  Nereid  train, 

The  lovely  daughters  of  the  azure  main  ; 

And  lead  them,  while  they  pant  with  amorous  fire. 

Right  to  the  isle  which  all  my  smiles  inspire  : 

Soon  shall  my  care  that  beauteous  isle  supply, 

Where  Zephyr  breathing  love,  on  Flora's  lap  shall  sigh. 

There  let  the  nymphs  the  gallant  heroes  meet, 

And  strew  the  pink  and  rose  beneath  their  feet : 

In  crystal  halls  the  feast  divine  prolong. 

With  wine  nectareous  and  immortal  song  : 

Let  every  nymph  the  snow-white  bed  prepare, 

And,  fairer  far,  resign  her  bosom  there  ; 

*  It  is  not  improbable  tliat  the  annual  ceremony  of  the  Ascension  at  Venice,  during 
v.hicli  the  Doge,  in  the  name  of  the  Republic,  weds  the  sea,  furnished  Camoens  with 
this  allegory.  Thetis  is  espoused  by  the  Portuguese  commander  in  the  ocean  isle,  at 
the  moment  when  the  dominion  of  the  seas  is  transferred  from  the  Republic  of  Venice 
to  the  King  of  Portugal.  t  Canto  ix.  str.  30. 

VOL.  II.       .  K  K 


522  ON  Tin:  i.rrEnATunE 

There  to  the  greedy  riotous  cmhraco 

llesign  each  hidden  chunn  with  dearest  grace. 

Thus  from  my  native  waves  a  hero  line 

Shall  rise,  and  o'er  the  east  illustrious  shine  ; 

Thus  shall  the  rebel  world  thy  prowess  know, 

And  what  the  boundless  joys  our  friendly  powers  bestow.* 

Sucli  is  the  project  of  Venus  ;  and  it  is  executed  by  Love 
himself.  With  them  is  associated  Fame,  who,  every  where 
bruiting  forth  the  gh>ry  of  tlie  Portuguese,  has  inspired  the 
sea-nymphs  witli  a  passion  for  her  lieroes  before  they  have 
yet  beheld  tlu-m.  Tlie  island  to  which  they  repair,  floats, 
like  Delos  of  old,  upon  the  bosom  of  the  wave?,  but  becomes 
fixed  on  the  instant  the  vessel  appears  in  sight.  Nothing  can 
surpass  the  beauty  of  embowering  trees,  the  clustering  fruits 
and  blossoms,  the  flower- enamelled  green,  the  song  of  birds 
bursting  from  every  boiigli,  and  tin;  pure  transparent  waters 
in  which  the  love-nymph,-,  bathe  tlu^ir  limbs,  indulging  in 
voluptuous  antici{)ations  of  the  expected  arrival  of  the  heroes. 
"With  seductive  coquetry  they  seem  to  fly  at  the  sight  of 
them  for  the  sole  pleasure  of  l^eing  overtaken.  The  whole 
of  this  magic  scene,  not  inferior  to  the  easiest  and  happiest 
touches  of  Ovid,  even  in  his  most  glowing  mood,  suddenly 
vanishes  towards  the  close  of  the  same  canto,  to  the  infinite 
surprise  of  the  reader,  who  learns  as  suddenly  that  these  ap- 
parent realities,  are  merely  allegorical.  The  poet  developes 
his  mythological  meaning  in  the  following  Avords  : 

The  nymphs  of  ocean,  and  the  ocean's  queen, 
The  isle  angelic,  every  raptured  scene, 
The  charms  of  honour  and  its  meed  confess, 
These  are  the  raptures,  these  the  wedded  bliss ; 
The  glovious  triumph  and  the  laurel  crown, 
The  ever-blossom'd  palms  of  fair  renown, 
Uy  time  unwither'd  and  untaught  to  cloy ; 
These  arc  the  transports  of  the  Isle  of  Joy. 

lie  then  adds  that  all  the  gods  of  antiquity  were  merely 
mortals  like  ourselves,  on  whom  Fame  conferred  such  illus- 
trious names,  as  the  recompense  of  their  brilliant  actions. 
But  in  the  opening  of  the  tenth  canto  Camoens  resumes  the 
same  allegory.  The  fair  nymphs  conduct  their  lovers  to 
their  radiant  palaces,  where  delicious  wines  sparkle  in 
every  cup  : 

To  music's  sweetest  chords  in  loftiest  vein, 

An  angel  Siren  joins  the  vocal  strain  ; 

*  Canto  ix.  str.  11. 


OF    TUE    POKXUGUESE.  523 

The  silver  roofs  resound  the  living  song. 
The  harp  and  organ's  lofty  mood  prolong 
The  hallowed  warblings  ;  listening  silence  rides 
The  sky,  and  o'er  the  bridled  winds  presides ; 
In  softest  murmurs  flows  the  glassy  deep, 
And  each  luU'd  in  his  shade,  the  bestials  sleep. 

Before  Camoens  describes  to  us  the  song  of  this  prophetic 
siren,  he  for  the  hast  time  addresses  himself  to  the  muse  ;  and 
there  is  a  tone  of  sorrow  in  the  lines,  which  touches  us  the 
more  deeply  when  we  reflect  upon  the  unhappy  situation  to 
which  tliis  great  poet  was  at  last  reduced  : 

And  thou,  my  muse,  0  fairest  of  the  train, 

Calliope,  inspire  my  closing  strain. 

No  more  the  summer  of  my  life  remains, 

My  autumn's  lengthening  evenings  chill  my  veins  ; 

Down  the  bleak  stream  of  years  by  woes  on  woes 

Wing'd  on,  I  hasten  to  the  tomb's  repose. 

The  port  whose  deep  dark  bottom  shall  detain 

My  anchor  never  to  be  weigh'd  again, 

Never  on  other  sea  of  life  to  steer 

The  human  cours<^ Yet  thou,  0  goddess,  hear, 

Yet  let  me  live,  though  round  my  silver'd  head 
Misfortune's  bitterest  rage  unpitying  shed 
Her  coldest  storms ;  yet  let  me  live  to  crown 
The  song  that  boasts  my  Nation's  proud  renown.* 

The  Siren  begins  by  singing  the  praises  of  the  great  men 
destined  to  achieve  the  conquest  of  the  regions  discovered  by 
Gama,  and  to  ennoble  the  Portuguese  name  in  the  Indies. 
In  his  third  and  forth  cantos,  Camoens  had  given  a  complete 
account  of  the  political  history  of  Portugal,  and  of  that  of 
its  royal  house  ;  in  the  sixth  and  seventh,  he  had  presented 
us  with  everything  which  fiction  and  tradition  had  attached 
to  the  lives  and  characters  of  his  heroes.  A  prophetic 
genius  is  here  supposed  to  predict  the  future,  from  the  period 
of  Gama's  expedition,  down  to  Camoens's  own  times  ;  thus 
completing  an  liistorical  view  of  his  country,  which  renders 
the  Lusiad  one  of  the  noblest  monuments  ever  offered  to  the 
national  glory  of  any  people.  A  succession  of  future  heroes 
now  pass  before  the  eyes  of  Gama.  First  is  seen  the  great 
Pacheco,  the  Achilles  of  Portugal,  the  defender  of  Cochin, 
and  the  conqueror  of  the  Zamorim,  whose  armies  were 
destined  to  be  seven  times  defeated  by  him.  But  these  exploits, 
accomplished  with  only  a  few  hundred  comrades,  will  prove 
insufficient  to  protect  him  against  his  country's  ingratitude. 

*  Canto  X.  str.  8. 
K  K    2 


524  ON    THE    LITERATUUK 

Neglected  by  his  king,  and  forgotten  by  his  fellow  citizens, 
he  is  doomed  to  terminate  his  wretclietl  days  in  a  hospital. 
Next  appears  the  celebrated  Alfonso  d'Albiiquerque,  the 
victor  of  Ormuz,  whose  devastating  arms  extended  over  the 
whole  Persian  Gulf,  to  the  island  of  Goa,  and  to  Malacca. 
He  is,  however,  reproached  with  his  severity  towards  his 
soldiers.  Soarez,  Menezes,  Mascarenlias,  Hector  de  Silveiras, 
and  others  who  obtained  great  names  by  their  exploits  in  the 
Indies,  all  pass  in  succession,  with  their  characteristic  traits 
and  tlieir  respective  titles  to  fame.  Unhappily  for  the 
honour  of  Portugal,  these  exhibit  little  more  than  a  catalogue 
of  slaugliter,  spoliations,  and  bloodshed.  The  most  heartless 
ferocity  characterized  all  the  wars  of  the  Europeans  carried 
on  in  the  two  Indies  during  the  sixteenth  century.  Both  tiie 
Portuguese  and  the  Spaniards  possessed  almost  incalculable 
advantages  in  point  of  strength,  arms,  and  discipline,  over 
the  different  people  of  the  countries  which  they  had  dis- 
covered. One  hundred  European  soldiers  were,  in  fact,  a 
strong  army  when  opposed  to  many  thousand  Indians  ;  but 
in  order  to  deprive  the  latter  of  any  reliance  on  the  su- 
periority of  their  numbers,  and  to  impress  upon  them  tlie 
danger  of  resistance,  millions  of  unresisting  victims  were  put 
to  the  sword.  It  was  not  until  after  streams  of  blood  had 
flowed,  that  so  small  a  body  of  troops  began  to  be  considered 
as  formidable.  It  was  then  that  the  instinctive  ferocity 
inherent  in  the  vulgai",  which  animates  the  soldier  drawn 
from  the  very  dregs  of  society,  and  which,  increasing  by  the 
opposition  of  a  weaker  enemy,  exults  with  savage  pleasure 
in  its  destructive  powers,  was  carried  to  its  highest  pitch  by 
the  most  cruel  spirit  of  fanaticism.  All  the  inhabitants  of 
those  rich  and  civilized  realms,  whose  mild  and  humane  cha- 
racter never  permitted  them  even  the  shedding  of  blood  ; 
who  preferred  renouncing  the  use  of  flesh  to  inflicting  the 
least  pain  upon  any  thing  endued  with  life  ;  and  who  pro- 
fessed the  most  ancient  religion  in  tlie  world,  full  of  mystic 
and  ?i)iritual  beauty,  were  found  deserving  of  notliing,  in  tlie 
eyes  of  the  Portuguese,  but  death,  because  they  had  never 
heard  the  doctrines  of  Christianity.  It  Avas  invariably  held 
a  good  work  to  slied  their  blood  ;  and  though  worldly  policy 
sometinics  induced  tlie  Portuguese  commanders  to  enter  into 
treaties  with  them  for  a  time,  the  commands  of  heaven  were 
fiir  more  severe,  and  permitted  no  sort  of  indulgence  to  bo 


OF    THE   PORTUGUESE.  525 

sliewn  to  tins  most  impious  sect.  Every  one  that  did  not 
receive  immediate  baptism  was  delivered  up  to  the  stake  or 
the  sword.  The  Turks,  -vvho  had  already  established  them- 
selves, either  with  commercial  or  warlike  views,  in  the  Indies, 
so  far  from  being  permitted  to  unite  witli  the  Christians,  from 
their  knowledge  and  worship  of  the  same  true  God,  were 
only  the  more  detested  by  the  Portuguese  ;  an  hereditary 
line  of  hatred  was  di-awn  between  them  ;  and  no  treaties,  no 
alliance  could  lead  them  to  unite.  The  accounts,  indeed, 
written  by  foreigners,  with  the  opinions  delivered  in  a  suc- 
ceeding age  upon  this  subject,  ought  to  be  received  with  a 
great  degree  of  distrust  ;  and  in  order  to  form  a  correct  idea 
of  the  destructive  character  of  the  Indian  wars,  it  will  be 
necessary  to  consult  the  national  historians  themselves.  Every 
page  of  the  memoirs  of  Alfonso  d'Albuquerque  may  be  said 
to  be  stained  with  blood.*  In  his  Asia,  De  Barros  gives  an 
account  of  the  most  atrocious  cruelties  with  the  most  perfect 
indilFerence ;  and  Vasco  de  Gama  himself,  in  his  second 
voyage,  set  the  exami)le  to  others.  The  history  of  the  differ- 
ent Portuguese  expeditions,  written  by  Osorius,  and  that  of 
Lope  de  Castagneda,  are  no  less  revolting  in  their  details. 
Even  the  tenth  canto  of  the  Lusiarl,  in,  which  it  is  the 
author's  object  to  celebrate  only  the  glory  of  the  Portuguese, 
is  throughout  imbued  with  the  same  character.  The  de- 
stroyers suddenly  surprise  their  victims  in  one  of  their  re- 
motest retreats  :  no  provocation  had  ever  been  offered  to 
tliem,  and  no  treaty  had  ever  set  bounds  to  their  cruel  rage. 
After  having  persuaded  the  Moors  or  the  Pagans  to  deliver 
up  their  arms,  and  to  strip  themselves  of  their  treasures  with 
their  own  hands,  they  committed  them  to  the  flames,  either  in 
the  sliips  or  in  the  temples,  without  the  least  distinction  of 


«  I  feel  some  compunction  in  thus  bringing  forward  tlie  name  of  Albuquerque  only 
for  the  purpose  of  accusation.  The  crime,  however,  is  not  bis  ;  it  wliolly  rests  witli 
the  age,  the  religion,  and  that  ferocious  spi.-it  which,  I  cannot  observe  withoiit  shud- 
dering, some  men  are  now  attempting  to  revive.  But  tlie  elevation  of  his  mind 
remains  his  own,  and  we  recognize  the  dignity  of  his  cliaractei  in  tlie  letter  which  he 
addressed  to  the  king  at  his  death.  The  founder  of  the  Portuguese  empire  in  India 
v.as  recalled;  his  personal  enemy  was  substituted  in  his  place;  and  the  wretches 
whom  he  had  punished  for  their  crimes,  were  advanced  to  the  government  of  other 
])laces.     Instead,  however,  of  complaining  or  justifying  himself,  he  thus  writes:     . 

"  Senhor,  esta  he  a  derradeira  que  com  solufos  de  morte  screvo  a  Vossa  Alteza,  de 
<juantos  com  espirito  de  vida  Ihe  tenho  escrito,  pela  ter  livre  da  confusao  desta  derra- 
deira bora,  e  muito  contento  na  occupafao  de  seu  servifo.  Neste  reino  deixei  hum 
iilho  por  nome  Braz  d'Abuquerque  ao  qual  pe(;'o  a  Vossa  Alteza  que  fafa  grande, 
como  Ihe  meus  servifos  merecem.  Quanto  as  cousas  da  India,  ella  fallara  por  si  e 
por  mi." — Jo.*6  de  Barhos,  Decad.  ii.  lib.  viii. 


526  ON    THE    LlTEIiATi;UK 

age  or  sex.  The  cries  of  children  were  mingled  with  the 
groans  of  aged  chiefs  ;*  and  when  torrents  of  blood  and  the 
agonies  of  the  victims  seemed  to  excite  feelings  of  compus- 
sioa  in  the  minds  of  the  soldiery,  the  more  ferocious  priests 
rushed  forward  to  renew,  with  i'anatical  zeal,  their  relenting 
fury.  .  Tribunals  of  the  Inquisition  were  established  at  Goa 
and  at  Diu,  and  innumerable  victims  perished  in  the  most 
frightful  torments.  I  cannot  admit  that  it  is  inconsistent 
with  my  subject  thus  to  denounce  these  great  political  crimes, 
and  to  bring  tiiem,  in  all  their  naked  horror,  once  more  to  view. 
The  same  critics  who,  in  our  own  times,  have  attracted  atten- 
tion to  the  subject  of  Spanish  and  Portuguese  literature,  re- 
presenting it  as  the  combined  result,  the  finished  production 
of  the  rich  spirit  of  chivalric  manners  and  romance,  have  at 
the  same  time  applauded  the  religious  principle  which  ani- 
mated the  Christians  ;  the  disinterested  zeal  which  led  them 
to  these  wars,  whose  sole  object  was  the  glory  of  God  ;  and 
their  impassioned  poetical  life,  which  never  embraced  views  of 
gain.  But  it  is  not  according  to  poetical  rules  that  we  are 
permitted  to  judge  of  the  actions  of  men.  The  language  of 
passion  may,  perhaps,  be  more  energetic,  more  eloquent,  and 
better  suited  to  poetry  ;  although  the  passions  are  not  on 
that  account  more  sanctioned  by  moral  truth.  The  actions 
of  impassioned  beings  may  be  supposed  to  be  of  too  high  an 
order  to  admit  of  sordid  calculations,  and  yet  this  apparent 
disinterestedness  may  fail  to  induce  a  stricter  obsei'vation  of 
the  divine  laws.  The  chief  characteristic  of  the  passions 
being  that  of  always  going  beyond  their  object,  he  who  is 
labouring  under  their  influence  appears  to  act  with  a  disin- 
terested view,  if  we  do  not  keep  in  mind  that,  during  this 
mental  malady,  the  interest  first  proposed  is  always  that  of 
satisfying  ourselves.  The  firebrand  of  religious  war  is,  in 
fact,  never  kindled  on  mere  calculations  of  selfishness  ;  but  it 
is  both  kindled  and  kept  alive  by  one  of  the  most  selfish 
passions  of  our  nature,  by  the  hatred  of  every  thing  that  is 
not  as  it  were  a  part  of  ourselves,  and  of  every  thing  Avhich 
does  not  resemble  us.  Perhaps,  in  the  opinion  of  individuals, 
that  man  will  be  held  excused,  who,   while  he  commits  an 

*  Among  many  other  instances  is  that  of  Vasco  de  Gama  burning  an  Egyptiaa 
vessel,  with  two  hundred  and  fil'ty  soldiers  on  board,  andlifty-one  women  and  children, 
after  ihey  had  surrendered  themselves  to  him,  and  without  the  least  provocation  from 
the  Egyptians,  with  whom  lie  had  never  been  at  war. — Joau  de  Baiiros,  Dccad.  i. 
1.  vi.  cap.  3. 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  02  / 

atrocious  crime,  imagines  that  lie  is  performing  a  religious  act ; 
but  as  soon  as  we  begin  to  reason  and  to  generalize  our  ideas, 
the  persecutions  of  fanaticism  appear  in  their  genuine  colours, 
and  are  recognized  as  the  result  of  a  blind  and  wicked  passion, 
which  directly  leads  to  the  dissolution  of  all  divine  laws  and 
of  all  social  compacts. 

As  soon  as  the  Siren  has  concluded  her  prophetic  song  on 
the  splendid  actions  of  the  Portuguese,  Thetis,  leading  Vasco 
de  Gama  by  the  hand,  conducts  him  to  the  pinnacle  of  a 
mountain,  where  she  shews  him  a  celestial  globe  of  trans- 
parent materials,  on  which  she  describes  to  him  the  whole 
structure  of  the  heavens,  according  to  the  system  of  Ptolemy. 
In  the  centre  of  the  globe,  she  points  out  to  him  the  earth, 
and  the  different  regions  he  has  already  traversed,  with  those 
that  yet  remain  to  be  discovered  when  he  shall  be  no  more. 
Here,  likewise,  are  described  the  whole  of  the  geographical 
discoveries  made  within  little  more  than  half  a  century,  al- 
ready, at  that  time,  astonishing  by  their  vast  extent.  To 
these  are  added  the  bold  enterprises  and  discoveries  of  all  the 
Portuguese  navigators,  up  to  the  time  of  Magalhaens,  who, 
on  being  offended  by  king  Emmanuel,  abandoned  his  service 
to  enter  into  that  of  Castile,  and  conducted  his  Spanish  com- 
rades through  the  Strait  wliich  yet  bears  his  name,  to  the 
acquisition  of  the  Moluccas,  till  then  in  the  sole  possession  of 
the  Portuguese.  After  having  exhibited  these  astonishing 
events  to  the  eyes  of  Gama,  Thetis  addresses  him  in  a  speech, 
with  which,  and  with  the  poet's  apostrophe  to  king  Sebastian, 
we  shall  close  our  extracts  and  our  remarks  on  this  celebrated 

poem. 

How  calm  the  waves,  how  mild  the  balmy  gale  ! 
The  halcyons  call,  ye  Lusians,  spread  the  sail  ! 
Old  Ocean  now  appeased  shall  rage  no  more. 
Haste,  point  the  bowsprit  to  your  native  shore  : 
Soon  shall  the  transports  of  the  natal  soil 
O'erwhelm  in  bounding  joy  the  thoughts  of  every  toil. 

The  goddess  spake ;  and  Yasco  waved  his  hand, 
And  soon  the  joyful  heroes  crowd  the  strand. 
The  lofty  ships  with  deepend  burthens  prove 
The  various  bounties  of  the  Isle  of  Love. 
Nor  leave  the  youths  their  lovely  brides  behind. 
In  wedded  bands,  while  time  glides  on,  conjoin'd  ; 
Fair  as  immortal  fame  in  smiles  array "d, 
In  bridal  smiles,  attends  each  lovely  maid. 
O'er  India's  sea,  wingd  on  l)y  balmy  gales 
That  whisper"d  peace,  soft  swell'd  the  steady  sails  : 


528  ON   TUE    LITERATURE 

Smooth  as  on  wing  unmoved  the  eagle  flies, 

AVlien  to  bis  evrie  cliir  he  sails  the  skies, 

Swift  o'er  the  gentle  billows  of  the  tide, 

So  smooth,  so  soft,  the  prows  of  Gama  glide; 

And  now  their  native  field.*,  for  ever  dear. 

In  all  tlieir  wild  transporting  oliarms  appear; 

And  Tago's  bosom,  while  his  banks  repeat 

The  sounding  peals  of  joy,  receives  the  fleet. 

AVith  orient  titles  and  immortal  hime 

The  hero  band  adorn  their  monarch's  name. 

Sceptres  and  crowns  beneath  his  feet  they  lay. 

And  the  wide  East  is  doom'd  to  Lusian  sway. 

*Enough,  my  muse,  thy  wearied  wing  no  more 

Must  to  the  scat  of  Jove  triumphant  soar. 

Chill'd  by  my  nation's  cold  neglect,  thy  fires 

Glow  liold  no  more,  and  all  thy  rage  expires. 

Yet  thou,  Sebastian,  thou,  my 'king,  attend; 

Behold  what  glories  on  thy  throne  descend  ! 

Shall  haughty  Gaul  or  sterner  Albion  boast 

Tliat  all  the  Lusian  fome  in  thee  is  lost  ! 

Oil,  be  it  thine  these  glories  to  renew. 

And  John's  bold  path  and  Pedro's  course  pursue  : 

Snatch  from  tlie  tyrant  noble's  hand  the  sword, 

And  be  the  rights  of  human-kind  restored. 

The  statesman  prelate  to  his  vows  confine, 

Alone  auspicious  at  the  holy  shrine  ; 

The  priest,  in  whose  meek  hearO  heaven  pours  its  firea, 

Alone  to  heaven,  not  earth's  vain  pomp,  aspires. 

Nor  let  the  muse,  great  king,  on  Tago's  shore. 

In  dying  notes  the  barbarous  age  deplore. 

The  king  or  hero  to  the  JIuse  iinjust 

Sinks  as  the  nameless  slave,  extinct  in  dust. 

But  such  tlie  deeds  thy  radiant  morn  portends. 

Awed  by  thy  frown  ev'u  now  old  Atlas  bends 

llis  hoary  head,  and  Ampeluza's  fields 

lixpect  thy  sounding  steeds  and  rattling  shields. 

And  shall  these  deeds  unsung,  unknown,  expire  1 

Oh,  would  tliy  smiles  relume" my  fainting  ire  ! 

I  then  inspired,  the  w;ndering  world  should  see 

Great  Amnion's  warlike  son  revived  in  thee; 

Kcvivcd,  nnenvied  of  the  Jluse's  flame 

That  o'er  the  world  resounds  Pelides'  name. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

?:ISCELL.VNE0CS      POEMS     OP     CAMOEKS  :       GIL      VICE.NTE  ;      RODRIGUEZ      LOBO  ; 
CORTEREAL;    PORTUOCESE    niSIORIAXS    of    the    SIXTEENTU    CENTURY. 

We   have  now  completed    our    long    examination   of  the 
great  master-piece  of  Portuguese  poetr3\     The  Lusiad  is  a 

*  Canto  X.  str.  115,  159. 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  529 

work  of  a  conception  so  wholly  new,  and  at  the  same  time  so 
lofty  and  national  in  its  character,  that  it  appeared  important 
to  give  some  account  not  only  of  its  most  celebrated  episodes, 
but  also  of  its  general  plan  and  of  the  objects  which  the  author 
had  in  view.  We  dwelt  with  pleasure  on  the  union  of  so  many 
claims  to  renown  advanced  by  the  poet  in  favour  of  a  nation  so 
little  known;  and  we  beheld  as  it  were  the  completion  of  Spa- 
nish poetry,  in  the  epic,  which  alone  remained  to  be  added  to  the 
literature  of  the  two  nations.  Scarcely  any  other  Portuguese 
poetry  is  known  beyond  the  limits  of  the  kingdom,  and  even 
the  professed  students  of  foreign  literature  are  often  unac- 
quainted with  the  names  of  the  numerous  other  poets  of  Portu- 
gal. Their  works  are,  indeed,  so  rare,  that  I  have  with  difficulty 
been  enabled  to  obtain  a  small  number  by  repeated  journeys 
and  researches  into  all  the  public  and  private  libraries.  The 
Portuguese  themselves,  for  the  most  part,  are  little  better  ac- 
quainted with  their  own  poetic  treasures.  I  have  known  men 
who,  on  their  return  from  Lisbon,  were  desirous  of  purchas- 
ing a  few  volumes  as  a  kind  of  remembrance  of  their  residence 
in  that  singular  country,  but  who  invariably  received  the 
same  answer  from  the  booksellers,  whose  knowledge  of  the 
Portuguese  poets  was  confined  to  Camoens  alone. 

The  species  of  composition  in  which  the  Spaniards  most 
excelled,  and  with  which  they  are  most  abundantly  supplied, 
is  almost  entirely  wanting  to  Portugal.  Her  dramatic  litera- 
ture presents  a  barren  field.  There  is  only  one  solitary  poet, 
of  any  name,  who  has  written  in  the  spirit  of  his  nation.  This 
is  Gil  Vicente,  of  whom  we  shall  have  occasion  to  say  more 
liereafter.  Their  other  pieces  consist  of  comedies  and  classical 
tragedies,  composed  rather  on  the  model  of  the  ancients,  than 
with  a  view  to  the  dramatic  wants  of  the  nation.  These  are 
rather  essays  of  power  by  a  few  distinguished  characters,  in  a 
career  wholly  new,  tlian  finished  productions,  calculated  to 
form  the  elements  of  a  school  and  to  be  relished  by  the  public. 
Their  theatrical  success  was  short,  and  the  stage  of  Lisbon 
exhibits  little  else  besides  Italian  operas  and  Spanish  comedies 
represented  in  their  original  form  and  language. 

This,  however,  will  be  found  to  be  the  only  branch  of 
poetic  composition  which  this  ingenious  nation  has  not  culti- 
vated with  success.  The  same  chivalric  and  romantic  spirit 
which  inspired  the  Spaniards,  was  felt,  perhaps,  in  a  superior 
degree  by  the  Portuguese,  inasmuch  as  they  were  called  to 


.530  ON    THE    LlTEliATL'KE 

the  performance  of  great  exploits  with  far  inferior  means. 
Engaged  in  continual  combats  with  enemies,  from  whom  they 
recovered  their  country  foot  by  foot  ;  without  communication 
with  the  rest  of  Europe,  with  the  single  exception  of  a  rival 
nation  in  possession  of  all  their  frontiers  ;  inclosed  between 
sea  and  mountain,  and  compelled  to  risk  upon  the  ocean  that 
adventurous  s[)irit  too  closely  circumscribed  within  their  own 
narrow  boundaries  ;  habituated  to  the  tempest  and  to  the  im- 
posing image  of  the  infinite  which  boundless  seas  present  to 
the  imagination,  the  Portuguese,  likewise,  were  famihar  with 
the  most  delightful  and  magnificent  objects  in  their  own 
country.  Here  they  found  every  thing  which  could  develope 
the  powers  of  imagination,  and  imbue  the  very  soul  with 
poetry  ;  a  land  of  myrtles  and  of  orange  bowers,  delicious 
valleys,  and  mountains  whose  wild  ranges  comprehended 
all  the  variety  of  forms  and  temperature  in  the  world.  If 
their  language  did  not  possess  all  the  dignity  and  sonorous 
harmony  of  the  Spanish  ;  if  it  was  rather  too  abundaiit  in 
vowels  and  nasal  syllables,  it  was  yet  equally  smooth  and 
sweet  as  the  Italian,  and  had  even  something  more  afiecting 
in  its  tone,  and  more  suited  to  exhibit  the  passion  of  love.  Its 
richness  and  suppleness  supplied  it  Avith  the  most  brilliant 
ornaments  and  with  the  boldest  figures,  Avhile  the  variety  and 
freedom  of  its  structure  enabled  it,  far  beyond  that  of  the 
French,  to  produce  a  very  striking  effect  by  a  happy  combi- 
nation and  position  of  the  words.  Poetry  was  considered  in 
Portugal,  more  than  in  any  other  country,  as  the  relaxation 
of  warriors,  rather  than  as  a  source  of  exclusive  glory.  The 
glowing  passions  of  the  South  were  poured  forth  with  perfect 
ease  in  strains  which  seemed  to  spring  fresh  from  the  soul, 
and  to  which  the  harmony  of  the  language  and  the  variety  of 
terminations  gave  an  unrivalled  facility  of  execution.  The 
poet  felt  satisfied  in  having  given  expression  to  the  feeling 
that  oppressed  him  ;  and  his  hearers  scarcely  bestowed  any 
attention  on  it.  They  seemed  to  discover  in  his  effusions 
only  the  developement  of  their  own  ideas  ;  and  the  highest 
degree  of  talent  procured  little  celebrity.  Camoens  lived  in 
obscurity,  and  died  in  wretchedness  ;  though  from  his  earliest 
years,  before  his  departure  tor  the  Indies,  he  had  given  deci- 
sive proofs  of  his  astonishing  powers  of  poetry.  The  publica- 
tion of  the  Lusiad,  of  which  two  editions  were  given  in  1572, 
equally  failed  to   draw  the  attention  of  his  countrymen,  au'l 


OF    TUE   PORTUGUESE.  531 

the  encouragement  of  his  prhice  ;  and  during  the  last  seven 
years  of  his  life  he  supported  his  existence  by  alms,  not 
granted  to  the  celebrity  of  the  poet  who  had  conferred  honour 
upon  his  nation,  but  to  the  importunity  of  a  friendless  servant 
wandering  through  the  streets,  without  a  recommendation  or 
a  name.  We  have  noticed  the  complaints  in  which  he  fre- 
quently indulged  in  his  poem,  of  the  neglect  evinced  by  his 
countrymen  towards  the  literature  of  his  country,  and  the 
national  glory,  which  he  supposed  to  be  blended  with  it.  Tlie 
minority  of  the  king  Sebastian,  only  ten  years  of  age  at  the 
period  of  the  publication  of  the  Lusiad,  may  likewise  serve  to 
account  for  the  slight  attention  bestowed  by  the  government 
upon  the  great  poet  of  Portugal.  The  subsequent  misfortunes 
of  the  monarchy  commencing  during  the  life  of  Camoens,  the 
death  of  Don  Sebastian  in  Africa,  in  1578,  and  the  subjection  of 
Portugal  to  Spain  in  the  year  1580,  destroyed  all  the  beneficial 
effects  which  so  noble  an  example  might  have  produced  on 
the  national  spirit  of  the  people. 

In  the  poems  of  Camoens  alone  we  discover  examples  of 
almost  every  different  kind  of  verse.  The  first  portion  of  his 
works  consists  of  sonnets,  and  in  the  most  correct  editions  of 
this  great  bard  they  amount  to  no  less  than  three  hundred. 
But  in  the  edition  of  1633,  which  I  have  now  before  me,  they 
do  not  exceed  one  hundred  and  five.  Camoens  never  made 
any  collection  of  his  own  productions  ;  and  it  was  only  by 
degrees  that  his  noblest  and  best  pieces  w^ere  united  in  a 
regular  work.  In  many  of  these  sonnets  he  dwells  upon  his 
passion  for  a  lady,  whose  name  he  no  where  mentions ;  nor 
do  they  contain  any  circumstances  which  might  serve  to 
throw  light  upon  his  private  life.  They  are,  for  the  most 
part,  full  of  studied  ideas,  antitheses,  and  conceits,  in  which 
they  bear  too  great  a  resemblance  to  those  of  the  Italian  muse. 
A  i'ew,  however,  are  inspired  with  a  bolder  and  richer  feelin"-, 
bearing  the  impression  of  the  author's  wild  and  agitated 
career.  They  are  evidently  the  efforts  of  a  man  who  had 
nourished  great  designs  ;  who  had  traversed  both  hemispheres 
in  pursuit  of  honour  and  of  fortune ;  who,  during  his  whole 
life,  failed  to  acquire  them  ;  who  yet  struggled  firmly  against 
his  calamities ;  and  who  approached  the  termination  of  his 
career,  cruelly  disappointeil  in  all  his  hopes.  In  the  three 
editions  of  Camoens,  of  which  I  have  availed  myself,  I  have 
found  neither  historical  preface,  notes,  nor  any  kind  of  chro- 


532  ON    THE    LITERATUKE 

iiological  information,  insomuch  that  the  obscurity  of  events, 
united  to  the  obscurity  which  must  occasionally  perplex  the 
a'cader  of  a  foreign  language,  enable  me  to  form  only  a  doubt- 
ful judgment  on  the  subject.  Yet  the  impression  which  the 
perusal  of  Camoens  has  made  upon  my  mind  is  by  no  means, 
on  that  account,  of  a  less  melancholy  character.  In  a  few  of 
these  sonnets  there  is  a  wild  tone  of  sorrow,  which  seems  to 
strike  my  ear  like  waitings  heard  through  the  gloom  of  mid- 
night darkness.  We  know  not  whence  they  spring,  or  by 
what  calamity  they  are  called  forth  ;  but  it  is  the  voice  of 
grief,  and  it  awakens  an  answering  throb  within  my  breast. 

SONNET    0. 

Few  years  I  number  ;  years  of  anxious  care, 

Sad  hours  and  seasons  of  unceasing  woe ; 

I\ly  fiftli  short  lustre  saw  my  youtli  laid  low ; 
So  soon  was  overcast  life's  morning  fair  : 
Far  lands  and  seas  I  roam'd,  some  hope  to  share 

Of  solace,  for  the  cares  that  stamp'd  my  brow  : 

But  they,  whom  fortune  fails,  in  vain  bestow 
Stern  toils,  and  imminent  hazards  vainly  dare. 
Beside  Alanquer,  first  mj'  painful  breath 

I  drew,  'midst  pleasant  fields  of  fruits  and  flowers; 
But  fate  hath  driven  me  on,  and  dooms  that  here 
These  wretched  limbs  be  render'd  up  to  death, 

A  prey  to  monsters  of  the  sea,  where  lowers 
The  Abyssinian  steep,  far  from  my  country  dear.* 

Tins  sonnet  appears  to  have  been  written  in  the  year  1553, 
while  the  fleet  of  Ferdinand  Alvarez  Cabral,  in  which 
Camoens  had  sailed  in  the  month  of  ]\Iarch  of  the  same  year, 
was  coasting  the  shores  of  Africa,  where  it  was  surprised  by 
a  tempest,  in  which  three  of  the  vessels  perished.  We  ought 
to  add,  that  the  biographers  of  Camoens  are  agreed  that  these 
lines  were  intended  merely  for  an  cpitapli  on  one  of  his  com- 
panions, in  whose  name  the  poet  is  sujiposed  to  speak.  The 
following  sonnet,  written  doubtless  at  a  later  period,  is,  we 
think,  little  inferior  to  the  preceding  in  its  passionate  flow  of 
tenderness,  drawn  from  the  deepest  sources  of  the  breast  : 

*  This  beautiful  translation  is  by  Lord  Strangford  : 

Slowly  and  heavily  the  time  has  run  In  search  of  lost  repose,  but  finding  none! 

Which  I  have  journcy'd  on  tJiis  earthly  For  that  fell  star  which  o'er  my  cradle 

stage ;  hung                                           [charms, 

Fcr,scarcelyenti?ringonmyprimeofage,  Forc'd  me  from   dear  Alamouer's  rustic 

Grief  niark'd  me  for  her  own;  ere  yonder  To  combat  perils  strange  and  dire  alarms, 

sun  Midst   that   rough   main,   whose   angry 

Had  the  fifth  lustrum  of  my  days  begun  :  waters  roar 

And  since,  compulsive  Fate  and  Fuitune's  Rude  Abyssinia's  cavern'd  cliffs  among, 

rage                                                  (mage  — Far  from   green    Portugal's   parental 

'    ilave  led  my  steps  a  long,  long  pilgri-  shore !                          Sonnet  iv.  p.  83. 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE,  533 

SONNET    CI. 

All !  vain  desires,  weak  wishes,  hopes  that  fade  ! 

Why  Avith  your  shadowy  forms  still  mock  my  view  1 

The  hours  return  not ;  nor  could  Time  renew, 
Though  he  should  now  return,  my  youth  decay 'd  : 
But  lengthened  years  roll  on  in  deepening  shade, 

And  warn  you  hence.     The  pleasures  we  pursue 

Vary,  with  every  fleeting  day,  their  hue  ; 
And  our  frail  wishes  alter  soon  as  made. 
The  forms  I  loved,  all  once  most  dear,  are  fled, 

Or  changed,  or  no  more  the  same  semblance  wear. 
To  rae,  whose  thoughts  are  changed,  whose  joys  are  dead  : 

For  evil  times  and  fortunes,  what  small  share 
Of  bliss  was  mine,  with  daily  cares  consume, 
Nor  leave  a  hope  to  gild  the  hours  to  come  ! 

Let  me  here  add  a  third  sonnet,  which  bears  equal  evidence 
of  the  sufferings  which  fortune  heaped  upon  the  head  of  this 
truly  great  man  : 

SONNET    XCII. 

What  is  there  left  in  this  vain  world  to  crave, 
To  love,  to  see,  more  than  1  yet  have  seen'! 
Still  wearying  cares,  disgusts  and  coldness,  spleen. 

Hate  and  despair,  and  death,  whose  banners  wave 

Alike  o'er  all !     Yet,  ere  I  reach  the  grave, 

'Tis  mine  to  learn,  no  woes  nor  anguish  keen  ' 

Hasten  the  hour  of  rest ;  woes  that  have  been  ; 

An?l  worse  to  come,  if  worse,  'tis  mine  to  brave. 

I  hold  the  future  frowns  of  fate  in  scorn  ; 
Against  them  all  hath  death  a  stern  relief 

Afforded,  since  my  best  loved  friend  was  torn 
From  this  sad  breast.     In  life  I  find  but  grief; 

By  death,  with  deepest  woe,  my  heart  was  riven  ; 

For  this  alone  I  drew  the  breath  of  heaven  ! 

These  are  followed  in  the  order  of  Camoens's  woi-ks,  by 
the  Cangaos,  or  canzoni,  composed  chiefly  on  the  model  of 
those  of  Petrarch.  The  first  of  these  canzoni  consist  of  love- 
songs,  in  one  of  which  he  revives  the  recollections  of  his 
youthful  days  spent  at  Coimbra,  and  upon  the  delightful 
borders  of  the  Mondego.  The  ninth  of  them  was  written  in 
sight  of  Cape  Guardafu,  the  utmost  boundary  of  Africa, 
opposite  to  the  Arabian  coast.  The  poet  describes  tlie 
mournful  aspect  of  the  wild  and  precipitous  mountains  over- 
hanging the  stormy  deep  ;  and  there  is  something  so  pecu- 
liarly striking  in  contemplating  a  character  gifted  with  such 
lofty  genius,  exiled  thus  far  from  Europe,  from  the  land  of 
letters  and  the  arts,  that,  independent  of  its  own  merits,  a 
poem  written  amidst  such  scenes  cannot  fail  to  be  unusually 


534  ox  Tin:  liteuaturk 

interesting.  It  appears  as  if  the  unfortunate  passion  which 
lirst  led  Camoens  to  encounter  his  many  perilous  adventures, 
continued  afterwards  to  embitter  them  : 

All  !  might  I  dream  that  in  somo  softer  hour. 

Those  sweet  bright  eyes,  on  which  I  madly  gazed, 

O'er  all  my  toils  pourd  one  reviving  shower 

Of  pitying  tears,  for  memories  ne'er  erased, 

Though  bent  on  mine  no  more  their  gentle  rays, 

'Twould  soothe  my  worn  heart  with  a  magic  power ; 

Or  might  my  sad  voice,  in  these  broken  lays, 

But  reach  her,  in  whose  sight  alone  I  liv'd. 

And  bid  her  muse  on  times  for  ever  gone, 

Days  of  long  passionate  errors  past, 

And  cherish'd  ills,  and  hopes  that  could  not  last, 

But  pangs  that  did,  and  borne  for  her  alone; 

Then  would  she,  late,  repent  her  that  I  grieved, 

And  with  her  gentle  sighs  repair 

Those  griefs,  and  say,  I  should  no  more  despair. 

So  let  me  dream,  for  in  that  thought  alone 

Is  rest  and  solace  for  my  suffering  breast 

Through  life's  last  hours.     Such,  lady,  is  your  power 

So  far  away,  with  thoughts  in  fiction  dress'd, 

To  cheat  my  woes  ;  for  woes  and  fears  are  flown 

AVhcii  your  bright  image  thus  bursts  on  the  hour 

Of  anguish,  like  the  rainbow  through  the  shower,- — 

Promise  of  brighter  days  I  deeni'd  were  ever  gone. 

Only  your  smiles,  and  voice,  and  look,  ** 

Then  fill  my  soul ;  fresh  memories  throng 

That  bid  me  scorn  my  fate,  and  I  belong 

To  love  and  you  :  no  more  the  dark  clouds  lower ; 

No  more  you  seem  to  shun  my  glad  return  ; 

And  fiercer  pangs  within  my  b-.east 

Eesume  their  sway  no  more  :  the  sweet  illusions  rest. 

Here  pause,  my  Muse  !  and  ask  the  amorous  wind 

That  lately  clasp'd  her,  and  the  birds  around, 

"Where  last  they  saw  her  ;  on  wliat  flowery  ground 

She  walk'd  ;  with  whom  conversed,  what  day,  what  hour  ? 

Now  with  new  hope  I  nerve  my  wearied  mind  ; 

No  more  I  mourn  ;  with  soul  refresh'd  1  rise 

To  Mrestle  yet  with  fortune,  toil,  and  pain  ; 

So  I  may  love,  and  serve,  and  once  again 

Bask  in  the  beauty  of  her  sunny  eyes  ; 

And  Time  such  bliss  might  bring,  but  Love  denies, 

And  waking  in  my  breast  fierce  passion's  glow 

Opens  afresh  each  half-heal'd  wound  of  woe. 

But  tlie  tenth  of  tliese  canzoni  is  by  far  the  most  beautiful 
and  affectinjr  of  the  whole.  It  is,  indeed,  an  eloquent  out- 
pouring of  poetic  feelinfr  ;  a  aiish  of  living  grief  on  the  mis- 
fortunes of  his  life,  pursuing  him  from  the  cradle  to  the  tomb. 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE. 


53o 


Impelled  by  undefined  wishes,  and  by  distant  hopes,  in- 
cessantly agitated  by  ardent  passions,  engaged  in  restless 
pursuits,  and  destitute  of  the  means  by  which  to  attain  his 
object,  his  existence  was  the  sport  of  disappointment  and 
pain.  In  his  earliest  years,  when  slumber  failed  to  visit  his 
infant  eyes,  it  is  said  that  some  old  love-ditties  alone  were 
found  effectual  in  pacifying  his  childish  griefs.  Love  seemed 
to  continue  the  ruling  star  of  his  youthful  destiny,  and  its  in- 
fluence was  only  made  known  through  years  of  bitterness  and 
tears.  Love  impelled  him  to  embrace  a  military  life,  where 
he  lost  an  eye  while  serving  against  the  Moors  ;  and  tlie  same 
passion  led  him  to  volunteer  his  services  in  the  Indian  fleet. 


'Tis  done!  by  human  hopes  and  human  aid 

Abandon'd,  and  unpitied  left  to  mourn, 

I  weep  o'er  all  mywronfjf?;  o'er  friends  fast  sworn, 

Whose  friendship  but  betray'd. 

But  whose  firm  hatred  net  so  soon  decay'd. 

The  land  that  witness'J  my  return. 

The  land  I  loved  above  all  lands  on  earth, 

Twice  cast  me  like  a  weed  away ; 

And  the  world  left  me  to  the  storm  a  prey : 

While  the  sweet  a  r  I  first  drank  at  my  birth. 

My  native  airs,  once  round  me  wont  to  blow, 

No  more  were  doom'd  to  fan  the  exile's  feverish 

brow. 
O  strange  unhappy  sport  of  mortal  things  ! 
To  live,  yet  live  in  vain. 
Bereft  of  all  that  Nature's  bounty  brings, 
That  life  to  sweeten  or  susta  n  ; 
Doom'd  still  to  draw  my  painful  breath. 
Though  borne  so  often  to  the  gates  of  death. 
For,  ah,  not  mine,  like  the  glad  mariner 
To  his  long  wish'd-for  home  restor'd  at  last, 
Telling  his  chances  to  his  babes,  and  her 
Whose  hope  had  ceased,  to  paint  misfortunes  past: 
Through  the  dread  deep  my  bark,  still  onwards 

borne. 
As  the  fierce  waves  drive  o'er  it  tempest-torn, 
Spo'eds  midst  strange  horrors  to  its  fatal  bourne. 

Yet  shall  nut  storms  or  flattering  calms  delude 
My  voyage  more ;   no  mortal  port  is  mine  : 
So  may  the  sovereign  ruler  of  the  flood 
Quell  the  loud  surge,  and  witli  a  voice  divine 
Hush  the  fierce  leiupest  of  my  soul  to  rest — 
The  last  dear  hope  of  the  distress'd. 
And  the  lost  voyager's  last  unerring  sign. 
But  man,  weak  man!  will  ever  fondly  oast 
A  forward  glance  on  beckoning  forms  of  bliss; 
And  v-fhen  he  deems  the  beautious  vis  on  his, 
Grasps  but  the  painful  memory  of  the  past. 
In  tears  my  bread  is  steep'd,  the  cup  1  drain 
Is  fill'd  with  tears,  that  never  cease  to  flow, 
Save  when  with  dreams  of  jileasure  short  and  vain 


A  piedade  humana  me  faltava, 
A  gente  amiga,  ja  contraria  via, 
No  primeiro  perigo,  e  no  seaundo 
Terra  em  que  poros  pes  mefallecia, 
Ar  para  respirar  se  me  negava, 
E  faltavame  em  fim  o  tempo  e  o 

mundo. 
Que  segredo  tao  arduo  e  tao  pro- 

fundo 
Nacer  para  vivir,  e  para  a  vida 
Faltarme  quanto  o  mundo  tem  para 
E  non  poter  perdella,  [ella. 

Estando  tantas  vezes  ja  perdida !  .  . 

Nao    conto    tantos    males,    como 

aquelle 
Que  dtspois  datormentaprocellosa, 
Os  cases  della  contaemportoledo; 
Qu'ind'agora  a  fortuna  fluctuosa 
A  tamanhas  miserias  me  compelle. 
Que  de  bar  hum  so  passo  tenho 

medo. 
Ja  de  mal  que  me  venha  nao  m'ar- 

redo, 
Nem  bem  que  me  fallef  a  ja  pre- 

tendo,  [mana. 

Que  para  mi  na6  val  astucia  hu- 
De  forca  soberana ; 
Da      providencia     emfim     divina 

pendo. 
Isto  que   cuido    e   vejo,    as   vezes 

tomo. 
Para  consola^ao  de  tantos  dannos  ; 
Mas  a  traqueza  humana,  quando 

lanfa 
Os  olhos  na  que  corre,  e  nao  alcanna 
Senao  memoria  dospassados  annos. 
As  agoas  que  entao  bebo,  e  o  pao 

que  como, 
Lagrimas  tristes  sao,  qii'eu  nunca 

domo, 
Senao  com  fabricar  na  fantasia 
Fantasticas  pinturas  d'alegiia. 


I  chase  the  conscious  pangs  of  present  woe 

After  the  canzoni,  a  sort  of  lyric  song  in  the  romantic  form, 
follow  the  odes  of  Cainoens,  to  the  number  of  ten  or  twelve, 
whicii  may  be  considered  as  lyric  songs  in  a  classical  dress. 


536  ON    THE    LITERATUUE 

Tlie  strophes  are  shorter,  being  only  of  five,  six,  or  seven 
verses  ;  but  very  sweet,  and  full  of  inspiration.  Some  of  these 
are  of  a  mythological,  and  others  of  an  impassioned  character. 
The  eighth  is  addressed  to  one  of  the  viceroys  of  India,  to 
remind  him  of  the  ancient  alliance  between  chivalry  and  letters, 
and  to  solicit  his  aid  in  behalf  of  one  of  his  friends,  the 
naturalist  Ortn,  who  produced  a  work  on  the  plants  of  the 
Indies.  Camoens  was  himself  but  too  frequently  exposed  to 
the  cravings  of  necessity,  though  he  never  requested  assist- 
ance on  his  own  account :  and  we  no  where,  throughout  all 
his  writings,  meet  with  any  traces  of  a  venal  or  adulatory 
muse.  In  asking  sympathy  for  his  sufferings,  he  did  not 
forget  that  his  benefactor  was  only  his  equal. 

Camoens  also  wrote  some  sextine  pieces,  of  which  I  am 
acquainted  only  with  one.  We  might  be  led  to  suppose  that 
he  wished  to  shew  how  well  he  could  preserve  an  air  of 
freedom  under  the  extreme  constraint  imposed  by  such  a  form 
of  verse,  which  his  good  taste  soon  led  him  to  abandon.  To 
these  we  have  to  add  twenty-one  elegies.  I  am  only  in  pos- 
session of  three  of  them,  which  are  written  in  terza  rima, 
and  in  a  style  rather  approaching  that  of  the  epistle  than  the 
elegy.  Tiiey  have  preserved  for  us  more  of  the  particulars 
of  the  private  life  of  the  poet,  and  seem  to  give,  us  a  nearer 
view  of  his  virtues  and  misfortunes.  His  satirical  pieces  will 
be  found  to  consist  only  of  a  few  octave  stanzas  addressed  to 
Antonio  dc  Noronha,  on  the  abuses  of  the  world  ;  and  some 
verses  written  in  June,  looo,  under  the  title  of  Disparates 
na  India,  on  the  misconduct  of  the  government.  His  early 
biographers,  however,  attribute  to  him  a  satirical  disposition; 
a  charge  which  M.  de  Sousa  repels,  as  if  it  were  the  imputa- 
tion of  a  crime.  The  latter  of  these  little  poems,  together 
with  a  satire  published  about  the  same  time,  partly  in  prose 
and  partly  in  verse,  and  falsely  attributed  to  Camoens,  the 
object  of  which  was  to  ridicule  the  citizens  of  Goa,  aflforded 
Barrito  a  pretext  for  banishing  him  to  the  INIoluccas,  from 
whence  he  proceeded  to  Macao.  I  have  perused  with  attention 
the  stanzas  entitled  Disparates  na  India ;  but  it  must  be 
admitted  that  their  meaning  is  extremely  obscure  ;  and  there 
is,  perhaps,  nothing  in  any  language  more  ditlicult  to  be  un- 
derstood, than  the  ridicule  attaching  to  subjects  of  a  satirical 
nature.  Both  the  persons  aiid  their  actions  are  here  unknown 
to  us ;  belonging  to   a  country  whose  manners  and  customs 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  537 

are  so  widely  different  from  our  own,  as  to  afford  no  clue  to 
a  discovery.  The  sentence,  however,  of  the  viceroy  appears 
uncommonly  severe.  The  abuses  satirized  by  Caraoens  were 
altogether  of  a  general  nature  ;  no  person  was  designated  by 
name,  nor  -was  any  degree  of  blame  endeavoured  to  be  fixed 
upon  any  individual.  We  find  only  general  reflections  upon 
the  venality,  extortion,  and  wickedness  of  mankind,  and  upon 
the  dissipation  and  follies  of  women;  and  the  same  remarks 
might  be  made  on  every  country  without  giving  just  cause  of 
offence  to  a  single  individual. 

It  was  on  the  return  of  Camoens  from  Macao,  after  his 
exile,  that  the  vessel  in  which  lie  sailed  struck  upon  the  coast 
of  Cambodia,  near  the  mouth  of  the  river  Mecon,  where  he 
escaped  only  by  swimming,  in  one  hand  bearing  his  poem 
amidst  the  fury  of  the  Vi^aves.  During  his  solitude  on  the 
shores  of  Cambodia,  he  gave  vent  to  his  regrets  for  his 
country  ;  and  the  attachment  which  he  continued  to  feel  is 
strongly  expressed  in  a  paraphrase  of  the  137th  Psalm  :  Bij 
the  rivers  of  Babylon,  there  we  sat  down.  This  is  rendered 
in  the  Portuguese  in  the  form  of  redondilhas,  which  enjoy  a 
high  reputation  : 

Beside  the  streams  of  Babylon, 
The  worn  and  weary  exile  wept ; 
He  thought  on  Sion's  grandeur  gone, 
And  all  the  lofty  state  she  kept 
When  'neath  her  high-arch'd  golden  domes  he  slept. 

j^ear  him  a  fountain  springing  fresh, 

With  tears  for  Babylon  seem'd  to  flow  ; 

In  hers  he  mourn'd  his  own  distress, 

While  Sion  like  past  scenes  of  woe 
Came  o'er  his  soul,  bidding  fresh  sorrows  flow. 

There,  too,  the  memory  of  delights 

Mingled  with  tears  return'd  again  ; 

Sweet  social  days,  and  pleasant  nights, 

Warm  as  ere  yet  they  turn'd  to  pain, 
And  all  their  music  fled,  and  all  their  love  was  vain  ! 

The  version  of  Camoens,  however,  appears  very  inferior, 
on  the  whole,  to  the  lofty  poetry  of  the  Hebrew  hymn.  It 
is  much  too  long  :  thirty-seven  strophes,  of  ten  lines  each, 
are  ill  suited  to  the  expression  of  one  simple  sentiment  ;  and 
many  general  ideas  are  requii-ed  to  fill  up  the  intervals  be- 
tween those  strophes  in  which  the  tears  shed  by  the  rivers 
of  Babylon  are  best  described.  I  select  some  lines  of  a  very 
pleasing  character,  on  the  influence  of  music  : 

VOL.  II  ^,  L 


538  ON    THE    LITEKATURE 

All  sing  ;  the  joyous  traveller, 

Alonp;  his  morning  way, 
Through  painful  paths  and  forests,  sings  Canta  o  caminliante  ledo 

A  merry  roundelay.  No  caminho  trabalhoso. 

And  when  at  night  beneath  the  star  Por  entre  o  espesso  arvoredo: 

His  lonely  way  he  wends,  „  ,         ..        »  „     „ 

To  banish  fear  and  care,  he  sings  ^  de  noite  o  temeroso 

Aloud  till  darkness  ends.  Cantando  refrea  o  medo. 

More  lowly  the  poor  prisoner  Canta  o  preso  docemente, 

Attunes  his  voice,  to  try  Os  duros  grilhoes  tocando ; 

To  drown  the  sounds  of  bars  and  chains,  „  ,  .      . 

In  hymns  of  libertv.  Canta  o  segador  contente, 

And  when  the  mellow  seasons  call  E  o  trabalhador  contando 

The  reaper  to  the  field,  O  trabalho  menos  sente. 
With  hapi>y  songs  his  toil  he  cheers; 

To  song  the  wretched  yield. 

Both  the  Portuguese  and  the  Spaniards  sometimes  exhi- 
bited in  their  poetry  the  pedantic  spirit  of  the  schools  ;  and 
whilst  the  paraphrase  was  the  favourite  task  imposed  upon 
them  by  the  masters  of  their  colleges,  they  contrived  at 
the  same  time  to  produce  their  voltas,  their  motes,  and 
motes  glosados ;  a  sort  of  commentary  in  verse,  either  upon 
devices  or  couplets.  Each  verse  of  the  text  is  intended  to 
form  the  subject  of  a  strophe  in  the  gloss  or  comment,  and  to 
be  reproduced  without  any  alteration.  Of  these  Camoens 
has  given  us  a  considerable  number.  They  are,  however,  too 
often  guilty  of  a  twofold  affectation  in  their  pedantic  turn, 
and  in  their  attempted  wit.  Our  poet  has,  besides,  left  a  con- 
siderable number  of  national  pieces,  in  the  ancient  trochaic 
measure,  in  which  he  seems  to  aim  at  shewing,  by  the  ease 
with  which  he  could  apply  tlie  ancient  Castilian  prosody,  that 
it  was  as  familiar  to  him  as  the  modern  Italian  verse.* 

Camoens  made  choice  of  the  latter  metre  for  the  composi- 
tion of  his  eclogues,  of  which  he  composed  a  considerable 
number,  though  only  eight  have  fallen  into  my  hands.  Per- 
haps none  of  his  poems  exliibit  more  ease  and  smoothness  of 
versification.  His  shepherds  are  always  those  of  the  river 
Tagus,  and  not  of  Arcady  ;  and  tliey  often  express  sentiments 
of  a  })atriotic  description,  as  far  at  least  as  truth  of  feeling  can 
be  admitted  in  a  composition  altogether  of  a  conventional 
kind.  The  first  of  these  consists  of  a  lament  on  the  decease 
of  Don  John,  son  of  King  John  III.  and  the  father  of  Don 
Sebastian  ;  as  well  as  on  that  of  Antonio  de  Noronha,  who 
was  killed  in  Africa.  Two  shepherds,  Umbrano  and  Fron- 
delio,  are  introduced,  lamenting  the  changes  in    the  face  of 

*  They  are  given  in  his  works  with  no  other  title  than  that  of  lindoiidillias  or  En- 
declias.  The  Spanish  word  rcdondilla  is  the  rcdoiidilhn  of  tlm  Portuguese;  the  A 
being  always  added  after  the  I  or  the  n,  in  order  to  give  the  language  a  softer  tone. 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  539 

nature  every  where  taking  place  around  them,  from  wliich 
they  are  led  to  predict  still  more  fatal  revolutions,  and  even 
the  return  of  the  Moors  among  the  pleasant  fields  whence  the 
valour  of  their  ancestors  had  driven  them.    Umbrano  speaks : 

From  this  I  trust  our  shepherds  sage  and  bold, 
Chiefs  of  our  flock,  will  guard  the  Lusian  fold  ; 
That  ancient  flame  which  fired  our  heroes"  blood, 
When  foremost  in  the  world  their  banners  stood  : 
Each  shepherd's  hand  would  grasp  a  warrior's  sword, 
And  glut  our  plains  with  the  fierce  Islam  horde. 
Fear  not,  Frondelio,  that  our  necks  shall  bend 
To  the  worst  yoke  that  foreign  foe  can  send. 

Umbrano,  in  the  mean  while,  requests  Frondelio  to  sing 
the  funeral  song  recited  by  him  on  the  day  of  Tionio's  death, 
the  assumed  name  of  Noronha  ;  and  in  this  pastoral  strain 
are  disguised  the  high  exploits  of  the  African  war  under  rus- 
tic images.  He  has  scarcely  concluded,  when  they  hear  a 
voice  of  celestial  sweetness,  mingled  at  times  w-ith  sighs  and 
moans.  It  is  that  of  Joanna  of  Austria,  the  widow  of  Don 
John,  introduced  by  Camoens  under  the  name  of  Aonia,* 
who  is  weeping  for  the  deatli  of  her  lord  ;  and  her  lament, 
forming  a  part  of  a  Portuguese  eclogue,  is  expressed  in  Cas- 
tilian  verse  : 

Sole  life  and  love  of  my  unwidow'd  breast, 
Ere  yet  thy  spirit  sought  yon  realms  above  ; 

Light  of  my  days,  while  Heaven  shone  on  us  ;  best, 
Noblest  of  hearts  !  this  heart's  first,  latest  love  ! 

I  would  not  weep  now  thy  blest  shade  is  gone 
To  seek  its  native  home,  whence  first  it  sprung  ! 

Yet,  if  some  earthly  memories  there  of  one 
Long  loved  avail,  these  tears  to  thee  belong. 

These  eyes  that  dwelt  too  fondly  on  thee  here, 

Now  offer  up  their  bitter  sacrifice  ; 
Eeceive  it  there  ;  since  on  the  same  sad  bier 

I  might  not  lie,  and  seek  with  thee  the  skies. 

Though  for  the  starry  lustre  of  thy  deeds 
Heaven  snatch'd  thee  to  a  bliss  not  mine  to  share ; 

Yet  may  my  memory  live  with  thine  :  those  weeds 
On  earth  you  wore,  my  highest  boast  and  care 

To  cherish  in  my  thoughts  through  after  j^ears, 
Unchang'd  as  when  those  mortal  spoils  were  bright 

With  the  full  soul ;  and  pour  unceasing  tears 
While  life  endures,  o'er  Love's  long  faded  light. 

For  thee  Heaven's  azure  fields  are  open'd  wide, 
Blest  spirit  ranging  other  scenes  !  where  spring 

*  Aonia  is  the  Anagram  for  Joana 
LL  2 


540  ON    THK    I.ITF.UATURE 

Flowers  for  thj-,  feet,  of  other  fragrant  pride 

Than  these  on  earth ;  wliere  other  minstrels  sing  : 
There  shalt  thou  see  that  virgin  (iiiceii  sujirem'^, 

Who  reigns  on  earth,  in  the  dear  might  of  Him 
Wiio  bade  the  great  sun  shed  his  glowing  stream 

Uound  every  sphere,  down  to  this  earth-spot  dim  : 
Where,  should  sueli  wondrous  works  not  qui'e  efface 

A  mortal's  memory,  weeping  vainly  long 
By  thy  cold  urn,  0  come  with  saintlike  grace  ; 

See  all  my  love,  in  faith  and  fondness  strong. 
And  if  to  tears  and  sorrows  such  as  these, 

'Tis  given  to  pierce  yon  saintly  bright  abode, 
I  yet  shall  join  thee  ;  for  the  kind  decrees 

Of  Heaven  grant  death,  to  mourners  seeking  God. 

And  last  of  all,  Cainoen-:,  who  seems  to  have  essayed  his 
talents  in  almost  every  species  of  poetical  composition,  in  order 
to  complete  the  national  literature,  produced  likewise  several 
dramatic  pieces.  Three  of  these,  in  all  appearance  written  at 
an  early  period  of  life,  before  his  departure  to  the  East  Indies, 
are  still  in  existence.  One  of  them,  entitled  the  Ampkitnjonx, 
a  piece  in  imitation  of  Plautus,  is  executed  with  considerable 
wit  and  spirit.  The  Seleuciis  is  rather  a  farce  of  the  mock- 
heroic  stamp,  the  subject  of  which  turns  upon  the  sovereign 
yielding  his  own  consort  to  his  son.  Filodemo  is  a  little 
drama  of  a  mixed  pastoral  and  romantic  character.  But  none 
of  these  can  be  pronounced  worthy  of  the  genius  and  reputa- 
tion of  their  author  ;  nor  is  it  just  to  attract  longer  attention 
to  the  imperfect  attempts  of  a  poet  who  produced  master- 
pieces of  another  kind. 

In  his  dramatic  attempts,  Camoens  followed  the  example  of 
his  contemporary  Gil  Vicente,  who,  during  the  time  the 
former  was  employed  upon  his  comedies,  was  in  possession  of 
the  Portuguese  theatre  without  a  rival,  and  who  has  had  no 
successor.  In  point  of  time,  Gil  Vicente  must  be  considered 
anterior  to  Camoens  ;  and  still  more  so  in  regard  to  the  criti- 
cal rules  which  he  followed.  But  I  have  thought  it  unneces- 
sary to  make  any  distinction  in  the  age  of  these  poets,  who 
were  both  employed  in  introducing  a  taste  for  the  rules  of 
Italian  metre.  Tlie  oidy  dramatic  poet  of  his  nation,  having 
had  neither  instructors  nor  imitators,  Gil  Vicente  may  be 
allowed  to  stand  alone,  removed  from  his  rank,  without  caus- 
ing any  confusion. 

AV'e  are  not  acquainted  with  the  exact  period  of  the  birth  of 
Gil  Vicente,  who  is  considered  the  Plautus   of  the  Porta- 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  541 

guese ;  but  it  must  have  occurred  previous  to  the  hist  ten 
years  of  the  fifteenth  century.  In  accordance  with  the  views 
of  his  family,  he  at  first  devoted  himself  to  the  law,  which  he 
soon  abandoned,  in  order  to  give  his  whole  attention  to  the 
theatre.  He  appears  likewise  to  have  attached  himself  to  the 
court,  for  which  he  laboured  with  great  assiduity,  in  provid- 
ing occasional  pieces  suitable  to  civil  and  religious  solemni- 
ties. His  earliest  dramas  were  represented  at  the  court  of 
the  great  Emmanuel  ;  but  he  enjoyed  a  still  higher  degree  of 
reputation  in  the  reign  of  John  IH.,  wlio  even  insisted 
upon  performing  a  part  in  one  of  his  best  comedies.  In  all 
probability  Vicente  was  also  an  actor  ;  and  he  is  known  to 
have  educated  for  the  theatre  his  own  daughter  Paula,  who 
was  one  of  the  ladies  of  honour  to  the  Princess  INIaria,  and 
who  obtained  equal  celebrity  as  an  actress,  a  poetess,  and  a 
musician.  But  though  Gil  Vicente  preceded  tlie  great  dra- 
matic poets  both  of  Spain  and  England,  as  well  as  those  of 
France,  and  acquired  an  universal  reputation,  his  honours, 
nevertheless,  were  not  lasting.  Erasmus,  learning  most  likely 
from  the  Portuguese  Jews,  who  had  fled  to  Rotterdam,  the 
hiirh  esteem  in  which  the  restorer  of  the  modern  theatre  was 
held,  applied  himself  to  the  language  of  Portugal  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  reading  the  comedies  of  a  man  so  enthusiastically 
admired.  We  have  little  further  information  respecting  the 
private  life  of  the  Portuguese  Plautus.  He  died  at  Evora, 
in  1557  ;  and  about  five  years  after  his  death,  his  son,  Luis 
Vicente,  presented  the  world  with  a  complete  collection  of  his 
works  in  one  volume  folio. 

Gil  Vicente  may  be  considered  in  some  measure  as  the 
founder  of  tlie  Spanish  theatre,  and  the  earliest  model  upon 
which  Lope  de  Vega  and  Calderon  proceeded  to  form  a  yet 
more  perfect  drama.  He  preceded  both  these  authors  almost 
a  whole  century,  as  there  is  still  extant  a  religions  piece, 
written  by  him  in  1504  to  celebrate  the  birth-day  of  Piiiice 
John,  afterwards  King  John  IH.  It  is  composed  in  the  Spanish 
tongue,  and  the  Castilians  have  preserved  nothing  of  so  early 
a  date.  We  may  observe  in  the  earlier  effort  of  Gil  Vicente 
almost  all  the  defects  and  peculiarities,  which  are  so  strikingly 
exemplified  in  the  romantic  drama  of  the  Castihans,  tliough 
it  is  rarely  tliat  the  former  is  redeemed  by  those  beauties  which 
abound  in  the  latter.  The  Portuguese  author  did  not  possess  the 
same  fertility  of  invention.    He  could  not  pursue  the  thread  of 


542  ON    THE  LITERATURE 

his  romantic  adventures  into  its  minutest  windinirs,  exciting  in- 
terest and  awakening  curiosity  by  a  crowd  ot'inoidents;  nordid 
his  muse  revel  in  tlie  light  of  those  brilliant  images  and  spar- 
kling fancies,  which,  thougli  charged  with  exuberance,  never  fail 
to  rivet  the  attention  of  readers  of  Lope  and  Caldcron.  Ilis  re- 
ligion was  neither  more  wise  nor  more  moral  ;  his  mythology 
was  not  more  exempt  from  absurdity  than  tlieii-s  ;  yet  tliere 
was  a  certain  exuberance  of  invention  manifested  in  his  rude 
attempts,  whicli  had  not,  up  to  that  period,  been  equalled 
among  the  moderns.  Add  to  this,  tliat  he  displayed  great 
probability  in  the  dialogue,  much  animation,  and  a  poetical 
smoothness  of  language  which  justified  the  high  chai'acter  en- 
joyed by  him  both  in  his  own  counti'y  and  abroad. 

The  productions  of  Gil  Vicente  were  arranged  by  his  son 
in  four  separate  classes,  divided  into  autos,  comedies,  tragi- 
comedies, and  farces.  The  autos,  or  religious  pieces,  amount  in 
number  to  sixteen,  and  were  chiefly  written  for  the  purpose  of 
solemnizing  the  Christmas  festival,  as  tliose  of  Spain  celebrated 
the  feast  of  the  Holy  Sacrament.  The  shepherds  had  always  an 
important  part  assigned  to  them,  inasmuch  as  it  \vas  thought 
requisite  by  the  Portuguese  that  even  into  the  drama  a  portion 
of  pastoral  spirit  should  be  introduced.  They  have  all, 
however,  Spanish  or  Portuguese  names,  and  language  lively 
and  simple,  though,  at  times,  too  careless  and  trivial,  is 
ascribed  to  them.  The  most  familiar  scenes  are  frequently 
interrupted  by  the  appearances  of  spirits,  of  angels,  of  the 
devil,  and  of  the  Holy  Virgin,  besides  several  allegorical 
personages.  The  mysteries  of  faith  form  the  great  bond  of 
union  between  all  celestial  and  terrestrial  things,  and  tlie 
intended  effect  of  the  whole  spectacle  is  to  impress  the 
beholder  with  the  belief  inculcated  by  the  Spanish  and  Italian 
clergy,  that  the  age  of  miracles  is  not  passed,  and  that  religion 
is  still  supported  by  supernatural  events. 

The  following  is  an  extract  given  by  Boutterwek  from  one 
of  these  autos,  which  may  be  considered  sufficiently  charac- 
teristic of  its  kind.  During  the  first  scene.  Mercury,  who  is 
the  representative  of  the  planet  of  the  same  name,  is  intro- 
duced ;  and  he  ex})lains,  agreeably  to  the  authority  of 
Johannes  Regiomontanus,  the  theory  of  the  system  of  the 
planets,  and  the  circles  of  the  sphere,  in  a  long  discourse, 
written  in  redondilhas.  Next  appears  a  seraph  sent  by  the 
Deity,  at  the  request  of  Time,  down  to  earth;  who  announces, 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  543 

as  a  public,  crier,  a  grand  fair  to  be  held  in  honour  of  the 
Holy  Virgin,  and  invites  all  who  hear  to  hasten  thither  to 
obtain  bargains.  The  proclamation  is  expressed  in  verse  of 
the  dactyl  measure  : 

To  the  fair,  to  the  fair  !  now,  good  priests,  all  repair; 

Plump  pastors  of  souls,  drowsy  popes,  bishops  all ; 

Of  all  chui'ches  apply,  new  vestments  to  buy  ; 

Change  your  lawns  for  hair  jerkins,  like  Saints  John  and  Paul. 

Trappings  off,  and  remember,  what  made  each  a  member 
Of  Christ,  in  old  times,  was  a  pure  holy  life  ; 
And  you,  kings,  come  buy  bright  reversions  on  high, 
Prom  the  Virgin,  with  gold,  without  stinting  or  strife. 

She's  the  Princess  of  Peace  ;  Heaven's  flocks  never  cease 

To  their  shepherdess  bright,  the  world's  mistress,  to  pray; 

Of  Heaven's  stars  the  star — 0  then  hasten  from  far, 

Ye  virgins  and  matrons,  no  longer  delay  ! 

For,  know,  at  this  fair  you  will  find  all  that's  rare, 

And  charms  that  will  last  when  your  beauties  decay.* 

The  devil  appears  in  his  turn  as  a  pedlar,  and  he  insists, 
in  an  argument  with  the  seraph,  that  he  knows  how  to  obtain 
customers  for  his  merchandize  among  mankind  much  better 
than  his  opponent,  in  the  following  words  : 

Rogues,  you  see,  there  are  more  than  good  men  by  the  score 
Who  will  buy  my  choice  wares,  glad  to  learn  all  my  skill ; 
How  they  best  may  forget  what  their  duty  has  set. 
And  juggle  with  justice  and  truth  as  they  will. 

For  the  merchant  who  knows  how  best  to  dispose 
Of  his  goods,  will  select  them  with  judgment  and  care, 
Will  suit  his  supply  to  the  persons  who  buy, 
And  on  a  bad  customer  palm  his  bad  ware. 

Mercury,  on  his  part,  summons  Rome,  who  soon  appears 
as  the  representative  of  the  church,  offering  various  precious 
merchandizes,  among  which  is  to  be  found  the  peace  of  the 
soul.  But  at  this  Lucifer  takes  offence,  and  Rome  makes  her 
retreat.  Next  arrive  two  Portuguese  peasants;  one  of  whom 
is  very  anxious  to  dispose  of  his  better  half,  who  had  turned 
out  a  bad  housewife.     Countrywomen,  on  the  other  hand, 


*  Aa  feyra,  aa  feyra,  ygrejas,  niosteyros,  0:>  principes  altos,  imperio  facundo, 

Pastores  das  almas,  papas  adormidos,  Guardayvos  da  yra  do  Senlior  dos  ceos, 

Compray  aqul  panes,  muday  os  vestidos,  Compray  grande  soma  do  temor  dc  Decs, 

Buscay  as  caraarras  dos  outros  primeyros  ;  Na  feyra  da  Virgera  senhora  do  mundo, 

Os  antecessores,  Exemplo  da  paz, 

Feiray  o  caram  que  trazeis  dourado.  Pastora  dos  anjos,  e  luz  das  estrelas. 

Oo  presidentes  do  crucificado,  Aa  feyra  da  Virgem,  donas  et  donzellas, 

r.enibray  vos  da  vida  dos  sanctos  pastores,  Porque  este  mercado  sabey  que  aqiii  tras 

Po  tempo  passado.  As  cousas  mais  belas. 


544  ON    THE    LITEKATUKE 

appear  ;  and  oue  of  them  advances  very  amusing  complaints 
against  her  husband,  who,  it  seems,  only  attends  market  to 
sell  pears  and  cherries,  and  then  returns  home  to  slc-ep  till  he 
sets  out  again.  These  are,  in  fact,  tlie  two  complaining 
spouses,  who  immediately  recognize  each  other.  Lucifer 
proceeds  to  offer  his  merchandize  to  the  countrywomen  ;  the 
most  pious  of  whom,  doubtless  suspecting  some  kind  of 
sorcery  in  the  case,  cries,  "Jesus  !  Jesus  !  true  God  and  true 
Man  !"  at  which  words  the  devil  takes  wing,  and  returns  no 
more.  The  seraph  mingles  with  the  crowd,  still  augmenting 
by  the  arrival  of  countrymen  and  women,  with  baskets  on 
their  heads,  containing  the  produce  of  the  fields  and  of  the 
poultry-yard.  The  seraph  otfers  them  an  assortment  of  vir- 
tues to  buy,  but  can  no  where  meet  with  a  purchaser.  The 
young  girls  assure  him  that  in  their  village  gold  is  more  in 
request  than  virtue,  more  especially  in  the  choice  of  a  wife. 
One  of  them,  however,  declares  that  she  had  great  pleasure 
in  coming  to  the  fair,  because  it  was  the  festival  of  the 
Mother  of  God  ;  and  that  she,  instead  of  vending  her  wares, 
will  no  doubt  bestow  them  out  of  pure  grace.  This,  indeed, 
is  the  moral  of  the  piece,  which  concludes  with  a  popular 
hymn  in  honour  of  the  Virgin. 

Perhaps  tlie  most  indifferent  pieces  from  the  pen  of  Gil 
Vicente  are  those  which  he  has  entitled  comedies;  a  sort  of 
novels  in  dialogue,  similar  to  those  of  Spain,  embracing  the 
whole  history  of  an  individual's  life  ;  but  the  incidents  are 
ill  connected  together,  and  equally  devoid  of  plot  and 
developement.  The  tragi-comedies  are  nothing  more  than 
rude  outlines,  which  afterwards  led  the  way  to  the  heroic 
comedy  of  the  Spaniards  :  a  i\-\v  of  them  are  not  destitute  of 
pathetic  scenes,  but  not  a  single  one  is  historical.  Decidedly 
the  best  portion  of  the  collection  consists  of  some  pieces  given 
under  the  name  of  fai-ces,  but  which,  in  fact,  ai)proach  much 
nearer  to  the  style  of  the  true  comedy  than  such  plays  as  Gil 
Vicente  published  under  that  name.  There  are  eleven  of 
these  in  the  wlude  collection  ;  and  they  exhibit  much  spirit, 
much  discrimination  of  character,  but  no  invention  in  the  plot. 
It  is,  indeed,  not  a  little  singular,  that  while  the  intrigue  was 
considered  as  the  very  soul  of  the  Spanish  drama,  the  Portu- 
guese should  have  totally  neglected  it. 

However  rude  and  impc^rfeet  were  these  first  attempts  to 
form  the  national  drama,  no  nation  ever  set  out  with  greater 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  545 

advantages  than  the  Portuguese.  At  tlie  period  when 
Gil  Vicente  wrote,  and  even  at  tliat  in  whicli  Camoens 
flourished,  there  existed  no  dramatic  productions  in  any  other 
language,  received  by  the  public  and  in  possession  of  any 
theatre,  which  had  exliibited  more  striking  powers  of  inven- 
tion, a  greater  degree  of  nature,  or  more  splendour  of  colour- 
ing. The  loss  of  the  inde|)endence  of  Portugal,  during  sixty 
years  of  Spanish  domination,  had  probably  great  influence  in 
producing  a  neglect  of  the  dramatic  art  ;  though  it  may  be 
also  in  part  accounted  for  by  the  introduction  of  a  false  taste 
in  literature,  whicli,  owing  to  its  long  continuance,  seems  to 
Ibrra  a  pei-manent  feature  in  the  chnracter  of  the  people. 
The  Portuguese  were  desirous  of  cultivating  only  two  species 
of  poetical  composition,  the  epic  and  tlie  pastoral  ;  and 
they  attached  themselves  to  the  last  of  these  with  remark- 
able pertinacity.  In  order  to  give  a  poetical  colouring  to 
human  life,  tliey  conceived  it  necessary  to  apply  themselves  to 
the  composition  of  idyls,  and  to  transfer  the  thoughts  and 
actions  of  the  existing  world  to  tliat  of  nymplis  and  sheplierds. 
But  nothing  could  be  more  contrary  to  dramatic  life  and 
action,  than  the  atfected  languor,  the  sentimental  tenderness, 
and  the  monotony,  peculiar  to  the  pastoral.  Gil  Vicente,  who 
possessed  little  of  a  bucolic  genius,  has  nevertheless  introduced 
shepherds  into  all  his  theatrical  pieces,  that  he  might  render 
them  agreeable  to  the  taste  of  his  nation.  And  Camoens, 
infected  by  the  same  prejudice,  greatly  weakened  the  effect 
of  his  dramatic  powers  by  introducing  this  mistaken  style 
into  his  Filodemo.  After  his  death,  tlie  taste  for  pastoral 
compositions  became  still  more  prevalent  ;  and  a  poet  whom 
the  Portuguese  place  in  a  degree  of  competition  with  him, 
further  contributed  by  his  works  to  its  universal  reception. 
The  name  of  this  poet  is  Rodriguez  Lobo;  of  whose  history 
little  is  known  beyond  his  having  been  born  about  the  middle 
of  the  sixteenth  century  at  Leiria,  in  the  province  of  Estra- 
madura.  He  early  distinguished  himself  in  the  university 
by  his  talents,  buc  passed  the  subsequent  part  of  his  life 
chiefly  in  the  country,  wdiere  he  courted  the  smiles  of  the 
rural  muse,  in  all  his  poetical  eifusions.  He  was  unfortu- 
nately drowned  in  passing  over  the  Tagus,  whose  waters  he 
had  so  often  celebrated  in  his  verses. 

His  works  are  distributed  into  three  separate  classes,  con- 
sisting of  a  book  on  philosophy,  of  pastoral  romances,  and  of 


546  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

fugitive  poems.  The  first  of  tliese,  entitled  Corle  na  Aldea, 
e No'des  de  Inverno:  the  Court  in  the  ViHage,  or  Winter 
Nights  ;  had  a  marked  influence  on  the  prose  compositions 
of  the  Portuguese,  by  introducing  tlie  Ciceronian  style,  and 
a  taste  for  long  and  measured  periods.  Like  his  contem- 
porary Pietro  Bembo  among  the  Italians,  Lobo  seems  to 
have  paid  more  aUontion  to  the  forms  of  language,  to  the 
choice  of  the  words,  and  to  the  harmony  of  the  sentences, 
than  to  the  ideas  ;  and  to  have  aimed  at  infusing  into  his  own, 
the  character,  the  cadence,  and  even  the  inversions,  of  the 
ancient  languages.  lie  resembles  the  Italian,  likewise,  in 
the  light  and  elegant,  though  somewhat  pedantic  turn  of  his 
writings,  as  well  as  in  attempting  to  diffuse  a  similar  taste 
amongst  his  contemporaries.  His  Winter  Nujlits  are  philo- 
sophical conversations,  nuich  in  the  same  taste  as  the  Tus- 
culan  dialogues  of  Cicero,  the  Cortiyiano  of  Count  Castig- 
lione,  or  the  Asolani  of  Bembo.  Each  dialogue  is  preceded 
by  an  histoiical  preiace  ;  the  characters  of  the  speakers  are 
well  drawn  ;  and  the  conversation  on  subjects  of  literature, 
fashion,  elegance,  and  good  manners,  is  extremely  lively  and 
graceful,  notwithstanding  the  length  and  affected  harmoP-yof 
the  periods.  We  must  not  at  the  present  day,  however, 
expect  to  meet  with  much  novelty  in  the  precepts  and  obser- 
vations ;  thougli  if  we  recur  to  the  state  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  we  shall  find  sufficient  reason  to  admire  the  ele- 
gance of  manner,  the  polish,  and  the  literary  research,  neces- 
sary to  the  composition  of  a  work  of  this  nature.  In  conse- 
quence of  the  great  number  of  anecdotes  and  tales  which  it 
contains,  it  is  also  considered  by  the  Portuguese  as  a  model 
for  succeeding  novelists. 

The  pastoral  romances  written  by  Lobo  were  considered 
by  him  only  as  a  kind  of  frame  in  which  he  might  embody 
his  bucolic  productions.  The  rage,  indeed,  for  this  last  spe- 
cies of  composition  had  arrived  at  such  a  height  in  Portugal, 
that  its  language  was  chosen  as  the  vehicle  of  almost  every 
sentiment  and  every  passion  :  and  it  is  quite  necessary  to 
bear  this  fact  in  mind,  to  excuse  the  insufferable  tediousness 
which  prevails  throughout  the  romances  of  Rodriguez  Lobo. 
No  reader  of  the  present  age  will  have  the  resolution,  we 
think,  to  wade  through  one-fourth  part  of  the  mass  ;  more 
particularly  when  we  add,  that  the  only  variety  of  action 
they  afford    consists    in    the    arrival  of  one  shepherd,  who 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  547 

departs  to  make  room  for  another  ;  and  of  one  or  sometimes 
two  shepherdesses,  who  meet  each  other  on  their  entrance, 
converse  or  sing  for  a  few  moments,  and  separate  as  before. 
No  degree  of  interest  is  felt  in  the  opening  of  the  plot,  and 
not  a  single  character  leaves  an  impression  on  the  mind  ;  yet 
the  elegance  of  the  language,  the  refinement  of  sentiment, 
and  the  smoothness  of  the  verse,  are  no  less  striking  than  in 
the  Dlitna  of  Montemayor.    The  first  of  these  romances,  enti- 
tled   Prbnavent,    Spring,   is  somewhat   whimsically  divided 
into   forests,   and  these   again  are  distributed    into  sections 
named  after  the   different   rivers  found   in  Portugal.      The 
second,  which  is  merely  a  continuation  of  the  other,  under 
the  name   of  O  Paator  Percgrino,  is   distributed  into  jor- 
nadas,  or  days,  as  is  customary  in  the  Spanish  comedy.    The 
third,  which  is  a  further  continuation  of  the  two  preceding, 
is  called    O  Desenganado,  the    Disenclianted  Lover,  and  is 
arranged  in  the  form   of  dialogues.     Perhaps  the  most  re- 
markable portions  of  these  compositions  are  the  poetic  effu- 
sions with  which  they  are  interspersed.     Thus  the  romance 
of  the    Spring   opens  with   a   hymn   in   celebration  of    that 
season,  which  may  well  rank  with  some  of  Metastasio's  :    it 
has  all  the  same  ease  and  originality,  and  every  whei-e  dis- 
plays that  intimate  acquaintance  witli  nature,  wliich  is  one  of 
the  characteristics  of  Portuguese  poetry.*      Several  of  the 
canzoni  axe  very  pleasing  ;  they  are  distinguished  by  all  that 
tenderness  and  harmony,  and  at  times  by  that  abundance  of 
epithets  and  that  repetition  of  the  same  images  and  ideas, 
which  form  one  of  the   peculiar  characteristics  of  romantic 
poetry,  and  would  be  apt  to  render  its  version  too  fatiguing 
to   the  ear       I   shall,  therefore,   merely  attempt  to  give    a 
single  example,  contained  in  a  sonnet  written  upon  a  water- 
fall, which  to  me  appears  to  possess  considerable  beauty. 

SONNET. 

Ye  waves,  that  from  yon  sleep  o'erhanging  height 
Pluno-e  in  wild  falls  to  seek  the  cliffs  below, 


*  Ja  nasce  o  bello  clia,  .la  o  sol  mais  fermoso 

Prineipio  do  verao  fermoso  e  brando,  Esta  ferindo  as  agoas  prateadas, 

Que  com  nova  alegria  E  Zefiro  queyxoso, 

Estao  deiuinciando  Hora  as  mostra  encrespadas 

As  aves  iiamoradas,  A  vista  dos  penedos, 

Dos  flo-.idos  raminhos  penduradas.  Hora  sobre  ellas  move  os  arvoredos. 

Ja  abre  a  bella  Aurora,  De  reluzonfe  area 

Com  nova  luz,  as  portas  do  Oriente  ;  Se  mostra  mais  fermosa  a  rica  praya, 

E  mostra  a  linda  Flora  Cuja  riba  se  arrea, 

O  prado  mais  contente,  De  alenco  e  da  faya, 

Vestido  de  boninas  Do  freyxo,  et  do  salgueyro, 

Aljofradas  do  gotas  cristalinas.  Do  ulmo,  do  aveleyra,  et  do  loureyro. 


548 


ON    THE    LnKKATL'RE 


Dashiug  iu  whiling  eddies  as  ye  flow, 
Most  beauteous  in  your  strange  aerial  flight, 
And  never  weary  of"  your  stern  delight. 

Waking  eternal  music  as  ye  go, 

Roving  from  rock  to  rock  !     Yet  why  bestow 
These  charms  on  scenes  so  rude  and  wild,  when  bi'ight 
And  soft  and  flowery  meads  a  gentler  way, 

Through  sun-lit  banks,  would  softly  lead  you  on 
To  your  far  bourne,  in  some  wish'd  sea-nymph"s  caves  1 
But,  ah,  your  wanderings,  like  mine  own,  betray 

Love's  mysteries  sad.     Our  hapless  fate  is  one  ; 
Unchanged  flow  on  my  thoughts,  and  headlong  rush  your  waves. 

Many  romantic  etfusions,  indeed,  are  interspersed  through- 
out this  production,  a  few  specimens  of  which  may  be  found 
subjoined.*  Tliey  will  serve  to  shew  that  the  incomplete 
rhymes,  or  the  verses  termed  assonuncias,  hitherto  supposed 
both  by  Boutterwek  and  Schlegel  to  be  the  peculiar  distinc- 
tion of  the  Castilian,  have  been  also  employed  in  Portuguese 
poetry;  as  well  as  to  exhibit  the  marked  difference  that 
exists  in  the  national  poetic  spirit,  even  in  those  species 
of  composition  which  have  the  greatest  apparent  resemblance. 
The  imaginative  faculty  of  the  Castilian  requires  the  excite- 
ment of  incidents,  and  the  glow  of  active  life  ;  while  that  of 
the  Portuguese  seeks  its  sweetest  solace  and  support  iu  con- 
templation alone.  In  the  former,  romance  has  been  princi- 
pally directed  to  the  task  of  engraving  the  characters  of  the 

*  The  romance  of  Lereno  is  here  given  entire  :  Primarera,  Flor.  3,  p.  279.  Edit   di 
Lisboa,  12mo,  1651. 


De  cima  de  este  penedo, 
Aonde  combatendo,  as  oudas 
Mostrao  sempre  mais  segura, 
A  firraeza  desta  rocha, 
Cou  OS  olhos  tras  de  hum  barco, 
Que  o  vento  leva  por  forya, 
Vendo  que  tem  forf  a  o  vento 
Pera  at.ilhar  muitas  obras, 
Me  representa  a  ventura 
Qua6  pouco  contra  ella  inonta, 
Firmeza,  vontade  e  fe, 
Desejo  csperenfa  e  forf as. 
I'or  hum  mar  tao  sem  caminho, 
Morada  tarn  perigosa, 
Pera  as  mudancas  do  tempo, 
Pando  sempre  a  vella  toda 
O  lenie  na  ma6  de  hum  cego. 
Que  quando  vai  vento  a  popa 
Da  sempre  em  baixos  d'area, 
Aonde  em  vivas  pedras  toca. 
Que  farei  pera  valenne  ? 
Pois  a  terra  venturosa 
Aonde  aspira  meu  desejo 
He  cabo  que  nao  se  dobra. 
Se  quero  voltar  ao  porto, 
Nao  ha  vento  jiera  a  volta, 


Em  fira,  que  o  fim  da  jorna  da 
He  dar  no  fundo  ou  na  costa. 
Pensamentns  e  esperanyas, 
Julgay  quanto  mclhor  lora 
Nao  vos  ter  para  pcrdsrvos, 
Que  sustentarvos  agora. 
Pois  nao  custa  tan  to  a  pena, 
Como  doe  perkier  a  gloria; 
E  he  mais  sustentar  cuidados, 
Do  que  he  conquistar  vitoria.-;. 
So  males  sao  verda  de  iios, 
Piirque  os  bes  lodos  sao  soi:.bri..o 
Piepresentadas  na  terra, 
Que  aburcadas  nau  se  tomuo. 
Mar  empefado  e  revolto, 
Navcgavao  perigosa. 
Port )  que  nunca  se  alcanfa, 
Agoa  que  sempre  f  oyobra  ; 
Estreitos  nao  navegados, 
Bayxos,  iihas,  syrtes,  rocas, 
Sereas  que  em  mens  ouvidos 
Sempre  achastes  livres  portas. 
A  Deos  que  aqui  larfo  Itrro  j 
E  por  mais  que  o  vento  torra, 
Para  saber  da  ventura, 
Na6  queio  fazcr  mais  provas 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE,  549 

national  annals  upon  the  memory  of  a  whole  people,  of  cele- 
brating its  real  or  fictitious  heroes,  and  of  reviving  the 
recollection  of  its  greatest  sutFerings  and  of  its  proudest  ex- 
ploits ;  while  in  the  same  form  of  verse  and  imperfect 
rhymes,  and  with  the  same  ease  and  simidicity  of  language, 
that  of  Portugal  has  been  simply  devoted  to  soothing  plea- 
sures, and  to  dreams  of  amorous  delight,  such  as  we  may 
feel  in  dwelling  on  the  invariable  motion  of  the  ])illows 
breaking  against  the  shore,  where  we  see  shepherds  with 
their  flocks  leading  a  life  nearly  as  monotonous  as  the  waves. 
The  images  of  Portuguese  poetry  are  almost  wholly  borrowed 
from  this  brilliant  pastoral  picture  ;  and  the  shepherds  are 
supposed  to  bQ  as  much  familiarized  with  all  the  perils  of 
navigation  as  with  the  care  of  their  flocks.  During  their 
hours  of  indolence,  they  may,  in  fact,  be  said,  like  Lereno  in 
this  romance,  to  seek  "  the  rock  overhanging  the  waves, 
while  their  eyes  wander  on  all  sides  ;  by  turns  over  the 
smiling  and  verdant  shore  where  their  sheep  lie  scattered 
abroad,  and  over  the  watery  waste  where  the  boat  lies 
anchored  at  their  feet,  tossed  to  and  fro  by  the  surges  of 
the  deep." 

It  was  the  ambition  of  Lobo  to  extend  his  genius  beyond 
the  limits  of  pastoral  composition,  to  which  it  was  alone 
adapted,  by  presenting  his  country  with  an  epic  poem,  founded 
on  the  achievements  of  its  hero  Nuno  Alvarez  Pereira, 
grand  constable  of  Portugal,  for  whom  the  people  evince  the 
same  degree  of  enthusiasm  as  is  shewn  by  the  Castilians 
towards  the  Cid.  With  this  view,  he  selected  all  the  actions 
and  incidents  relating  to  the  life  of  this  distinguished  chief, 
and  arranging  them  in  a  chronological  series,  produced  an 
immense  work,  consisting  of  twenty  cantos,  divided  into 
octave  verse.  But  tiie  author  so  completely  fsiiled  in  attain- 
ing the  object  he  had  in  view,  that  his  production  is  totally 
destitute  of  poetical  spirit  and  invention  ;  no  flashes  of 
genius  relieve  the  dulness  of  its  pages,  and,  with  a  very  few 
scattered  beauties,  it  may  be  considered  a  mere  chrono- 
logical account  in  rhyme. 

In  the  opinion  of  Rodriguez  Lobo,  there  was  no  kind  of 
poetry  that  might  not  with  propriety  enter  into  pastoral  com- 
position. He  viewed  rural  life  and  scenery  as  the  saurce  of 
those  poetic  images  and  ornaments  which  the  imagination 
delights  to  employ.     He  produced  a  variety  of  eclogues  solely 


550  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

Avitli  tlii^  view,  in  which  lie  treated  of  morality,  of  philosophy, 
and  of  other  important  subjects,  rendered  by  no  means  more 
attractive  by  being  exhibited  in  this  affected  and  unsuitable 
dress.  To  these  we  must  add  about  a  hundred  romances,  the 
greatest  part  written  in  Spanish.  The  Portuguese  writers 
appear  to  have  considered  their  own  language  as  little  adapted 
to  compositions  of  a  nature  at  once  simple  and  heroic  ;  a 
species  of  writing  in  which  their  Castilian  neighbours  afforded 
so  many  specimens,  and  took  so  much  delight. 

Among  the  most  distinguished  of  the  contemporaries  or 
immediate  followers  of  Camoens,  after  Rodriguez  Lobo,  is 
Jeronymo  Cortereal,  who  flourished  indeed  during  the  same 
period,  but  whose  literary  career  may  be  said  to  have  com- 
menced only  towards  the  close  of  that  of  the  poet  of  the 
Lusiad.  Like  all  the  great  poets  of  Spain,  he  was  desirous  of 
combining  the  profession  of  arms  with  that  of  letters,  and  had 
spent  some  of  his  early  years  in  India,  engaged  in  combating 
against  the  infidels.  On  his  return  to  Portugal,  he  followed  Don 
Sebastian  in  his  fatal  expedition  to  Africa,  in  which  he  was 
made  prisoner  at  the  battle  of  Alcacer  ;  and  was  deprived,  by 
the  same  event,  of  his  sovereign,  and  of  his  house's  heir,  who 
fell  under  the  victorious  arms  of  the  Moors.  When  he  again 
recovered  his  liberty,  after  long  and  extreme  sufferings,  he 
found  the  independence  of  his  country  overthrown,  and  Philip 
II.  of  Spain  occupying  the  throne  of  Portugal.  On  this  he 
immediately  retired  to  his  family  estate,  and  sought  to  relieve 
his  disappointment  by  engaging  in  the  composition  of  histo- 
rical epics,  consecrated  to  the  glory  of  his  country,  and  ani- 
mated with  a  fine  poetic  spirit,  although  they  are  nut  to  be 
placed  in  competition  with  the  productions  of  the  first  masters. 
We  shall  not  here  dwell  upon  his  poem  written  in  the  Span- 
ish tongue,  in  fifteen  cantos,  founded  on  the  battle  of  Lepanto: 
but  the  second  of  the  series,  relating  to  the  misfortunes  of 
Manuel  de  Sousa  Sepulveda,  wliich  furnished  Camoens  with  his 
beautiful  episode,  is  deserving  of  more  particular  examination. 

It  was  Cortereal's  object  in  this  poem  to  relate  the  tragical 
adventures  and  death  of  this  unfortunate  Portuguese,  with 
that  of  his  lady,  Leonora  de  Sa,  of  the  same  family  as  the 
author's  own  wife.  Cast  away  with  a  numerous  crew  u])on  the 
shores  of  Africa,  near  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  this  unhappy 
couple  perished  in  their  attempt  to  cross  the  deserts  in  order 
to  ix-ach  some  other  of  the  Portuguese  establishments  along 


OF    THE    POKTDGUESE.  551 

the  coast.  This  occurrence,  thongli  destitute  of  the  import- 
ance and  lieroic  grandeur  required  in  a  national  epic,  afforded 
room  for  interest,  of  a  very  toucliing  and  romantic  kind.  There 
i?  something  in  the  efforts  of  tliis  band  of  unfortunates  to  pro- 
ceed along  the  immense  line  of  coast  until  they  should  reach 
the  factories  of  the  kingdom  of  Mozambique,  so  nobly  resolute 
and  heroic,  though  so  truly  unhappy  in  the  result,  as  to  call 
forth  our  mingled  admiration  and  pity.  We  behold  a  fond 
lover  and  a  tender  parent  hanging  over  a  cherished  wife,  and 
infants  perishing  from  want  ;  a  picture  of  such  a  heart-rend- 
ing nature,  that  a  simple  description  of  this  terrific  journey 
must  necessarily  be  highly  interesting  from  its  mere  truth, 
independent  of  the  genius  of  the  historian  or  of  the  poet. 

In  common  with  all  his  contemporaries,  Cortereal  had 
imbibed  tlie  mistaken  opinion  tliat  there  could  exist  no  epic 
action,  even  as  applied  to  modern  subjects,  which  was  not 
built  upon  the  mythology  of  the  Greeks.  The  pedantic  jargon 
of  the  schools,  and  a  puerile  imitation  of  the  ancient  writers, 
had  at  this  period,  indeed,  induced  men  mere  distinguished 
than  our  author,  to  fall  into  the  same  error.  Educated  in 
India,  with  an  imagination  sublimed  by  the  grand  poetic  land- 
scapes that  surrounded  him,  and  gifted  with  talent  to  depict 
them  with  a  degree  of  local  truth  and  beanty  equalled  by  few 
of  the  poets  of  Europe,  Cortereal,  nevertheless,  destroyed  the 
whole  charm  and  effect  of  his  poetry  by  introducing  into  it  the 
absurdities  of  Grecian  fable. 

Manuel  de  Sousa  became  attached  to  Leonora  de  Sa,  but 
was  unable  to  obtain  the  consent  of  her  father,  who  had 
already  promised  her  hand  to  Luis  Falcao,  captain  of  Diu. 
He  is  supposed  to  invoke  the  God  of  Love,  who,  at  the  re- 
quest of  Venus,  effects  the  destruction  of  Falcao,  in  order  to 
deliver  Sousa  from  a  hated  rival.  We  are  next  introduced 
into  the  palace  of  Venus,  and  into  that  of  Vengeance,  and  we 
behold  the  triumphant  march  of  the  gods  of  Europe  towards 
India  ;  all  described  with  much  poetic  power.  But  the  inter- 
vention of  Love,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  committing  a  murder, 
is  far  too  revolting  to  our  feelings.  It  is  a  poor  and  palpable 
allegory,  intended  to  conceal  the  real  assassination  of  which 
Sousa  was  himself  guilty.  The  father  of  Leonoi'a  being  re- 
leased from  his  promise,  by  the  death  of  Falcao,  no  longer 
refuses  to  confer  his  daughter's  hand  upon  her  lover.  The 
celebration  of  their  mai'riage,  and  the  rejoicings  of  thePortu- 


552  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

guese  and  the  Malabars  on  the  occasion,  occupy  the  space  of 
nearly  two  (-antos.  *  After  a  periotl  of  four  years,  embellished 
by  all  tlie  ciiarnis  of  wedded  love,  Sousa  and  his  Leonora,  with 
two  pledges  of  their  early  affection,  set  sail  in  the  vessel  Saint 
John,  from  Cochin,  on  their  return  to  Europe.  The  incidents 
(if  their  voyage  are  described  in  the  most  brilliant  and  poetic 
colours  ;  but  as  if  neither  the  phenomena  of  an  unknown 
world,  nor  the  marvels  ascribed  to  his  own  religion,  were 
deemed  sufficient  to  adorn  the  poetry  of  our  author,  lie  has 
continual  recourse  to  the  Grecian  fables,  in  order  to  account 
for  the  simplest  and  most  natural  events  in  the  world.  He 
thus  describes  the  appearance  of  Proteus  : 

Such  was  the  season  Proteus  chose  to  lead 

His  dripping  fiocks,  a  thousand  monstrous  forms. 

To  pasture  forth,  when  suddenly  shone  out 

The  glorious  vessel,  sailing  in  her  pomp  ; 

And  starting  back,  he  vicw'd  with  glad  surprise 

The  chiefs  of  Portugal  :  from  out  the  wave 

He  raised  his  rude  and  hoary  head  deform, 

Crown'd  with  green  limes.     He  shook  his  flowing  beard 

And  savage  tresses,  white  as  mountain  snow. 

The  ancient  man  marks  how  the  big  waves  beat 

Against  that  proud  ship's  side  ;  observes  the  pomp 

And  pride  of  dress,  habits  and  manners  strange. 

Of  those  that  crowd  upon  the  vessel's  side 

To  catch  the  uncouth  sight.     Then  rose  a  cry. 

Cleaving  the  air  unto  the  very  clouds  ; 

While  the  vast  monster  gave  no  signs  of  fear. 

Nor  shew'd  less  savage  joy  in  his  rude  face. 

But  Leonora,  as  she  heard  the  shout, 

All  faint  and  weary  from  her  late  long  voyage, 

Advancing,  ask'd  what  caused  that  strange  alarm  ; 

And  the  next  moment  cast  her  wondering  eye 

Where  Proteus  old,  upon  two  scaly  fins 

Large  as  swolu  sails,  far  overlook'd  the  waves, 

Surprised  and  pleaseil  at  the  fiiir  form  he  saw. 

She  would  have  spoken,  but  nmte  fear  half  choked 

The  unutter'd  words.f 

The  surprise  of  Proteus  is  supposed  to  be  succeeded  by  the 
most  violent  passion  for  the  beautiful  Leonora,  which  he  ex- 
presses in  very  tender  and  harmonious  verses.  The  work  is 
chiefly  composed  in  blank  verse,  interspersed  with  occasional 
dialogues  and  songs,  sometimes  in  the  terza  rivia,  sometimes 
in  the  octave  measure.  The  strophes,  which  Cortereal  i)uts 
into  the  mouth  of  the  sea-god,  have  the  languishing  tone  n^-  ■• 

*  These  are  ti.e  fourth  and  fifth  cantos  of  tlie  poem. 
t  Naufragio  de  Sepulveda,  cai'tn  vi. 


OP    THE    PORTUGUESE'  553 

character  so  very  prevalent  in  descriptions  of  the  passion  of 
love,  in  the  sixteenth  century.  Indeed  they  have  a  much 
Sitronsrer  resemblance  to  the  gentle  sorrows  of  an  Arcadian 
shepherd,  than  to  those  impassioned  expressions  which  we 
should  naturally  attribute  to  the  most  formidable  monster 
of  the  deep  : 

Ah  !  who  withholds  thee  from  my  longing  arms, 

Sole  hope  and  solace  of  my  anxious  breast  ? 

Is  there  a  wretch  one  toucli  of  pity  feels, 

AVould  snatch  thee  from  my  love  1     Canst  thou  forget, 

And  canst  thou  see  thy  Proteus'  wild  alarms  ? 

Bright  Leonora,  hasten  to  my  arms  ! 

0  come  to  one  who  will  adore,  obey, 

And  love  thee  ever  !     Wilt  thou  then  reward 

Such  love  with  frowns  1     Think  of  some  happier  way  ! 

Approach,  approach,  and  soon  the  placid  deep 

With  brighter  charms  and  lovelier  hues  shall  glow  : 

Here  shalt  thou  see  the  beauteous  nymphs  that  sleep 

In  coral  caves,  and  our  rich  realms  below  ; 

Great  Neptune's  self,  tremendous  to  behold. 

With  sea-shells  cover'd,  keeping  splendid  state 

With  all  his  subjects.     These  shall  hail  thee  queen, 

All  gather'd  round.     Come  to  thy  sea-green  bowers  ! 

There  may'st  thou  witness  with  a  pitying  eye 

Thy  sorrowing  lover  ever  at  thy  feet. 

With  burning  tears,  ask  no  returns  of  love. 

And  lioping  but  at  thy  fair  feet  to  die. 

There  in  one  form  thou  wondering  shalt  descry 

Strange  accidents ;  shalt  see  new  sufferings  seize 

His  breast ;  while  in  each  thought,  still  link'd  to  pain, 

He  lives  his  love  and  torment  o'er  again. 

Proteus  might  certainly  have  employed  more  persuasive 
entreaties,  and  a  language  somewhat  more  in  character  than 
this.  But  whilst  he  thus  tills  the  air  with  his  lamentations, 
Amphitrite,  accompanied  by  all  the  nymphs  of  the  ocean, 
jealous  of  the  surpassing  beauty  of  the  lady,  excites  a  terrific 
storm  to  engulph  the  vessel,  which  is  at  length  lost  upon  a 
rock  near  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope.  The  shipwreck  is 
described,  in  the  seventh  and  eighth  cantos,  with  considerable 
truth  and  poetic  effect.  It  is  here  that  Cortereal  enters  upon 
the  province  of  nature  and  of  the  human  heart  ;  and  the 
reader  feels  interested  as  the  story  proceeds.  We  behold 
about  one  hundred  and  fifty-four  Portuguese,  capable  of  bear- 
ing arms,  and  two  hundred  and  thirty  slaves,  carrying  some 
sick  and  wounded,  landing  from  the  ship  Saint  John.  They 
are  unfortunately  enabled  to  save  only  a  very  small  portion 

VOL.  II.  M    SI 


554  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

of  provisions,  and  they  find  themselves  cast  away  upon  a 
shove  with  no  appearance  of  produce  or  cultivation.  Sonnv^ 
Caffres  are  ob.-iervrd  at  a  distance,  who  refuse,  however,  t6 
engage  in  any  kind  of  traffic  with  them  ;  and  hasten,  on  the 
contrary,  from  tlieir  huts  to  despatcli  tlie  arrow,  their  symbol 
of  war,  from  tribe  to  tribe,  calling  the  hordes  of  the  desert  to 
their  assistance. 

Reduced  to  tliis  extremity,  INIanuel  de  Sousa  hastily  sum- 
mons his  companions  in  arms  to  counsel,  and  addresses  tl)em 
in  a  confident  tone  in  tlie  following  language  : 

Dear  friend.?  and  comrades  of  my  toils  !  too  well 

You  see  the  peril,  the  approaching  fate 

That  threats  us ;  yet  my  trust  is  still  in  Heaven  : 

For  Heaven  alone  can  aid  us ;  and  we  suffer 

But  wliat  the  all-powerful  Will  on  high  permits. 

Yet,  thou  Omniscient  lluler  of  the  skies, 

Let  thy  just  vengeance  fall  where  it  should  fall, 

Only  on  me  ;  and  spare  these  little  ones. 

Guiltless  of  all  !     He  raised  his  eldest  born, 

A  lovely  boy,  whose  beauty  won  all  eyes. 

In  his  fond  arms  among  his  sorrowing  friends. 

And  turn'd  his  eyes,  till'd  with  a  father's  tears, 

On  Heaven  :  Ye  powers,  he  cried,  look  kindly  down 

On  this  poor  little  one,  that  ne'er  offended  ! 

To  you  I  trust  him  !     ]m,  T  yield  him  up 

With  one  still  feebler,  to  your  guardian  care. 

O  let  them  expiate — let  them  plead  for  us 

And  our  oflfences  ! — Ye  have  heard  us  once  ! 

Already  hath  your  mercy  shielded  us 

Amid  the  raging  terrors  of  the  deep, 

Snatching  us  from  the  waves  when  death  appcar'd 

In  evciy  fearful  shape. 

After  this,  Sousa  informs  the  soldiers  that  he  no  longer 
considers  himself  as  their  chief,  but  as  tlieir  companion, 
requiring  of  them  only  to  pledge  their  mutual  promise,  that 
they  will  continue  united  together  ;  and  that  they  will  accom- 
modate their  j)rogrcss  to  the  strengtli  of  their  sick  and 
wounded  companions,  and  of  his  Leonora  and  her  infants.  On 
receiving  their  individual  oath  to  this  effect,  he  immediately 
arranges  his  followers  in  order  of  march  ready  tor  battle,  and 
penetrates  into  the  desert.  Soon,  however,  the  progress  of 
this  little  band  is  delayed  for  want  of  information  ;  and  woods 
and  mountains,  and  tlie  winding  course  of  rivers,  obstruct 
their  patli.  They  liad  already,  to  the  best  of  their  calculation, 
travelled  about  eiglity  leagues,  though  tliey  had  proceeded 
ecarcely  thirty  in  a  direct  line  parallel  with  tiie  shore.    Their 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  555 

small  stock  of  provisions  was  gone,  and  the  earth  offered  little 
to  supply  the  cravings  of  hunger  :  many,  overpowered  by 
the  burning  sun,  by  clouds  of  sand,  and  by  hunger,  thirst, 
and  sickness,  throw  themselves  upon  the  ground  ;  and  per- 
mitting tlreir  companions  to  pass  on,  await  their  destiny  from 
the  jaws  of  savage  beasts  that  shortly  rush  upon  their  prey  : 

Fixing  their  weeping  eyes  on  those  who  now 
Prepare  to  leave  them,  feeble  sighs  and  groans 
Declare  the  fearful  pangs  that  rend  their  breasts. 
With  dying  looks  they  take  a  last  fiirewell : 
"  Haste,  haste,  dear  friends,  and  Heaven  avert  the  ills 
That  here  await  us  !"     Sinking  on  the  ground, 
They  pour  vain  sighs  o'er  their  unhappy  end  ; 
And  soon  the  famish"d  monsters  of  the  woods. 
Fierce  wolves  and  tigers,  rush  upon  their  prej', 
And  rend  their  reeking  limbs. 

But  hunger  does  not  continue  long  their  only  foe.  After 
fourteen  days'  painful  march,  worn  down  by  so  many  suffer- 
ings, the  Portuguese  have  to  encounter  the  Caffres,  Avhoni 
they  repulse  with  their  accustomed  valour,  though  not  with- 
out the  loss  of  several  of  their  brave  companions.  They 
afterwards  resume  their  unfortunate  marcli,  persevering 
during  more  than  three  months  to  contend  with  the  various 
evils  of  their  fate.  The  tender  Leonora  and-  her  babes 
traversed  a  tract  of  more  than  three  hundred  leagues,  sup- 
ported by  wild  herbs  and  roots,  the  scanty  produce  of  the 
chase,  and  sometimes  even  by  the  half-putrid  carcases  of 
animals  found  dead  in  the  desert.  To  vary  this  picture  of 
terrific  realities,  Cortereal  has  again  recourse  to  the  mythology 
of  the  ancients,  occasionally  exhibiting  to  our  view  the  god 
Pan,  sporting  in  one  of  his  consecrated  valleys,  through  which 
the  Portuguese  are  to  pass.  We  hear  him  sighing  for  the 
beautiful  Leonora  ;  and,  dazzled  by  her  charms,  he  pours 
forth  plaintive  strains  of  love.  Again,  he  introduces  us,  in 
one  of  liis  hero's  dreams,  into  the  palace  of  Truth,  and  after- 
wards into  that  of  Falsehood  ;  one  of  these  he  fills  with  the 
patriarchs  of  the  Old,  and  the  saints  of  the  New  Testament  ; 
and  the  other  is  the  receptacle  of  heretics,  whom  he  passes  in 
review  before  him,  pronouncing  on  each  his  malediction. 

In  the  two  foUowip.g  cantos,  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth, 
the  poet  conducts  one  of  the  companions  of  Sousa,  Pantaloon 
de  Sa,  into  a  mysterious  cavern,  where  an  enchanter  presents 
him  with  the  portraits  and  explains  the  history  of  the  cele- 

M  M  2 


556  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

brated  characters  of  Portugal,  from  the  very  commencement 
to  the  close  of  the  monarchy;  for  Cortereal,  having  survived 
the  fatal  defeat  of  King  Sebastian,  had  witnessed  the  fall  of 
bis  country's  independence.  He  had  himself  likewise  been  a 
soldier,  been  made  a  prisoner  at  the  battle  of  Alcacer-Kibir, 
and  one  of  the  heroes  of  his  own  name,  over  whose  grave  he 
offers  the  tribute  of  a  few  flowers,  is  probably  the  son  whom 
he  lost  in  that  engagement.  The  picture  of  the  iield  of  battle, 
after  the  defeat  of  the  Portuguese,  is  so  much  tlie  more 
striking,  as  the  poet  himself,  doubtless,  surveyed  it,  a  captive 
with  the  wreck  of  his  countrymen  : 

Behold  !  (the  enchanter  cried,  and  cast  his  eyes 
Away,  as  dreading  his  own  art  to  view,) 
lichold  the  sad  funereal  forms  arise. 
That  freeze  the  blood,  and  blanch  with  death-like  hue 
The  quivering  lips.     Hark  !  what  wild  moans  and  cries 
On  every  side  !  what  streams  of  blood  imbrue 
The  glutted  plains,  where,  'mid  the  deep  rank  grass, 
Moulders  th'  unburied  corpse,  o'er  which  the  living  pass. 

See  where,  borne  down  the  whirlpool  of  the  war, 

Sink  man  and  horse,  whelm'd  in  those  Baurky  waves  ! 

O'er  yon  precipitous  banks  driven  ou  from  far 

By  the  fierce  foe,  all  find  their  watery  graves. 

And  see  the  plains,  ere  yet  the  evening  star 

Hath  shone,  are  darken'd  with  the  bird  that  craves 

Its  human  feast,  shrouding  with  dismal  wings 

The  warrior's  corpse  ;  and  hark  !  the  hateful  dirge  it  sings  ! 

This  long  episode  is  here,  perhaps,  somewhat  out  of  place  ; 
neither  is  it  introduced  in  a  sufficiently  easy  and  natural 
manner.  It  diverts  the  attention  from  the  principal  topic  at 
the  very  instant  of  the  catastrophe,  to  create  au  interest 
wholly  new.  But  the  subject  here  was  the  funereal  pomp  oi 
the  Portuguese  power  ;  and  the  fall  of  a  great  nation,  that 
had  so  rapidly  advanced  to  such  a  lieight  of  poetical  and 
military  glory,  was  surely  deserving  of  record  in  tlie  annals 
of  poetic  art. 

^lanuel  de  Sousa  had  halted  his  little  troop  in  the,  territo- 
ries of  one  of  the  Negro  kings,  who  had  received  him  with 
generous  kindness  and  hospitality,  the  Portuguese  having 
rendered  important  services  to  this  prince  in  a  war  in  which 
he  was  then  engaged  with  one  of  his  neighbours.  He 
ardently  desired  to  retain  such  very  valiant  soldiers  in  his 
service  ;  but,  notwithstanding  the  fatigues  and  perils  they  had 
encountered,  the  weary  travellers  longed  for  nothing  so  much 


OF  THE  portugup:se.  557 

as  to  return  to  their  native  land.  They  were  not  without 
hopes  of  meeting  with  some  vessels  belonging  to  their  own 
nation,  if  they  could  reach  the  mouth  of  the  river  Laurence 
Marqnez.  They  were  already  on  the  banks  of  tliat  river, 
without  being  aware  of  it.  Deaf,  however,  to  the  entreaties 
of  the  Negro  king,  they  resolve  to  prosecute  their  pilgrimage 
across  the  desert,  in  order  to  reach  the  port,  where  they  had, 
in  fact,  already  arrived,  and  from  which  their  ignorance  now 
leads  them  astray.  It  is  in  the  midst  of  dangers,  and  nearly 
overpowered  with  toil,  that  they  arrive  at  the  second  branch 
of  the  same  river,  which  throws  itself  by  tliree  large  mouths 
into  the  adjacent  sea  of  Mozambiciue.  Tlie  fortitude  of  Sousa 
at  length  yields  at  the  sight  of  his  wife's  and  cliildren's  suffer- 
ings ;  terrific  presentiments  now  haunt  his  imagination  ;  and 
the  shade  of  Luis  Falcao,  his  murdered  rival,  rises  before  him, 
crying  for  retribution  on  the  heads  of  the  Portuguese,  whose 
reason  Heaven  has  already  permitted  it  to  disturb.  The  CafTre 
king,  into  whose  dominions  tliey  have  just  entered,  though  he 
offers  them  an  asylum  and  provisions,  refuses  to  permit  a 
foreign  army  to  traverse  the  country,  insisting  tliat  the  Por- 
tuguese shall  deliver  up  their  arms  and  divide  their  company. 
After  having  braved  a  thousand  perils,  Pantaleon  de  Sa  has 
the  good  fortune  to  i-each  a  Christian  vessel,  and  is  restored 
to  his  country  ;  but  the  greater  part  of  the  soldiers  are 
devoured  by  beasts  of  prey,  and  perish  in  the  deserts  of 
Africa.  Manuel  de  Sousa,  abandoned  by  his  companions, 
remains  with  his  wife  and  two  infiints,  together  with  seven- 
teen of  his  own  slaves,  until,  having  consumed  the  whole  of 
his  resources,  he  is  compelled  by  the  Caffre  king  to  resume 
his  journey  at  all  hazards.  He  again  prepares  to  enter  the 
desert  with  his  little  band  of  followers,  reduced  to  a  few  indi- 
viduals, unprovided  with  arms,  and  equally  destitute  of  hope 
and  courage.  He  had  just  arrived,  however,  at  the  borders 
of  the  ocean,  when,  about  sunset,  he  is  suddenly  attacked  by 
a  troop  of  Caffres,  who  deprive  the  wanderers,  without  pity, 
even  of  their  wretched  habiliments.  But  here  again  the 
author  unfortunately  destroys  the  interest  which  so  deplorable 
a  situation  was  calculated  to  excite,  by  recurring  to  the 
mythological  loves  of  the  ancients.  On  this  occasion,  Phoebus, 
returning  along  the  edge  of  the  horizon,  observes  with  sur- 
prise the  beautiful  Leonora  seated  upon  the>sands,  with  her 
fine  tresses  thrown  loose,  the  only  veil  she  had  left  to  conceal 


558  ON  thl;  literature 

her  naked  charms.  lie  iiumcLliatcly  approaches  her  in  the 
disguise  of  a  shepherd,  and  addresses  her  in  some  very  tender 
and  flattering  verses,  wliicli,  contrasted  with  the  surrounding 
images  of  desohuion  and  death,  leave  by  no  means  an  agree- 
able impression  on  tlie  mind. 

We  are  soon,  however,  carried  back  to  the  dreadful  re- 
alities of  the  story.  Whilst  the  wretched  Leonora  remained 
in  this  situation,  Sousa  penetrates  into  the  woods  to  collect 
roots,  wild  herbs,  or  berries,  the  only  nourishment  he  could 
find  to  support  his  wife  and  infants.  Thither  he  is  still  i)ur- 
sued  by  the  most  gloomy  j)resentiments,  and  tlie  approaching 
fate  both  of  himself  and  of  those  he  holds  most  dear  is  darkly 
predicted  to  him.      When  at  length  he  returns  : 

With  feeble  step  he  labours  to  approach 
The  scene  of  all  his  fears,  and  trembling  thinlcs 
He  finds  them  true  ;  and  then  the  cruel  thought 
Seems  to  deprive  liim  of  the  little  streugtli 
Now  left  him.     Scarce  he  draws  iiis  painful  breath ; 
His  sad  sunk  c.ycs  are  charged  with  bitter  tears, 
That  ceaseless  flow.     At  length  he  gains  the  spot 
Where  Leonora,  hovering  on  the  verge 
Of  fate,  prepares  to  take  a  last  farewell. 
She  casts  her  wild  and  troubled  looks  around, 
Seeking  the  long-loved  object  of  her  soul. 
He  comes,  and  seems  to  wake  her  to  fresh  life  ; 
She  struggles  for  one  farewell  word,  one  glance. 
To  tell  him  all  her  love ;  though  now  .stem  Death 
Would  hide  the  truth  her  speaking  eyes  betray  : 
With  long  and  rapturous  gaze  still  ti.x'd  on  his, 
She  would  have  said,  "  Adieu,  my  only  friend  !" 
But  as  she  strove  to  speak  in  vain,  despairing. 
She  fell  in  mortal  swoon  upon  the  earth. 
Smit  with  fierce  anguish  long  De  Sousa  stood  ; 
With  tears  and  throiibing  breast  then  took  his  way. 
Choosing  a  spot  among  the  bleak  blanch'd  sands, 
He  scoop'd  with  his  own  hands  a  narrow  grave  ; 
And  then  returning,  in  his  feeble  arms 
Bore  his  sad  burden,  follow'd  by  his  slaves. 
Who,  as  they  went,  raised  loud  funereal  shrieks  : 
And  there  they  laid  her  in  her  silent  home. 
AVith  shriller  cries  surrounding  then  the  dead, 
AVith  mingling  tears  they  bade  their  last  farewell. 
Peace  to  her  ashes  !     Here  she  doth  not  rest 
Alone  ;  for  near  her  lies  her  beauteous  boy, 
Who  hath  not  play'd  five  seasons  in  the  sun."* 

As  soon  as  Sousa  had  thus  rendered  the  last  offices  to  the 
unhappy  partner  of  his  toils,  seizing  his  second  son  in  his 

*  Canto  xvii. 


OF    THE    POUrUGUESE.  559 

arms,  he  plunged  into  the  thickest  forest  that  surrounded 
liim.  A  holy  resigiiiitioii  still  supported  him,  sufficient  to 
prevent  an  attempt  upon  his  own  life  ;  but  the  wild  beasts  of 
Africa  in  a  short  time  delivered  him  from  the  torments  he 
endured. 

This  extensive  work,  richly  imbued  with  a  romantic 
interest,  which  the  subject  very  fully  supplied,  and  displaying 
beauties  of  a  superior  order,  obscured  by  as  great  defects,  is 
not,  however,  the  only  epic  poem  written  by  Cortereal  in 
Portugese.  There  exists  another  specimen  of  his  genius  in 
this  species  of  composition,  founded  upon  the  siege  of  Diu,  a 
place  very  valiantly  defended  by  the  governor  Mascarenhas. 
Indeed  it  would  appear  to  have  been  always  in  India,  in 
countries  where  Portugal  had  carried  her  arms  to  such  a 
pitch  of  glor}^  that  her  poets  also  lavished  all  the  pomp  of 
their  surpassing  genius.  It  was  there,  too,  that  the  import- 
ance of  the  events,  and  the  chivalric  character  of  the 
heroes  who  directed  them,  added  to  the  national  pride  of 
combining  the  qualities  of  the  warrior  and  the  poet,  gave  a 
glowing  spirit  and  a  vivacity  to  tlieir  compositions,  which  we 
in  vain  seek  for  either  in  the  epic  productions  of  the  Spaniards, 
or  in  those  of  the  Italians  of  the  second  order.  In  many 
respects,  Cortereal  may  be  said  to  have  adopted  Trissino  as 
his  model ;  Lis  poetry,  like  that  of  the  Italian,  being  com- 
posed in  iambic  measure  without  rhyme,  and,  like  his,  the 
dignity  of  his  style  being  far  from  sufficiently  sustained  to 
dispense  with  the  harmonious  movement  of  the  strophe  and 
the  richness  of  rhyme.  But  in  the  interest  of  his  story,  in 
splendour  of  imagination,  and  in  force  of  poetic  colouring,  he 
is  very  superior  to  the  author  of  the  Italia  Liherata.  We 
feel  that  his  heart  is  always  in  unison  with  the  exercise  of 
his  talents,  while  the  emotions  of  Trissino  were  never  awak- 
ened by  his  artful  and  pedantic  compositions. 

Perhaps  the  most  striking  features  in  the  poem  of  the  Siege  of 
Diu,  are  the  fragments  of  verse  which  are  scattered  throughout 
its  Images,  consisting  of  descriptions  of  battle  scenes,  in  the  midst 
of  which  the  poet  passed  his  life,  and  which  give  an  air  of 
fearful  reality  to  the  whole.  Of  this  we  have  an  instance  in 
the  sixteenth  canto  ;  where,  after  having  recounted  the  fall 
and  sacking  of  Angote,  upon  the  gulf  of  Cambay,  he  depicts 
in  a  very  striking  manner  the  disturbed  slumbers  of  the  vic- 
torious Portuguese,  and  the  recollection  of  the  recent  scenes 


560  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

of  carnage  in  which  they  had  been  engaged,  still  haunting 
them  in  their  dreams  : 

Now  from  their  many  toils  of  the  past  day, 

Tlie  soldiers  stretch  themselves  upon  the  decks, 

With  welcome  sleep  renewing  their  worn  frames. 

Some,  as  they  slumber,  raise  their  bra^niy  arms, 

Striking  the  empty  air  with  idle  blows  ; 

Others  are  heard  murmuring  wild  words  and  threats  : 

"  Forwanl  ! — no  cjuarter  ! — let  not  one  escape  ! 

"  The  JMoors,  the  Moors  ! — ye  heretic  villains,  die  ! 

"  Fire,  death,  and  ruin  !"  echoed  all  around  : 

And  ever  as  they  moan'd,  with  heavy  heads 

They  tried  to  shake  oil"  slumbers  nursed  in  blood  ; 

Their  souls  being  stecp'd  in  the  fierce  dream  of  death. 

And  haunted  with  the  phantoms  of  past  deeds 

Of  strife  and  terror.     Soon  the  drowsy  god 

Lulling  them  to  fresh  sleep,  they  siretch'd  their  limbs, 

O'erpower'd  with  recent  carnage,  and  each  sense 

Was  closed  ;  a  fearful  picture  of  that  mute 

And  solemn  death  themselves  were  born  to  act  1* 

Among  those  specimens  of  the  Portuguese  epic  which  still 
retain  a  degree  of  celebrity,  it  would  be  unfair  not  to  mention 
the  Uh/s.ses  of  Castro,  and  the  JMaJacca  Conqnistada  of 
Francisco  de  Sa  y  Menesez.  In  the  opinion  of  the  native?, 
these  are  tlie  two  poems  which  approach  nearest  to  the  ele- 
vated character  ascribed  to  Camoens. 

These  epics  had  likewise  the  merit  of  being  founded  on  the 
national  history,  and  of  inviting  the  Portuguese  to  the  study 
of  the  glorious  annals  of  their  country,  as  well  as  to  the  art 
of  narrating  them  to  others.  Thus  Lobo,  Cortereal,  and  a 
variety  of  other  distinguished  names,  availed  tliemselves  of 
the  most  poetical  portions  of  Portuguese  history;  tliough  by  his 
romances,  Rodriguez  Lobo  contributed  still  more  essentially 
to  the  formation  of  the  liistorians  of  Portugal.  lie  w\as  the 
first  to  shew  to  wliat  a  degree  of  elegance,  of  harmony,  and 
of  refinement,  tlie  prose  compositions  of  the  Portuguese 
might  be  carried  ;  and  they  who  were  engaged  in  applying 
the  language  to  subjects  of  a   more  serious  nature,  learned 

*  Todos  tomam  repouso  do  continho  Fogo !  fogo  !  sangue !  sangue !  e  ruinal'.  . . 

Trabalho,  emque  o  passado  dia  andaram.  E  murmurando  assim,  levam  pczadas 

Estendemse  pos  pancos,  pos  lonvezes ;  As  c-abcfas,  cm  sonbo  sepultadas ; 

Dam  repouso  aos  canf  ados  lassos  inembros,  Mo>trando  com  sinaes  dc  furor  grande, 

Entregando  os  a  hum  brando  e  doce  sonho.  Que  de  iniagens  e  espectros  eram  envoltoa. 

Dormindo  movem  hums  os  fortes  hraf  os,  Mas  o  profondo  sonho  torna  logo, 

Paiido  com  muita  forfa  mil  vaos  golpcs.  Kender  os  corpos  da  carnagem  fera; 

Outroscom  vozesmaldistintasinurmuram:  Liga  os  sentidos,  e  enfim  rcjjrcsenta 

"  Aqui;  matemos  estes  que  nos  fogem  !  Em  todos  huma  imagem  nuida  e  triste 

Bus!  sus  a  estes  abominaveis  Mouros  !  Da  misma  morte  immovel. 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  561 

from  him  the  best  method  of  adapting  it  to  their  purpose. 
The  Dge  of  heroic  enterprise  bad  only  just  declined  in 
Portugal,  and  that  of  history  was  still  in  its  infancy.  It  is 
to  the  historical  writers  who  flourished  during  the  times 
of  Ferrcira,  of  Camoens,  and  of  Lobo,  that  Portugal  is 
indebted  for  a  new  branch  of  her  literature.  They  were  the 
first  who  made  the  exploits  and  conquests  of  their  i'ellow- 
countrymen  in  the  Indies  the  subject  of  liistory.  The  talents 
peculiar  to  the  writer  of  travels  and  to  the  geographical 
inquirer  were  not  unfrequently  found  united  with  those  of 
the  historian  ;  and  an  interest  is  produced  of  a  kind  alto- 
gether unique,  by  the  recital  of  events  with  which  nothing 
on  record  can  be  placed  in  competition,  and  which  have  no 
points  of  resemblance  with  any  contained  in  ancient  history. 
At  the  head  of  these  historians  must  be  ranked  John  de 
Barros,  esteemed  by  his  fellow-countrymen  the  Livy  of 
Portugal.  He  sprang  from  a  noble  family,  and  was  born  iii 
the  year  1496.  While  yet  of  very  tender  years,  he  was 
placed  among  the  king's  pages  at  the  court  of  Don  Emmanuel; 
or  ratlier  in  the  school  for  the  young  nobility,  which  the 
Portuguese  princes  were  desirous  of  forming  in  their  own 
palace.  He  early  distinguished  liimself  there  by  his  taste  for 
works  of  history,  and  in  particular  by  his  assiduous  devotion 
to  the  writings  of  Livy  and  of  Sallust.  It  was  during  his 
service  at  court,  while  in  the  situation  of  page  of  the  bed- 
chamber, and  before  he  had  completed  his  twenty-fourth  year, 
that  he  employed  himself  in  writing  a  romance  entitled  The 
Kniperor  Clarimond ;  which,  though  it  discovers  little  in- 
terest or  invention,  is  at  the  same  time  remarkable  for  the 
beauty  and  perspicuity  of  its  style.  This  work  has  nothing 
of  an  imaginative  or  romantic  character  attached  to  it, 
although  it  is  founded  upon  fictitious  events,  and  has  little 
title  to  our  regard,  beyond  that  of  having  exercised  the 
author  in  the  art  of  narration,  and  of  animating  him  to  the 
nobler  task  of  recording  the  discoveries  and  conquests  of 
Portugal  in  the  regions  of  the  East.  When  he  succeeded  to 
the  throne,  John  III.  advanced  Barros  to  the  governorship  of 
the  Portuguese  establishments  situated  on  the  coast  of 
Guinea.  On  his  return  thence,  he  was  made  treasurer- 
genei-al  of  the  colonies,  and  subsequently  agent-general  of 
the  same  counti'ies  ;  an  important  post,  nearly  equivalent  to 
that  of  minister  of  state,  which  Barros  preserved  for  a  period 


562  ox    THE    LITERATURE 

of  eiglit-iuid-thirty  years.  While  these  public  employments 
engaged  the  time  and  attention  of  the  historian,  they  provided 
him,  at  the  same  time,  witii  the  most  etFectual  means  of 
obtaining  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  countries  he  had 
undertaken  to  describe  ;  and,  in  truth,  he  devoted  himself 
with  equal  diligence  to  fulfil  his  official  duties,  and  to  com- 
plete the  important  work  which  has  been  consigned  to  pos- 
terity. His  de.-ign,  in  the  outset,  appears  to  have  been  to 
preserve  and  to  commemorate,  for  the  glory  of  his  country- 
men, all  the  heroic  exi)loits  achieved  by  them  in  different 
parts  of  the  world.  AVith  this  view,  his  labours  were  intended 
to  be  completed  in  four  several  portions.  Under  the  title  of 
Portuguese  Europe,  he  meant  to  comprehend  the  domestic 
history  of  the  monarchy  from  its  earliest  jjeriod  ;  under  that 
of  Africa,  to  describe  the  wars  of  the  Portuguese  in  the  king- 
doms of  Fez  and  ]\Iorocco  ;  and  under  the  head  of  America, 
or  rather  of  Santa-Croce,  to  comprise  the  history  of  the 
colony  of  the  Brazils,  in  which  he  had  an  individual  interest, 
inasmuch  as  the  king  had  conferred  upon  him,  in  the  year 
lo39,  the  province  of  INIarenham,  under  the  stipulation 
of  founding  establishments  there  ;  by  which,  however,  far 
from  reaping  any  advantage,  he  lost  a  considerable  portion  of 
his  wealth.  But  though  Barros  makes  frequent  allusion  to 
these  three  proposed  works  which  have  no  existence,  a  long 
life  was  barely  sufficient  for  the  completion  of  his  Portuguese 
Asia;  a  work  divided  into  four  decades,  or  Ibrty  books,  com- 
prehending the  history  of  the  Portuguese  conquests,  not  only 
in  the  Indies,  but  in  the  African  seas,  which  first  led  to 
their  discovery.  The  first  portion  of  this  work  appeared  in 
1552,  one  year  previous  to  the  departure  of  Camoens  for  the 
Indies,  avIio  seems  to  have  ma<le  use  of  it  in  his  poem  ;  while 
the  concluding  part  was  published  only  a  short  time  before 
the  author's  decease,  which  took  place  on  his  estate  of  Alitem, 
whither  he  had  retired  during  the  last  three  years  of  his  life, 
in  the  year  1571. 

The  Asia  of  John  de  Barros  is  the  first  great  work  which 
contains  authentic  information  relating  to  the  rich  and  ex- 
tensive countries,  separated  from  Europe  by  such  an  im- 
mense expanse  of  waters,  and  of  which,  previous  to  the  in- 
quiries of  our  author,  we  possessed  such  very  vague  and 
contradictory  accounts.  He  is  still  considered  as  the  chief 
authority  and  foundation  for  subsequent  writers,  not  only  in 


OF    THE   rORTUGUESE.  563 

their  history  of  all  Portuguese  discoveries  and  of  the  earliest 
communications  of  Europe  with  tiie  East,  but  in  all  geogra- 
phical and  statistical  knowledge  relative  to  the  Indies.  Long 
and  indefatigable  labours,  united  to  earnest  inquiries  to  ascei*- 
tain  the  truth,  and  extensive  credit  and  authority  continued 
during  forty  years,  in  the  countries  which  were  the  object  of 
his  researches,  had  indeed  fully  enabled  him  to  acquire  the 
most  accurate  information  regarding  the  events,  the  inhabi- 
tants, and  the  situation  of  those  regions.  It  is  true,  he  was 
prejudiced  in  favour  of  the  Portuguese,  though  perhaps  not 
more  so  than  a  national  historian  ought  to  be,  in  order  to 
interest  us  in  the  achievements  of  his  country.  What  mo- 
tive, it  may  be  asked,  could  have  induced  him  to  undertake 
the  task,  had  he  not  designed  to  raise  a  monument  of  glory 
to  his  nation  ?  And  would  he  not  have  betrayed  her  cause, 
if,  when  consulted  in  the  character  of  an  advocate,  he  had 
pronounced  the  condemnation  of  a  judge  ?  Could  he  have 
warmed  his  readers  with  that  enthusiasm  which  produced  the 
great  actions  recorded  by  him,  if  he  had  analysed  them  with 
the  view  of  underrating  their  value  ;  if  he  had  eagerly 
sought  out  despicable  motives  for  virtuous  deeds  ;  if  he  had 
extinguished  our  emotions  by  doubts  ;  and  if  he  had  com- 
municated through  the  medium  of  his  work  the  indifference 
which  might  have  possessed  his  own  heart  ?  We  are  in  fact 
made  more  intimately  acquainted  with  the  truth  by  writers 
partial  to  the  glory  of  their  country,  than  by  those  of  an 
opposite  character,  who  may  be  said  to  feel  for  nothing.  The 
former,  at  least,  possess  the  elements  of  truth  in  tlie  warmth 
of  their  feelings  ;  while  the  latter,  deprived  of  the  very 
source  whence  they  spring,  ai-e  incapable  of  appreciating  any 
events  witli  justness  and  precision.  To  Barros,  even  in  his 
partiality,  we  may  grant  our  confidence  with  the  less  reserve, 
when  we  consider  that  he  was  actuated  by  the  same  prejudices 
and  passions  as  his  fellow-countrymen,  and  would  not  himself 
have  scrupled  to  act  as  they  had  done  in  the  circumstances 
which  he  dehtrhts  to  commemorate.  It  is  thus  that  he  has 
drawn,  almost  involuntarily,  and  with  a  pen  of  powerful 
reality,  the  whole  character  of  the  Portuguese  conquerors  of 
India,  including  himself  at  the  same  time  in  the  picture. 
Their  undaunted  courafro..  their  ardour  for  heroic  enterprise, 
for  novelty,  and  even  for  [)erils,  are  no  less  strikingly  dis- 
played, than  are  their  insatiable  cupidity,  their  ferocity,  and 


564  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

their  bliiul  fanaticism.  If  any  individual,  or  any  commander, 
commits  ii  base  or  perfidious  action,  lie  is  condemned  without 
hesitation  ;  hut  if  the  crime  is  of  a  public  nature,  and 
approved  in  the  eyes  of  his  nation,  the  author  likewise  records 
it  with  exultation.  Negroes  torn  from  the  bosom  of  their 
family,  and  from  their  peaceful  labours,  enslaved,  or  mas- 
sacred without  provocation  ;  the  distant  Moors  pursued  into 
the  interior  of  unknown  regions,  to  be  destroyed  by  fire  and 
sword  ;  the  wretched  Indians  engulphed  by  tliousands  in  the 
seas  of  Calicut  and  Cochin  ;  what  were  these  but  infidels, 
MusulTians,  or  idolaters,  whose  lives  were  too  worthless  to 
be  taken  into  account  ?  Besides,  was  it  not  fulfilling  divine 
judgment  upon  their  heads  ?  Were  only  one  converted  to  the 
true  faitli,  Avas  not  his  redemption  an  ample  recompense  for 
theinnumerablesouls  which  were,  on  the  other  hand,  consigned 
to  eternal  punishments  ?  We  have  to  add,  that  there  is  a 
wide  distinction  to  be  made  in  the  detestation  borne  by 
Barros  and  his  countrymen  towards  the  Pagans  and  towards 
the  Mahometans  ;  the  former  of  whom  frequently  challenge 
the  author's  regard,  on  account  of  their  being  only  idolaters, 
however  various  the  objects  of  their  adoration  may  be.  Of 
this  we  may  judge  from  the  discourse  of  Vasco  de  Gama,  de- 
livered to  the  Zamorim  of  Calicut,  to  the  following  effect  :* 

"  Tliroughout  the  four  thousand  eight  hnndred  leagues  of 
coast  discovered  by  his  royal  master  and  by  his  immediate 
predecessors,  were  found  many  kings  and  princes  of  the  race 
of  the  Gentiles.  The  only  favour  which  liis  king  had  ever 
required  of  them  was,  that  they  would  permit  him  to  instruct 
them  in  a  knowledge  of  the  faith  of  Jesus  Christ,  the  Saviour 
of  the  world,  and  Lord  of  heaven  and  earth,  whom  he  con- 
fessed and  adored  as  the  true  God,  and  for  whose  glory  and 
service  he  had  undertaken  these  distant  enterprises.  Besides 
the  benefit  of  the  salvation  of  souls  which  the  King  Don 
Manuel  procured  for  these  sovereigns,  and  for  their  people 
whom  he  had  recently  discovered,  he  had  moreover  sent 
them  vessels  filled  with  all  kind  of  things  of  which 
they  had  need  ;  such  as  horses,  silver,  silks,  stuffs,  and  other 
merchandise  :  in  exchange  for  which  his  captains  obtained 
other  articles  in  which  the  country  abounded  ;  as  ivory,  gold, 
and  peppers  ;  a  kind  of  spice  as  valuable  and  useful  to 
Europe,  as  was  the  pepper  itself  in  the  kingdom  of  Calicut. 

•    Vide  Decad.  1.  Book  iv.  Chap.  'J. 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  565 

It  was  by  this  traffic  that  the  kingdoms  which  accepted  liis 
friendship  became  civilized  instead  of  barbarous;  the  weak 
powerful,  and  the  poor  rich  ;  and  all  owing  to  the  exertions 
and  industiy  of  the  Portuguese.  In  labours  like  these,  the 
king,  his  lord  and  master,  was  only  desirous  of  having  the 
glory  of  accomplishing  great  things  for  the  sei'vice  of  God 
and  tlie  reputation  of  the  Portuguese.  For  the  same  reason, 
his  conduct  towards  the  Moors,  who  were  his  enemies,  was 
just  the  contrary.  In  the  countries  of  Africa  inhabited  by 
them,  he  had  deprived  them  by  force  of  arms,  of  four  of 
their  principal  fortresses  and  sea-ports  in  the  kingdom  of  Fez. 
On  this  account,  wherever  they  appeai'ed,  they  not  only  de- 
famed the  name  of  the  Portuguese,  but,  by  their  intrigues, 
tliey  endeavoured  to  compass  their  death  ;  not  daring  to  meet 
them  face  to  face,  because  they  had  learned  by  experience  the 
power  of  their  swords.  Proofs  cf  this  might  be  seen  in 
what  had  taken  place  at  Mozambique  and  at  Momba9a,  as 
the  Zamorim  might  have  heard  from  the  pilot  Cana.  Such 
instances  of  deceit  and  treason  the  king  had  never  met  with 
in  all  the  Gentile  territories  which  he  had  discovered.  For 
these  were  naturally  very  friendly  to  the  Christian  people,  as 
being  descended  from  the  same  race,  with  great  resemblance 
in  many  of  their  customs  ;  especially  in  their  temples,  as  far 
as  he  had  already  seen  them  in  tliis  kingdom  of  Calicut.'  In 
their  religion,  likewise,  they  resembled  the  Bramins,  who 
Avorshipped  a  Trinity  of  three  persons  in  one  God  ;  a  circiiim- 
stance  which  among  Christians  is  the  foundation  of  tli^ir 
whole  faith,  however  dilFerently  understood.  But  the  Moo^s 
refused  to  admit  this  dogma  ;  and  as  they  were  well  aware  d,f 
the  uniformity  existing  between  the  Gentiles  and  the 
Christians,  they  vvished  to  render  the  Portuguese  odious  and 
suspected  in  tli^e  mind  of  his  Royal  Highness." 

The  above  speech  will  serve  as  a  fair  specimen  of  the 
manner  in  which  Barros  occasionally  intersperses  the  course 
of  his  narrative  with  harangues  ;  a  method  which  he  derived 
from  his  admiration  of  Livy,  his  favourite  author  and  his 
model.  lie  makes  use  of  it,  however,  very  sparingly,  with 
great  regard  to  truth  of  character  and  sentiment  ;  and  most 
probably  on  the  authority  of  original  documents,  though,  at 
the  same  time,  with  too  little  real  eloquence.  We  find  a  con- 
stant atfectation  of  employing  long  periods,  which  he  attempts 
to  render  harmonious;  and  of  connecting  them  with  each 


566  ON    THE    LITKRATURE 

Other,  to  a  degree  of  whicli  the  transhuion  conveys  no  idea, 
most  of  them  having  been  there  separated.  This  defect 
renders  his  style  heavy,  more  particularly  in  the  speeches,  if 
not  frequently  diflicult  and  ohscure.  The  respective  relations 
of  the  person  who  speaks,  of  liim  to  whom  the  speech  is  ad- 
dressed, and  of  him  of  wliom  it  makes  mention,  are  repeatedly 
confounded  togetlier.  Barros  is,  nevertheless,  highly  esteemed 
by  the  Portuguese,  wlio  consider  him  as  one  of  the  cliief 
founders  of  tlieir  language  ;  and  his  style,  for  the  most  part, 
displays  much  purity  of  diction,  elegance,  and  harmony  ; 
while  his  pictures  of  the  scenery  and  situations,  and  occa- 
sionally of  the  fields  of  battle,  are  drawn  with  a  bold  and 
yivid  pencil,  and  are  full  of  life  and  action. 

The  history  undertaken  by  Barros  was  afterwards  continued 
by  Couto.  In  the  original  edition  of  the  Asia  Po)-tiif/ueza, 
between  1552  and  1615,  in  fourteen  volumes,  folio,  they  were 
in  fact  published  together.  Fernand  Lopez  de  Castenheda 
and  Antonio  Bocarro  likewise  produced  their  respective  his- 
tories of  the  Portuguese  conquests  in  India.  One  of  the  most 
distinguished  characters  of  that  astonishing  age,  Alfonso 
d' Albuquerque,  also  wrote  his  C'ommenfaries,  which  were 
published  by  his  son  of  the  same  name ;  while  numerous 
other  documents  relating  to  the  extraordinary  incidents  of  the 
times  were  drawn  up  in  the  Portuguese  tongue.  About  the 
same  period,  Damiad  de  Goez  compiled  a  chronological 
account  of  the  reign  of  Emmanuel  ;  and  it  often  happened,  that 
the  same  men  who  in  various  regions  of  the  earth  astonished 
the  world  by  their  conquests,  sought  to  transmit  the  memory 
of  their  deeds  to  posterity.  It  was  towards  the  close  of  this 
heroic  age  that  Bernardo  de  Brito,  born  in  1570,  undertook 
the  task  of  giving  us  an  universal  histor}'  of  Portugal.  Re- 
ceiving his  education  at  Rome,  where  he  acfifuired  many  of" 
the  modern  languages,  he  entered  early  into  a  monastery  ;  and 
it  was  there  tliat  he  composed,  as  chronicler  of  his  own 
religious  body,  the  3[un(ircJiia  Jj^isifanct,  to  which  he  is  in- 
debted for  his  reputation.  From  the  title  which  this  very 
voluminous  history  bears,  the  author  was  bound  to  have  com- 
menced his  work  only  from  the  epoch  at  whicli  his  country 
was  elevated  to  tlie  rank  of  an  independent  state  ;  but  he  was 
ambitious,  on  the  contrary,  of  comprehending  in  his  account 
the  history  of  Portugal  from  tlie  creation  of  tlie  world.  The 
first  folio  volume  brins^s  him  down  onlv  to  the  Christian  era  : 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  567 

the  second  concludes  with  the  rise  of  the  Portusruese  mon- 
archy  ;  and  the  death  of  the  author,  which  happened  in  the 
forty-seventh  year  of  his  age,  in  1617,  actually  surprised  him 
before  he  had  reached  the  epoch  whei'C  he  ought  to  have 
commenced  liis  labours. 

The  work  of  Brito  is  necessarily  deficient  in  unity  and  in- 
terest of  subject  ;  his  country  not  being  yet  advanced  to  the 
dignity  of  an  European  power,  and  appearing  only  incidentally 
in  the  relation  of  foreign  affairs,  during  the  whole  period  of 
which  he  treats.  In  other  resjiects,  the  boldness  and  dignity 
of  his  style,  his  freedom  from  all  studied  ornament  and  affec- 
tation, and  the  originality  of  his  manner,  place  him  far  above 
the  mere  chroniclers  who  furnished  him  with  the  facts  out  of 
which  he  wrought  his  details  and  descriptions.  Wherever  the 
interest  of  events  gives  weight  to  his  method  of  describing 
them,  his  historical  representations  are  always  of  an  attractive 
character,  such  as  we  might  expect  from  a  worthy  student  of 
the  ancient  classic  models.  It  is  more  particularly  from  the 
second  portion  of  his  work  that  we  ought  fairly  to  appreciate 
his  merits  ;  in  which,  having  to  rely  solely  upon  sources 
derived  from  barbarous  nations,  the  whole  merit  of  the 
arrangement  must  be  ascribed  to  himself'.*  Of  this  we  have 
an  example  in  the  third  chapter  of  the  seventh  book,  where 
he  describes  the  closing  misfortunes  of  Roderic,  the  last  king 
of  the  Visigoths.  After  the  battle  of  Xeres,  which  lie  lost 
against  the  Arabs,  he  had  taken  refuge  in  the  church  of  an 
abandoned  convent  : 

Having-  arrived  at  this  spot,  in  the  hope  of  obtaining  some  degree 
of  consolation,  the  Icing  met  only  with  fresh  cause  for  grief,  and  with 
renewed  difficulties  :  for  the  monks,  alarmed  by  the  tidings  they  had 
received  a  few  days  before,  and  eager  to  save  the  sacred  vessels  and  other 
ornaments  of  the  church,  had  already  fled ;  some  into  Merida,  and  others 
into  the  interior  of  the  country,  seeking  an  asylum  in  distant  monas- 
teries. The  small  remaining  number,  buried  in  the  cloister,  awaited  tho 
issue  of  events,  resolved  to  perish  in  this  last  sanctuary  in  the  defence 
and  in  honour  of  the  holy  Catholic  faith.  The  king  entered  the 
church,  and  beholding  it  despoiled  of  all  its  ornaments  and  deserted  bj 
its  priests,  he  prostrated  himself  in  prayer,  in  such  grief  and  anguish  of 
spirit,  that  bursting  into  tears,  he  forgot  he  might  chance  to  be  over- 
heard by  some  one  to  whom  the  very  excess  of  his  despair  might  betray 

*  Truly  speaking,  tliere  is  here  something  more  than  the  merit  of  an  editor  which 
Boutterwek  ascrihes  to  Brito;  1  mean  the  merit  of  invention,  if  such  a  quality  can  be 
meritorious  in  a  historian.  None  of  the  ancient  monuments  of  Spain  furnish  Brito 
with  tlie  particulars  here  cited.  His  fault  is  not  pecuh^ir  to  himself.  All  the  Portu- 
guese historians  seem  to  be  much  more  attached  to  that  which  is  brilliant,  than  to  tliat 
which  is  true. 


568  ON    TIIK    LITKKATUUE 

his  name.  AVorn  down  witli  banger  of  many  days'  continuance,  exhausted 
M'llh  want  of  rest,  and  harassed  witli  long  and  toilsome  marches  on 
foot,  his  sitreng-tli  was  completely  broken  ;  and  his  spirits  at  last  giving 
way,  he  fell  fainting  upon  the  ground,  where  he  remained  in  a  lifeless 
state,  until  an  old  monk  happening  to  pass  that  way,  at  last  drew  near. 

The  remarkable  epoch  in  which  John  de  Barros,  Bernard 
deBrito,  and  Jerome  Osorio,  of  whom  we  shall  make  mention 
in  the  following  ("ha[)ter.  produced  their  several  histories,  was 
one,  indeed,  wliicli  we  might  naturally  expect  would  give 
birth  to  tiie  greatest  historians  of  Portugal.  The  most 
important  revolutions  had  not  only  then  commenced,  but  had 
been  accomplished  during  the  lifetime  of  the  existing  genera- 
tion. Kings  began  to  conceive  fresh  views  of  aggrandise- 
ment ;  characters  endowed  with  rare  talent,  arising  out  of  all 
ranks  of  society,  suddenly  opened  upon  a  new  career  ;  and 
events  beyond  the  reach  of  human  calculation  had  no  less 
deceived  the  general  expectations  of  the  world,  than  the  more 
confident  views  and  penetration  of  ordinary  policy.  The 
military  art,  navigation,  and  commerce,  had  in  every  way 
made  such  rapid  and  unexpected  progress  as  nearly  to  alter 
their  character  ;  while  the  nation  itself  had  been  separated 
as  it  were  from  its  former  habitudes,  and  thrown  into  another 
range  of  action  in  a  new  world,  alive  to  other  fears,  to  other 
hopes,  and  with  another  destiny  in  view.  There  is  a  strong 
disposition  in  the  human  mind  to  believe  that  the  events  oi' 
the  past  day  will  likewise  be  those  of  the  morrow  ;  a  kind  of 
indolence  seated  in  the  soul  seems  to  reduce  mankind  rapidly 
to  a  level  with  the  order  of  things  under  which  they  happen 
to  live  ;  and  this  it  is  that  leads  them,  in  judging  of  their  own 
times,  to  substitute  the  routine  of  practice  or  custom  in  the 
place  of  reflection.  As  the  course  of  political  events,  for  the 
most  part,  only  reaches  them  to  inure  them  to  suftering  ;  as 
their  fortunes,  their  hopes,  and  their  domestic  relations,  are 
alternately  torn  asunder,  either  by  trt^aties,  by  wars,  or  by 
revolutions,  they  most  frequently  endeavour  to  banish  unhappy 
reflections  ;  and  shunning  them  with  a  sort  of  alarm,  prefer 
submission  to  public  calamities  of  whatever  kind,  yielding  as 
if  to  an  irresistible  fatality  which  lies  hidden  from  their  view. 
For  this  reason,  a  long-establislied  government,  grown  old, 
and  rooted  in  its  customs,  has  rarely  produced  good  his- 
torians. To  give  birth  to  such,  it  is  retjuisite  either  that 
a  country    should  be  in  possession  of    liberty  suliicient  to 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESK.  569 

lead  men  to  occupy  tliemselves  with  its  interests,  or  that  iiorae 
kind  of  convulsion,  overthrowing  the  foundations  of  its  time- 
worn  institutions,  should  compel  individuals,  from  motives  of 
suffering,  from  anxiety  and  fear,  if  not  from  happier  views  of 
the  future,  to  inquire  into  the  nature  of  those  proposed  to  be 
substituted  in  their  place.  The  great  historians  of  Greece 
all  belong  to  the  era  of  the  Peloponnesian  war  ;  an  era  so 
fertile  in  revolutions ;  whilst  those  of  Rome  did  not  become 
celebrated  until  the  more  advanced  epoch,  when  the  Roman 
empire,  under  its  despotism,  was  already  tottering  to  its  fall. 
But  the  oppression  of  the  human  race,  under  a  few  sanguinaiy 
monsters,  compelled  people  at  that  period  to  reflect  upon  the 
strange  destiny  of  individuals  and  of  nations.  The  chief 
historians  of  Italy,  all  of  whom  were  contemporary  with 
Machiavelli,  lived  to  witness  the  ruin  of  their  counti'y,  dating 
its  origin  from  the  invasion  of  Charles  VIII.  Those  of 
Portugal  ought  to  bo  referred,  as  in  truth  they  do  all  of  them 
belong,  to  the  time  when  the  conquest  of  Asia  had  been  com- 
pleted by  a  mere  handful  of  warriors  ;  when  these  conquests 
liad  been  followed  by  the  most  profligate  and  boundless 
coiTuption  ;  and  when  the  prodigious  aggrandisement  of  the 
empire,  equally  without  proportion  and  without  any  kind 
of  natural  relations  with  its  head,  already  seemed  to  threaten, 
in  the  opinion  of  all  who  had  learned  to  reflect,  some  strange 
approaching  ruin,  attended  by  a  series  of  calamities  unheard 
of  before. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

CONTINUATION   OF    THE    LITEEATUEE    OF    rORTUGAL. — CONCLUSION. 

The  various  eras  that  distinguish  the  literature  of  the 
Portuguese  are  by  no  means  of  so  marked  a  character  as 
those  belonging  to  the  Spanish.  The  progress  of  the  former 
was  extremely  uniform  ;  and  innovations  were  introduced 
into  it  very  gradually,  extending  rarely  beyond  mere  forms, 
and  producing  no  revolution  in  taste.  Notwithstanding  the 
influence  of  ages,  traces  of  the  same  spirit  which  breathed  in 
the  poetry  of  the  earliest  Troubadours  of  Portugal  may  yet 
be  discovered  in  the  pastoral  poets  of  the  present  day.  But 
in  common  with  the  hterature  of  all  other  countries,  it  has 
not  escaped  the  eifect  of  political  changes,  and  the  influence 
of  the  government ;  insomuch,  that   to  appreciate  truly  its 

VOL.  II.  K   N 


570  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

elevation  and  its  decline,  we  must  keep  in  view,  as  we  have 
done  on  other  occasions,  the  successive  revolutions  of  the 
state.  With  the  Portuguese,  as  with  other  nations,  we  shall 
have  occasion  to  observe  the  same  phenomenon  to  which 
we  have  repeatedly  directed  the  attention  of  the  reader. 
Their  most  shining  period  of  literary  distinction  was  likewise 
that  of  the  greatest  corruption  of  laws  and  maimers  ;  and 
oppression  commenced  its  reign  at  the  auspicious  moment 
when  genius  prepared  to  give  full  developement  to  all  its 
pristine  freedom  and  powers.  That  genius  was  indebted  for 
its  progress  to  the  wisdom  and  virtue  of  a  preceding  govern- 
ment ;  but  as  if  to  convince  us  that  in  this  world  nothing 
excellent  is  destined  to  be  durable,  no  sooner  were  the  fruits 
of  order  and  liberty  about  to  reward  the  efforts  of  the  human 
intellect,  than  order  and  liberty  were  themselves  extinguished. 
The  best  Troubadour  poets  flourished  about  the  period  of  the 
struggles  of  the  Albigenses  ;  Ariosto  and  Tasso  ornamented 
the  age  which  witnessed  the  subjection  of  Italy ;  in  the  time 
of  Garcilaso  and  Cervantes  the  liberties  of  their  country 
were  subverted  ;  while  Camoens  died  of  a  broken  heart, 
because  the  Portuguese  monai'chy  ceased  to  exist.  Yet  in 
each  of  these  nations  the  successors  of  those  celebrated 
characters  appear  only  in  the  light  of  pigmies  by  the  side 
of  giants. 

One  great  change,  and  of  a  fatal  tendency  to  the  religious 
liberties  of  the  country,  was  introduced  into  the  Portuguese 
laws  and  manners  as  early  as  the  reign  of  the  great  Emmanuel. 
"We  have  noticed  the  light  in  which  the  inhabitants  of  all  tlie 
provinces  of  Spain  had  been  accustomed  to  consider  the 
Moors  during  the  period  of  their  protracted  wars  ;  that  in 
the  event  of  their  conquest  they  had  retained  them  as  tribu- 
taries and  subjects  ;  and  that,  accustomed  to  render  obe- 
dience to  the  same  laws,  they  had  uniformly  regarded  with 
indulgence  their  differences  of  religious  opinions.  The  same 
toleration  was  extended  also  to  the  Jews,  who  were  very  nu- 
merous in  the  several  kingdoms  of  Spain.  These  Jews  main- 
tained that  they  were  the  genuine  childi'en  of  the  tribe  of 
Judah  ;  and  their  descendants  still  consider  themselves  very 
superior  to  the  rest  of  that  people  in  other  parts  of  the 
world.  The  town  of  Lisbon,  one  of  the  most  commercial 
and  populous  of  all  the  Spains,  contained,  up  to  the  close  of 
the   fifteenth   century,  an  immense  number  of  IMoors  and 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  571 

Jews,  who  greatly  contributed  to  the  flourishing  condition  of 
its  manufactures  and  arts.     The  bigotry  of  Isabella  of  Castile, 
and  the  policy  of  her  consort  Ferdinand  of  Aragon,  were 
directed  towards  the  spoliation  and  banishment  from  their 
territories  of  all  those  who  refused  to  profess  the  Christian 
religion.      It  was  they  who  established,  upon  principles  of 
legislation  unknown  before,  the  tribunal  of  the  Inquisition, 
Avidely  differing  from  that  formerly  instituted  by  the  Popes 
against  the  Albigenses.     They  persecuted  the  Moors,  and  in 
1482  they  exiled  all  the  Jews  from  their  dominions,  with  the 
exception  of  those  that  chose  or  that  feigned  to  embrace  the 
Christian  religion.     But  the  greater  number  preferring  their 
religion  to  their  country,  their  property,  and  all  the  enjoy- 
ments of  life,  arrived    by    thousands  upon  the  frontiers  of 
Portugal,  bearing  with  them  the  little  money  and  effects  they 
had  been  enabled  to  snatch  out  of  the  ruin  of  their  fortunes. 
King  John  II,,  who  then  occupied  the  throne,  was  induced, 
less  from  humanity  than  from  motives  of  avarice,  to  offer  them 
an  asylum,  for  which  they  were  compelled  to  pay  sufficiently 
dear.     After  levying  upon  them  the  sum  of  eight  crowns  a 
head,  he  granted  permission  to  all  the  refugee  Jews  to  reside 
ten  years  in  Portugal,    engaging  at  the   expiration  of  that 
term  to  give  them  every  facility  to  leave  the  kingdom,  with 
the  whole  of  their  property,  in  whatever  way  they  should 
think  proper.     The  entrance,  however,  of  an  entire  nation, 
a  nation  long  proscribed  by  barbarous  prejudices,  and  whose 
laws  and  manners  compelled   theni   to  separate  themselves 
from  the  people  in  the  midst  of  whom  they  resided,  soon 
awakened  the  superstitious  alarms  of  the  inhabitants.     The 
superior  ability   of  the  Jews  in   their  commercial  transac- 
tions, and  in  all  lucrative  employments,  equally  excited  the 
jealousy  of  the  citizens.     The  Spaniards,  who  had  recently 
expelled  them,  were  desirous  that  their  example  should  be 
followed  by  neighbouring  states  ;  and  Castilian  monks  were 
sent  upon  a  mission  to  Portugal  for  the  sole  purpose  of  rous- 
ing the  fanaticism  of  the  people.     The  Jews  in  the  mean 
time,  eager  to  profit  by  the  ten  years'  residence  which  had  been 
accorded  them,  with  the  view  of  afterwards  transporting  their 
families  and  property,  with  the  least  possible  loss,  into  some 
more   friendly  asylum,   had  the   misfortune  to  find  Europe 
closed  against  them,  and  saw  themselves  reduced,  in  order  to 
avoid  the  persecutions  of  the  priests,  to  submit  to  the  milder 

N  N  2 


572  ox    THE    LITERATURE 

oppression  and  spoliations  of  tlie  Pachas  of  Turkey.     They 
successively  entered  into  terms  with  the  captains  of  Portu- 
guese vessels,  to  convey  them  into  the  East ;    -while  these, 
subject  to  the  authority  of  the  priests,   became  daily  more 
harsh  and  unjust  towards  the  unfortunate  refugees.     So  far 
from  reflecting  that  every  man,  who  submits  to  the  dictates 
of  his  conscience  in  preference  to  all  worldly  advantages, 
deserves  our  respect,  they  despised  and  hated  the  Jews,  for 
the  very  reason   of  their  remaining  faithful  to  the  rehgion 
imder  which  they  were  born.     Thus,  after  demanding  an  un- 
reasonable price  for  their  passage,  they  detained  them  pri- 
soners on  board  their  vessels  until  their  provisions  were  con- 
sumed, in  order  to  sell  them  more  at  the  most  extravagant 
rate,   and  until  they  had  succeeded  in  extorting  their  last 
crown.     They  even  carried  off  their  wives  and  daughters, 
believing  tliey  were  merely  fulfilling  the  duties  of  their  fana- 
tical religion  when  they  subjected  them  to  the  worst  of  out- 
rages.    Far  from  repenting  afterwards  of  the  extent  to  which 
they  had  cari'ied  their  violence  and  extortions,  they  recounted 
them  with  pride,  and  exhorted  each  other  to  still  more  outra- 
geous   acts.     There    was    not   the   least   hope    of  obtaining 
justice  for  the  unfortunate  Jews  ;  every  tribunal  was  shut 
against  them  ;  and  the  few  regulations  made  by  John  II.  in 
their  favour  were  never  put  into  force.      Such  as  had  been 
fortunate  enough  to  remain   in  Portugal,  learning  that  there 
w\as  no   safety  either  for  their  persons  or  their  fortunes  on 
board  these  fatal  vessels,  determined  to  stay  in  the  kingdom, 
rather  than  rush  into  dangers  which  they  could  not  foresee. 
In  fixct,  they  continued  there  during  the  rest  of  the  ten  years 
which    had    been    granted    to    them.       During    this    period, 
however,  John  II.  died,  in   tlie  year  149o  ;  and  as  he  had 
considered  himself  bound  by  his  word,  he  had  always  pre- 
vented  them    from    falling    into   complete  subjection.     But 
Emmanuel,  on  ascending  the  throne,  considered  hims.df  free 
from  engagements  entered  into  by  his  father.     Ferdinand 
and    Isabella    eagerly    interfered,    to    excite    his    animosity 
against  a  people  whom  they  had  made  their  perpetual  enemies. 
In  1496,  Emmanuel  published  an  edict,  by  which  he  accorded 
to  the  Jews   tlie   term   of  only    a  few  months  to   quit    his 
dominions,  under  pain  of  impending  slavery  if  they  did  not 
depart  previous  to  its  expiration.     But  before  this  took  place, 
tlio   king,  if  wc   are   to   believe   the   Portuguese  historian 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  o73 

Osorio,  "  unwilling  to  behold  so  many  millions  of  souls  preci- 
pitated into  eternal  punishment,  in  order  to  save  at  least  the 
children  of  the  Jews,  tixed  upon  an  expedient,  which,  however 
harsh    and   unjust  it  might  appear  in   the  execution,   was 
diiectedby  the  kindest  intentions  to  the  most  pious  end.   For 
he  gave  orders,  that  all  the  male  children  of  the  Jews  that 
had  not  reached  their  fourteenth  year  should  be  taken  from 
their  parents,  and  never  allowed  to  see  them  more,  in  order 
that  they  might  be  educated  in  the   Christian   faith.     But 
this  could  not  be  elFected  without  much  trouble  ;  for  it  was  a 
piteous  sight  to  see  these  children  torn  from  the  bosom  of 
their  mothers  ;  pulling  along  their  fathers,  who  held  them  fast 
in  their  arms,  and  were  separated  only  by  heavy  blows  which 
constrained  them  to  loose  their  hold.     The  most  piercing  cries 
■were  heard  on  every  side  ;  and  those  of  the  women,  above 
all,  filling  the  air  with  lamentations.     Some,  to  avoid  such 
wretched   indignity,  threw  their   children  into  deep  wells  ; 
while  others,  transported  with  rage,  put  them  to  death  with 
their  own  hands.     To  add  to  the  dreadful  sufferings  of  this 
imhappy  people,  after  having  been  thus  outraged  they  were 
not  permitted  to  embark  for  Africa  ;  as  the  king  had  such  a 
desire  to  convert  the  Jews  to  Christianity,  that  he  believed  it 
to  be  incumbent  upon  him  to  effect  his  object  partly  by  kind- 
ness, and  partly  by  force.     Thus,  though  according  to  his 
declaration,  the  Jews  ought  to  have  been  permitted  to  em- 
bark, it  was  delayed  from  day  to  day,  in  order  to  give  them 
time  to  change  their  opinions.     In  the  same  manner,  thi-ee 
ports  had  been  mentioned  from  which  they  might  set  sail ; 
but  royal  orders  were  issued  that  no  port  should  now  be  open 
to  them  except  that  of  Lisbon,  which  brought  a  great  number 
of  Jews  to  the  place.     In  the  mean  time,  the  day  fixed  in  the 
edict  expired  ;   and  those  who  had  been  unable  to  take  to 
flight  were  immediately  led  away  into  captivity."* 

We  may  gather  from  this  extract,  and  more  particularly 
from  the  reflections  which  follow  it,  that  the  virtuous  his- 
torian of  the  reign  of  Emmanuel,  Jerome  Osorio,  did  not  par- 
take the  prejudices  of  his  countrymen,  and  that  he  was  dis- 
gusted with  their  cruelty.  Osorio  was  born  in  1506  ;  and 
died  bishop  of  Sylvez,  situated  in  the  kingdom  of  Algarves, 
in  the  year  1580.  But  the  spirit  of  toleration  apparent  in 
liis  work  became,  after  his  death,  nearly  extinct  in  Portugal. 

*  See  Jerome  Osorio's  History  of  King  Emmanuel,  Book  I.  chap.  viii. 


o74  ox    THE    LITERATUKK 

It  is  nevoi-tlieless  to  tliis  very  violence  and  persecution   that 
the  Portuguese  trace  the  siiiguhir   mixture  of  the  Jewish 
blood  with  that  of  their  chief  nobility.     The  greater  number 
of  the    captives  recovered  their  liberty  by  a   simulated  con- 
version  to  the  faith   of  their  persecutors.       To  these   tlieir 
children  were  restored,  and  some  were  even  adopted  into  the 
families  which  had  presented  them  at  the  baptismal  font,  and 
were  permitted  at  the  same  time  to  assume  their  name.    Those 
who  refused  to  adopt  this  plan  perished  wretchedly  at  the 
stake  or  by  famine,  and  the  very  name  of  such  among  the 
Jews  entirely  disappeared.      The  former,  however,   though 
they  did  not  venture  to  face  the  terrors  of  martyrdom,  were 
not,  in  truth,  faithless  to  the  God  of  their  fathers.     On  the 
contrary,  we  are  assured  that  they  continued  to  bring  up  their 
children  in  the  tenets  of  the  Catholic  faitli,  without  acquaint- 
ing them  with  their  real  origin  ;  but  as  soon  as  they  have 
attained  the  age  of  fourteen  years,  the  age  fixed  upon  in  the 
barbarous  edict  of  Emmanuel,  they  are   suddenly  introduced 
into  a  religious  assembly  of  their   own  nation,  where  their 
real  birth  and  the  laws  which  condemn  them  are  revealed  to 
them.     They  are  then  required  to  choose  between  the   God 
of  tlieir  fatliers   and  that  of  their  persecutors ;  a  sword  is 
placed  in  their  hands ;  and  in  case  of  their  remaining  Catho- 
lics, the  sole  favour  and  regard  expected  from  tliem  towards 
the  blood  from  which  they  sprang  is  to  sacritice  their  fathers 
on  the  spot  with  their  own  hands,  rather  than  deliver  them 
over,  as  their  faith  exacts,  to  the  Inquisition,  where  they  would 
perish  in  the  severest  torments.     Siiould  they  refuse  to  do 
this,  they  are  then  required  to  enter  into  a  solemn  national 
engagement,  to  serve  the  Creator  of  the  universe  according  to 
tlie  worship  of  the  patriarclis,   the   pristine    fathers  of  the 
human  race  ;  and  we  are  informed,  there  has  not  been  a  sin- 
gle example,  in  this  impressive  ceremony,  in  which  the  young 
man  has  not  embraced  the  most  generous  alternative. 

It  is  painful  to  contemplate  with  what  rapidity  fanaticism 
and  intolerance,  when  once  excited  amongst  the  people,  ex- 
ceed the  views  even  of  their  promoters.  On  tiie  occasion  of 
a  newly  converted  Jew,  in  the  year  1506,  who  had  appeared 
to  disbelieve  in  some  miracle,  tlie  people  of  Lisbon  rose,  and 
having  assassinated  him,  burnt  his  dead  body  in  the  public 
square.  A  monk,  in  the  midst  of  the  tumult,  addressed  the 
populace,  exhorting  them  not  to  rest  satisfied  with  so  slight 


OF    THE    rORTUGLESE.  575 

a  venf^eance,  in  return  for  such  an  insult  offered  to  Our 
Lord.  Two  other  monks  then  raii^ing  the  crucifix,  placed 
themselves  at  the  head  of  the  seditious  mob,  crying  aloud 
only  these  words  :  "Heresy!  heresy!  Exterminate!  exter- 
minate!" And  during  the  three  following  days,  two  thousand 
of  the  newly  converted,  men,  women,  and  children,  were  put 
to  the  sword,  and  their  reeking  limbs,  yet  warm  and  palpitat- 
ing, burnt  in  the  public  places  of  the  city.  The  same  fana- 
ticism extending  to  the  armies,  converted  Portuguese  soldiers 
into  the  executioners  of  infidels  and  the  tyrants  of  the  East. 
At  length,  in  the  year  1540,  John  III.  succeeded  in  establishing 
the  Inquisition,  which  the  progress  of  superstition  had  been 
long  preparing,  throughout  all  his  dominions;  and  the  national 
character  underwent  a  complete  change.  The  defeat  of  King 
Sebastian,  at  Alcacer  el  Kibir,  in  1578,  was  only  an  acci- 
dental occurrence;  but  the  submission  of  the  Portuguese  to 
the  loss  of  their  independence,  under  the  yoke  of  Spain,  was 
the  consequence  of  the  degradation  of  the  old  national  spirit 
of  the  people.  They  had  formerly  shewn  on  many  occasions, 
but  in  particular  under  Alfonso  I.  and  John  I.,  that  they 
scorned  to  trust  their  national  existence  to  the  rights  or 
pretended  rights  of  a  woman  ;  and  that  they  preferred  a  bas- 
tard, their  own  countryman,  for  a  sovereign,  rather  than  a 
foreign  legitimate  king.  The  two  ancient  heroes  of  Portu- 
gal, Egaz  Moniz,  and  the  constable  Pereira,  had  rendered 
themselves  dear  to  the  nation  for  having  supported  this  very 
cause  at  two  distinct  periods.  But  on  the  death  of  the  car- 
dinal Henry,  in  1580,  the  Portuguese  submitted,  without 
making  any  resistance,  to  the  arms  of  Philip  II. ;  and  the 
nation  was  shortly  after  oppressed  with  the  weight  of  a  two- 
fold despotism,  both  civil  and  religious.  During  a  space  of 
sixty  years,  Portugal  continued  thus  subjected  to  a  foreign 
yoke.  The  three  Philips  (II.  III.  IV.)  who  succeeded  each 
other  on  the  throne,  and  whose  characters  we  have  already 
described,  in  reference  both  to  the  kingdom  of  Naples  and  the 
Spains,  treated  with  a  still  greater  degree  of  harshness  and 
negligence  their  Portuguese  subjects,  whom  they  were  led  to 
consider  as  their  foi-raer  rivals.  The  latter  were  afflicted 
with  all  the  calamities  which  overtook  the  Spanish  monarchy. 
The  Dutch  gradually  depri\  ed  them  of  the  largest  portion  of 
their  East  Indian  possessions,  and  the  sources  of  their  riches 
became  thus  dried  up.  The  same  nation  erased  the  monuments 


576  ON  THE    LITERATURE 

of  their  glory,  and  made  them  doubly  feel  their  oavu  weak- 
ness and  degeneracy,  and  tliat  of  tlicir  monarch.  Tlie  revo- 
lution of  1640,  which  advanced  Jolni  IV.  of  the  house  of 
Braganza  to  the  throne,  was  less  a  proof  of  the  energies  of 
the  Portuguese,  than  of  tlie  extreme  feebleness  of  the  Spa- 
niards. The  former  sustained,  during  twenty-eight  years,  a 
war  in  support  of  tlieir  independence,  but  without  recovering 
the  character  which  had  constituted  the  glory  and  the  power 
of  their  ancestors.  John  IV.  was  a  prince  of  very  indifferent 
talents;  and  his  son  Alfonso  VI.  was  an  extravagant  mad- 
man, and  was  deposed  by  means  of  an  intrigue  carried  on  be- 
tween his  queen  and  his  own  brother.  After  tlie  peace  con- 
cluded with  the  Spanish  in  1(568,  the  nation  again  sunk  into 
abject  sloth  and  superstition.  The  profligacy  of  private 
manners,  and  the  indifference  of  the  citizens,  were  in  exact 
relation  with  this  corruption  of  the  public  character.  Labour 
was  esteemed  a  disgrace,  commerce  a  state  of  degradation, 
and  agriculture  too  fatiguing  an  employment  for  the  indolence 
of  the  peasants.  The  Portuguese  of  the  present  age,  who 
form  a  large  portion  of  the  population  of  the  Indies,  pass  their 
lives  in  a  state  of  utter  uselessness,  equally  despising  the  na- 
tives of  the  country  and  the  Europeans,  and  fearful  of  debas- 
ing themselves  by  labour,  but  not  by  mendicity.  It  is  thus 
they  have  dispossessed  themselves  of  their  noblest  establish- 
ments ;  and  thus  Macao,  a  Portuguese  town  in  China,  is  now 
nothing  more  than  an  English  factory.  It  is  of  no  avail  that 
its  sovereignty  belongs  to  Portugal  ;  that  its  isthmus  is  im- 
pi'egnable,  its  climate  delicious,  and  its  situation  unequalled 
for  the  advantages  of  commerce.  There  is  no  instance  there 
of  a  Portuguese  exercising  any  profession,  or  entering  into 
the  public  oflSces.  This  state  of  apathy,  and  these  absurd 
prejudices  fostered  against  industry,  have  altogether  deprived 
the  people  of  Portugal  of  their  former  commerce,  of  their  popu- 
lation, and  of  their  glory;  yet  these  consequences  are  not  to  be 
attributed  to  their  relations  or  treaties  with  foreign  states. 
The  Inquisition,  and  the  apathy  by  which  it  is  followed,  have 
thus  consigned  them  over  to  poverty. 

In  the  midst  of  the  national  decline,  the  Portuguese  boasted 
a  great  abundance  of  poets,  during  the  seventeenth  century  ; 
but  none  of  these  were  deserving  of  any  real  reputation.  In- 
numerable sonnets,  bucolics  and  eclogues  invariably  dull,  and 
more  affected  and  insipid  than  those  that  preceded  them,  vied 


OF    THE   PORTUGUESE.  577 

'.vitli,  without  excelling  each  other  ;  and  the  most  tedious 
monotony  prevailed  through  every  hrunch  of  their  poetical 
compositions. 

The  most  remarkable  character  belonging  to  this  last  epoch 
is  a  voluminous  author,  v/hose  writings  are  often  consulted 
with  regard  to  the  ancient  literature,  the  history,  and  the 
statistics  of  Portugal.  His  taste,  however,  was  much  inferior 
to  his  industry ;  and  his  poetry  scarcely  possesses  any  attrac- 
tions to  reward  the  reader  for  its  perusal.  Yet  Manuel  de 
Faria  y  Sousa  enjoyed  a  very  brilliant  reputation.  As  in  the 
case  of  Lope  de  Vega,  the  pi-oduction  of  an  immense  mass  of 
compositions  during  the  course  of  his  life  was  considered  as 
investing  him  with  a  just  title  to  fame.  His  dissertations  on 
the  art  of  poetry  have  long  been  esteemed  by  the  Portuguese 
as  the  basis  of  all  sound  criticism  ;  while  his  six  cantos  of 
sonnets  and  his  eclogues  have  been  held  up  as  models  in  their 
style.  The  influence  which  he  exercised  over  the  taste  of  the 
age  was  considerable.  He  was  born  in  the  year  1590;  and  at 
so  early  an  age  as  fifteen,  he  was  introduced  into  public  affairs 
by  one  of  his  relations,  who  retained  him  as  secretary  in  the 
otRce  to  which  he  himself  belonged.  In  fact,  Manuel  de  Faria 
shortly  discovered  great  capacity  and  facility  in  conducting 
business  ;  though  his  talents  were  of  little  use  in  advancing 
his  fortune.  He  repaired  to  the  court  of  Madrid,  whose  sove- 
reignty at  that  time  extended  likewise  over  Portugal,  and 
afterwards  passed  to  Rome  in  the  suite  of  some  embassy,  but 
without  reaping  the  reward  due  to  his  exertions,  or  improving 
his  situation  in  life.  On  his  return  to  Madrid,  he  renounced 
his  engagements  with  public  affairs,  in  order  to  devote  him- 
self altogether  to  composition  ;  and  he  applied  himself  with 
extreme  diligence  to  the  completion  of  his  History  of  Portugal, 
or  Portuguese  Europe,  as  well  as  to  his  Fountain  Aganippe, 
and  his  Commentary  upon  Camoens  ;  boasting  of  having 
written,  every  day  of  his  life,  twelve  sheets  of  paper,  each 
page  consisting  of  thirty  lines,  until  the  time  of  his  death  ; 
which  happening  in  the  year  1649,  put  a  period  to  his  unpa- 
ralleled industry. 

The  chief  part  of  Manuel  de  Faria's  productions  are  written 
in  the  Castilian  tongue,  and  cannot  correctly  be  said  to  be 
exclusively  of  a  literary  nature.  His  Portuguese  Europe  is 
nevertheless  more  deserving  of  attention  with  regard  to  its 
style,  and  the  talent  which  it  displays  for  narrative  and  orato- 


578  ON    THE    LITEUATUKE 

rical  composition,  tlian  for  its  historical  merits,  tlie  exactness 
of  its  researches,  or  the  soundness  of  its  criticism.  In  com- 
bining the  entire  history  of  Portugal,  from  the  origin  of  the 
world,  in  thi-ee  volumes  folio,  published  at  Lisbon  in  1675,  it 
appears  to  have  been  tlie  design  of  Faria  to  preserve  the  in- 
terest of  his  subject  by  brilliancy  of  idea  antl  by  the  charm  of 
language,  and  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  reader  by  the 
spirit  that  breathes  in  every  line,  and  even  by  the  foi-ce  of 
antithesis  and  conceit.  The  taste  prevalent  at  that  period  in 
Spain,  among  such  writers  as  Gongora,  Gracian,  and  Quevedo 
himself,  extended  likewise  over  Portugal.  Besides,  the  Por- 
tuguese Europe,  being  written  in  Castilian,  is  altogether  to 
be  referred  to  the  Spanish  school.  We  should  doubtless  con- 
sider history  in  a  very  mistaken  point  of  view,  if  we  should 
suppose  with  our  author,  that  the  serious  and  dignified  tone, 
together  with  the  lucid  order  and  simplicity,  which  it  requires, 
are  to  be  made  subservient  to  a  continual  desire  of  shining, 
and  to  a  crowd  of  promiscuous  ideas  and  daring  images.  But 
it  is  only  a  man  of  superior  talents  who  is  likely  to  fall  into 
such  an  error  ;  and  in  fact  while  we  peruse  the  work  of 
Faria,  we  cannot  help  regretting,  at  every  line,  the  unfortu- 
nate misapplication  of  the  talents  with  which  he  was  endowed. 
I  shtdl  here  endeavour  to  convey  an  example  of  his  style  of 
composition,  taken  at  hazard  from  the  work  ;*  as  far,  at  least, 
as  its  peculiarities  can  be  transmitted  into  another  tongue. 
The  subject  turns  upon  the  continual  wars  carried  on  between 
Castile  and  Portugal,  whicii  fatigue  the  historian  by  their 
monotony,  and  escape  the  most  tenacious  memory.  Faria, 
howevei',  constantly  relieves  their  tediousness,  no  less  by  the 
striking  turn  which  he  gives  to  his  narrative,  than  by  the 
clioice  of  his  expressions  : 

"Perpetual  struggles  for  superiority,"  he  observes,  "the 
most  grasping  avarice,  the  desire  of  depriving  each  other  of 
what  in  fact  belonged  to  both,  and  the  folly  of  never  being 
satisfied  with  what  they  possessed,  plunged  Portugal  and 
Castile  into  fresh  wars,  during  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Dou 
Alonzo,  in  the  year  1 135.  Discord  led  to  spoliations,  and  these 
again  gave  rise  to  fresh  discord  ;  and  the  party  which  had 
obtained  the  advantage  in  committing  injuries,  easily  forgot 
the  losses  it  had  itself  sustained,  in  tlie  superior  pleasure  of 
having  inflicted  them  upon  its  rival.   To  produce  evil,  though 

*  See  vol.  ii.  part  i.  cap.  iii.  p.  39,  of  the  Eiiropa  I'orluguesa. 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE,  579 

without  reaping  any  advantage  from  it,  was  pronounced  a 
victory;  and  blood  inundated,  and  fire  devoured  the  villages 
of  the  two  nations,  each  of  whom  escaped  from  the  recollec- 
tion of  their  own  extended  sufferings  and  ruin,  in  the  reflection 
that  they  had  subjected  their  enemy  to  the  same  calamities." 

In  such  detached  passages  as  these,  perhaps,  little  can  be 
perceived  except  the  force  and  vivacity  of  their  style  :  but 
when  such  qualities  as  these  are  continued  throughout  tlu-ee 
folio  volumes,  we  become  wearied  with  the  continual  display 
of  antithesis  and  research,  and  we  recognize  in  this  misappli- 
cation of  genius  the  symptoms  of  its  approaching  decline. 

The  remainder  of  Faria's  works  in  prose  have  obtained  less 
celebrity  ;  the  same  defects  are  every  where  apparent  with 
the  addition  of  others,  but  without  the  same  ornamented  and 
brilliant  style.  His  Commentary  upon  Caraoens,  in  which  he 
expresses  the  strongest  admiration  for  that  great  poet,  is  re- 
markable for  its  total  deficiency  in  appreciating  that  which 
constitutes  the  chief  beauty  of  the  poem.  The  mythological 
pedantry,  which  is  too  often  the  fault  of  Caraoens,  is  the  very 
quality  for  which  he  is  most  conspicuous  in  the  eyes  of  Faria. 
The  commentator  also,  in  his  turn,  overpowers  the  reader 
with  a  parade  of  useless  erudition  ;  taste,  judgment,  refine- 
ment, are  all  equally  wanting  ;  and  the  commentary  is  valu- 
able only  inasmuch  as  it  contains  particulars  relative  to  the 
lives  of  Camoens,  and  of  the  Portuguese  navigators.  The  same 
author  likewise  undertook  to  write  the  life  of  the  poet  of  the 
Lusiad  ;  to  put  it  into  the  shape  of  an  eclogue  ;  and  to  com- 
pile that  eclogue  from  various  scattered  lines  of  the  poet  him- 
self. It  would  be  difficult  to  point  out  a  work  more  truly 
tedious,  more  destitute  of  interest  and  of  poetry,  and  compre- 
hending so  much  long  and  puerile  labour.  A  large  body  of 
notes  serves  to  exhibit  the  licenses  which  the  author  permitted 
himself  in  this  species  of  mosaic  work,  changing  sometimes  a 
word  and  sometimes  a  syllable  in  the  verse  on  which  he  was 
employed  ;  yet,  after  all,  he  was  perhaps  right  in  these  altera- 
tions, as  both  the  word  and  syllable  so  substituted  may  be  met 
with  in  the  works  of  Camoens. 

Out  of  a  far  greater  number  of  sonnets  which  he  had  com- 
posed, Faria  selected  only  six  hundred  to  present  to  the  public, 
four  hundred  of  which  are  in  Castilian,  and  the  rest  in  Portu- 
guese. In  these  we  may  observe,  in  general,  most  of  the  defects 
of  Marini,  of  Lope  de  Vega,  and  of  Gongora,  exemplified  by 


580  ON    THE    LITERATUKB 

turns  ;  a  singular  degree  of  affectation  and  research,  forced 
and  inflated  images,  besides  considerable  hyperbole  and  pe- 
dantry of  style.  There  are,  however,  a  few  exceptions  ;  and 
these  are  by  no  means  deficient  in  real  feeling  and  grace.  The 
ideas  are  not  sufficiently  striking  to  call  for  translation  into 
another  tongue,  but  I  shall  subjoin  in  a  note  two  poems  which 
Boutterwek  has  already  pointed  out.* 

Both  in  his  eclogues,  and  in  his  discourse  upon  pastoral 
poetry,  it  was  the  object  of  this  author  to  shew,  from  exam- 
ples and  arguments  which  he  adduced,  that  all  the  passions, 
and  all  the  occupations  of  mankind,  could  only  be  treated 
poetically  in  proportion  as  they  took  a  pastoral  form.  lie  him- 
self arranged  his  bucolics  in  the  following  order  :  viz.  amatory 
eclogues,  those  on  the  chase,  piscatorj'-,  rural,  funereal,  judi- 
ciary, monastic,  critical,  genealogical,  and  fantastic.  We  may 
readily  form  an  idea  of  the  nature  of  the  poetry  to  be  found 
in  the  idyls  which  under  this  disguise  proceeded  from  his  pen. 

Next  to  Manuel  de  Faria  y  Sousa,  the  first  rank  among 
the  Portuguese  poets  of  this  age  must  be  awarded  to  Antonio 
Barbosa  Bacellar,  Avho  lived  between  the  years  1610  and 
1663,  and  who,  by  a  somewhat  rare  choice  among  men  of 
letters,  forsook  the  regions  of  poetry,  where  he  had  distin- 
guished himself,  for  the  courts  of  jurisprudence.  His  poems 
were  published  before  he  had  reached  his  twenty-fifth  year  ; 
but  the  reputation  which  he  acquired  by  his  defence  of  the 
rights  of  the  house  of  Braganza  to  the  throne,  at  the  period  of 
the  revolution,  induced  him  to  abandon  the  Muses  for  a  more 
lucrative  career.  He  was  the  first,  however,  who  conferred 
on  the  poetry  of  Portugal  that  kind  of  elegy  which  is  distin- 
guished by  the  name  oi  Saudades ;  verses  intended  to  convey 
amorous  complaints  and  wishes  expressed  in  solitude.  Our 
modern   taste    will    no  longer   countenance   these  love-sick 

*  Ninfas,  ninfas  do  prado,  tam  fermosa?,         Sempre  que  torno  a  ver  o  bello  prado 

Que  nolle  eada  qual  mil  florcs  gera,  Oiide,  primeira  vcz,  a  soberana 

l)e  que  se  tcce  a  huniana  priniaveia,  Diviudade  encontrey,  con  forma  humana, 

Com  cores,  como  bellas,  deleitosas;  Ou  humane  esplendor  deificado : 

Bellezas,  o  bellczas  luminosas,  E  me  acordo  do  talhe  delicado, 

Que  sois  abono  da  constante  esfera ;  Do  riso  donde  ambrosia  e  nectar  niana. 

Que  todas  me  acudisseys,  bcm  quisera,  Da  fala,  que  da  vida  quando  engana, 

Com  vossas  luzcs,  e  com  vossas  rosas.  Da  branca,ma6,  e  do  cristal  rosado. 

De  todas  me  trazcy  maes  abundantes,  Do  meneo  soave,  que  fazia 

Porque  me  importa,  neste  bello  dia,  C'rer,  que  de  brando  zcfiro  tocada, 

A  porta  oniar  da  minha  Albania  bella.  A  primavera  toda  se  movia, 

Mas  vos,  de  vosso  culto  vigilantes,  De  novo  torno  a  ver  a  alma  abrazada, 

O  adorno  me  negays,  que  eu  prelendij,  ]■;  em  desejar  £6mentc  aquelle  dia, 

I'orquc  bellas  nam  soys  diaiite  della.  Vcjo  a  gloria  real  toda  cifrac'.a. 


Of    THE    PORTUGUESE.  581 

lamentations,  eternally  repeated  with  scarcely  any  variation  of 
sentiments,  notwithstanding  tlieir  graceful  and  harmonious 
language,  and  the  beauty  and  variety  of  their  imagery.  Ja- 
cinto Freire  de  Andrade  is  likewise  esteemed  one  of  the  best 
poets  of  this  period,  as  well  as  the  most  distinguished  writer 
of  prose.  His  poems  are  almost  wholly  of  a  burlesque  cast. 
He  treated,  in  a  very  happy  vein  of  wit  and  ridicule,  the 
florid  style  and  pretensions  of  the  imitators  of  Gongora ;  of 
those  who  flattered  themselves  that  they  were  giving  proofs 
of  their  poetic  genius,  in  the  pomp  of  their  tiresome  mytho- 
logy and  of  their  disproportioned  imagery.  With  this  view, 
Andrade  produced  a  short  poem  upon  The  Loves  of  Poly - 
jyhenius  and  Galatea,  which  may  be  considered  in  the  light  of 
a  parody  on  that  of  Gongora.  But  the  ridicule  which  it  was 
his  object  to  throw  on  this  composition  did  not  discourage  his 
countrymen  ;  for  at  no  distant  period,  several  more  poems  of 
Polyphemus,  no  less  absurd  than  that  which  he  liad  thus  ex- 
posed, made  their  appearance. 

But  Andrade  acquired  still  more  reputation  by  his  Life  of 
Don  Juan  de  Castro,  fourth  Viceroy  of  the  Indies.  This 
was,  at  onetime,  esteemed  a  masterpiece  of  biographical  com- 
position, and  was  translated  into  several  languages.  The 
Portuguese  themselves  held  it  up  as  their  model  of  elegance 
and  purity  in  historical  narration  ;  not  offended,  as  we  now 
are,  by  the  laborious  and  studied  conceit  of  the  thoughts,  and 
by  the  affectation  with  which  they  are  expressed.*     Juan  de 

*  Jacintha  Freire  de  Andrade  has  acquired  so  much  reputation  by  this  life  of  Joa6 
de  Castro,  that  I  tlilnk  it  right  to  give  an  example  of  the  style,  which  was  then  regarded 
as  a  model  for  that  of  all  historians.  It  is  also  proper  to  give  a  specimen  of  the  Por- 
tuguese prose  : 

"  Triunfante  Carlos,  como  outro  Scipiaodaguerra  de  Africa,  se  veyo  descansar  entre 
applausos  e  acclamaipoens  de  Europa,  podendose  chamar  antes  fundador  que  herdeiro 
de  seu  iniperio.  Voltou  tambem  e  nossa  armada  ao  porto  de  Lisboa,  onde  Dom  Joao 
achou,  nos  brayos  do  Rey,  e  sandafoens  do  povo,  mayor  premio,  do  que  engritara  do 
Cesar;  e  como  vara6  que  tao  bem  sabia  despresar  sua  mesma  fama,  se  retirou  a  sua 
quiuta  de  Cintra,  desejando  viver  para  si  mesmo,  havendose  no  serviyo  da  patria  de 
maneira,  que  nem  o  desemparava  como  inutil,  nem  o  buscava  como  ambicioso.  Aqui 
se  recreava  com  hu4  estranha  e  nova  agricultura,  cortanda  as  arvores  que  produziao 
fruto  e  plantando  em  seu  lugar  arvoredos  sylvestres  e  estereis ;  quiga  mostrando  que 
servia  tao  desinteressado,  que  nem  da  terra  que  agricultava,  esperava  paya  do  bene- 
ficio:  mas  que  muito,  fizesse  pouco  caso  do  que  podiao  produsir  os  penedos  de  Cintra, 
qucm  soube  pisar  con  despreso  os  rubis  e  diamantes  de  Oriente."  (L.  I.  p.  1j. 
Edit.1769.) 

It  is  not  only  the  style  which  is  inflated  in  this  fragment,  the  sentiments  themselves 
are  impressed  with  the  rhodomontade  which  is  apparent  throughout  the  work.  I  know 
not  whether  it  is  Castro  or  Andrade  whom  we  must  accuse  of  being  always  in  search 
of  a  false  grandeur;  the  former  might,  indeed,  root  up  the  olives  and  replace  them 
tvith  barren  trees,  without  making  a  display  of  the  sentiments  which  his  biographer 
tscribes  to  him.  But  if  he  wished  to  shew  himself  impartial,  even  towards  nature,  far 
from  exciting  in  our  minds  any  admiration  of  his  generosity,  it  only  leads  one  to  doubt 
his  judgment,  or  his  good  faith. 


582  ON    THE    LITEllATUKE 

Castro  flt)urished  at  the  epoch  so  glorious  for  the  Portuguese 
arms,  when  they  founded  that  extensive  empire  which  soon 
traced  its  ruin  to  tlie  sloth  and  luxury  of  its  conquerors  in 
the  following  age.  Andrade,  however,  appears  to  be  inspired 
by  a  sense  of  their  ancient  virtues  ;  and  he  recounts  the  ex- 
ploits of  his  hero  with  equal  dignity  and  simplicity.  It,  is 
he  who  has  rendered  so  celebrated  the  story  of  the  mustachio 
given  as  a  pledge  by  tlie  viceroy  of  the  Indies.  De  Castro, 
after  having  sustained  the  memorable  siege  of  Diii  against  the 
arras  of  the  King  of  Cambaya,  and  triumphed  over  foi'ces 
which  appeared  irresistible,  resolved  to  rebuild  that  fortress 
from  its  foundations,  in  order  to  prepare  himself  for  another 
siege.  Unfortunately,  the  royal  finances  w^ere  exhausted  ; 
there  were  no  precious  articles,  nor  any  means  of  paying  the 
labourers  and  soldiers  employed.  The  Portuguese  merchants 
at  Goa  having  been  frequently  deceived  by  the  promises  for- 
merly made,  were  no  longer  willing  to  give  credit  to  De 
Castro.  His  son  Ferdinand  had  been  killed  during  the  siege. 
lie  was  desirous  of  disinterring  his  bones,  to  send  them  as  a 
pledge  to  the  merchants  of  Goa,  that  he  would  perform  his 
engagements  with  them,  for  the  money  which  he  wished  them 
to  advance.  But  they  were  no  longer  to  be  found  ;  the  fiery 
climate  having  already  reduced  them  to  dust.  He  then  cut 
off  one  of  his  mustachios,  which  he  sent  as  a  gage  of  honour 
that  he  would  fulfil  tlie  conditions.  "  I  have  no  pledge  which 
I  can  now  call  mine,"  he  thus  addressed  them,  "  except  my 
own  beard,  which  I  now  send  you  by  Rodriguez  de  Azevedo  ; 
for  you  must  be  aware  that  I  no  longer  possess  gold,  silver, 
or  effects,  nor  any  thing  else  of  any  value,  to  obtain  your  con- 
fidence, except  a  short  and  dry  sincerity,  which  the  Lord  my 
God  has  given  me."  Upon  this  glorious  gage,  Juan  de  Castro 
in  fact  obtained  the  money  of  which  he  was  in  want  ;  and 
his  mustachio,  afterwards  redeemed  by  his  family  from  the 
hands  of  his  creditors,  is  still  preserved  as  a  monument  of 
his  loyalty  and  devotion  to  the  interests  of  his  country. 

Among  the  imitators  of  Gongora,  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  are  reckoned  Simao  Torezao  Coelho,  Doctor  of 
Laws,  attached  to  the  Inquisition,  who  likewise  produced 
some  Saudades;  Duarte  Uibeiro  de  Macedo  ;  Fernam  Correa 
de  la  Cerda,  who  died  Bishop  of  Oporto  ;  and  a  lady  who 
had  taken  the  veil,  Sister  Violante  do  Ceo.  We  shall  give 
one  sonnet  from  the  pen  of  the  last  of  these  writers,  were  it 


OF    THE   PORTUGUESE.  583 

only  to  afford  a  single  specimen  from  the  Portuguese,  of  that 
affectation  and  research,  arising  from  a  desire  of  exhibiting 
brilliancy  of  talent,  which  we  have  observed  at  particular 
periods  more  or  less  infesting  the  literature  of  every  people ; 
when  poets,  finding  the  various  departments  of  their  art 
already  filled  by  their  predecessors,  are  desirous  of  opening 
an  original  career  for  themselves,  and  of  giving  a  new  direc- 
tion to  the  art,  though  destitute  of  that  vigour  of  imagination 
and  true  feeling  which  can  alone  give  fresh  existence  to 
poetr3^  The  Sister  Violante  do  Ceo  was  a  Dominican  re- 
cluse, and  esteemed,  in  her  own  time,  a  model  of  piety  as 
well  as  of  poetic  taste.  She  lived  between  the  years  1601 
and  1693,  and  left  behind  her  a  very  considerable  number  of 
poems,  both  upon  sacred  and  profane  subjects.  The  sonnet  of 
which  we  subjoin  a  version,  as  far  as  such  affected  phrase- 
ology is  capable  of  translation,  was  addressed  to  her  friend 
Mariana  de  Luna,  and  upon  that  name  the  equivoque  turns  : 

SONNET. 

Muses,  that 'mid  Apollo's  gardens  straying, 

With  your  sweet  voices  catch  tlie  enamour'd  airs  ! 

Muses  divine,  sweet  solacers  of  cares  ! 
Nurses  of  tender  thoughts  !  fresh  flowers  displaying 
Most  sweet  to  the  young  god  of  day,  delaying 

His  steeds  to  gaze  ;  yet  leave  his  gaudy  spheres  ! 

A  Luna,  lo  !  most  like  a  sun  appears, 
Young  flowers  of  song  in  chai-ms  of  love  arraying  : 
She  will  prepare  a  garden  fairer  far, 

Full  of  harmonious  sweets  ;  and  should  you  doubt 
Lest  such  delights  lose  by  inconstancy. 
Their  pure  light  drawn  from  Luna's  waning  star — 

Know,  Grace  divine  that  garden  fenced  about 
With  the  eternal  walls  of  immortality.* 

Those  who  may  be  more  expert  than  I  dare  venture  to 
profess  myself  at  similar  interpretations,  will  decide  whether 
Mariana  de  Luna  was  in  possession  of  a  beautiful  garden,  or 
was  preparing  to  give  a  concert,  which  Violante  addresses  as 
the  garden  of  harmony,  or  had  really  written  a  poem. 
Strange  infatuation  of  the  human  mind,  which  could  be  led 


*  Musas  que  no  jardin  do  rey  do  dia,  E  porque  nao  cuideis  que  tal  ventura 

Soltando  a  doce  voz,  prendeis  o  vento ;  Pode  pagar  tribute  a  variedade, 

Deidades  que  admirando  o  pensamento,  Pelo  que  tem  de  Lua  a  luz  mais  pura, 

As  fiores  augmentais  que  Apollo  cria;  Sabey,  que  per  merc6  da  Divindade, 

Deixai  deixai  do  sol  a  companhia,  Este  jardin  canoro  se  asscgura 

(iue  fazendo  iiiveioso  o  firmamento,  Com  o  muro  immortal  da  cternidade. 
JIuniaLua  que  he  sol,  e  que  he  portento, 
ll.im  jardin  vos  fabrica  de  harmonia. 


584  ox    THE    LITERATURE 

to  believe  that  any  real  ingenuity  and  fancy  is  displayed  in 
the  expression  of  absurdities  like  these  !. 

Another  poet  belonging  to  the  same  age  and  school  is 
Jeronymo  Bahia,  who  once  enjoyed  :i  considerable  degree  of 
reputation,  which  now  no  longer  exi.-t?.  He  is  the  author  of 
one  of  the  numerous  poems  on  the  Loves  of  Polyphemus  and 
Galatea,  and  opens  his  colossal  eclogue  in  the  following  stanza 
full  of  antitheses,  which  may  enable  us  to  form  a  pretty 
accurate  idea  of  the  rest. 

Where  Lilybseus'  giant-foot  is  bound 

By  the  surrounding  Neptune's  silver  chain, 

Pride  of  the  sky,  the  torment  of  the  ground 
On  which  he  rests,  Jove's  glory,  Typhon's  pain  ; 

"Within  a  plain  upon  that  mountain  found, 
(Colossal  mount  and  Colysseal  plain) 

To  a  cold  cave  a  rock  obstructs  the  way, 

AVhere  dwells  old  Night,  nor  ever  enters  Day. 

Among  the  poems  of  the  same  author,  we  meet  with  a  ro- 
mance addressed  to  Alfonso  VI.  congratulating  both  that 
monarch  and  the  country  on  having  devised  an  expedient  to 
consolidate  the  independence  of  the  Portuguese  monarchy, 
and  to  insure  victory  to  his  arms.  Saint  Anthony  of  Padua, 
born  at  Lisbon  in  1195,  and  regarded  as  the  patron  saint 
of  the  Portuguese,  had  just  been  solicited  by  the  most  solemn 
prayers  and  supplications  to  accept  a  rank  in  the  army  ;  and 
the  priests  assured  the  people  that  the  celestial  inhabitant 
had  signified  his  consent.  From  that  time  the  Saint  enjoyed 
the  elevated  rank,  though  the  church  in  his  name  received 
the  pay,  of  Generalissimo  of  the  Portuguese  armies: 
"  Henceforward,"  exclaims  Bahia  to  the  King,  "  cease  to 
enrol  your  subjects  in  the  army  ;  Saint  Anthony  himself  has 
assumed  a  command  in  your  ranks,  and  he  who  delivered  his 
father  will  likewise  ensure  the  freedom  of  his  country."* 

The  Portuguese  colonies,  since  the  seventeenth  century, 
have  added  some  names  to  the  list  of  poets  who  flourished  in 
the  mother-country.  Francisco  de  Vasconcellos,  one  of 
those  authors  of  sonnets  whom  we  may  consider  most  free 
from  affectation  and  bad  taste,  was  born  at  Madeira.  He  was 
guilty,  however,  of  treating,  in  imitation  of  Gongora,  the 
old  fable  of  Polyphemus  and  Galatea,  so  constant  a  favourite 
with  the  Spanish  and  Portuguese  poets.     Andrea  Nunez  dc 

*  Deixai  mais  listas,  pois  ja  Que  como  siio  pay  livrou 

Santo  Antonio  se  alistou,  Sua  patria  livrara. 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  585 

Sylva  was  a  poet  of  the  Brazils,  where  he  was  born  and  edu- 
cated, though  he  died  in  Portugal,  in  the  order  of  the  Theati'ne 
monks.  His  devotional  pieces  may  be  reckoned  among  the 
best  productions  of  the  age.  It  is  thus  that  a  new  nation, 
apparently  destined  to  inherit  the  genius  of  the  ancient 
Portuguese,  already  commenced  its  career,  and  prepared  the 
elements  of  a  mighty  empire  beyond  the  Eiu'opean  seas. 
The  productions  of  these  different  poets  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  whose  names  are  so  seldom  heard  beyond  the  limits 
of  their  own  country,  have  been  collected  together,  under 
titles  which  of  themselves  sufficiently  indicate  the  false  taste 
which  then  prevailed.  One  of  them  is  entitled  The  Plioenix 
Revived;  another  The  Postilion  of  Apollo;  both  of  which 
titles  prepare  us  for  the  degree  of 'Ci'itical  discretion  exer- 
cised in  the  selection  of  the  contents.* 

The  jDolitical  state  of  Portugal  during  the  seventeenth 
century  led  to  the  downfal  of  its  theatre.  The  country  had 
been  united  to  the  crown  of  Spain  before  any  great  dramatic 
genius  had  appeared,  or  the  art  had  properly  developed  itself. 
Lope  de  Vega,  and  afterwards  Calderon,  ennobled  the  Spanisli 
scene  under  the  reign  of  the  Philips.  But  the  court  of 
Lisbon  ceased  to  exist  ;  and  the  Spanish  comedians,  invited 
thither  by  the  different  viceroys,  exhibited  only  the  pieces  of 
the  Spanish  dramatists.  The  very  small  number  of  early 
Portuguese  dramas  written  by  Gil  Vicente  and  by  Miranda 
were  inadequate  to  the  supply  of  sufficient  materials  for  the 
Portuguese  theatre.  The  high  reputation  of  Spanish  litera- 
ture at  that  period,  throughout  all  Eui'ope,  induced  the  poets 
of  Portugal  to  compose  not  more  frequently  in  their 
own  than  in  the  Castilian  tongue  ;  and  those  who  possessed 
dramatic  talents  devoted  them  to  the  theatre  of  Madrid, 
leaving  their  own  national  stage  altogether  deserted. 

It  was  not  until  after  the  peace  of  1668,  when  the  indepen- 
dence of  Portugal  was  recognized,  that  it  was  perceived  how 
far  the  national  spirit  had  deteriorated.  The  people  appeared  to 
have  fallen  into  a  general  lethargy  ;  which,  towards  the  close 
of  the  seventeenth  century,  seemed  to  extend  not  only  to  the 
literature  but  to  the  military  and  naval  energies  of  the  state, 

*  These,  however,  are  merely  an  abridgment  of  the  fantastic  titles  of  the  originals. 
The  first  and  the  least  despicable  is  perhaps  the  work  of  Mathias  Pereira  da  Silva, 
entitled,  A  Fenix  renascida,  or  Obras  Poetiras  dos  Mellores  engerthos  Portugueses, 
Lisboa,  1746,  5  vols.  8vo;  and  the  other,  Eccos  t^ue  o  cl'jrim  da  Fama  da.  Postil/tao 
de  Apollo,  &c.  2  vols.  Lisboa,  ]7(JI. 

VOL.   II.  O  O 


586  OK    THE    LITERATURE 

which  were  equally  destroyed.  The  national  industry  and 
finances  declined  tofjether;  while  a  weak  and  imbecile  govern- 
ment was  ignorant  alike  of  the  means  which  conduced  to  its  own 
interests  and  to  those  of  the  peojde.  At  the  commencement  of 
the  war  of  the  succession  in  Spain,  the  government  was  even 
undetermined  respecting  its  own  wishes  and  intentions;  some- 
times joining  the  Fi'ench  and  sometimes  the  English  party,  as 
circumstances  seemed  to  direct,  Portugal  thenceforward,  in 
its  literary  no  less  than  in  its  political  I'clations,  was  swayed 
alternately  by  the  influence  of  these  two  rival  nations. 

During  the  protracted  reign  of  John  V.  between  the  years 
170j  and  IToO,  the  government  made  several  efforts  to  revive 
the  literary  character  of  the  nation,  with  a  view  of  conferring 
upon  the  throne  that  degree  of  lustre  of  which  the  rest  of  the 
Eurooean  sovereigns  of  the  time  were  ambitious.  The 
Portuguese  Academy  of  Languages  was  thus  foi'med  in  1714; 
that  of  History  in  1720;  but  neither  of  these  establishments 
have  fulfdled  the  expectations  generally  entertained  of  them. 
The  strict  relations  maintained  by  the  government  with 
England  was  the  only  circumstance  that  diminished  in  some 
measure  the  violence  of  its  persecuting  spirit. 

The  reign  of  Joseph  Emanuel,  which  continued  from  the 
year  1750  until  1777,  appears  to  have  been  more  favourable 
to  the  national  character.  The  savage  despotism  of  his 
minister  the  Marquis  of  Pombal,  though  it  probably  stifled 
the  rising  talents  of  individuals,  roused  the  nation  at  length 
from  its  protracted  slumbers.  The  reform  of  the  administra- 
tion and  the  pi'ogress  of  knowledge  were  fortunately  combined 
with  the  other  views  of  this  formidable  tyrant.  He  loosened 
the  yoke  of  superstition  ;  he  exj)elled  the  Jesuits,  who  held 
the  minds  of  the  people  in  subjection  ;  and  when  he  had 
arrived  at  the  close  of  his  despotic  career,  it  was  observed 
with  astonishment,  that  not  only  the  ancient  bonds  of 
oppi'ession,  but  those  which  he  had  himself  imposed,  were 
idike  broken.  It  was  during  the  short  reign  of  Peter  III., 
between  1777  and  1786,  that  Portugal  reaped  the  fruits  of 
this  newly  acquired  liberty ;  nor  were  all  the  efforts  made  by 
the  last  queen,  Mary,  to  restore  superstition  and  the  priests  to 
their  former  influence,  successful  in  impeding  the  new  impulse 
which  the  nation  had  received,  and  which  a  more  frequent 
intercourse  with  the  rest  of  Europe  was  calculated  to  pro- 
mote.    A  Royal  Academy  of  Sciences  was  founded  by  the 


OP    THE    PORTUGUESE.  587 

Prince  Eegent  ;  and,  since  1792,  it  has  published  its  memoirs, 
relating  as  well  to  literature  as  to  science  ;  annual  prizes  are 
distributed  ;  and  it  continues  to  exercise  a  steady  influence 
over  the  taste,  the  critical  spirit,  and  the  drama  of  the  nation. 
.  The  first  poet,  and  the  most  remarkable  character  of  the 
eighteenth  century  in  Portugal,  is  Francisco  Xavier  de 
Meneses,  Count  of  Ericeyra.  He  was  born  in  1673,  and  had 
already  distinguished  himself  by  the  extent  of  his  acquire- 
ments and  by  his  various  talents,  at  tAventy  years  of  age. 
During  the  war  of  the  succession,  he  served  in  many  cam- 
paigns, and  attained  the  rank  of  general,  and  of  mestre  do 
campo.  In  the  year  1714,  he  was  chosen  patron  and  secretary 
of  the  Portuguese  Academy;  and  in  1721,  one  of  the  directors 
of  the  Academy  of  History.  His  reputation  had  then  extended 
throughout  Europe  ;  and  he  preserved  a  regular  correspon- 
dence with  the  most  distinguished  men  of  letters  of  his  time. 
Boileau,  whose  Art  of  Poetry  he  had  rendered  into  Portu- 
guese verse  at  a  very  early  age,  maintained  an  epistolary 
intercourse  with  him  until  the  time  of  his  death.  Ericeyra, 
a  true  disciple  of  the  father  of  French  criticism,  exerted  him- 
self to  introduce  his  principles  into  Portugal.  Pie  died  in 
1744,  two  years  after  having  published  his  Hennqueide,  an 
epic  poem,  which  he  had  undertaken  early  in  life,  and  to 
which  he  attached  his  chief  hopes  of  celebrity. 

The  natives  of  the  South,  the  people  of  Italy,  of  Spain, 
and  of  Portugal,  are  certainly  gifted  with  a  fertility  of  imagi- 
nation, a  tenderness,  and  a  vivacity,  together  with  a  richness 
of  colouring  in  their  poetry,  beyond  the  sphere  of  Boileau's 
art ;  yet,  perhaps,  for  this  very  reason,  a  perusal  of  his  works 
would  have  been  attended  with  greater  advantage  to  them 
than  to  the  French  themselves.  In  general,  his  criticism  is 
wholly  of  a  negative  cast :  he  detects  faults,  he  prohibits 
licences  ;  but  he  conceives  nothing  deeply  and  vividly  ;  he 
inspires  neither  elevation  nor  enthusiasm,  and  he  never 
dreams  of  rousing  the  imagination.  His  writings  are  by  no 
means  adapted  to  inspire  the  French  nation  with  that  poetic 
fire  which  is  found  in  the  productions  of  other  nations,  and 
in  which  the  French  are  certainly  deficient.  Possessing  a 
singular  degree  of  judgment  and  discrimination,  he  is  an 
author,  nevertheless,  whose  rules,  applied  to  the  literature  of 
other  nations,  might  teach  their  writers  what  to  avoid,  and 
how  to  retrench  what  is  superfluous.     In  fact  it  was  French 

o  o  2 


588  ON    THE    LITERATURK 

criticism,  introduced  among  the  people  of  the  South,  which 
first  led  them  to  perceive  tlie  imposition  and  absurdity  of  the 
school  of  Marini,  no  less  than  that  of  Gongora.  From  the 
same  source,  the  writings  of  Ignacio  de  Luzan  in  Spain,  and 
those  of  Count  d'ICriceyra  in  Portugal,  are  to  be  esteemed  far 
more  correct,  and  of  a  far  higher  cliaracter,  tlian  any  of  those 
Avhicli  had  before  appeared  on  tlie  art  of  criticism,  in  either  of 
those  languages.  And  if  the  promulgation  of  these  prin- 
ciples was  not  followed  by  the  production  of  any  masterpieces, 
or  even  of  any  works  equal  to  those  which  had  preceded 
them,  it  must  not  be  attributed  to  the  new  laws  of  composi- 
tion derived  from  France,  but  to  the  exhaustion  of  the  nation, 
which,  after  the  destruction  of  its  hopes  and  the  loss  of  its 
glory,  was  divested  of  all  originality. 

The  promoters  of  French  taste  in  Italy,  in  Spain,  and  in 
Portugal,  were  far  however  from  confining  themselves, Jn  a 
strict  sense,  to  the  exactness,  the  sobriety  of  ornament,  and 
the  somewhat  prosaic  good  sense,  which  arc  the  characte- 
ristics of  the  authors,  whom  they  took  for  their  model.     Yet 
those,  we  imagine,  who  embraced   with  so  much  ardour  a 
poetical  creed  foreign  to  the  prejudices  and  education  of  their 
country,  could  not  be  very  deeply  penetrated  with  a  feeling 
of  the  national  character,  nor  very  susceptible  of  the  influence 
of  the  national  poetry.     Their  literary  attempts  must  have 
been  pretty  strongly  tinctured  with  the  individual  character 
which  led  them  to  make  choice  of  such  a  system  ;  and^  we 
must  attribute  the   frigid    character  of  their   compositions 
rather  to  the  authors  themselves,  than  to  the  rules  which  they 
adopted.     A  certain  period  of  time,  indeed,  must  be  allowed 
to  elapse,  after  the  introduction  of  a  new  poetical  code,  when 
the  spirit  of  controversy  has  died  away,  and  its  most  essential 
principles  are  no  longer  contested,  before  its  influence  can  be 
fairly  felt  and  appreciated.     It  will  tlien  serve  to  restrain  the 
ardour  of   those  who  at   its  first  introduction  would   have 
rejected  it  with  disdain,  and  will  be  of  still  greater  advantage 
to  them  than   to  others,    inasmuch  as  tlie  vivacity  of  their 
imagination,  or  the  impetuosity  of  their  passions,  would  with- 
out its  assistance  have  carried  them  beyond  the  proper  bounds. 
Tlie   Count  d'Ericeyra  was  ambitious  of  presenting  his 
country  with  a  national  epic  on  a  more  correct  and  regular 
plan  than  that  of  Camoens.     It  was  easy  to  point  out  in  the 
latter    the    impropriety  and    perpetual   contradiction  which 


OF   THE   POUTUGUESE.  589 

strike  us  in  his  two  rival  mythologies,  and  to  censure  the  long 
oblivion  into  which  he  plunges  Vasco  de  Gama,  the  apparent 
hero  of  his  story,  while  he  diverges  into  historical  narrations 
too  often  dry  and  fatiguing.  But  the  advice  and  directions 
of  Boileau  failed  to  inspire  Ericeyra  with  that  national 
fervour  which  was  felt  by  the  soldier-poet,  to  endow  him  with 
the  same  dreaming  melancholy,  or  to  invest  him  with  that 
golden  halo  of  love  and  glory,  which  gave  its  colours  to  all  the 
objects  that  Camoens  beheld  through  the  medium  of  its 
beams.  The  Henriqueide  is  a  recital  of  events  planned  and 
executed  with  judgment  and  taste,  but  expressed  in  a  tone 
little  elevated  above  that  of  prose.  The  hei'o,  Henry  of 
Burgundy,  was  the  founder  of  the  Portuguese  monarchy, 
son-in-law  of  Alfonso  VI.  of  Castile,  and  the  father  of  Alfonso 
Henriquez.  The  action  is  founded  on  the  Portuguese  con- 
quests over  the  Moors,  which  are  recounted  throughout  twelve 
cantos  in  stanzas  of  octave  verse.  All  the  poetical  rules  are 
carefully  observed,  as  well  as  the  historical  probability  of  the 
work.  A  slight  mixture  of  the  marvellous  is  borrowed  from 
the  Sibyls  and  from  magic,  and  the  interest  is  tolerably  well 
sustained. 

On  the  opening  of  the  poem,  the  Christian  army  is  dis- 
covered in  presence  of  the  Moors,  commanded  by  their 
sovereign  Muley.  Henry  is  informed  that  a  Sibyl,  possessing 
the  gift  of  prophecy,  dwells  in  a  cavern  in  the  neighbourhood, 
and  he  secretly  quits  his  troops  to  discover  her  residence, 
which  he  reaches  after  passing  through  a  sei-ies  of  appalling 
dangers.  The  Sibyl  is,  however,  a  Christian,  and  warmly 
interests  herself  in  the  fate  of  his  armies  :  she  directs  him 
how  to  proceed,  reveals  the  future,  and  permits  him  to  con- 
template the  approaching  grandeur  of  his  country.  The 
Christian  army  is  attacked  in  the  mean  time  by  Muley;  the 
soldiers  are  thunderstruck  at  the  absence  of  their  cliief  ;  they 
begin  to  despair,  they  falter,  and  are  about  to  take  to  flight, 
when  the  arrival  of  Henry  changes  the  fortune  of  the  day. 
After  this  event,  which  attaches  the  epic  interest  of  the  poem 
entirely  to  his  hero,  follow  a  series  of  battles,  duels,  sieges, 
and  victories,  intermingled  with  a  few  love  adventures,  and 
lastly,  the  capture  of  Lisbon,  which  completes  the  work. 

We  are  informed  by  Ericeyra  himself,  in  his  preface,  that 
he  sought  to  avail  himself  of  the  beauties  of  all  the  epic  poets, 
■of  Homer,  Virgil,  Aricsto,  Tasso,  Lucan,  and  Silius  Italicus. 


590  ON    THE   LITERATURE 

And,  in  truth,  we  very  frequently  meet  with  chissical  imita- 
tions in  his  lines  ;  but,  unfortunately,  the  fire  and  feeling 
which  dictated  those  exquisite  works,  and  which  render  them 
so  worthy  of  imitation,  are  not  discoverable  in  his  com- 
position. The  whole  poem  is  in  fact  chilled  with  an  intole- 
rable coldness  ;  and  the  beauty  of  the  versification  and  of  the 
narratives  is  not  sufllcient  to  atone  for  the  absence  of  the 
living  soul  and  fire  of  the  genuine  poet.* 

About  the  epoch  of  Ericeyra,  some  promise  of  a  Portuguese 
drama  began  to  dawn  in  Lisbon.  During  the  whole  seven- 
teenth century  that  city  had  to  boast  only  of  a  Spanish  theatre  ; 
and  such  of  the  Portuguese  as  cultivated  the  dramatic  art 
adopted  the  Castilian  tongue.  Added  to  which,  John  V. 
patronized  an  Italian  opera  in  Lisbon,  which,  supported  by 
his  munificence,  soon  appeared  to  flourish  ;  and  this  new 
example  gave  rise  to  another  species  of  mixed  spectacle. 
This  consisted  of  comic  operas  played  without  the  recitative, 
and  composed  probably  with  borrowed  music,  in  the  manner 
of  the  French  vmidevilhs,  accompanied  at  the  same  time  with 
all  the  attractions  and  display  of  the  Italian  opera.  The 
pieces  wei'e  written  by  a  Jew  of  the  name  of  Antonio  Jose, 
an  illiterate  and  obscure  individual,  whose  coarseness  both  of 

*  The  ensuing  stanzas  from  the  Henriqueide,  are  given  as  a  specimen  of  its  style  : 
the  manner  in  which  the  poem  opens  is  as  follows : 

Eu  canto  as  armas,  e  o  varao  famoso,  Europa  foy  da  espada  fulminante 

Que  deo  a  Portugal  principio  regio;  Teatro  illustre,  victima  gloriosa, 

Conseguindo  por  forte  e  generoso  Asia  vio  no  seu  brafo  a  cruz  brilhante, 

Em  guerra  e  paz,  o  nome  mais  egregio ;  E  ficou  do  seu  nomc  temerosa, 

E  animado  de  espirito  glorioso,  De  Africa  a  gente  barbara,  e  triumfar.te, 

Castigou  dos  infieis  o  sacrilegio,  Se  Ihe  pestrou  rendida  e  receosa, 

Deixando  por  prudente,  e  por  ousado  Para  serfundadorde  hum  quinto  iraperio 

Nas  virtudes,  o  imperio  eternizado.  Que  do  mundo  domine  outro  Kmisferio. 

The  arrival  of  Henry  at  the  grot  of  the  Sibyl  : 

Dahorrendagrutaaentrada  defendiao  O  mare  a  terra  em  liorrida  disputa 

Agudas  folhas  da  arvore  do  Averno,  Gritavao,  com  clamores  desmedidos: 

E  enlafadas  raizes,  que  se  uniao  Que  nao  entrassem  na  funesta  gruta 

Mais  que  de  Gordio  no  embara^o  etorno  :  Os  que  assim  o  intentavao,  presuniidos; 

Penhascos  desde  a  terra  ao  ceo  sobiao,  A  constancia  mais  forte,  e  rcsolula, 

Lubricos  os  fez  tanto  o  frio  inverno,  De  ondas  et  roehas  tragicos  bramidos, 

Que  Henrique  vio,  subindo  resulutos  Temia  vcndo  unirse  em  dura  guerra 

Precipitarse  os  mais  velozes  brutos.  Contra  hum  so  corafao  o  mar  e  a  terra. 

And  lastly,  the  combat  between  Henry  and  Ali. 

Torrente  de  cristal  que  arrebatada  Aiiida  que  com  scus  rapidos  efleitos 

Inunda  os  valles,  e  supera  os  monies,  Causem  no  mundo  estragos  e  terrores, 

Exhalaf-ao  sulfurea,  que  inflamada  A  tanto  impulso  de  cair  dtsfeitos 

Fulmina  as  torres,  rasga  os  orizontes,  Toda  a  izeui;a6  dos  globos  supiriores, 

Vento  setentrional,  que  em  furia  irada  Nao  sey  se  excedem  dos  valentes  peitos 

Agita  OS  mares,  e  coiigela  as  fontes,  As  nnbres  iras,  e  inclitos  ardores, 

De  Deucalion  o  rapido  diluvio.  Com  que  se  vio  ao  impeto  iracundo 

Chamas  do  Elhna,  ardores  do  Vesuv;o,  I'arar  o  ceo,  atremecerse  o  nuindo. 

Can!o  xii. 


OP    THE   rORTUGUESE.  591 

Style  and  imagination  betrayed  the  vulgai'  rank  to  which  he 
had  belonged.  A  genuine  vein  of  humour  and  familiar 
gaiety,  however,  gave  life  to  the  Portuguese  stage  for  the  first 
time  ;  there  was  a  certain  vigour  as  well  in  the  subjects  as  in 
the  style  ;  and  from  the  period  of  1730  to  1740,  the  people 
rushed  in  crowds  to  the  theatre.  The  nation  seemed  on  the 
point  of  possessing  its  own  drama  ;  when  Antonio  Jose,  the 
Jew,  was  seized  and  burnt  by  order  of  the  Inquisition,  at  the 
last  auto-da-fe,  which  took  place  in  the  year  1745.  The 
managers  were  then,  perhaps,  alarmed  lest  their  faith  should 
become  suspected  by  continuing  the  representation  of  the 
unfortunate  Jew's  productions,  and  the  theatre  was  in  conse- 
quence closed.  There  are  extant  two  collections  of  these 
Portuguese  operas,  dated  1746  and  1787,  in  two  volumes 
octavo,  which  appeared  without  the  author's  name.  The 
eight  or  ten  pieces  which  they  contain  are  all  equally  rude  in 
point  of  language  and  construction,  but  are  by  no  means 
deficient  in  sprightliness  and  originality.  One  of  these,  of 
which  Esop  is  made  the  hero,  and  in  which  the  brilliant  ex- 
ploits of  the  Persian  war  are  whimsically  enough  included,  in 
order  to  exhibit  battles  and  evolutions  of  cavalry  upon  the 
stage,  gives  to  the  character  of  Esop  all  the  ridicule  and 
gaiety  of  a  true  harlequin.* 

But  though  Portugal  was  in  possession  of  no  real  theatre, 
many  highly  gifted  characters  attempted,  from  time  to  time, 
to  fill  up  this  vacancy  in  their  national  literature,  by  devoting 
themselves  to  the  only  branch  of  poetry  in  which  it  appeared 
to  be  deficient.  Antonio  Correa  Gar9ao,  whose  works  were 
published  in  1778,  and  who,  by  his  assiduous  study  of  Horace, 
and  by  his  efforts  to  introduce  the  lyric  style  and  metre  of  the 
Roman  poet  into  Portugal,  acquired  the  name  of  the  second 
Portuguese  Horace,  attempted  likewise  to  reform  the  stage, 
and  to  present  his  country  with  some  pieces  written  in  the 
manner  of  Terence.  The  first  of  these,  entitled  Tkeatro  Novo, 

*  A  Portuguese  poet  of  our  own  day  has  addressed  some  lines  to  the  memory  of 
tliis  victi'.n  of  the  Inquisition,  in  a  style  of  extreme  boldness  and  severity.  After 
passing  in  review  several  other  human  sacrifices,  no  less  disgraceful  and  atrocious 
than  those  which  bathed  the  altars  of  Mexico  in  blood,  he  exclaims  : 

O'  Antonio  Jose  doce  e  faceto,  Foi  no  Theatro  aos  teus  joco;os  ditos 

Tu  que  fostes  o  primeiro  que  pizaste  Que  no  Rocio  a  voz  de  huinanidade. 

Com  mais  regular  sono  a  scena  luza!  Que  iufame  horrenda,pompa,  <iue  fogueire 

O  povo  da  Lisboa  mais  sensivel  Te  vejo  preparada  ! 

The  Rotio  is  the  public  place  in  Lisbon  provided  for  the  exhibition  of  the 
dulosda-fc. 


592  ON    THE    LITERATUKE 

is  rather  a  sketch  of  his  principles  on  the  dramatic  art,  and  a 
critical  account  of  such  works  as  had  till  then  appeared,  than 
a  comedy  intended  to  rest  upon  its  own  merits.  Another 
specimen  of  his  pen,  under  the  title  of  Assemhlea,  or  Partkla, 
is  a  satire  upon  the  fashionable  world,  nearly  of  the  same  kind 
as  the  Ccrcle  of  Poinsinet. 

The  Academy  of  Sciences,  having  proposed  a  prize  for  the 
best  Portuguese  tragedy,  on  the  tliirteenth  of  May,  1788, 
conferred  the  laurel  crown  on  Osmia,  a  tragedy  which  proved 
to  be  the  production  of  a  lady,  the  Countess  de  Vimieii'o.  On 
opening  the  sealed  envelope  accompanying  tlie  piece,  which 
usually  conveys  the  name  of  the  author,  there  was  found  only 
a  direction,  in  case  Osmia  should  prove  successful,  to  devote 
the  proceeds  to  the  cultivation  of  olives,  a  species  of  fruit 
from  which  Portugal  might  derive  great  advantages.  It  was 
with  some  difficulty  that  the  name  of  the  modest  writer  of 
this  work,  published  in  1795,  in  quarto,  was  made  known  to 
the  world.  Boutterwek  has  erroneously  attributed  it  to  an- 
other lady,  very  justly  celebrated  in  Portugal,  Catharina  de 
Sousa,  the  same  who  singly  ventured  to  oppose  the  violence 
of  the  Marquis  de  Pombal,  whose  son  she  refused  in  marriage. 
From  the  family  of  this  illustrious  lady,  I  learned  that  the 
tragedy  of  Osmia  was  not  really  the  production  of  her  pen. 

In  this  line  of  composition,  so  rarely  attempted  by  female 
genius,  the  Countess  de  Vimieiro  displays  a  singular  purity 
of  taste,  an  exquisite  delicacy  of  feeling,  and  an  interest  de- 
rived rather  from  passion  than  from  circumstances  ;  qualities, 
indeed,  which  more  peculiarly  distinguisli  her  sex.  The 
scene  is  laid  in  Portugal,  at  a  distant  period,  before  the  ex- 
istence of  the  monarchy,  about  the  time  of  the  Turditani  ; 
when  that  people,  then  inhabiting  the  country,  revolted 
against  the  llomans.  Pindacus,  their  prince,  had  espoused 
the  heroine,  Osmia,  who  bad  never  been  really  attached  to 
him.  Tlie  Turditani,  however,  are  beaten,  Rindacus  is 
wounded,  and  the  fair  Osmia  made  a  prisoner.  Lielius,  the 
Roman  praetor,  conceives  the  most  violent  passion  for  his 
beautiful  captive,  to  which  she  is  far  from  being  insensible  ; 
and  the  whole  interest  of  the  piece  depends  upon  the  ensuing 
struggle  between  love  and  duty  in  the  soul  of  Osmia.  She  is 
desirous  of  shewing  herself- worthy  of  her  high  birth  and 
name  ;  the  pride  of  her  country  shares  her  heart  with  the 
victorious  Roman's  love  ;  and  wiiile  she  strives  to  hate  him, 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  593 

Lis  noble  generosity  makes  a  powerful  impression  on  her 
mind.  Her  character  assumes  a  tinge  of  softness  mingled 
with  her  heroism,  which  renders  her  more  and  more  inter- 
esting as  the  scene  draws  to  a  close.  The  beauty  of  her 
character  is  heightened  by  the  contrast  in  which  she  is  placed 
with  a  prophetess  of  her  own  country,  who,  like  herself,  a 
prisoner,  is  at  once  inflamed  by  her  national  pride  and  by  her 
hatred  against  the  Romans.  These  passions,  indeed,  lead  to 
the  events  which  prepare  the  catastrophe  of  the  action,  and 
the  tragic  interest  is  so  contrived  as  to  increase  as  it  ap- 
proaches the  close.  The  death  of  Osmia  is  related  to  us  ; 
but  her  consort  is  carried  wounded  and  dying  upon  the  stage. 
Id  the  catastrophe  as  well  as  in  the  rest  of  the  piece,  the 
Countess  de  Vimieiro  appears  to  have  studied  the  laws  of  the 
French  theatre  ;  and  in  the  vivacity  of  her  dialogue, 
Voltaire,  rather  than  Corneille  or  Racine,  would  seem  to 
have  been  kept  in  view.  The  whole  is  composed  in  iambic 
verse,  free  from  rhyme  ;  and  we  are  perhaps  justified  in 
asserting  that  this  tragedy  is  the  only  one  which  the  Portu- 
guese theatre  can  properly  be  said  to  possess. 

The  new  Portuguese  empire,  on  which  depend  all  the 
hopes  of  the  future  independence  and  prosperity  of  that 
country,  has  on  its  part  likewise  commenced  the  cultivation 
of  letters,  and  given  birth  in  the  present  age  to  an  author 
celebrated  for  his  lyric  effusions.  Claudio  Manuel  da  Costa 
was  born  in  the  department  of  Minas  Geraes  at  the  Brazils- 
He  received,  however,  an  European  education,  during  five 
years,  at  Coimbra,  where  the  school  of  Gongora  was  still  in 
repute;  and  it  was  Da  Costa's  own  taste  which  led  him  to 
adopt,  as  his  models,  the  ancient  Italian  poets  and  Metastasio. 
On  his  return  to  the  Brazils,  he  pursued  his  poetical  studies 
in  the  gold  and  diamond  mines,  whose  splendid  wealth 
appears,  nevertheless,  to  have  had  few  attractions  for  him. 
In  these  mountains,  he  observes,  we  find  no  streams  of 
Arcady,  whose  gentle  murmurs  awake  harmonious  sounds  ; 
the  fall  of  wild  and  precipitous  torrents  here  only  calls  to 
mind  the  savage  avidity  of  man,  who  has  rendered  the  very 
waters  subject  to  his  sway,  and  who,  in  his  search  for  trea- 
sures, stains  and  pollutes  their  waves. 

His  sonnets,  which  betray  the  follower  of  Petrarch,  are 
extremely  easy  and  harmonious,  and  there  is  a  piquancy  in 
their  turn  of  expression  which  we  do  not  often  meet  with  in 


594  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

romantic  poetry.*  Da  Costa  produced  also  several  elegies  in 
in  unrbymed  iambic  or  blank  verse,  a  kind  of  metre  seldom 
made  use  of  before  his  time  in  Portugal,  and  which  would 
appear  to  have  deprived  him  of  a  portion  of  his  poetic  splen- 
dour and  warmth  of  colouring  ;  as  if  the  more  rich  and  flow- 
ing languages  of  the  South  always  required  the  agreeable 
addition  of  rhyme  to  engage  the  eai*.  He  conferred  upon 
these  the  singular  title  of  Epicedios.  He  produced  like- 
wise about  twenty  eclogues,  written  almost  entirely  upon 
occasional  subjects,  in  which  pastoral  phrases  are  introduced 
as  a  sort  of  veil  under  which  the  ideas  of  the  author  are 
conveyed.  It  is  impossible  to  observe  without  surprise  how 
this  unreasonable  predilection  lor  pastoral  poetry  has  infected 
the  Portuguese  from  the  twelfth  century  to  the  present  day, 
from  the  banks  of  the  Tagus  to  the  distant  shores  of  both 
the  Indies,  and  has  thrown  over  their  whole  literature  an  air 
of  childish  and  affected  monotony.  There  is  a  higher  degree 
of  merit,  as  it  appears  to  me,  in  a  iaw  of  Da  Costa's  other 
effusions,  in  imitation  of  Metastasio,  and  in  the  manner  of 
the  old  Italian  school.  They  consist  chiefly  of  songs  and  airs 
composed  for  the  purpose  of  being  set  to  music.  We  have 
subjoined  a  few  couplets,  in  which  he  takes  a  farewell  of  his 
lyre ;  and  they  are  such  as  lead  us  to  wish  we  could  hear 
more  of  its  plaintive  tones. 

Yes  !  I  have  loved  thee,  0  my  lyre  ! 
My  day,  my  niglit-(h'eam,  loved  thee  long  ! 
When  thou  wouklst  pour  thy  soul  of  song, 
When  did  I  turn  away  I 

'Tia  thine,  with  thy  bewitching  wire 
To  charm  my  sorrow "s  wildest  mood, 

•  The  following  are  the  two  sonnets  of  Da  Costa  mentioned  by  Boutterwek  : 

Onde  estou  ?  este  sitio  dcsronhe? o  :  Nize,  Nize?  onde  estas  ?  Aonde  cspora 

Quern  fez  tao  diflerente  aquelle  )irado  !  Achar-te  hunia  alma,  que  poi' tisuspira? 

Tudo  outra  naturefa  tcni  timiado,  Se  quanto  a  vista  se  dilata  e  gira, 

E  em  coateniplallo  timido  escuorefo.  Tanto  mais  de  encontrar-te  dezespera  ! 

Hiima  fonte  aqui  houve ;  eu  na6  me  es-  Ah  se  ao  nienos  ten  nonie  ouvir  pedern, 

quefo  Kntre  esta  aura  suave  que  respira ! 

De  estar  a  ella  hum  dia  reelinado  ;  Nize,  cuido  que  diz;  mas  he  nientira  ; 

Alii  em  valle  hum  monte  csta  mudado,  Nize,  cuidei  que  ouvia;  e  tal  nao  era. 

Quar.to  p6de  dos  annos  o  progresso  !  Grutas,  troncos.  penhascos  da  espesura, 

Arvores  aqui  vi  tao  florescentes  Se  o  meu  hem,  se  a  luinha  alnia  em  V(5s 

Que  faziao  perpetua  a  primavera:  se  esconde, 

Neni  troncos  vejo  agora  decadentes.  Mostray,  mostray-me  a  sun  fermozura. 

Eu  me  engano;  a  regia6  esta  nuo  era.  Nem  ao  menos  o  ecco  rric  responds  ! 

Mas  que   venho  a  estranhar,  se   esta6  Ah  como  he  certa  a  niinha  desvcntura! 

presentes  Nize,  Nize.'  onde  cstasf  Aonde?  aonde? 

Mous  males,  com  que  tudo  degcnera. 


OF    THE   PORTUGUESE.  595 

To  calm  again  my  feverish  blood, 
Till  peace  resumes  her  sway. 

How  oft  with  fond  and  flattering  tone 
I  wooed  thee  through  the  still  midnight, 
And  chasing  slumbers  with  delight. 
Would  vigils  bold  with  thee  ; 

AVoukl  tell  thee  I  am  all  thine  own, 
That  thou,  sweet  lyre,  shalt  rule  me  still ; 
My  love,  my  pride  through  every  ill. 
My  world  of  bliss  to  me. 

Thine  are  these  quenchless  thoughts  of  fire, 
The  beamings  of  a  burning  soul, 
That  cannot  brook  the  world's  control, 
Or  breathe  its  sickening  air ; 

And  thine  the  raptures  that  inspire 
With  antique  glow  my  trembling  frame, 
That  bid  me  nurse  the  wasting  flame. 
And  court  my  own  despair. 

The  moi'e  recent  poets  of  Portugal,  belonging  to  the  con- 
clusion of  the  last  and  the  beginning  of  the  present  century, 
are  but  slightly  noticed  by  Boutterwek  ;  and  it  is  singular 
that  the  very  names  which  are  distinguished  by  his  notice 
should  altogether  have  escaped  my  researches.  On  the  other 
hand,  my  attention  has  been  attracted  to  some  whom  I  have 
heard  highly  commended  by  their  countrymen,  and  of 
whom  the  German  writer  makes  no  mention.  Among  these, 
Francisco  Manoel,  whose  lyric  productions  were  printed  at 
Paris  in  1808,  occupies  the  first  rank.  He  was  born  at 
Lisbon,  on  the  twenty-third  day  of  December,  1734  ;  lived  in 
very  easy  circumstances,  and  arrived  at  an  early  age  to  some 
degree  of  celebrity;  but  his  philosophical  pursuits,  and  his 
intimate  correspondence  with  French  and  English  indivi- 
duals, subjected  him  to  the  suspicions  of  the  priests,  and  to' 
the  notice  of  the  Inquisition.  He  was  on  the  point  of  being 
arrested  on  the  fourteenth  of  July,  1778,  when,  by  his  cou- 
rage and  his  presence  of  mind,  he  contrived  to  elude  the 
visit  of  the  familiar  of  the  Holy  Office,  who  came  to  surprise 
him;  and  at  length,  with  the  utmost  difficulty,  succeeded  in 
taking  ship,  and  arrived  in  safety  in  France.  He  thei-e 
attained  a  very  advanced  age,  always  foiling  the  snares  laid 
for  him  by  the  Inquisition,  which  aimed  at  having  him 
brought  back  to  Portugal.  I  am  acquainted  only  with  his 
odes  written  in  metres,  imitated  from  those  of  Horace.  They 
almost  invariably  discover  elevation  and  dignity  of  expres- 


596  ON   THE    LITERATURE 

sion,  and  the  thoughts  have  more  boldness  and  freedom  than 
we  are  accustomed  to  meet  with  in  the  writers  of  the  South.* 

Another  of  the  most  distinguished  among  the  living  poets 
is  Antonio  Diniz  da  Cruz  e  Silva,  whose  works  were 
published  at  Lisbon  in  the  year  1807.  One  volume  consists 
of  imitations  of  English  poetry,  which  w^ould  appear  to 
be  gaining  numerous  admirers  in  Portugal,  and  may  probably 
at  some  future  period  give  a  new  and  unexpected  direction 
to  the  literature  of  a  people  whose  taste  has  hitherto  pre- 
served an  oriental  cast.  Amongst  other  pieces  imitated  by 
Diniz  is  Pope's  Rape  of  the  Loch,  a  poem  which  has  met 
with  equal  success  in  Italy.  In  his  light  satires  upon  the 
jiolite  world,  we  are  told,  the  Portuguese  poet  has  displayed 
much  elegance  and  acquaintance  with  human  life,  though  the 
very  truth  of  his  pictures  detracts  in  some  degree  from  their 
merit  in  the  eyes  of  foreigners.  They  are,  indeed,  too  faith- 
fully drawn  to  be  fully  appreciated  by  those  who  are  unac- 
quainted with  the  originals,  and  the  great  number  of  allusions 
renders  them  difficult  to  be  understood.  The  other  volume, 
which  is  the  first,  is  written,  on  the  contrary,  in  the  ancient 
style  of  the  Italian  school,  and  contains  three  hundred  son- 
nets, throughout  which  Diniz,  under  the  Arcadian  name  of 
Elpino,  deplores  the  cruelty  of  the  beautiful  Ionia,  and  the 
torments  of  love,  with  a  languor  and  monotony  which  have 
deservedly  lost  much  of  their  charm  in  the  present  day.  It 
almost  exceeds  belief,  that  a  man  of  real  talent  should  venture 
to  publish  together  three  hundred  sonnets  on  the  most  ex- 
hausted subject  imaginable  ;  and  it  is  still  more  surprising, 
that  they  should  boast  of  modern  readers.  As  an  instance, 
however,  of  the  manner  in  which  the  same  taste  has  prevailed 

*  As  a  short  example  of  this  kind  of  writing,  ve  add  some  stanzas  from  his  ode  to 
the  Knights  of  Clirist.  Don  Juan  de  Silva  is  supposed  to  speak  to  a  candidate  for  the 
honours  of  the  order : 

Por  feitos  de  valor,  duras  fadigas,  Pela  fc,  pelo  rey,  e  patria.     A  vida 

Se  ganha  a  fama  honrada,  Se  assim  se  perde — A  vida  e  bcm  perdida. 
Nao  por  branduras  vis,  do  ocio  amigas. 

Zonas  fria  e  queimada  Ja  com  esta,  (e  arrancou  a  espada  inteira) 
Virac)  do  Cancro,  a  ursa  de  Calixto,  Ao  reino  vindiquei 

Cavalleros  da  roxa  cruz  de  Christo.  A  croa,  que  usurpou  mao  estrangeira. 
Ku  jcl  aFe,  e  os  tens  rcis,e  a  patria  amada,         I'iz  ser  rei  o  men  rei, 

Na  guerra  te  ensinei  Com  accoes  de  valor,  feitos  preclaros. 

A  defender,  com  a  tingida  espada.  Nas  linhas  d'Elvas,  e  nos  Montcs-Claros.t 

Co  a  morte  me  affrontei 


t  These  are  the  places  where  De  Silva  twice  triumphed  over  the  Sjianiards,  and  by 
that  means  insured  tlie  independence  of  Portugal  and  the  succession  of  the  house  of 
Liraganza  to  the  throne. 


OF   THE   PORTUGUESE.  597 

throughout  all  the  South,  from  the  days  of  Petrarch  to  our 
own,  I  shall' venture  to  extract  one  of  his  sonnets,  which  ap- 
pears to  rae  to  be  one  of  the  most  striking,  inasmuch  as  it 
contains  a  pleasing  fiction,  in  the  manner  of  Anacreon, 
clothed  in  a  romantic  dress  : 

SONKET    X. 

From  his  celestial  parent  wandering  wide, 

Young  Love  was  lost  amid  those  blooming  plains 
Where  Tagus  fondly  roves.     Loud  he  complains, 

And  running,  asks  each  shepherd,  while  he  cried. 

Where  VenuB  is  1     Those  arrows,  once  his  pride, 
*  Fall  from  his  golden  quiver,  that  remains 

Unheeded,  while  with  bribes  he  tempts  the  swains 

To  giwde  him  back  to  his  fair  mother's  side. 

When  fair  Ionia,  tending  in  that  place 

Her  fleecy  charges,  soothed  his  infant  cries, 

And  sweetly  promised  with  an  angel's  grace 
To  lead  him  to  her — "  Fairest  maid,"  replies 

The  God,  and  fluttering  kiss'd  her  lovely  face, 
"  I  reck  not  Venus,  when  I  see  thine  eyes  !"* 

The  odes  addi'essed  by  Antonio  Diniz  to  the  grandees  of 
Portugal  are  esteemed  above  tlie  rest.  I  have  likewise  in  my 
possession  a  little  poem,  entitled  0  Hyssope :  The  Holy 
"Water  Sprinkler:  by  the  same  author,  published  at  Paris  in 
1817.  It  appears  to  have  been  written  on  occasion  of  a 
quarrel  which  took  place  in  the  church  of  Elvas,  between  the 
bishop  and  the  dean  of  the  chapter,  on  account  of  the 
presentation  of  the  instrument  used  for  sprinkling  the  holy 
water.  •  Like  Boileau  in  his  Lutrin,  tlie  poet  turns  into  ridi- 
cule the  ecclesiastical  absurdities  and  the  animosities  to 
which  they  give  rise  among  the  priests,  which  he  touches 
with  a  freedom  of  remark  little  agreeable,  we  should  conceive, 
to  the  Inquisition.  The  prelates,  who  are  represented  as 
almost  wholly  devoted  to  the  pleasures  of  gambling  and  good 
living,  and  as  at  the  same  time  requiring  all  the  external 
marks  of  respect  from  the  people,  would  certainly,  had  it 
been  in  their  power,  have  made  Antonio  Diniz  repent  of  liis 


*  Da  bella  mai,  perdido  amor  errava,  Quando  Ionia  que  alii  seu  gado  passe 

Pelos  eampos  que  corta  o  Tejo  brando.  Eiixugando-lhe  as  iagrimas  que  chora, 

E  a  todos  quantos  via,  suspirando,  A  Venus  Ihe  mostrar  leda  se  offerece, 

Sem  descanfo  por  elia  procurava.  jj^j  amor  dando  hum  voo  a  linda  face, 

Os  farpoes  Ihe  cahiao  de  aurea  aljava  ;  Beijando  a  llietornou :  "  Gentilpastora, 

Mas  elie  de  arco  e  setas  nao  curando,  Quern  os  teus  olhos  yii  Venus  esquecc' 
Mil  glorias  promettia,  solufando, 
A  quern  a  Deosa  o  leve  que  buscava. 


598  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

audacity  :  yet   tliis    satire    appeared    for    the   first    time  in 
Portugal  in  the  year  1802.* 

An  eminent  place  is  also  accorded  among  the  poets  of  the 
age  to  J.  A.  Da  Cunha,  whose  mathematical  labours  would 
equally  have  entitled  him  to  distinction,  and  who  is  remem-. 
bered  with  the  most  grateful  feelings  by  the  distinguished 
scholars  whom  he  formed  and  left  behind  him.  His  poetical 
productions,  collected  in  1778,  have  never,  it  appears,  been 
yet  presented  to  the  public.  .  The  manuscripts  have  been  in 
my  possession;  and  so  far  from  detecting  in  them  any  traces 
of  that  tameness  or  want  of  vigour  and  imagination  which 
might  be  supposed  to  result  from  a  long  application  to  the 
exact  sciences,  I  was  surprised  by  their  tender  and  imagina- 
tive character,  and  in  particular  by  that  deep  tone  of 
melancholy  which  seems  peculiar  to  the  Portuguese  poetry 
above  that  of  all  the  languages  of  the  South.  The  following 
stanzas,  produced  under  the  impression  that  the  malady  with 
which  the  poet  was  struggling  was  of  a  fatal  nature,  are 
perhaps  equally  characteristic  of  his  talents  and  of  his 
sensibility : 

Oh!  grief,  beyond  all  other  grief,  „       i      ,,.               ,       ^ 

Com'st  thou  the  messenger  of  death  ?  P'^"'^?  alfange,  golpe  fero, 

Then  come  !  I  court  thy  wish'd  relief,  ^f  <^^  doen^a,  ou  es  da  morte  ? 

And  pour  witli  joy  this  painful  breath.  J;",'"''  'if'^'^""'  ^  firme  espero 

„       ,                      ,,,,,.„  O  derradeiro  fatal  cortc. 

But  thou,  my  soul,  what  art  thou?  Where 

Wing'st  thou  thy  flight  immortal  flame  ?  ju  leve  sopro,  entendimento, 

Or  fadest  thou  mto  empty  air,  A,„^  immortal,  por  onde  andavas  ? 

A  lamp  burnt  out,  a  sigh,  a  name  ?  q^^I  luz  de  vela  exposta  ao  vento, 

I  reck  not  life,  nor  that  with  life  Me  pareceu  que  te  apagavas. 

Tlie  world  and  the  world's  toys  are  o'er  : 

But,  ah  !  'tis  more  than  mortal  strife  ge  a  vida  so  vira  extinguir-! 

To  leave  the  loved,  and  love  no  more.  Ah,  que  he  a  vida  e  o  mundo  ?  uada. 

To  leave  her  thus! — my  fond  soul  torn  Mas  verse  huma  alma  dividir, 

From  hers,  without  e'en  time  to  tell  Mais  que  de  si,  da  sua  aniada ! 

*  For  the  benefit  of  those  xvho  read  Portuguese,  I  shall  here  extract  a  few  passages 
in  order  to  give  an  idea  of  the  autlior's  manner  in  this  little  work: 

Tu,  jocosa  Thalia,  agora  diza  Um  tempo  immovel  fica;  mas  a  rSiva 

Qual  seu  espanto  fni,  sue  surpresii  Succedendo  ao  desmaio.  entra  esciunaiido 

Quando  a  porta  chegando  costumada,  Na  grande  sacrestia.  e  d'alli  passa 

Nella  o  Deao  no  viu,  nao  viu  o  liyssopc.  Para  o  Altar  mor,  aonde  se  reveste, 

Tanto  foi  da  discordia  o  fero  inliu.\o  !  Onde  como  costuma,  em  contrabaixo, 

Caminhante  que  ve  subito  rayo,  Seiii  saber  o  que  diss,  a  missa  canta. 

Ante  .sens  pes  lahir,  ferindo  a  terra.  To  da  aquella  manhaa,  uma  so  benfao 

Tao  suspense  nao  lica,  tao  confuso,  Sobre  o  Povo  nao  lan^a.  antes  confuso 

Como  o  grave  Prelado  :  a  cor  mudamio,  Em  profundo  silencio  a  casa  torna. 

Canto  iii.  v.  12. 

We  have  a  very  amusing  account  in  the  .seventh  canto,  of  the  resuscitation  of  an  old 
cock,  after  it  had  been  roasted  fur  the  Dean's  table,  to  make  him  predict  the  future  to 
the  Chapter  assembled  at  dinner: 

O  velho  Gallo  que  n'um  prato  estava  Tres  vezes  sacudindo,  estas  palavras 

F.ntre  frangaos  e  pombos  lardeado,  Em  voz  articulou  triste  mas  clara. 

Em  pe  se  levantou,  e  as  nuas  azas 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE. 


599 


Hers  are  these  tears  and  sighs  that  burn, 
And  hers  this  last  and  wild  farewell. 

Yes  !  while  upon  the  awful  brink 

Of  fate,  I  look  to  worlds  above, 
How  happy,  did  I  dare  to  think        [love ! 

These  last  faint  words  might  greet  my 
"  Oh  !  ever  loved,  though  loved  in  vain, 

With  such  a  pure  and  ardent  truth 
As  grows  but  once,  and  ne'er  again 

Renews  the  blossom  of  its  youth! 

To  breathe  the  oft  repeated  vow, 

To  say  my  soul  was  always  thine, 
Were  idle  here.     Live  happy  thou, 

As  I  had  been,  hadst  thou  been  mine." 
Now  grief  and  anguish  drown  my  voice. 

Fresh  pangs  invade  ray  breast ;  more  dim 
Earth's  objects  on  my  senses  rise. 

And  forms  receding  round  me  swim. 

Shroud  me  with  thy  dear  guardian  wings, 

Father  of  universal  love  ! 
Be  near  me  now,  with  faith  that  springs 

And  joys  that  bloom  in  worlds  above! 
A  mourner  at  thine  awful  throne, 

I  bring  the  sacrifice  required, 
A  laden  heart,  its  duties  done. 

By  simple  truth  and  love  inspired: 
Love,  such  as  Heaven  may  well  approve, 

Delighting  most  in  others'  joy. 
Though  mix'd  with  errors  such  as  love 

May  pardon,  when  no  crimes  alloy. 
Come,  friendship,  with  thy  last  sad  rite. 

Thy  pious  office  now  fulfil; 
One  tear  and  one  plain  stone  requite 

Life's  tale  of  njisery  and  ill. 
And  thou,  whose  name  is  mingled  thus 

With  these  last  trembling  thoughts  and 
Though  love  his  fond  regrets  refuse,  [sighs, 

Let  the  soft  voice  of  friendship  rise, 
And  gently  whisper  in  thine  ear, 

•'  He  loves  no  more  who  loved  so  well:" 
And  when  thou  wanderest  through  those 
dear 

Delicious  scenes,  where  first  to  tell 

The  secrets  of  my  glowing  breast, 
I  led  thee  to  the  shadiest  bower, 
And  at  thy  feet,  absorb'd,  oppress'd. 
With  faltering  tongue  confess'd  thy  power. 

Then  own  no  truer,  holier  wow 
Was  ever  breathed  in  woman's  ear  ; 

And  let  one  gush  of  tears  avow 
That  he  who  loved  thee  once  was  dear. 

Yet  weep  not  bitterly,  but  say, 
"  He  loved  me  not  as  others  love; 

Iiline,  only  mine,  ere  call'd  away. 
Mine,  only  mine  in  heaven  above." 


Morrer,  e  sem  ao  men  encanto 
Poder  mostrar  o  aft'ecto  meu  ! 
Ah  sera  poder  mostrarlhe,  o  quanto 
Son  todo  inteiramente  seu ! 

Ah  Ceos  !...porem, — eu  me  resigno  ; 
Mas  se  aqui  findo  os  dias  raeus. 
Oh  !  algum  Zefiro  benigno 
Ao  meu  amor  leve  este  adeus! 

Adeus  objecto  idolatrado 

Do  mais  intenso  e  puro  amor. 
De  amor  tao  doce,  acerbo  fado 
A  gentil  planta  sega  em  flor. 

Adeus,  adeus  !  sabe  que  em  quanto 
O  esprito  ou  corpo  existe,  he  teu  ; 
Vive  feliz,  tad  feliz  quanto, 
Se  foras  minha  ou  fora  eu. 

Mas  para  mim  o  agudo  estoque 
Furiosa  a  dor  torna  a  apontar, 
Desfeito  em  sombra  ao  fino  toque, 
Tudo  de  mim  vejo  affastar. 

E  tu  essencia  incomprehensivel, 
Tu  do  universo  ou  alma  ou  rey, 
Patente  era  tudo  e  invisivel, 
E  era  quem  hum  pai,  creio,  acharei. 

Levo  a  teus  pes,  qual  me  entregaste, 
Simples  e  huraano  o  corapao. 
Amor  ao  bem,  qual  me  inspiraste ; 
Fraquezas  e  erros,  crimes  nao. 

Pia  a  amizade  acaba  em  tanto 
O  triste  officio  derradeiro  ; 
E  as  libaf  ijes  me  faz  de  pranto 
Na  pedra  rasa  e  sem  letreiro. 

Torna  a  amizade  (se  sentido 
O  nao  tiver  no  peito  amor) 
Te  hira  dizer  manso  ao  ouvido  : 
la  nao  he  vivo  o  teu  pastor. 

E  quando  a  prala  e  a  espessura 
Que  absorto  ao  pe  de  ti  me  via, 
Minha  affiiif  ao  tao  terna  e  pura, 
Te  dibuxar  na  fantesia. 

Brandos  suspiros  na6  engeito 
Nem  gentil  lagrima,  que  amor 
Verter  do  mais  que  amado  peito, 
Com  saudade,  mas  sem  dor. 

E  dize  entao  maviosamente: 
"  Raro  e  leal  foi  o  amor  seu, 
"  Meu  foi,  meu  todo,  inteiramente: 
"  E  se  inda  existe,  a  inda  he  meu. 


Among  the  other  poets  of  Portugal  of  the  same  time  is  cited 
by  Boutterwek,  the  minister  for  foreign  affairs,  Araujo  de 
Azavedo,  who  has  presented  his  countrymen  with  a  version 
of  several  of  the  productions  of  Gray,  Dryden,  and  other 
English  poets,  and  who  was  one  of  the  first  of  those  wlio  broke 


coo  ON    THE    LITERATURE 

tlirough  the  tedious  monotony  of  pastoral  composition.     To 
the  name  of  this  minister  we  have  to  add  those  of  Manuel  de 
Barbosa  du  Boccage,  Francisco  Diaz  Gomez,  Francisco  Car- 
doso, Alvarez  de  Robrega,  Xavier  de  Matos,  Valladares,  and 
Nicolas    Tolentino   de  Almeida.*       The  revolutions   which 
Jiave  taken  place  in  Spain,  and  the  complete  separation  of 
France  from  Portugal,  will  long  prevent  us  from  acquiring  a 
knowledge  of  the  existing  state  of  literature  in  a  nation  which 
has  run  so  splendid  a  career.    It  is  not  unlikely  that  the  reign 
of  the  Portuguese  language  is  about  to  terminate  in  Europe. 
The  immense  possessions  of  the   mother-country  in  the  In- 
dies have  already  disappeared  ;  and  out  of  all  her   tributary 
states  there  remain  only  two  half-deserted  cities,  where  a  lan- 
guishing commerce  is  carried  on.     The  extensive  kingdoms 
of  Africa,  of  Congo,  of  Loango,  of  Angora,  and  of  Benin,  in 
the  West;  those  of  Mombaza,  of  Quiloa,  and  of  Mozambique,  in 
the  East,  where  they  had  introduced  their  religion,  tiieir  laws, 
and  their  language,  have  all  been  gradually  detached  from  the 
Portuguese  government ;  and  the  empire  of  the  Brazils  alone 
remains  subject  to  it.     In  the  finest  climate,  and  the  most 
fertile  soil  in  the  world,  a  colony  is  growing  up   which,  in 
point  of  surface,  is  more  than  twelve  times  the  extent  of  the 
mother-country.     Thither  have  been  transferred  the  seat  of 
government,  the  marine  and  the  army  ;  while  events  which 
could  not  possibly  have  been  predicted  are  producing  a  fresh 
youth  and  fresh  energies  throughout  the  nation  ;  nor  is   the 
time,  perhaps,  far  distant,  when  the  empire  of  the  Brazils  will 
give  birth,  in  tlie  language  of  Camoens,  to  no  despicable  in- 
heritors of  his  fame. 

"We  have  thus  far  completed  our  view  of  the  semicircle  which 
we  originally  traced  out,  considering  France  as  the  centre;  and 
we  have  witnessed  the  successive  rise,  progress,  and  decline 
of  the  whole  of  the  Romance  literature,  and  of  its  diiferent 
languages  and  poetry,  springing  from  the  union  of  the  Latins 

*I  have  looked  over  the  two  volumes  of  poems,  published  at  Lisbon  1801,  by  N'icolao 
Tolentino  de  Almeida,  professor  of  rhetoric.  I  know  the  reputation  whicli  he  enjoys 
amongst  the  Portuguese,  but  I  am  unable  to  diseover  in  liim  any  true  poetical  feeling. 
He  appears  to  me  the  liired  flatterer  of  great  lords,  who  are  unknown  to  me :  his 
verses  have  scarcely  any  other  object  than  to  beg  for  offices  and  money;  at  the  same 
time  that  he  execrates  gambling,  by  wliich  lie  lost  all  he  possessed.  In  his  sonnets, 
odes,  epistles,  and  satires,  he  is  alw.iys  low,  feeble,  and  prosaic.  Doubtless  there  is 
something  highly  burlesque  for  the  Portuguese,  in  the  contrast  between  poetry  and 
the  subjects  which  he  has  treated;  but  this  merit  is  lost  upon  them.  A  letter  to  a 
ft-iend  upon  his  marriage,  vol.  ii.  p.  G3;  another,  in  which  he  refuses  to  write,  in  his 
old  age,  verses  in  honour  of  Crescentini,  vol.  ii.  p.  117;  are  the  two  pieces  in  which  1 
have  found  the  most  elevated  sentiment  and  poetical  inspiration. 


OF    THE    POUTUGDESE.  601 

with  the  Goths,  of  the  nations  of  the  North  with  those  of  the 
South,  The  Italian,  the  Proven9al,  the  Spanish,  and  the 
Portuguese,  have  not  only  been  considered  as  several  dialects 
of  the  same  tongue,  but  have  appeared  to  us,  likewise,  in 
many  respects,  as  mere  modifications  of  the  same  character 
and  spirit.  We  have  found  occasion  throughout  all  the  South 
of  Europe  to  notice  the  mixture  of  love,  of  chivalry,  and  of 
religion,  which  led  to  the  formation  of  what  are  termed  the 
romantic  manners,  and  which  gave  to  poetry  a  character 
wholly  new.  It  may  probably  occur  that,  in  order  to  com- 
plete the  object  of  this  work,  we  ought  here  to  comprise  a 
view  of  French  literature,  and  trace  the  manner  in  which  the 
most  distinguished  of  all  the  Romance  tongues,  taking  alto- 
gether an  opposite  direction,  reproduced  the  classic  literature 
of  Greece  and  Rome,  and  voluntarily  submitted  to  regulations 
with  which  other  nations  of  the  same  origin  were  unacquainted, 
or  which  they  despised.  But  the  study  of  our  own  national 
literature  is  of  itself  far  too  important  and  extensive  to  be 
united  with  that  of  other  countries.  It  would  require  more 
accurate  and  profound  information,  and  more  extensive  read- 
ing, and  it  has  been  treated  by  critical  writers  of  the  present 
age  in  works  very  generally  read  and  admired  ;  nor  is  it  a 
subject  which  can  be  advantageously  brought  before  the 
reader  in  an  abstract  form. 

Numerous  writers,  indeed,  have  engaged  in  the  task  of  dis- 
playing the  merit  of  that  correctness  of  design,  that  accuracy 
of  expression,  that  precision  of  ideas,  and  that  skilful  propor- 
tion of  the  whole  work,  which  will  be  found  to  constitute  the 
excellence  of  French  poetry.  The  poetical  beauties,  which 
we  have  had  occasion  to  submit  to  the  judgment  and  exami- 
nation of  the  reader  in  the  course  of  the  present  work,  are 
quite  of  an  opposite  character,  and  the  author  would  esteem  him- 
self happy  if  he  has  succeeded  in  conveying  a  proper  feeling  of 
their  excellence.  Imagination  and  harmony  are  the  two  lead- 
ing qualities  of  romantic  poetry  ;  and  it  has  been  my  lot  to 
present  the  reader,  in  the  least  impassioned  of  the  modern 
languages,  with  a  sketch  of  the  boldest  flights  of  the  imagina- 
tive faculty,  and  to  discourse  in  prose,  and  in  a  language  that 
cannot  boast  of  possessing  a  prosody,  of  the  highest  effects  of 
harmony.  I  have  frequently  directed  his  attention  to  the  con- 
struction of  such  verses  as  were  brought  under  my  view, 
much  with  the  same  result  as  if,  in  order  to  give  a  deaf  man 

VOL.  II.  '  P  P 


602  ON    THE    LITF.KATURE 

an  idea  of  music,  I  were  to  exhibit  a  piano-forte  to  his  view, 
and  point  out  the  ingenious  conslrMctit)n  by  which  each  touch 
draws  from  the  strings  tones  of  which  he  can  form  no  con- 
ception. Tiien  I  miglit  address  him  in  the  words  which  I 
now  address  to  tlie  Frencli  reader  :  "  You  ought  to  believe 
that  when  men  of  superior  talent  employ  means  so  ingenious 
to  arrive  at  some  unknown  end,  that  end  is  one  worthy  of 
their  powers.  If  they  speak  with  rapture  of  the  ethereal 
pleasure  they  experience  from  its  tones,  believe  that  music 
has  in  reality  a  power  over  the  mind  which  you  have  never 
been  able  to  feel ;  and  without  arguing  upon  the  subject, 
without  requiring  the  intellect  to  account  for  the  sensations 
of  the  heart,  believe  that  this  harmony,  whose  mechanism  you 
perceive  without  recognising  its  power,  is  a  wonderful  revela- 
tion of  the  secrets  of  nature,  a  mysterious  association  of  the 
soul  with  its  Creator." 

The  harmony  of  language  is  in  fact,  as  much  as  that  of  any 
instrument,  a  secret  power,  of  which  those  who  may  not 
have  extended  their  knowledge  beyond  the  French  are  inca- 
pable of  forming  any  idea.  Monotonous  and  dead,  without 
dignity  in  its  consonants,  as  without  melody  in  its  vowels, 
the  French  language  appeals  powerfully  only  to  the  under- 
standing. It  is  the  most  clear,  logical,  and  striking,  perhaps, 
of  any  tongue  ;  but  it  exercises  no  influence  over  the  senses  ; 
and  that  enjoyment  which  we  receive  irom  the  Italian,  the 
Spanish,  the  Portuguese,  or  the  Proven9al  poetry,  is  of  a 
sensual  cast,  though  proceeding,  perhaps,  from  the  most 
ethereal  portion  of  our  physical  nature.  It  is,  in  fine,  music  ; 
for  nothing  can  convey  the  delightful  impression  of  its  tones 
but  the  tones  themselves.  We  yield  ourselves  to  its  charm  before 
we  can  comprehend  it  ;  we  listen,  and  the  pleasure  is  in  the 
voice,  and  in  the  order  of  the  words,  and  not  in  the  meaning 
they  may  contain.  We  seem  to  rise  by  degrees  above  our- 
selves and  the  objects  that  surround  us  ;  our  griefs  become 
calm,  our  cares  die  away  for  a  moment,  a  dream  appears  to  sus- 
pend our  very  existence,  and  we  feel  as  if  we  were  borne  into 
the  precincts  of  a  happier  world. 

Approaching  the  close  of  our  inquiries  into  the  beautiful 
language  of  the  South,  we  must  likewise  bid  farewell  to  its 
rich  and  bright  imaginations.  We  find  music  and  painting 
every  where  combined  in  romantic  poetry.  Its  writers  do 
not  attempt  to  engage  our  attention  with  ideas,    but    with 


OF    THE    PORTUGUESE.  603 

images  richly  coloured,  which  incessantly  pass  before  our 
view.  Neither  do  they  ever  name  any  object  that  they  do  not 
paint  to  the  eye.  The  whole  creation  seems  to  grow  brighter 
around  us,  and  the  world  always  appears  to  us  through  the 
medium  of  this  poetry  as  when  we  gaze  on  it  near  the  beau- 
tiful waterfalls  of  Switzerland,  while  the  sun  is  upon  their 
waves.  The  landscape  suddenly  brightens  under  the  bow  of 
heaven,  and  all  the  objects  of  nature  are  tinged  with  its 
colours.  It  is  quite  impossible  for  any  translation  to  convey 
a  feeling  of  this  pleasure.  The  romantic  poet  seizes  the  most 
bold  and  lofty  image,  and  is  little  solicitous  to  convey  its  full 
meaning,  provided  it  glows  brightly  in  his  verse.  In  order  to 
translate  it  into  another  language,  it  would  iirst  of  all  be  re- 
quisite to  soften  it  down,  in  order  that  it  might  not  stand 
forward  out  of  all  proportion  with  the  other  figures  ;  to  com- 
bine it  with  what  precedes  and  follows,  that  it  might  neither 
stx'ike  the  reader  unexpectedly,  nor  throw  the  least  obscurity 
over  the  style  ;  and  to  express,  perhaps,  by  a  periphrasis,  the 
happiest  and  most  striking  word,  because  the  French  lan- 
guage, abounding  in  expressions  adapted  for  ideas,  is  but 
scantily  furnished  with  such  as  are  proper  for  imagery.  At 
every  word  we  must  study  to  change,  to  correct,  to  curtail ; 
the  rich  and  glowing  imagination  of  the  South  is  no  longer 
an  object  of  interest,  and  may  be  compared  to  an  artificial 
firework,  of  which  we  are  permitted  to  see  the  preparation, 
while  the  ignition  is  unfortunately  withheld. 

I  have  in  the  preceding  pages  conducted  my  reader  only  to 
the  vestibule  of  the  temple,  if  I  may  so  express  myself, 
of  the  romantic  literatures  of  the  South.  I  have  pointed 
out  to  him  at  a  distance  the  extent  of  their  riches,  enclosed 
within  a  sanctuary  into  which  we  have  not  as  yet  been  per- 
mitted to  penetrate  ;  and  it  henceforward  remains  with 
himself  to  initiate  himself  further  into  its  secrets,  if  he  re- 
solve to  pursue  the  task.  Let  me  exhort  him  not  to  be 
daunted.  These  southern  languages,  embracing  such  a  va- 
riety of  treasures,  will  not  long  delay  his  progress  by  their 
trifling  difficulties.  They  are  all  sisters  of  the  same  family, 
and  he  may  easily  vary  his  employment  by  passing  succes- 
sively from  one  to  the  other.  The  application  of  a  very  few 
months  will  be  found  sufficient  to  acquire  a  knowledge  of  the 
Spanish  or  the  Italian  ;  and  after  a  short  period,  the  perusal 
of  them  Avill  be  attended  only  with  pleasure.      Should  I  be 


604  LITERATURE    OF    THE    PORTUGUESE. 

permitted  at  some  future  time  to  complete  a  work  similar  to 
the  present,  relating  to  the  literature  of"  the  North,  it  will 
then  become  my  duty  to  bring  into  view  poetical  beauties  of 
a  severer  character,  of  a  nature  more  foreign  to  our  own, 
and  the  knowledge  of  which  is  not  to  be  attained,  without  far 
more  painful  and  assiduous  study.  Yet  in  this  pursuit  the 
recompense  will  be  proportioned  to  the  sacrifices  made  ;  and 
the  Muses  of  other  lands  have  always  shewn  themselves 
grateful  for  the  worship  which  sti'angers  have  ofiered  up 
at  their  shrine. 


INDEX. 


Abdalrahman,  a  patron  of  letters,  i.  81. 

Aboui-Feda,  Aboul-Monder,  their  histori- 
cal works,  i.  64. 

Accoiti,  Bernardo,  an  Italian  poet,  i.  428. 

Achillini,  Claudio,  imitated  IVIarini,  i.457. 

Acuna,  Fernando  d',  his  translation  of 
Ovid,  ii.  212. 

Adelgizo,  imprisons  Louis  II.,  i.  38. 

Alamanni,  I.uigi,  his  romance  of  Girone  il 
Cortese.  i.  34!J;  his  history,  i.  350;  his 
poem  of  La  Coltivazione,  i.  350. 

Alarcon,  Don  Juan  Ruys  de,  ii.  424. 

Alarcos  (Count),  ballad  of  the,  ii.  156. 

Al-Assaker,  his  Commentaries,  i.  64. 

Albergati,  Capacelli.  his  dramas,  i.  542. 

Albigenses,  war  and  persecution  against, 
i.  152. 

Albuquerque,  Alfonso  d',  ii.  525 ;  his 
Commentaries,  ii.  5C>6. 

Alcuin,  i.  37. 

Aleman,  Matteo,  author  of  Gusman  d' 
Alfarache,  ii.  364. 

Alexander,  poem  of,  the  origin  of  the 
Alexandrian  verse,  i.  IStl. 

Alfieri,  Vittorio,  his  confessions,  i.  568 ; 
his  char.ict'jr  and  genius,  i.5(i9;  analysis 
of  his  Philip  II.,  i.  581  ;  the  publication 
of  his  fir.-t  tour  tragedies,  ii.  25  ;  analysis 
of  the  Agamemnon,  ii.  27  ;  the  Orestes, 
ii.  35  ;  analysis  of  Saul,  ii.  '.'.6  ;  Alfieri's 
eight  last  tragedies,  ii.  43  ;  the  collection 
of  his  works,  ii.  49;  his  treatise  on  the 
Prince  and  on  Literature,  ii.  50 ;  on 
Tyranny,  ii.  51  ;  his  Ktruria  Vendicata, 
ii.  51  ;  his  tramelogedy  of  Abel,  ii.  52; 
his  comedies,  ii.  52;  his  satires,  ii.  54; 
his  life,  ii.  54;  Character,  ii   55. 

Alfonso  IV.  of  Portugal,  his  poems,  ii.453. 

Alfonso  tlie  Wise,  his  works,  ii.  129. 

Alfragan,  his  Elements  of  Astronomy, 
i.  53. 

Algarotti,  Francesco,  his  genius,  ii.  60. 

Alhaken,  founder  of  the  academy  at  Cor- 
dova, i.  54. 

All,  the  fourth  Caliph,  a  patron  of  letters, 
i.  50. 

Almeida,  Nicolas, Tolentino  de,  his  poems, 
ii.  600. 

Al-Mamoun,  the  Augustus  of  Bagdad,  the 
father  of  Arabic  literature,  i.  52. 

Al-Merwasi,  his  Astronomical  Tables,  i.53. 

Al-Mono£ab'ji,  the  prince  of  Arabian 
poets,  i.  57. 

Amadis  de  Gaul,  ii.  150  ;  its  character  and 
celebrity,  i.  151. 

Amadises,  the  various  romances  of,  i.  203. 

Amralkeisi,  analysis  of  his  poem  sus- 
pended in  the  Temple  of  Mecca,  i.  57. 

Amrou,  burning  of  library  of  Alexandria 
by,  i   49. 

Andrade  Caminha,  Pedro  de,  his  works, 
ii.  473. 


Andrade,  Jacinto  Freire  de,  his  burlesque 
poems,  ii.  581  ;  his  life  of  Don  Juan  de 
Castro,  ii.  581. 

Andres,  his  History  of  Literature,  i.  32. 

Apontes,  Fernandez  de,  his  edition  of  the 
plays  of  Calderon,  ii.  414. 

Arabian  Nights'  Entertainments,  only  a 
thirty-sixth  part  translated,  i.  62. 

Arabians,  their  brightest  literary  era  con- 
temporary with  the  greatest  western 
barbarism,  i.  4S;  their  literature,  i.  49; 
their  literary  institutions  and  libraries, 
i.  53 ;  their  study  of  rhetoric,  i.  54 ; 
their  poetry,  i.  56 ;  their  tales,  i.  62  ; 
their  philosophy,  i.  64 ;  their  studies  in 
natural  science  and  inventions,  i.  66 ; 
their  decline,  i.  69;  obligations  of  the 
Spanish  writers  to  them,  i.  82 ;  their 
influence  on  Italian  literature,  i.  242. 

Aretino,  Pietro,  his  history,  i.  433  ;  his 
dramas,  i.  435. 

Argensola,  Lupercio  Leonardo  de,  his 
dramatic  works,  ii.  350. 

Argote  y  Molina,  Gonzoles  de,  his  poems, 
ii.  352. 

Ariosto,  his  allusions  to  the  Chronicle  of 
Turpin,  i.  206  ;  his  history,  i.  328  ;  the 
Orlando  Furioso,  i.  329 ;  his  versification, 
i.  335  ;  his  comedies,  i.  342  ;  his  otlier 
poems,  i.  344. 

Aristotle  studied  by  the  Arabians,  i.  65; 
Lay  of,  i.  -.'22. 

Armesto,  Don  Manuel  Francisco  de,  his 
two  religious  plays,  ii.  427. 

Arnaud  de  Marveil,  the  most  celebrated 
Troubadour,  i.  130;  song  by,  i.  131. 

Arteaga,  Felix,  his  pastoral  poetry,  ii.  348. 

Arthur,  romance  of,  i.  196. 

Attila,  his  court  the  subject  of  the  Lay  of 
Nibelungen,  i.  43. 

Aucassin  and  Nicolette,  the  most  cele- 
brated fabliau,  i.  224. 

Aurispa,  Giovanni,  his  collection  of  Greek 
MSS.,  i.  310. 

Autos- da- fe,  the  last  celebrated,  ii.  427. 

Avelloni,  F.  H.  (II  Poetino),  his  dramas, 
i.  543. 

Averrhoes,a  commentator  of  Aristotle,i.65. 

Avicenna,  the  Arabian,  i.  67. 

Ayala,  Pedro  Lopez  de,  his  poems,  ii.  149. 

Azavedo,  Araujo  de,  his  translations  from 
English  poetry,  ii.  599. 

Azzo  VII.  invites  the  Troubadours  to 
Este,  i.  163. 

Bacellar,  Antonio Barbosa,  his  Portuguese 
poems,  ii.  580. 

Backtischwah,  George,  his  Arabian  trans- 
lations of  Greek  medical  works,  i.  51. 

Bahia,  Jeronymo,  his  poems,  ii.  584; 
translation  from,  ii.  584. 

Barbazau,  his  collection  of  Fabliaux,  i. 
219. 


606 


INDEX. 


Barberino,  Francesco  di,  i.  274. 

Barros,  John  de,  the  Livy  of  Portugal,  ii. 
661  ;  his  romance  The  Emperor  Clari- 
mond,  ii.  561  ;  his  Portuguese  Asia,  ii. 
562. 

Beccari,  Agostino,  his  poem  of  II  Sacri- 
fizio,  i.  398. 

Beccaria,  Marquis,  his  treatise  on  Crimes, 
ii.  61. 

Bembo,  Pietro,  his  life  and  works,  i.  426. 

Bentivoglio,  G.,  his  Historj'  of  the  Wars 
of  Flanders,  ii.  60. 

Berceo,  Gonzales  de,  his  poems,  ii.  122; 
his  Life  of  St.  Dominick,  ii.  122;  Life 
of  St.  Millan,  ii.  126. 

Bernardes,  Diego,  his  life,  ii.  473 ;  his 
Kclogues,  ii.  474. 

Berni,  Francesco,  character  of  his  genius, 
i.  423;  his  Orlando  Innamorato,  i.  424. 

Bertola,  Abbate,  his  fables,  ii.  72. 

Bertraiid  de  Born,  song  by,  i.  109;  his 
Sirventes,  i.  118;  his  history,  i.  119; 
song  by,  i.  121;  mentioned  in  Dante's 
Inferno,  i.  123. 

Bettinelli,  Xavier,  his  works,  ii.  61. 

Beziers,  the  massacre  of,  i.  157. 

Beziers,  Viscount  of,  tolerated  the  Albi- 
genses,  i.  155;  encourages  them  to  de- 
fend themselves,  i.  156;  poisoned  in 
prison,  i.  157. 

Bocarro,  Antonio,  his  History  of  the 
Portuguese  Conquests  in  India,  ii.  566. 

Boccaccio,  i.  294  ;  his  history,  i.  294  ;  the 
Decameron,  i.  290 ;  origin  of  his  tales, 
i.  297;  the  Fiammetta,  i.  298;  Filacopo, 
i.  299 ;  La  Tliescide  and  Filostrato,  i. 
300;  his  Latin  works,  i.  302;  his  en- 
couragement of  classical  learning,  i.  303. 

Boccage,  .Manuel  de  Barbosa  du,  a  Por- 
tuguese poet,  ii.  6C0. 

Boiardo,  Maria,  i.  322 ;  his  Orlando  In- 
namorato, i.  325. 

Bond!,  C,  his  poems,  ii.  73. 

Borja,  Francisco  de,  prince  of  Esquillace, 
ii.  363. 

Boscan,  produced  a  revolution  in  Castilian 
poetry,  ii.  180;  his  poems,  ii.  181. 

Bouttenvek,  his  History  of  Literature, 
i.  32. 

Bracciolini,  Francesco,  his  comic-heroic 
poem,  i.  463. 

Bracciolini,  Poggio,  his  history,  i.  311; 
his  patronage  of  letters,  i.  311;  his 
FacetiEe,  i.  312;  his  literary  quarrels, 
i.  312. 

Brito,  Bernardo  de,  his  History  of  Portu- 
gal, ii.  562. 

Byron,  Lord,  specimen  of  his  unpublished 
translation  from  Casti   ii.  79. 

CtEsarotti,  Melchior,  his  translation  of 
Homer,  ii.  02,   of  Ossian,  ii.  63. 

Calanson,  Giraud  de,  a  Troubadour,  or 
rather  Jongleur ;  his  advice  to  a  Jong- 
leur, i.  128. 

Calderon  de  la  Barca,  Don  Pedro  de,  ii. 
367 ;  estimate  of  his  genius,  ii.  374  ;  his 
plays,  Nadie  lie  su  secreto,  ii.  376; 
Amar  dcspues  de  la  Muerte,  ii.  377, 
409;  Coriolanus,  ii.  378;  The  Poet  of 


the  Inquisition,  ii.  379;  his  fanaticism; 
play  of  The  Devotion  of  the  Cross,  ii. 
379  ;  analysis  of  El  secreto  a  vozes,  ii. 
380;  of  The  Inflexible  Prince,  ii.  387  ; 
play  of  La  Aurora  en  Copacavana,  ii. 
396;  of  The  Origin,  Loss,  and  Restora- 
tion of  the  Virgin  of  the  Sanctuary,  ii. 
398 ;  Purgatory  of  Saint  Patriciu.«,  ii.  401 ; 
L'Alcaide  de  si  mismo;  La  Dama  Du- 
ende ;  Lances  de  Amor  y  Fortuna,  ii. 
406 ;  Alcaide  de  Zamalea ;  El  Medico 
de  su  Honra,  ii.  400;  editions  of  his 
works,  by  Villaroel,  ii.  368;  by  Apontes, 
ii.  414;  his  Autos  Sacramentales;  A 
Dios  por  razon  de  Estado,  ii.  415. 

Caliphs,  their  patronage  of  literature,  i.  50. 

Camoens,  Luis  de,  ii.  475;  his  Lusiad,  ii. 
480  ;  episode  of  Inez  de  Castro,  ii.  497  ; 
episode  of  Adaiiiastor,  ii.  513;  episode 
and  allegory  of  the  Isl.md  of  Joy,  ii.521; 
conclusion  of  the  Lusiad,  ii.  528;  his 
miscellaneous  poems,  ii.  52S ;  his  son- 
nets, ii.  531  ;  translations  of,  ii.  532,  533; 
translations  from  his  conga('is  or  canzoni, 
ii.  534,  535  ;  his  odes,  ii.53.5 ;  his  elegies 
and  satirical  pieces,  ii.S'JC;  his  paraphrase 
of  the  137th  Psalm,  ii.  537  ;  his  eclogues, 
ii.  538  ;  Strangford's  translations  from, 
ii.  539,  540  ;  his  dramatic  works,  ii.  540. 

Campanella,  Tomaso,  his  conspiracy,  i. 
443. 

Cancer,  Don  Hieronymo,  ii.  424. 

Cancionero  General,  a  collection  of  Spa- 
nish songs,  ii.  164. 

Cancionero,  Portuguese,  written  in  the 
fifteenth  century,  ii.  456 ;  of  Reysende, 
more  frequently  met  with,  ii.  456. 

Caiiizarez,  Don  Joseph,  his  plays,  ii.  424; 
his  Picarillo  en  Espaaa,  ii   424. 

Cardinal,  Pierre,  a  Troubadour,  i.  141 ; 
his  fable  of  the  Shower,  i.  142;  his  poem 
on  the  Albigenses,  i.  161. 

Cardozo,  Francisco,  ii.  (iOO. 

Carraentiere,  his  lives  of  the  Troubadours, 
i.  73. 

Carpio,  Bernard  del,  ii.  141 ;  his  history, 
ii.  154. 

Carthagena,  Alonzo  de,  ii.  165. 

Castaneda,  Fernando  Lopez  de,  his  His- 
tory of  the  Pcrtuguese  Conquests  in 
India,  ii.  560. 

Casti,  his  Gli  Animali  Parlanti  and  Novelli, 
ii.  78  ;  specimen  of  a  translation  by  lord 
Byron,  ii.  7.'). 

Castiglione,  Baldassare,  i.  436. 

Castillejo,  D.  C.  de,  his  poetry   ii.  212. 

Castro,  Guillen  de,  ii.  424. 

Castro,  Estevan  Rodriguez  de,  ii.  475. 

Cecco  d'Ascoli,  his  poem  of  L'Acerba,  i. 
274. 

Ceo,  Violante  de,  ii.  582;  translation  of 
sonnet  from,  ii.  583 

Cerda,  Fernam  Correa  de  la,  ii.  582. 

Cervantes,  ii.  214;  his  Gal  , tea,  ii.  214; 
his  Don  Quixote,  ii.  215.  218;  his  novels, 
ii.  215  :  Persiles  and  Sigismonda,  ii.  215, 
262 ;  his  Journey  to  Parnassus,  ii.  227 ; 
his  dramas,  ii.  2'1'J:  analysis  of  the  N'u- 
mantia,  ii.  236;  Life  in  Algiers,  ii.  240; 


INDEX, 


607 


exemplary  novels,  ii.  255;  Galatea,  ii. 
270. 

Certina,  Gutiere  de,  the  Spanish  Anacreon, 
ii.  212. 

Charlemagne,  preserved  the  songs  of  the 
North,  i.  42,  43  ;  romances  of  the  court 
of,  i.  204. 

Charles  of  Anjou,  his  influence  on  litera- 
ture, i.  164. 

Charles  II.,  reigu  of,  epoch  of  the  last 
decline  of  Spain,  ii.  425. 

Charles  III.  prohibits  religious  plays,  ii. 
427. 

Charles  V.,  age  of,  ii.  175;  his  reign  and 
character,  ii.  176. 

Chiabrera,  Gabriello,  his  life  and  works, 
i.  450. 

Chiari,  Abbate  P.,  his  comedies,  i.  515. 

Chivalry,  rise  of,  i.  76 ;  character  of  its 
spirit,  i.  193;  romances  of,  i.  194;  their 
division  into  three  classes,  i.  1U6;  cha- 
racter of  the  first  class,  i.  196;  character 
of  the  Araadises,  or  second  class,  i.  203  ; 
character  of  the  romances  of  Charle- 
magne, or  third  class,  i.  204. 

Chrysoloras,  Emanuel,  a  learned  Greek, 
i.  309. 

Cid,  the  poem  of  the,  ii.  96 ;  its  author, 
ii.  96 ;  opening  of  the  poem,  ii.  99 ; 
analysis  of  it,  ii.  100;  Southey's  Chroni- 
cle of  the  Cid,  ii.  109;  versification  of 
the  poem,  ii.  121 ;  romances  of  the  Cid, 
ii.  131  ;  selections  from  Mr.  Lockhart's 
translation,  ii.  133. 

Cino  da  Pistoia,  a  friend  of  Dante,  i.  274. 

Clergy,  excessive  corruption  of,  i.  152. 

Coelho,  Simao  Tonezao,  ii.  5S2. 

Cornelia,  Don  Luciano  Francisco,  ii.  439. 

Commedie  dell' arte,  their  first  appearance, 
i.  439. 

Compass,  invention  of,  i.  C8. 

Conrad,  Earl,  a  Minnesinger,  song  by,  i. 
125. 

Corneille,  ii.  293. 

Cortereal,  Jeronymo,  ii.  550;  his  poem  on 
the  misfortunes  of  Manuel  de  Sousa,  ii. 
550;  translation  from,  ii.  552,  etc.  ;  his 
poem  on  the  Seige  of  Dill,  ii.  559. 

Costa,  Claudio  Manuel  da,  ii.  593;  his 
sonnets,  ii.  593;  his  Epicedios,  ii.  594; 
translation  from,  ii.  594. 

Coucy,  Raoulde,  his  Lay  dedepartie,i.227. 

Courts  of  Love,  origin  of,  and  tensons  sung 
in,  i.  106;  abolished  under  Charles  of 
Anjou,  i.  164.  . 

Couto,  continues  the  work  of  De  Barros, 
ii.  566. 

Crusades,  inspired  the  Troubadours,  i.  112. 

Cruz  e  Sylva,  Antonio  Diniz  da,  ii.  596; 
his  imitations  of  English  poetry,  ii.  596; 
translation  of  sonnet  from,  ii.  597;  his 
odes,  ii.  597. 

Cruzycano,  Don  Ramon  de  la,  an  author 
of  the  new  school,  his  comedies  and 
other  works,  ii.  439 ;  El  Sarao  and  El 
Divorzio  felix,  ii.  440. 

Cubillo,  Don  Alvaro,  ii.  424. 

Cunha,  J.  A.  da,  his  poems,  ii.  598;  trans- 
lation from,  ii.  59S. 


D'Andusa,  Clara,  song  by,  i.  107. 

Daniel,  Arnaud,  praised  by  Petrarch,  i. 
130. 

Dante,  his  great  poem,  i.  246  ;  analysis  of, 
i.  216  ;  his  entry  into  Hell,  i.  248;  into 
Purgatory,  i.  255;  into  Paradise,  i.260; 
his  lerza  rima,  i.  26 1 ;  episode  of  Count 
Ugolino,  i.  265;  his  influence  over  his 
age,  i.  264;  his  history,  i.  270;  his  con- 
temporaries, i.  273;  their  genius,  i.  275. 

D'Audeley,  H.,  his  fabliaux,  i.  222. 

Ddvila,  E.  C,  his  history  of  the  civil  wars 
of  France,  ii.  59. 

Denina,  Abbate,  his  Revolutions  of  Italy 
and  Germany,  ii.  61. 

Depping,  his  collection  of  Spanish  Ballads, 
ii.  133. 

Dialects,  their  number  in  the  10th  century, 
i.  45. 

Dionysius,  King  of  Portugal,  his  poems, 
ii.  453. 

Drama,  revival  of  the  tragic,  in  Italy,  i. 
320;  the  early  Italian  drama,  i.  418; 
comparison  between  it  and  the  drama 
of  Spain,  i.  419;  progress  of  the  comic 
drama,  i.  437 ;  the  commedie  dell'  arte, 
i.  439  ;  rise  of  the  opera,  i.  468  ;  its  state 
in  Metastasio's  time,  i.  479;  the  comedy 
of  art,  i.  532 ;  Change  in  the  character 
of  the  Italian  drama  at  the  end  of  thelSth 
century,  i.  543;  the  sentimental  Italian 
drama,  i.  546 ;  the  domestic  tragedy,  i. 
551;  modern  pantomime,  i.  56(i;  effect 
of  Alfieri's  genius,  ii.  25;  state  of,  since 
his  time,  ii.  44. 

,  the  Spanish,  origin  of,  ii.  170 ;  ac- 
count of,  by  Cervantes,  ii.  229 ;  com- 
parison between  the  Italian  and  the 
Spanish  drama,  ii.  232;  its  decline  and 
oblivion,  ii.  418;  encouraged  by  Philip 
IV.,  ii.  367,  419. 

,  the  Portuguese,  ii.  529. 

,  classical  and  romantic,  observations 

on,  ii.  285. 

,  the  romantic,  its  origin,  i.  230. 

Eginhard,  an  early  Latin  writer,  i.  37. 

Ercilla  y  Zuniga,  Alonzo  de,  his  genius, 
ii.  271;  his  life,  ii.  272;  his  Araucana, 
ii.  275. 

Ericeyra,  Francisco   Xavier  de  Meneses, 
Count  of,  ii.  587;  his  Henriqueide,  an 
epic  poem,  ii.  587,  589 ;  extracts  from,     V 
ii.  590. 

Escas.  Anianieu  des,  his  poetical  advice  to 
young  ladies  and  gentlemen,  i.  138. 

Espinel,  Vincenzio,  ii.  352  ;  his  life  of  the 
Squire  Marco  de  Obregod,  ii.  364. 

Fabliaux,  their  French  origin,  i.  219;  his- 
tory of  them,  i.  220. 

Faggiuoli,  his  unsuccessful  attempt  to  in- 
troduce a  new  style  of  comedy,  i.  511. 

Falf  am,  Christoval,  his  eclogues,  extract 
from,  ii.  460. 

Fantoni,  Labindo,  character  of  his  poems, 
ii.  68. 

Faria  y  Sousa,  Manuel  de,  ii.  577 ;  his 
Portuguese  Europe,  ii.  577 ;  his  com- 
mentary on  Camoens,  ii.  579  ;  his  son- 
nets, ii.  579  ;  his  Bucolics,  ii.  580. 


608 


INDEX. 


Federici,  Camillo,  his  farces,  i.  548. 

Ferduzi,  an  extract  from  his  Schah  Namah, 
i.  58. 

Ferradis,  Vicent,  anagram  by,  on  the  name 
of  Jesus,  i.  178. 

Ferreira,  Antonio,  ii.  466  ;  his  sonnets,  ii. 
467;  his  tragedy  of  Inez  de  Castro,  ii. 
468. 

Feudal  system,  not  to  be  confounded  witli 
chivalry,  i.  76. 

Figueroa,  the  three  lyric  poets,  ii.  352. 

,  Don  Lope  de,  ii.  406. 

Filangieri,  his  work  on  legislation,  ii.  61. 

Filelfo,  Francesco,  his  history,  i.  312  ;  his 
works,  i.  313. 

Filicaia,  his  genius,  i.  459 ;  extract  from 
his  sonnets,  i.  460. 

Floral  games,  origin  of,  at  Toulouse,  i.  169. 

Folengo  Teofilo  (Merlino  Coccajo),  the 
inventor  of  macaronic  poetry,  i.  436. 

Folquet,  bishop  of  Toulouse,  his  persecu- 
tions of  the  Albigenses,  i.  159  ;  his 
poems,  i.  160. 

Forteguerra,  N.,  terminated  the  poetical 
romances,  ii.  56  ;  his  Ricciardetto,  ii.  57. 

France,  division  of,  i.  188. 

Frederick  I.,  lines  by,  i.  86. 

French,  peculiar  character  of  their  inven- 
tive spirit,  i.  213. 

Frezzi,  Federigo,  his  Quadriregio,  i.  306. 

Frugoni,  C.  J.,  his  history,  i.  475;  ap- 
pointed manager  of  the  public  specta- 
cles, i.  477. 

Camera,  fiiov.  di,  his  tragedies,  i.  552. 

Garaez,  Gutierre  Diez  de,  his  Life  of 
Count  Pedro  Xiila  de  Buelna,  ii.  169. 

Garfao,  Antonio  Correa,  ii.  591  ;  his  Tea- 
tro  novo,  and  his  Assemblea,  ii.  592. 

Garcilaso  de  la  Vega,  ii.  183  ;  his  sonnets, 
ii.  184;  his  eclogues,  ii.  185. 

Gerbert  (afterwards  Sylvester  II.),  his 
knowledge  of  Arabic,  i.  82. 

Germans,  abandoned  their  language  in 
the  south,  i.  43. 

Gerund,  Friar,  life  of,  ii.  431. 

Ginguene,  M.,  i.  32. 

Giraud,  Count,  his  comedies,  i.  556. 

Goes,  Damia6,  de,  ii.  566. 

Goldoni,  Carlo,  i.  516;  his  Donna  di 
Garbo,  i.  516  ;  the  Twins  of  Venice, i.  521, 
526  ;  his  Donna  di  Testa  debole,  i.  522  ; 
the  Obedient  Daughter,  i.  525  ;  analysis 
of  the  characters  of  his  dramas,  i.  527. 

Gomez,  Francisco  Diaz,  ii.  600. 

Gongora,  Luis,  ii.  344 ;  his  sonnets,  ii.  344  ; 
his  soledades,  ii.  345;  his  Polyphemus, 
ii.  346. 

Gonzaga,  Marquis,  his  protection  of  lite- 
rature, i.  307. 

Gozzi,  Count,  rivals  Goldoni,  i.  516,  532 ; 
his  dramatic  sketch  of  The  Three 
Oranges,  i.  533;  his  other  fairy  drama.s, 
i.  535. 

Gracian,  Balthazar,  character  of  his  writ- 
ings, ii.  366. 

Grand,  M.,  his  collection  of  Fabliaux,  i. 
219. 

Grassini,  A.  M.  (II  Lasca),  his  comedies, 
i.  437. 


Gravina,  the  master  of  Metastasio,  i.  477. 
Greppi,  Giov.,  his  dramas,  i.  547. 
Greswell,    Rev.    W.   P.,   his   memoirs   of 

Politiano,  i.  345. 
Gualzetti,  his  dramas,  i.  546. 
Guarini,  Battista,  i.  445;  his  Pastor  Fide, 

i.  445. 
Guarino  Veronese,  his  collection  of  Greek 

MSS.,  i.  309. 
Gunpowder,  early  known  to  the  Arabians, 

i.  68. 
Guttemburg,  J.,  the  inventor  of  printing, 

i.  309. 
Haroun-al-Raschid,  his  protection  of  let- 
ters, i.  51 ;  adds  schools  to  the  mosques, 

i.  51. 
Herder,  his  collection  of  the  romances  of 

the  Cid,  ii.  131. 
Hermiguez,  Gonzalo,  an  early  Portuguese 

poet.  ii.  452. 
Herrera,  a  lyrical  poet,  ii.  306  ;  his  Ode  to 

Sleep,  ii.  308. 
Historians,    Italian,   of    the   seventeenth 

and  eighteenth  centuries,  ii.  59. 
Hoz,  Don  Juan  de,  his  play  of  El  Castigo 

de  la  Miseria,  ii.  424. 
Huerta,   Vincent    Garcias   de  la,  attacks 

the  French  style,  ii.  439;  his  poems  and 

tragedy  of  Rachel,  ii.  437 ;  his  Teatro 

Espanol,  ii.  438. 
Hussites,  i.  154. 
Ibn-al-Beithar,   his   studv  of    botany, .  i. 

66. 
Improvvisatori,  their  genius,   ii.  83;  the 

measure   most  used   by   them,   ii.    84 ; 

Gianni,   ii.  85 ;  Corilla,  ii.  85  ;  La  Ban- 

dettini,  ii.  85  ;  other  improvvisatori,  ii. 

85,  86. 
Inquisition,  Calderon  the  poet  of  the,  ii. 

379 ;  no  longer  allowed   to   destroy  its 

victims  in  public,  ii.  428. 
,  Spanish,  introduced  into  Portu- 
gal, ii.  461,  575. 
Isla,  Father  del',  his  Life  of  Friar  Gerund, 

ii.  431 ;  is  discovered  under  his  assumed 

name  of  Lobon  de  Salagar,  and  perse- 
cuted by  the  clergy,  ii.  436. 
Italian  language,  birth  of,  i.  47  ;  dialects 

of,  i.  45  ;   its  late  origin,  i.  241. 
Izarn,    poetical  dispute   with  one   of  the 

Albigenses,    i.    160;     specimen   of  his 

style,  i.  161. 
Joanna  I.  of  Naples,  endeavours  to  revive 

the  Provencal  poetrv,  i.  166. 
Jodelle,  his  Cleopatra]  ii.  293. 
Jongleurs,  their  character,  i.  148. 
Jose,  Antonio,  his  dramatic  works,  ii.  590  ; 

is  burnt  by  the  Inquisitors,  ii.  5!H. 
Koran,  style  and  eloquence  of,  i.  55. 
Laetus,  Pomponius,  in  the  chair  of  Roman 

eloquence,  i.  405. 
Language,  Spanish,  its  origin,  ii.  89. 
Languages  of  modem  Europe,  origin  of, 

i.  33. 
Latin,   corruption  of,    i.    35;    barbarous 

songs  in,  i.  38;   its  rhymes,  i.  84. 
Leyra,  Don  Francisco  de,  ii.  424. 
Lionardo  Aretino,  a  scholar  of  Chrysolo- 

ras,  i.  310. 


INDEX. 


609 


Lippi,  Lorenzo,  his  Malmaiitile  raquisato, 
i.  40G. 

Literature,   foreign,   various    importance 
of,  i.  25. 

,  rise  of,  in  young  nations,  i.  25,  26. 

•,  modern,  how  divided,  i.  30. 

,  ancient,  study  of,  in  the  fifteenth 

century,  i.  313;  first  persecution  of,  in 
Italy,  i.  404;  school  of  Alfieri,  ii.  25; 
prose  writers  aud  epic  and  Ij-ric  poets 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  ii.  56 ;  phi- 
losophers of  the  eighteenth  century,  ii. 
60;  present  state  of  literature  in  Italy, 
ii.  61 ;  the  improvvisatori,  ii.  S3  ;  decline 
of,  in  the  seventeenth  centurj',  i.  440 ; 
revival  of,  i.  506. 

-,  Spanish. — Origin  of  the  Spanish 


language  and  poetry,  ii.  86;  Spanish 
poetry  of  the  thirteenth  century ;  Spa- 
nish literature  during  the  fourteenth 
and  fifteenth  centuries,  ii.  120 ;  the 
classics  of  Spain,  ii.  175;  estimate  of, 
ii.  442. 

-,  of  Portugal,  state  of,  until  the 


middle  of  the  sixteenth  century,  ii.  446. 

Liutprand,  an  early  Latin  writer,  i.  37. 

Loheira,  Vasco,  author  of  Amadis  de  Gaul, 
i.  203. 

Loheira,  Vasco  de,  author  of  the  Amadis 
de  Gaul,  ii.  150. 

Lobo  Rodriguez,  his  history,  ii.  545 ;  his 
winter  nights,  ii.  546;  his  pastoral  ro- 
mances, ii.  546;  his  Canzoni,  ii.  547; 
translation  of  sonnet  from,  ii.  547;  his 
epic  poem,  ii.  549 ;  his  eclogues,  ii.  549. 

Lockhart,  his  translations  of  the  Ballads 
of  the  Cid,  ii.  136. 

Lodesma,  Alonzo  de,  his  style,  ii.  348. 

Louis,  Guillaume  de,  his  Romance  of  the 
Rose,  i.  214. 

Louis  II.,  Latin  songs  sung  by  his  sol- 
diers, i.  38. 

Luzan,  Igiiazio  de,  his  character  and  style, 
ii.  428;  his  treatise  on  poetry,  ii.  428. 

Macedo,  Duarte  Ribeiro  de,  ii.  582. 

Machiavelli,  his  history,  i.  429;  his  Prin- 
cipe, i.  431;  his  History  of  Florence, 
i.  431  ;  his  comedies,  i.  431. 

Macias,  called  L'Enamorado,  ii.  454 ;  his 
adventures  and  singular  death,  ii.  455  ; 
stanzas  by  him  ii.  455 ;  his  numerous 
followers,  ii.  456. 

MafTer,  Scipione,  his  poetry,  i.  512. 

Manoel,  Francisco,  his  history,  ii.  595 ; 
extract  from,  ii.  596. 

Manuel,  Prince  Don  Juan,  his  novel  of 
Count  Lucanor,  ii.  146. 

March,  Ausias,  the  Petrarch  of  Catalonia, 
i.  172;  his  love  songs,  i.  173;  peculiar 
character  of  his  elegies,  i.  175. 

Mariana,  Juan  de,  his  style  and  language, 
ii.  364;  his  History  of  Spain,  ii.  365. 

Marini,  G.  B..  his  life  and  genius,  ii.  452  ; 
the  Adonis,  ii.  45^. 

Martelli,  P.  J.,  his  genius,  i.  511;  Stanza 
Martelliana,  i.  511. 

Martorell,  J.,  the  Boccaccio  of  Catalonia, 
i.  179;  his  romance  of  Tirante  the 
White,  i.  179. 


Maneil,  Arnaud  de,  the  great  master  of 
love,  i.  130;   his  poems,  i.  131. 

Matos  Fragoso,  Don  Juan  de,  ii.  424. 

Matos,  Xavier  de,  ii.  600. 

Medici,  Cosmo  de',  his  power,  i.  307 ;  his 
patronage  of  letters,  i.  308. 

Medici,  Lorenzo  de',  the  restorer  of  Ita- 
lian poetry,  i.  314;   his  poetrj',  i.  315. 

Mena,  Juan  de,  his  life  and  works,  ii.  162. 

Mendoza,  Marquis  de  SantUla,  ii.  160 ; 
his  works,  ii.  161;  his  Serrana  of  the 
Shepherdess  of  La  Finojosa,  ii.  162. 

Mendoza,  D.  Diego  Hurtado  de,  ii.  188; 
his  epistles,  ii.  190 ;  his  sonnets,  ii.  191 ; 
his  Canzoni,  ii.  192;  Lazarillo  de 
Tormes,  ii.  193;  his  Historj' of  the  War 
of  Grenada,  ii.  195. 

Menzoni,  O.,  his  poems,  ii.  76. 

Merlino  Coccajo,  inventor  of  Maccaronic 
poetry,  i.  486. 

Mesa,  Christoval  de,  ii.  352. 

Metastasio,  i.  477;  his  tragedy  of  Justin, 
i.  478;  his  Ruggiero,  i,  480;  his  charac- 
ter as  a  tragedian,  i.  483 ;  his  Hypsipyle, 
i.  484;  analysis  of,  i.  484;  his  most 
celebrated  pieces,  i.  495  ;  his  Olimpiade, 
i.  495 ;  indebted  to  Guarini,  i.  500 ;  his 
Demofoonte,  i.  500 ;  La  Clemenza  di 
Tito,  i.  501  ;  his  cantate  and  canzonette, 
i.  505. 

Metuahel-al- Allah,  his  magnificent  li- 
brary, i.  54. 

Millot,"  i.  32  ;  lives  of  the  Provenf  al  poets, 
i.  73. 

Minnesingers,  or  German  Troubadours, 
i.  124. 

Minucci,  P.,  i.  466;  the  Malmantile  rac- 
quistato,  i.  466 ;  Morgante  Maggiore, 
i.  322. 

Miranda,  S.,  ii.  196;  his  pastorals,  ii.  197; 
account  of,  ii.  461  ;  his  Portuguese  com- 
positions, ii.  461 ;  sonnets  by  him,  ii.  462, 
463;  his  eclogues,  ii.  463  ;  his  epistles,  ii. 
464  ;  his  two  comedies,  ii.  465. 

Moawihah,  the  fifth  Caliph,  favoiirably 
disposed  towards  literature,  i.  50. 

Mohammad-Aba-Abdallah,  his  Diction- 
ary of  Sciences,  i.  64. 

Moniz,  Egaz,  an  early  Portuguese  poet, 
ii.  452. 

Monroy  y  Sylva,  Don  Christoval  de,  ii. 
424. 

Montalvan,  Juan  Perez  de,  scholar  of 
Lope  de  Vega,  ii.  340. 

Montemayor,  his  life  and  genius,  ii.  198  ; 
his  romance  of  Diana,  ii.  198;  analysis 
of,  ii.  199;  continuation  of,  ii.  212;  his 
Portuguese  poeti-y  in  the  Diana,  ii.  466. 

Montferrat,  Marquis,  invites  the  Trouba- 
dours into  Greece,  i.  163. 

Montford,  Simon  de,  created  Viscount  of 
Beziers,  i.  159;  besieged  Toulouse,  i. 
160. 

Monti,  v.,  his  Aristodemo,  ii.  44;  his 
Galeotto  Manfredi,  ii.  45 ;  character  of, 
ii.  79 ;  La  Basvigliana,  ii.  80. 

Montiano  y  Luyando,  Augustin  de,  his 
two  tragedies  of  Virginia  and  Ataulpho, 
ii.  429. 


610 


LXDEX. 


Morales,  Juan  de,  ii.  352. 

Moralities,  their  origin,  i.  238. 

Moratin,  Leandro  Fernandez  de,  a  comic 
author,  ii.  439. 

Moratin,  Nicolas  Fernandez  de,  a  tragic 
author,  ii.  439. 

Moreto,  Augustin,  the  rival  of  Calderon, 
ii.  422;  his  play  of  El  Marques  del 
Cigarral,  ii.  422 ;  his  comedy  of  No 
puedc  ser,  imitated  by  Moliere,  ii.  422. 

Morillo,  Gregorio,  ii.  352. 

Mossen,  Jaunie  Royg,  a  Catalonian  poet, 
i.  180. 

Mysteries,  their  origin  and  character,  i. 
230. 

Mystery  of  the  Passion,  the  most  ancient 
dramatic  work,  i.  231;  extracts  from  it, 
i.  233. 

Navarre,  Thibault  III.,  king  of,  his  poems, 
i.  22C. 

Nestorians,  doctrines  of,  i.  51  ;  they  com- 
municate the  science  of  Greece  to  the 
East,  i.  51. 

Nibelungen,  lay  of,  its  heroes  and  sub- 
ject, i.  43. 

Niccolini,  Gio,  his  tragedy  of  Polyxena, 
ii.  47. 

Normans,  the  first  French  writers  and 
poets,  i.  189;  inventors  of  the  romance 
of  chivairy,  i.  198. 

Nostradamus,  lives  of  the  Troubadours, 
i.  74. 

Ogier,  the  Dane,  romance  of,  i.  208,  209. 

Oratory,  Spanish,  confined  to  the  pulpit, 
ii.  429;  the  first  public  sermon  of  Friar 
Gerund,  ii.  434 ;  sermons  composed  for 
the  Monks  by  an  Italian  barber,  ii.435. 

Osorio,  Jerome,  his  historical  work,  ii.  573. 

Padillo,  Pedro  de,  the  rival  of  Garcilaso, 
ii.  212. 

Paper,  an  Arabic  invention,  i.  G7 ;  intro- 
duced at  Sarmacand  and  Mecca,  i.  67. 

Parini,  Giuseppe,  his  poems,  ii.  74. 

Paul  II.,  liis  persecution  of  literary  men, 
i.  40G. 

Paulicians,  their  simple  faitli  and  pure 
manners,  i.  154. 

Petrarch,  i.  275 ;  his  labours  in  the  cause 
of  literature,  i.  276 ;  his  lyrical  compo- 
sitions, i.  278;  his  sonnets  and  canzoni, 
i.  279 ;  Laura,  i.  281  ;  sonnets  during 
her  life,  i.  284  ;  after  her  death,  i.  287  ; 
his  canzoni,  i.  288 ;  extract  from  the 
fifth,  i.  289 ;  his  Latin  compositions,  i. 
291  ;  reasons  for  his  extended  reputa- 
tion, i.  292 ;  the  friend  of  Uienzi,  i. 
292;  crowned  in  the  Capitol  at  Rome, 
i.  293. 

Peyiols,  a  distinguished  Troubadour,  i. 
112;  his  dialogue  with  love,  i.  113; 
sirvente  by,  composed  in  Syria,  i.  114. 

Philip  IV.,  king,  his  encouragement  of 
Calderon,  ii.  367;  his  supposed  dra- 
matic works,  under  the  title  of  De  un 
Ingenio  de  esta  corte,  ii.  367,  420; 
comedy  of  El  Diablo  predicator,  y 
mayor  contrario  amigo,  ii.  421. 

Philip  v.,  his  influence  on  the  literature 
of  Spain,  ii.  426. 


Pignotti,  L.,  his  fables,  ii.  64  ;  the  Shade 
of  Pope,  ii.  66. 

Pilatus,  Leontius,  Greek  professor  at 
Florence,  i.  304. 

PindemontI,  Giov.,  i.  557;  his  Ginevra  of 
Scotland,  i.  558  ;  other  tragedies,  i.  5C5. 

Pindemonti,  Ippolito,  ii.  63;  his  style 
similar  to  Gray's,  ii.  70. 

Poetry,  Spanisii,  of  the  thirteenth  century, 
ii.  120;  martial  poetry,  ii.  121  ;  amatory 
poetry,  ii.  164  ;  classification  of  the 
poetry  of  Spain  to  Charles  V.,  ii.  170; 
lyric,  of  Spain,  ii  341 ;  of  Spain,  under 
the  three  Philips,  ii.  424 ;  under 
Charles  II.,  ii.  4£5 ;  under  Philip  V., 
ii.  426. 

,  Italian,  restoration  of,  i.  314  ;  pro- 
gress of,  i.  316;  romances  of  the  court 
of  Charlemagne  introduced,  i.  352; 
early  drama,  i.  418;  lyric  poetry,  i. 
419  ;  the  comic  Epopee,  i.  465. 

,  romantic  and  classical,  compari- 
son between,  i.  389. 

Politiano,  Anj^ilo,  his  studies,  i.  316;  his 
poem  on  the  tournament  of  Julian  de' 
Medici,  i.  317;  revives  the  ancient 
tragedy,  i.  320. 

Polo,  Gaspar  Gil,  continued  the  Diana  of 
Montemayor,  ii.  212. 

Ponce  de  Leon,  the  Spanish  poet,  ii.  209. 

Popular  songs  and  ballads,  i.  37. 

Portugal,  literature  of,  ii.  446  ;  its  charac- 
ter distinct  from  the  Castilian,  ii.  44  7; 
language  of,  a  sort  of  contracted 
Spanish,  ii.  447  ;  inquiry  into  the  early 
origin  of,  ii.  448;  fragment  of  an  early 
poem,  ii.  448  ;  early  history  of  Portugal, 
ii.  449;  view  of  its  history  as  contained 
in  the  Lusiad,  ii.  494  ;  poetry  of,  ii.  452  ; 
historians  of,  ii.  561  ;  admission  of  the 
Jews  into,  by  John  II.,  ii.  571;  their 
persecution,  ii.  573 ;  the  Inquisition 
established  in,  ii.  575 ;  its  subjection  to 
Spain,  ii.  575  ;  its  apathy  and  degrada- 
tion, attributed  to  the  Inquisition,  ii. 
576 ;  foundation  of  academies  of  lan- 
guages and  of  history,  ii.  586 ;  of 
sciences,  ii.  586. 

Portuguese  poetry,  ii.  190. 

Printing,  invention  of,  i.  303. 

Prose  writers,  Italian,  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  ii.  58 ;  early  Spanish  prose 
writers,  ii.  169. 

Provencals,  origin  of  their  language,  and 
poetry  of,  i.  71 ;  their  works  dlllicult  of 
access,  i.  72 ;  lives  of  the  Troubadours, 
i.  73  ;  rise  of  the  Provencal  language,  in 
the  countries  conquered  by  the  Visi- 
goths and  Burgundians,  i.  75 ;  formed 
into  an  independent  state,  i.  75;  pro- 
sody of  the  Provenf  al  poetry,  i.  90  ;  the 
Provencal  spoken  throughout  France, 
i.  96 ;  causes  which  contributed  to  en- 
courage it — the  conquest  of  Now  Cas- 
tile, i.  9"  ;  the  crusade  of  1095,  i.  98; 
succession  of  the  kings  of  England  to 
part  of  the  territories,  i.  i'9;  its  lan- 
guage adopted  by  half  the  European 
sovereigns  i.  99;  general  character  of 


INDEX. 


611 


Provenfa  poetry,  i.  14C;  preserved  in 
Aragon,  i.  170  ;  gradual  decay  of  its 
language  and  literature,  i.  182;  see  also 
Troubadours. 

Pulci,  Luigi,  his  Morgante  Maggiore,  i. 
323. 

Quevedo  y  Villegas,  Francisco  de,  ii.  352; 
his  Kingdom  of  God,  and  government 
of  Christ,  ii.  355  ;  his  treatises  on  moral 
philosophy,  ii.  357;  his  visions,  ii.  358; 
his  poems,  ii.  360 ;  his  life,  by  the  Abbe 
de  Tarsia,  ii.  366. 

Ravenna,  John  of,  pupil  of  Petrarch,  i. 
309. 

Raymond  Berenger  II.  met  the  emperor 
Frederic  I.  at  Turin,  i.  86. 

Raynouard,  M.  Poesies  des  Troubadours, 
i.  33,  i.  73. 

Rebolledo,  Bernardino,  Count  de,  ii.  363, 
ii.  427. 

Retrouanges  and  Redondes  of  the  Pro- 
venfals,  i.  H4. 

Reynoso  y  Quiiiones,  Don  Bernard  Joseph 
de,  his  two  religious  plays,  The  Sun 
of  Faith  at  Marseilles,  and  The  Sun  of 
the  Magdalen,  ii.  427. 

Rhyme  borrowed  from  the  Arabians,  i. 
81  ;  how  employed  by  the  Provencals, 
i.  89  ;  and  by  the  Germans,  i.  89. 

Ribeyro,  Bernardin,  one  of  the  earliest 
and  best  poets  of  Portugal,  ii.  457 ;  his 
eclogues,  ii.  457;  extract  from  his  third 
eclogue,  ii.  458 ;  from  one  of  his  Can- 
tigas,  ii.  459. 

Richard  I.,  his  character,  i.  114;  song 
during  his  imprisonment,  i.  117. 

Rinuccini,  Ottavio,  a  Florentine  poet,  i. 
469  ;  his  operas,  i.  470. 

Riquier,  Giraud,  a  Troubadour,  i.  144; 
his  poetical  petition  to  Alphonso  of 
Castile,  i.  145. 

Robrega,  Alvarez  de,  ii.  600. 

Roderick  (Don),  the  Lamentation  of,  ii. 
155. 

Romancero  general,  collected  by  Pedro 
de  Florez,  ii.  152. 

Romances,  Spanish,  ii.  130;  collections 
of,  ii.  131  ;  of  tlie  Cid,  ii  132;  character 
of  the  Spanish  romances,  ii.  152;  their 
origin,  ii.  159. 

Romance  Innguages,  birth  of,  i.  47. 

Romance -Wallon,  the  language  of  the 
Trouveres,  i.  31;  the  French  formed 
from  it,  i.  31  ;  favoured  by  the  dukes  of 
Normandy,  i.  47. 

Rose,  romance  of,  i.214;  its  character,  i. 
214;  extracts  from  it,  i.  216;  imitations 
of  it,  i.  2 IS. 

Rossi,  Gherardo  di,  his  comedies,  i.  552; 
his  Lagr:nie  della  Vedova,  i.  553;  his 
Picturesque  and  Poetical  Trifles,  ii.  67. 

Roxas,  Don  Francisco  de,  ii.  423 :  imi- 
tated by  the  French  ;  his  Entre  bobos 
anda  et  juego,  ii.  423;  his  play,  entitled 
The  Patroness  of  Madrid,  our  Lady  of 
Atocha,  ii.  424. 

Royg,  Jaume  Mossen.  a  Catalonian  poet, 
i.  ISO. 

Rucellai,  Giovanni,  i.  415;  his  description 


of  the  civil  wars  of  the  bees,  i.  415;  his 
tragedies,  i.  417. 

Rudel,  Geoff'rey,  falls  in  love  with  the 
Countess  of  Tripoli,  i.  87;  adventures 
of,  i.  87  ;   lines  by,  i.  88. 

Rueda,  Lope  de,  praised  by  Cervantes,  ii. 
230. 

Sa  y  Menesez,  Francisco  de,  his  Malacca 
Conquistada,  ii.  560. 

Sacchetti,  Franco,  his  novels  and  poems,  i. 
305. 

Salazar,  Don  Francisco  Lobon  de  (Father 
de  risla),  his  Life  of  Friar  Gerund,  ii. 
431. 

Salutati,  Coluccio,  his  poetic  coronation, 
i.  305. 

Sanazzaro,  Giacomo,  the  Italian  drama- 
tist, i.  419;  his  Arcadia,  i.  420. 

Sanchez,  his  specimens  of  the  Castilian 
poets,  ii.  95. 

Sarpi,  Paoli,  his  History  of  the  Council 
of  Trent,  ii.  59. 

Sarzana,  Thomas  di  (Nicholas  V.),  i.  307, 

Savioli,  L.,  his  amatory  poems,  ii.  66. 

Schah-Nameh,  of  Ferduzi,  extract  from, 
i.  58. 

Schlegel,  Augustus  William,  his  strictures 
on  Calderon,  ii.  368;  references  to  his 
works,  i.  32,  83. 

Sedano,  Don  Juan  Joseph  Lopez  de,  his 
Parnaso  Espanol,  ii.  439. 

Segura,  J.  L.,  de  Astorga,  his  poem  of 
Alexander"  ii.  126. 

Sicily,  literature  of,  under  William  I,,  i. 
242  ;  Sicilian  poets,  i.  243;  Modelled  on 
the  Provenfals,  i.  244. 

Sirventes,  the  second  class  of  Provenfal 
poems,  i.  109. 

Sografi,  Anton.  Simone,  i.  546. 

Solis,  Antonio  de,  his  History  of  the  Con- 
quest of  Mexico,  ii.  305. 

Sordello,  of  Mantua,  his  adventures,  i. 
103;  tenson  by,  i.  105. 

Soropita,  Fernando  Rodriguez  Lobo  de, 
editor  of  Camoens,  ii.  475. 

Soto,  Luis  Barahona  de,  a  rival  of  Gar- 
cilaso,  ii.  352. 

Southey,  Chronicle  of  the  Cid,  ii.  109. 

Spain,  the  seat  of  Arabian  learning,  i.  54. 

St.  Greaal,  romance  of,  its  character,  and 
an  extract,  i.  197. 

St.  Gregory,  Guillaume  de.  sirvente  by, 
i.  109. 

St.  Palaye,  his  collections  of  the  works  of 
the  Troubadours,  i.  72. 

Strada,  Zenobi  di,  crowned  at  Pisa,  i.  305. 

Sylva,  Andrea  Nunez  de,  a  Brazilian  poet, 
ii,  585, 

Sylvius,  j^neas  (Pius  II.),  i.  307. 

Tarsia,  Paul  Antonio  de,  his  Life  of  Que- 
vedo, ii.  366. 

Tasso,  Torquato,  i.  350 ;  his  merit  in 
selecting  his  subject,  i.  356;  the  Jeru- 
salem Delivered,  i,  359;  analysis  of  the 
poem,  witli  extracts,  i.  360;  rivalship 
between  Ariosto  and  Tasso,  comparison 
between  llie  romantic  and  classical 
poetry,  i.  389 ;  his  history,  i.  392  ;  his 
Rinaldo,  i.  392 ;  his  captivity  in  a  mad- 


612 


INDEX. 


house,  i.  394;  publication  of  his  Jeru- 
salem Delivered,  i.  395,  his  Gerusa- 
lemme  Conquistata,  i.  39C;  his  Amjn- 
tas,  i.  3U7,  31*9 ;  his  other  poems,  i.  402. 

Tasso,  Bernardo,  his  Amadis,  i.  351. 

Tassoni,  La  Secchia  Kapita,  i.  4GG. 

Tensons,  nature  of,  i.  lOfi. 

Tcxada,  Augustino  de,  ii.  352. 

Theoderic  the  Great,  figures  in  the  Lay  of 
the  Nibelungen,  i.  43. 

Thibaud  III.  of  Champagne,  the  most 
celebrated  French  poet,  i.  220. 

Traversari,  Ambrogio,  i.  310. 

Trissino,  G.G.,  i.  354;  his  history,  i.  409; 
his  Sofonisba,  i.  409 ;  his  other  poems, 
i.  414. 

Tristan,  romance  of,  the  first  wTitten  in 
prose,  i.  198. 

Troubadours,  works  of,  i.  72;  tiieir  lives, 
i.  73,  74  ;  their  language,  i.  75  ;  rise  of 
their  poetry,  i.  7G  ;  courts  of  love,  i.  79; 
rhyme  employed  by  them  borrowed 
from  the  Arabs,  i.  85  ;  their  prosody,  i. 
90 ;  influenced  by  the  Crusades,  i.  98 ; 
the  more  celebrated  poets,  i.  127  ;  their 
Jongleurs,  i.  127  ;  decline  of  their  poe- 
try, i.  145  ;  general  character  of  it,  i. 
14G;  satires  against  the  clergy,  i.  152; 
encouraged  in  the  north  of  Italy,  i.  1C3 ; 
ignorance  of  the  Troubadours,  and 
causes  of  their  decay,  i.  148.  See  also 
Provencals. 

Trouvdres,  their  poetry  romrfhtic,  distinc- 
tion between  them  and  the  Troubadours, 
i.  151  ;  their  dialect,  the  Romance- 
Wallon,  i.  ISO;  earliest  works  in  it,  i. 
189;  their  romances  of  chivalry,  i.  191  ; 
their  allegories,  i.  214;  their  fabliaux, 
i.  2)9;  their  lyric  poems,  i.  226;  their 
spirit  recognized  in  Dante,  Boccaccio, 
Ariosto,  Lope  de  Vega,  etc.,  i.  240. 

Tudela,  Benjarr;in,  his  Itinerary,  i.  53. 

Turpin,  chronicle  of,  i.  204 ;  its  subject, 
i.  205;  alluded  to  by  Ariosto,  i.  206; 
intended  to  be  purely  historical,  i.  207. 

Uuerti,  Fazio  de',  his  Uettamondo,  i.  305. 

Valdez,  Juan  Melendes,  his  poems,  ii. 
442  ;   Idyl,  by  him,  ii.  442. 

Valla,  Lorenzo,  notice  of,  i.  313. 

Valladarez,  ii.  000. 

Vaqueiras,  Hambaud  de,  a  valiant  Trou- 
badour, i.  132;  sirvcnte  by,  i.  133;  his 
poem  to  the  Marquis  Boniface,  i.  134. 
Vdsconcellos,  Jorge  Ferreira  de,  ii.  475. 

,  Miguel  deCabedo  de,  ii.  475. 

,  Francisco  de,   his   sonnets, 

ii.  584. 
Vega,  Lope  de,  ii.  301 ;    his  life,  ii.  301  ; 


his  works,  ii.  302  ;  his  Discreet  Revenge, 
ii.  304  ;  his  Cierto  por  lo  Dudoso,  ii.  314, 
316;  his  Probeza  no  es  Vileza,  ii.  314; 
his  play  of  the  Life  of  the  valiant  Ces- 
pedes,  ii.  322 :  his  Arauco  domado,  ii. 
328;  his  sacred  comedies,  ii.  344;  and, 
Autos  Sacramentales,  ii.  336;  his  epic 
poems,  ii.  339. 
Velasquez,  Luis  Joseph,  the  historian  of 

Spanish  poetry,  ii.  429. 
Vera  Tassis  y  Villaroel,  Juan  de,  his  edi- 
tion of  Culderon's  works,  ii.  308. 
Vicente,  Gil,  ii.  540;  the  founder  of  the 
Spanish  theatre,  ii.  541  ;   division  of  his 
works,  ii.  512  ;  translations  from,  ii.  543. 
Vidal,  Pierre,  a  Troubadour  who  followed 
Richard  I.,  i.  135  ;  his  extravagant  ad- 
ventures, i.  130;  his  allegorical  poem, 
i.  137  ;  his  treatise  on  the  Art  of  holding 
one's  Tongue,  i.  1 38. 
Villani,  the  three,  their  historical  writings, 

i.  304. 
Villegas,   Estevan   Manuel  de,  the  Ana- 
crcon  of  Spain,  ii.  302  ;  his  poem  of  the 
Nighting.Ue,  ii.  303. 
Villena,  Marquis  of,  his   encouragement 
of  the  Provencal  poetry,  i.  171  ;  comedy 
by.  i.  172  ;  his  poems,  ii.  100. 
Vimiero,  Countess  de,  her  tragedy  of  Os- 

mia,  ii.  592. 
Voltaire,  ii.  294;  his  (Edipus,  ii.  294. 
Von  Aste,   Dietmar,  one  of  the  German 

Minnesingers,  song  by,  i.  124. 
Way,  his  translations  of  the  Fabliaux,  i. 

225. 

WifTen,   Mr.  J.  H.,  his   translation  of  a 

serrana  by  the  Marquis  de  Santillana, 

ii.  162;  of  Garcilaso  de  la  Vega,  ii.  185. 

■William  IX.  of  Poitou,  accompanies  the 

Crusades,  i.  99  ;  a  poet  as  well  as  war 

rior,  i.  99. 

"Warnefrid,   Paul,   an  early  Latin  writer, 

i.  37. 
Xamegui,    Juan   de,    translation    of    the 

Pharsalia  of  Lucan,  ii.  363. 
Yriarte,  Tomas  de,  his  Fabulas  Littera- 
rias,  ii.  440 ;  Fable  of  El   Horrico  y  la 
Flauto,  ii.  44;  L'oso  y  la  Mona,  ii.  441  : 
his  didactic  poem  on  music,  ii.  442. 
Zalazar  y  Torres,  Don  Augusiino  de,  ii. 

424. 
Zamora,  Lorenzo  de,  his  Mystic  Monarchy 
of  the  Church,  ii.  348  ;    lledondilias   in 
honour  ol  St.  Joseph,  ii.  319. 
Zarate,  Don  Fernando  de,  his  piece  of  La 

Presuniida  y  la  Hermosa,  ii.  442. 
Zeno,   Apostolo,  his  operas,  i.    471;    his 
Iphigenia,  i.  471. 


R,    CLAY,    PRINTEK,    BREAD    STHtET    UlLL. 


E  S^tUd  OTaialoQuc  of 
NEW  BOOKS   AT  EEDUCED    PRICES, 

PUBLISHED   OR   SOLD   BV 

HENEY    G.    BOHN, 

YORK  ^STREET,  COVENT  GARDEN,  LONDON. 


HIS  COMPLETE   CATALOGUE    OF   NEW  BOOKS   AND   REMAINDERS,  IN   100   PAGES,   a:AY  BE 

HAD   GRATIS. 


FINE  ARTS,  ARCHITECTURE,  SCULPTURE,  PAINTING,  HERALDRY, 
ANTIQUITIES,  TOPOGRAPHY,  SPORTING,  PICTORIAL  AND  HIGHLY 
ILLUSTRATED  WORKS,  ETC.  ETC. 


ANGLER'S  SOUVENIR. 

Fcap.  Svo,  embellished  with  upwards  of  60  beautiful  Engravings  on  Steel  by  Beckwitu  and 
TopHAM,  and  hundreds  of  engraved  Borders,  every  page  being  sm-rounded,  (pub.  at  ISs.) ,  cloth, 
E»lt.  9«-  Tilt,  1SS5 

ARABIAN    NIGHTS,    PICTORIAL   EDITION. 

By  La>e.    3  vols,  imperial  Svo.    Upwards  of  1000  beautiful  AVood  Engravinjs  of  .\rrhitceture 
Costume,  and  Sceuery,  by  the  most  eminent  Artists  (pub.  at  41.  in.)  gilt  cloth,  21.  12s.  6d. 
'•  The  most  complete  manual  of  Eastern  manners  ever  published."— ,4rteH<Ei/M. 

ARTIST'S  BOOK  OF  FABLES, 

Comprising  a  Series  of  Original  Fables,  illustrated  by  280  exquisitely  beautiful  Engravings  on 
Wood,  by  liaRVEi  and  otlicr  eminent  Artists,  after  Designs  by  the  late  James  Nortbcote,  R.A. 
Tost  Svo,  Portrait,  (pub.  at  1/.  Is.),  cloth,  gilt,  9s.  1843 

BEWICK'S  SELECT  FABLES, 

With  a  Memoir,  large  paper,  royal  8vo,  with  several  rortraits  of  Bewick ,  and  u]>wards  of  S,50 
Engravings  on  Wood,  original  impressions,  (pub.  at  U.  Is.),  bds.,  12s.  AeivcastU;  IsiO 

BEWICK'S  EDITION  OF  /ESOP'S   FABLES, 

Svo,  with  upwards  of  350  tine  Wood  Cuts,  (pub.  at  ISs.),  bds.,  12s.  Ii^aiiraai le,  1S;3 

BOOK      OF     CEIVIS;     OR,    THE     IViODERN     POETS     AND    ARTISTS     OF 

GRE.\T  BRITAIN.  Svo.  60  exquisitely  bcautilul  Line  Engravings  alter  Turner,  Boningtoii, 
&c.  &c.  (pub.  at  1/.  lis.  G(/.),  cloth,  eleiiantly  gilt,  los. ;  or  morocco,  U.  Is.  1S44 

BOOK  OF  RAPHAEL'S  CARTOONS,  BY  CATTERIVIOLE. 

Svo.  With  an  exqtiisite  Portrait  of  Raphael,  a  View  of  Iliuupton  Court,  and  seven  vciy  highly- 
finished  Steel  Engravings  of  the  celebrated  Cartoons  at  Uampcon  Court  (pub.  at  15s.),  cloth,  gilt, 
7s.  6d.  184i> 

BOOK  OF  SHAKSPEARE  GEMS. 

.\  Series  of  Landscape  Illustrations  of  the  most  interesting  localities  of  Shakspeare's  Dramas ; 
with  Historical  and  Descriptive  Accounts,  by  Washington  Iuving,  Jbssb,  AV.  Howitt, 
■\\or.DswoKTH,  Inglis,  and  others.  Svo,  with  45  highly-finished  Steel  Engraviniis,  (pub.  at 
U.  Us.  6r/.),  gilt  cloth,  14s.  '     lij4o 

BROCKEDON'S  PASSES  OF  THE  ALPS. 

2  vols,  medium  4to.  Containing  109  beautifid  Engravings.  (Pub.  at  lOl.  10s.  in  boards),  half-bound 
morocco,  gilt  edges,  4/.  4s.  18-jH 

B 


CATALOGUE   OF  NEW  BOOKS 


BRITTON'S  CATHEDRAL  CHURCH  OF  LINCOLN, 

4to.  16  line  IMatcs  by  Le  Keux.  (pub.  at  M.  3,,),  clotb,  W.  o..    Royal  4to..  Large  Paper,  eloth^ 

"'Tbi's  ^iume  was  published  to  complete  Jlr.  Britton's  Cathedrals,  and  is  wanting  in  most  of  the 
sets. 

^^S^^^tobellishertvither  exquisite  Line  Kngra'vings  alter  David  Roberts,  MacUse,  and  Pai-ris 
"(pub.  at  U.  Us.  6rf.),  eloth,  gilt,  14». 

CARTER'S  ANCIENT  ARCHITECTURE  OF  ENGLAND. 

Illustrated  bv  lia  large  Copper-plate  Engravings,  con.prisiug  up^^ds  of  Two  Thousaud  Spe-. 
iiillens  Edited  by  jShs  liElTTO.^,  Esu^  Uoyal  folio  (pub.  at  12/.  li«.),  hall-bound  morocco 
4i.  4*. 
CARTER'S  ANCIENT  SCULPTURE  AND  PAINTING  NOW  REMAINING 
IN  ENGI.\M)  from  the  Earliest  Period  to  the  Iteigii  of  Henp-  VIII.  With  Historic^  and 
Critical  Illustrations  bv  Uouce,  Gougu.  Mkvkick,  1).iwsox  Iurnek,  and  Bhitton.  Royal 
fblio«ith  let)  large  Engravings,  many  of  which  are  beautifully  coloured,  and  several  lUuminaWd 
with' gold  (pub.  at  Vol.  lis.),  half-bound  morocco,  b/.  8«.  "»» 

CARTER'S  GOTHIC  ARCHITECTURE,  ,,,.,.      „,     ,  ,„„     ,    u 

And  Ancient  Buildings  in  England,  « ill.  IC"  Views,  etched  by  himself,  4  vols,  square  12mo.,  (pub. 
at  '21.  •>.),  half  morocco,  18s.  "*"■! 

CHAMBERLAINE'S  IMITATIONS  OF  DRAWINGS 

From  the  Great  Masters,  iu  the  Uoyal  Collectiou,  engraved  by  Babtolozzi  and  others,  impl. 
fol.,  7U  Plates,  (pub.  at  l-2(.  I'.:*.),  half-hound  morocco,  gilt  edges,  o(.  o». 

CLAUDE'S  LIBER  VERITATIS.  .        ,„  u    ^ 

V  Collection  of  »K>  Engravings  in  imitation  of  the  original  Drawings  of  Claode,  by  Eaelom. 
ii  vols,  folio  (pub.  at  SU.^lOs.),  half-bound  morocco,  gilt  edges,  10(.  10». 

COESVELT'S  PICTURE  GALLERY.  v       -,  „  ,•         ,- 

With  an  Introducti.m  bv  Mas.  J.vmkson.  Royal  4to,  90  Plates  beautifuUy  engraved  m  ootUne 
India  Proofs  (pub.  at  5/.  5s.),  half-bound  morocco  extra,  31.  'M.  'wo 

COOKE'S  SHIPPING  AND  CRAFT.  ,  .        , 

A  Scries  of  (»  brilliant  Etchinffs,  comprising  Picturesque,  but  at  the  same  time  extremely 
accurate  Representations.    Royal  4to  (pub.  at  3(.  13».  6d.),  gilt  cloth,  U.  Us.  6d. 

COOKE'S  PICTURESQUE  SCENERY  OF  LONDON  AND  ITS  VICINITY. 

50  beautiful  Etchings  after  Drawings  by  C.ilcott,  t>TANFiEi.n,  PKOtt,  Uubkkts,  Hakdi.vg, 
Stark,  and  Cotma.\.    Rojal  4to.    Proofs  (pub.  at  bl.),  gilt  cloth,  -21.  ■>. 

CONEY'S    FOREIGN    CATHEDRALS,    HOTELS    DE  VILLE,    TOWN    HALLS, 

AND  OTUER  KEMARK.iBLE  BUILDINGS  IN  IKANCE,  HOLLAND,  GERMANY  .\.Nr) 
ITALY.  3-2  tine  large  Plates.   Imperial  folio  (pub.  at  10/.  10s.),  half  morocco,  gilt  edges,  il.  lis.  6d. 

CORNWALL,  AN  ILLUSTRATED  ITINERARY  OF  ; 

Includins  Historical  and  Descriptive  Accounts.  Imperial  8vo,  iUustrated  by  118  beautiful  En- 
gravings on  Steel  and  Wood,  hv  Laxuells,  Hiscuclifi-e,  Jacksox,  Williams.  Sly,  i;c.,  after 
Drawings  by  Creswick.     (Pub.  at  Ifis.),  half  morocco,  8«.  1!"- 

Cornwall  is  undoubtedly  the  most  interesting  County  in  England. 

CORONATION   OF  GEORGE  THE  FOURTH, 

By  Sir  George  Naylek,  in  a  Series  of  above  40  magnificent  Paintings  of  the  Procession, 
Ceremonial,  and  Banquet,  comprehending  faithful  portraits  of  many  of  the  distinguished  Indivi- 
duals who  were  present ;  with  historical  and  descriptive  letter-press,  atlas  folio,  (pub.  at  o2l.  iO».), 
half-bound  morocco,  gilt  edges,  121.  V2s. 

COTMAN'S  SEPULCHRAL  BRASSES  IN   NORFOLK  AND  SUFFOLK, 

Tending  to  illustrate  the  Ecclesiastical,  Militan',  and  Civil  Costume  of  former  aecs,  with  Letter- 
press Descriptions,  .Vie,  bv  Dawson  TuRSEB,  Sir  S.  Meveick,  Sic.  173  Plates,  the  enamelled 
Brasses  arc  splendidly  illuminated,  2  vols.  impl.  4to  half-hound  morocco,  gilt  edges,  6/.  6».        133S 
The  same,  large  paper,  imperial  folio,  half  morocco,  gilt  edges,  S/.  Us. 

COTMAN'S  ETCHINGS  OF  ARCHITECTURAL  REMAINS 

In  various  Counties  in  Entrland,  with  Letter-press  Descriptions  by  Rickma:*,  2  vols,  imperial 
folio,  containing  240  highly'spirited  Etchings,  (pub.  at  -4f.),  half  morocco,  St.  St.  18*S 

DANIELL'S  ORIENTAL  SCENERY  AND  ANTIQUITIES, 

The  orii^inal  magniticeiit  edition,  I'lO  splendid  coloured  Views  on  the  largest  scale,  of  the  Archi- 
tccture,^Antiiiuitics,  and  Landscape  Scenery  of  llindoostan,  6  vols,  in  ;i,  elephant  folio,  (pub.  at 
210(.),  elegantly  half-bound  morocco,  52(.  lUs. 

DANIELL'S  ORIENTAL  SCENERY, 

6v(ds.  in  :t,  siiinll  iidin,  l.'iO  Plates,  (pub.  at  13/.  18s.),  half-bound  morocco,  CI.  6s. 
This  is  reduced  from  the  preceding  large  work,  and  is  imcoloured. 


PUBLISHED   OR   SOLD   BY   H.  G.  BOIIN. 


DAIMIELL'S  ANIMATED  NATURE, 

Being  Picturesque  Delineations  of  tlic  most  interesting  Subjects  from  all  Branches  of  Natural 
History,  125  Engravinscs,  with  Letter-|iress  Uescriptions,  2  vols,  small  folio,  (pub.  at  Vol.  lbs.), 
hall"  morocco,  {miiform  with  the  Oriental  Scenery),  3^  3s. 

DON  QUIXOTE,  PICTORIAL  EDITION. 

Translated  by  Jarvis,  carefully  revised.  With  a  copious  original  Memoir  of  Cervantes.  Illus- 
trated by  upwards  of  820  beautiful  Wood  Engravings,  after  the  celebrated  llesigns  of  Tonv 
JouAXNOT,  including  16  new  and  beautiful  large  Cuts,  by  Ah.aistrokg,  now  first  added.  2  vols, 
royal  8vo,  (pub.  at  '21. 10s.),  cloth  gilt,  II.  8s.  1843 

EGYPT    AND    THE    PYRAMIDS.-COL.   VYSE'S    GREAT    WORK    ON    THE 

PYRAMIDS  OF  GIZEII.  With  an  Appendix,  by  J.  S.  Perbiivg,  Esq.,  on  the  Pvramids  at 
Abou  I'oash,  the  Favoum,  &c.  &c.  3  vols,  imperial  8vo,  with  125  Plates,  lithographed  by  Haghe, 
(pub.  at  4/. 4s.),  cloth,  2(. 2s.  1840-2 

EGYPT.— PERRING'S    FIFTY-EIGHT    LARGE  VIEWS  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS 

OF  THE  PYRAMIDS  OF  GIZEII,  ABOU  ROASH,  &c.  Drawn  from  actual  SuiTey  and 
Admeasurement.  With  Notes  and  References  to  Col.  Vyse's  great  Work,  also  to  Denon,  the 
great  French  Work  on  Egj'pt,  Kosellini,  Belzoni,  Burckhardt,  Sir  Gardner  \Vilkinson,  Lane,  and 
others.  3  Parts,  elephant  folio,  the  size  of  the  great  French  "Egypte,"  (pub.  at  \bl.  lbs.),  in 
printed  WTappers,  31.  3s. ;  half-bound  morocco,  4/.  14s.  6d.  1842 

FLAXMAN'S  HOMER. 

Seventy-five  beautiful  Compositions  to  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey,  engraved  under  Flaxman's 
inspection,  bj'  PinoLi,  JIoses,  and  Blake.    2  vols,  oblong  folio  (pub.  at  5?.  5s.),  bds.,  21.  2s.    1805 

FLAXMAN'S  /ESCHYLUS, 

Thirty-six  beautiful  Compositions  from.  Oblong  folio  (pub.  at  2?.  12s.  Gd.),  bds.,  II.  Is.  1831 

FLAXMAN'S  HESIOD. 

Thirty-seven  beautiful  Compositions  from.    Oblong  folio  (pub.  at  21. 12s.  Gd.),  bds.,  1?.  58.         1817 
"  Flaxman's  unequalled  Compositions  from  Homer,  Jischylus,  and  Hesiod,  have  long  been  the 
admiration  of  Europe ;  of  their  simplicity  and  beauty  the  pen  is  quite  incapable  of  coiiveying  an 
adequate  impression." — Sir  Thomas  Lawrence. 

FLAXMAN'S  ACTS  OF  MERCY. 

A  Series  of  Eight  Compositions,  in  the  manner  of  Ancient  Sculptiu-e,  engraved  in  imitation  of  the 
original  Drawings,  by  F.  C.  Lewis.     Oblong  folio  (pub.  at  21.  2s.),  half-bound  morocco,  16s.    1831 

CELL  AND  CANDY'S  POMPEIANA  ; 

Or,  the  Topography,  Edifices,  and  Ornaments  of  Pompeii.  Original  Series,  containing  the  Result 
of  the  Excavations'previous  to  1819.  2  vols,  royal  Svo,  best  edition,  with  upwards  of  100  beautifiil 
Line  Engravings  by  Goodall,  Cooke,  Heath,  Pye,  &c.,  (pub.  at.  7^  4s.),  boards,  3/. 3s.  1824 

GOETHE'S  FAUST,  ILLUSTRATED  BY  RETZSCH. 

In  26  beautiful  Outlines.     Koyal  4to  (pub.  at  II.  Is.),  gilt  cloth,  10s.  Gd. 

This  edition  contains  a  translation  of  the  original  poem,  with  historical  and  descriptive  notes. 

GOODWIN'S  DOMESTIC  ARCHITECTURE. 

A  Series  of  New  Designs  for  Mansions,  Villas,  Rectory-Houses,  Parsonage-Houses ;  Bailiff's 
Gardener's,  Gamekeeper's,  and  Park-Gate  Lodges ;  Cottages  and  other  Residences,  in  the  Grecian 
Italian,  and  Old  English  Style  of  Architecture;  with  Estimates.  2  vols,  royal  4to,  96  Plates 
(pub.  at  il.  5s.),  cloth,  2(.  12s.  Gd. 

GRINDLAY'S     (CAPT.)    VIEWS     IN     INDIA,    SCENERY,    COSTUME,    AND 

ARCHITECTURE:  chiefly  on  the  Western  Side  of  India,  .\tlas  4to.  Consisting  of  36  most 
beautifully  coloured  Plates,  liighly-finished,  in  imitation  of  Drawings;  with  Descriptive  Letter' 
press.     (Pub.  at  12(.  12s.),  half-ljound  morocco,  gilt  edgss,  8/.  8s.  1830 

This  is  perhaps  the  most  exquisitely-coloured  volume  of  landscapes  ever  produced. 

HANSARD'S  ILLUSTRATED  BOOK  OF  ARCHERY. 

Beins;  the  complete  Historj'  and  Practice  of  the  Art ;  interspersed  with  numerous  Anecdotes; 
formnig  a  complete  Manual  for  the  Bowman.  Svo.  Illustrated  by  39  bea\itiful  Line  Engravings, 
exquisitely  finished,  by  Engleheart,  Portburv,  &c.,  after  Designs  by  Stepuanoff,  (pub.^at 
XL  lis.  Gd'.),  gilt  cloth,  10s.  Gd. 

H^TH'S  CARICATURE  SCRAP  BOOK, 

On  60  Sheets,  containing  upwards  of  lOUli  Comic  Subjects  after  Seymour,  Cruikshank,  Phiz, 
and  other  eminent  Caricatiu-ists,  oblong  folio,  (pub.  at  2/.  2s.),  cloth,  gilt,  15s. 

This  clever  and  entertaining  volume  is  now  erdarged  by  ten  additional  sheets,  each  containing 
numerous  subjects.  It  includes  the  whole  of  Heath's  Oiiiniura  Gatherum,  both  Series  ;  Illustra- 
tions of  Demonology  and  AA'itchcraft ;  Old  Ways  and  New  W' ays;  Nautical  Dictionary  ;  Scenes 
in  London;  Sayings  and  Doings,  &c.;  a  series  of  humorous  illustrations  of  Proverbs,  &c.  Asa 
large  and  almost  infinite  storehouse  of  humour  it  stands  alone.  To  the  yoimg  artist  it  would  be 
found  a  most  valuable  collection  of  studies ;  and  to  the  family  circle  a  constant  source  of  unex- 
ceptionable amusement. 

B  2 


CATALOGUE  OF   NEW  BOOKS 


HOGARTH'S  WORKS  ENGRAVED  BY  HIMSELF. 

133  fine  Plates  (irnludins;  the  two  wcU-kiiowii  "supprcssi-d  Plates"),  with  elaborate  l,etter-presa 
lUescriptions,  by  J.  Nicuols.  Atlas  folio  (pub.  at  Ml.),  half-bouud  morocco,  gill  back  aiid  edses, 
with  a  secri^'t  i)ycket  tor  suppressed  plates,  7'-  7*.         '     ■  iJ^ 

HOLBEIN'S  COURT  OF  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 

A  Series  oi'Sd  e.\(iuisitely  beautiful  Portraits,  enirraved  by  Bartolozzi,  Coofkh,  and  others,  in 
imitation oi' the  original  Dra\vinppreser\ed  in  tiie  Uoyal  Collection  at  Windsor;  with  Historical 
auil  liioirrapliical  I,etter-pvess  by  Edmund  Lodgk,  Ks«.  Published  by  Johk  Cba:mhf.rlaine. 
luipcriai  Ito  (pub.  at  15?.  15s.),  hi'ilf-bound  morocco,  full  gilt  back  and  edges,  a(.  las.  lid.  1812 

HOFLAND'S  BRITISH  ANGLER'S  MANUAL; 

Or,  the  .\rt  ol  .\nirlin'4  in  l-;n!jlaud,  Scotland,  Wales,  and  Ireland  ;  including  a  Piscatorial  Accotuit 
of  the  princip.'il  Uivers,  Lakes,  and  Trout  Streams;  with  Instructions  in  My-rishini;,  Trolling, 
and  .\ngling  of  e\ery  Description.  \\'ith  upwards  of  .jO exquisite  Plates,  many  of  which  are  highlv- 
tinisheiT  liandseapes  engraved  ou  Steel,  the  remainder  beautifully  engraved  on  Wood.  Svo,  (pub. 
at  U.  U.),  gilt  cloth,  12».  1S46 

HOPE'S  COSTUME  OF  THE  ANCIENTS. 

Illustrated  in  upw ards of  Kfl beautifully-engraved  Plates,  containing  licprcsentations of  Eg^Titian, 
Creek,  and  I'oinan  Habits  and  Dresses.  2  vols,  royal  Svo,  ISew  Kdition,  with  nearly  2U  additional 
i'ialt's,  boarils,  reduced  to  '21.  5s.  1841 

HOWARD  (FRANK)  ON  COLOUR, 

As  a  Mkaxs  of  ,\ut,  being  an  adai)tation  of  the  T^xperience  of  Professors  to  the  Practice  of 
Amateurs,  illustrated  by  IS  coloured  Plates,  post  Svo,  clntli  gilt,  8.*.  1.S38 

In  this  ablevolume  are  shown  the  ground  colours  in  whicli  the  most  celebrated  painters  worked. 
It  is  very  valuable  to  the  connoisseur,  as  well  as  the  student,  in  painting  and  water-colour 
drawing. 

HUNT'S  EXAMPLES  OF  TUDOR  ARCHITECTURE  ADAPTED  TO  MODERN 

11  ABITATIU.NS.    Koyal  4to,  37  Plates,  (pub.  at  21.  2*.),  half  morocco,  II.  4s.  1S3G 

HUNT'S  DESIGNS  FOR  PARSONAGE-HOUSES,  ALMS-HOUSES,  ETC. 

lioyal  Ito,  CI  Plates,  (pub.  at  U.  Is.),  half  morocco,  Hs.  1S41 

HUNT'S  DESIGNS  FOR  GATE  LODGES,  GAMEKEEPERS'  COTTAGES,  ETC. 

Koyal  4to,  Ki  Plates,  (pub.  at  IMs.  j,  half  morocco.  Us.  1S41 

HUNT'S  ARCHITETTURA  CAMPESTRE; 

Olt,  DKSIG.NS   rou  LODta.S,  (JAIiDENER.S'  HOUSES,  &e.,  IN  THE  ITALIAN  STYLE. 

12  Plates,  royal  llo,  (|iub.  at  II.  Is.),  half  morocco.  Its.  1S27 

ILLUSTRATED  FLY-FISHER'S  TEXT  BOOK. 

.\  Complete  U\iide  to  the  Science  of  Trout  and  Salmon  Fishing.  By  TnEornii.tjs  South,  GE^T. 
(Ed.  CniTTY,  liAURisTER).  With  2;i  beautiful  Engravings  on  Steel,  after  Paintings  by  Cooper, 
Newtox,  yiKiniXG,  Lee,  and  others.    Svo,  (pub.  at  It.  lis.  Gd.),  cloth  gilt,  10s.  6rf.  ISii 

ITALIAN  SCHOOL  OF  DESIGN. 

Consisting  of  Krii  Plates,  chiefly  engraved  by  Bartolozzi,  afterthe  original  Pictures  and  Drawings 
of  Guerci.no,  Michael  Anoelo,  Domemchixo,  .\nmpale,  liUDovico,  and  .Agostiso  Ca- 
RACCi,  PiETRO  DA  CouTOSA,  Cahlo  Mabatti,  and  others,  in  the  Collection  of  Her  Majesty. 
Imperial  Ito,  (pub.  at  Wl.  10s.),  half  morocco,  gilt  edges,  .U.  :is.  1W2 

KNIGHT'S  1  HENRY  GALLY)  ECCLESIASTICAL  ARCHITECTURE  OF  ITALY, 

KltOM  TIUO  TIME  OF  CONSTANTINE  TO  THE  FIFTEENTH  CENTLKY.  With  an 
Introduction  and  Text.  Imperial  fctlio.  First  Series,  containing  -10  beautiful  and  liigiily  inte- 
resting Views  of  Ecclesiastical  Buildings  in  Italy,  several  of  whicli  are  expensively  illuminated  in 
gold  and  colours,  half-bound  morocco,  5/.  5s.  1843 

Second  and  Concluding  Series,  containing  41  beautiful  and  highly-interesting  Views  of  Ecclesi- 
astical Buildings  in  Italy,  arrangecl  in  Chronological  Order;  with  Descriptive  Letter-press.  Im- 
perial folio,  lialf-bound  morocco,  5/.  5s.  1844 

KNIGHT'S  (HENRY  GALLY)  SARACENIC  AND  NORMAN  REMAINS. 

To  Illustrate  tlie  Normans  in  Sicily.  Imp.  folio.  30  large  Entrravings,  consisting  of  Picturesque 
Views,  .architectural  Remains,  Interiors  and  Exteriors  of  liuildings,  with  descriptive  1-eiver 
Press,  (pub.  at  5?.  5».)  half  morocco,  3(.  13s.  fir/.  1840 

The  same,  tiie  Ho  Plates  Coloured  like  Draw ings,  half- bound  morocco,  3i.  8".  1846 

But  very  few  copies  are  now  first  executed  in  this  expensive  manuer. 

KNIGHT'S  PICTORIAL  LONDON. 

I',  \(ds.  binmd  in  :;  thick  handsouii:  vols,  imperial  Svo.,  illustrated  by  G50  Wood  Engravings,  (pub. 
at  :t?.  :ts.),  chilli  ;uilt, -.v.  12s.  IW.  '  1841-44 

LONDON. -WILKINSON'S  LONDINA  ILLUSTRATA; 

OK,  GRAPHIC  AM)  HISTORIC  \1,  ILLUSTK.VI'IO.VS  of  the  most  Interesting  and  Curious 
Architectural  .Monuments  of  tiie  City  and  Suburbs  of  London  and  Westminster,  e.  j?.,  Monasteries, 
Churches,  Cliaritnble  Foundations,  Palaces,  Halls,  Courts,  Processions,  Places  lif  early  Amuse- 
ments, Tlieaires,  and  Old  Houses.  2  vols.  impl.  4to,  containing  207  Copper-plate  Engravings, 
with  Historical  and  Descriptive  Letter-press,  (pub.  at  26/.  5s.),  ball-bouud  luorocco,  5/.  5».    1819-25 


PUBLISHED   OR   SOLD   BY   H.  G.  BOIIX. 


LYSONS'  WACIMA  BRITAIVIMICA, 

Or,  County  llistoi-y  of  Grfsit  Britmu,  10  vols,  in  8,  Ito.,  Plates,  (pub.  at  '27'-  ^s.),  boards,  5/. 

LYSONS'  ENVIRONS  OF  LONDON  ; 

Being  an  Historical  Account  of  tbe  Towns,  Villages  and  Hamlets  in  tbe  Counties  of  Surrey, 
Kent,  iilssex,  Herts,  and  Middlesex,  it  vols.  4to,  Plates,  (pub,  at  lii^  l(i«.),  cloth,  21.  lOs. 
The  same,  large  paper,  5  vols,  royal  4to.,  (pub.  at  \bL  1-js.),  clotli,  'M.  'Ss. 

MARTIN'S  CIVIL  COSTUIVIE  OF  ENGLAND, 

From  the  Conquest  to  tbe  Present  Period,  from  Tapestry,  MSS.,  &c.  Royal  Ato,  CA  Plates,  beau- 
tifully Illuminated  in  Gold  and  Colours,  cloth,  gilt,  2(.  lis.  6il.  1842 

MEYRICK'S  PAINTED  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ANCIENT  ARMS  AND  AR- 
MOUR, a  Criiical  Inquiry  into  .\ncient  Armour  as  it  existed  in  Europe,  but  particularly  in  Eng- 
land, from  the  Norman  Conquest  to  tbe  Rei;;n  of  Charles  II.,  with  a  Glossary,  &e.  by  Sir  Samubl 
Rush  Meybick,  LL.D.,  F.S.A.,  &e.,  new  atul  gTcatly  improved  Edition,  cnn-ected  and  enlai-ged 
throughout  by  the  Author  himself,  with  the  assistance  of  Literary  and  Antiquarian  Friends, 
{Albert  Way,  ie.)  3  vols,  imperial  4to,  illustrated  by  more  than  ioO  Plates,  splendidly  illumi- 
nated, mostly  in  Kold  and  silver,  exhibitmg  some  of  tlie  finest  Specimens  existmg  in  England; 
also  a  nev."  Plate  of  the  Tournament  of  Locks  and  Keys,  (pub.  at  21.'.),  half-bound  morocco,  silt 
edges,  10(.  10s.  1844 

.Sir  Walter  Scott  justly  describes  this  collection  as  "tub  incomparaele  armoury." — 
Edinburgh  Review. 

MILLINGEN'S  ANCIENT  UNEDITED  MONUMENTS; 

Comprisins  Painted  Greek  Vases,  Statues,  Busts,  Kas-Reliefs,  and  other  Remains  of  Grecian 
Art.  62  large  and  beautiful  ICngravings,  mostly  coloured,  with  Letter-press  Descriptions,  impe- 
rial 4to,  (pub.  at  9/.  9.S. ),  half  morocco,  4(.  14s.  6d.  1S22 

MOSES'  ANTIQUE   VASES,  CANDELABRA,    LAMPS,   TRIPODS,    PATER/E, 

Tazzas,  Tombs,  Jlausoleums,  Sepulchral  Chambers,  Cinerary  Urus,  Sarcophagi,  Cippi ;  and 
other  Ornaments,  170  Plates,  several  of  which  are  coloured,  with  Letter-press,  by  Hope,  small 
Svo.,  (pub.  at  3/.  3s.).  cloth,  1/.  hs.  1S14 

MURPHY'S  ARABIAN  ANTIQUITIES  OF  SPAIN  ; 

Representing,  in  100  very  highly  finished  line  Engravings,  by  Lr  TvEt^x,  FI^DE^,  LA>-nsEER, 
G.  CooKK,  &c.,  the  most  remarkable  Remains  of  the  Architecture,  Sculpture,  Paintings,  and 
Mosaics  of  the  Spanish  Arabs,  now  existing  iu  the  Peninsula,  including  tlie  raagnilicent  Palace 
of  Alhambra ;  the  celebrated  Mosque  and  Bridge  at  Cordova  ;  the  Iloyal  Villa  of  Generaliffe ;  and 
the  Casa  de  Carbon  :  accompanied  by  Letter- press  Descriptions,  in  1  vol.  atlas  folio,  original  and 
brilliant  impressions  of  the  Plates,  (pub.  at  42).),  half  morocco,  12^  12s.  1S13 

MURPHY'S  ANCIENT  CHURCH  OF  BATALHA,  IN  PORTUGAL. 

Plans,  Elevations,  Sections,  anil  Views  of  the  ;  with  its|History  and  Description,  and  an  Intro- 
ductory Discourse  ou  GUTiUC  .iRCIllTECTUKE,  imperial  folio,  27  fine  Copper  Plates,  en- 
graved by  LowRY,  (pub.  at  ti/.  Gs.),  half  morocco,  2/.  Ss.  1795 

NICOLAS'S  (SIR  HARRIS)  HISTORY  OF  THE  ORDERS   OF   KNIGHTHOOD 

OF  THE  BRITISH  EMPIRE ;  with  an  Account  of  the  Medals,  Crosses,  and  Clasps  which  have 
been  conferred  fop  iSaval  and  jlilitary  Services;  tosetber  with  a  History  of  the  Order  of  tbe 
Goelpbs  of  Hanover.  4  vols,  imperial  4to,  splendidlv  printed  and  illustrated  by  numerous  fine 
H  oodcuts  of  Badges,  Crosses,  Collars,  Stars,  Medals,  Ribbands,  Clasps,  &c.,  and  niany  large  Plates, 
illuminated  in  gold  and  colours,  iucludinj  full-lenatb  Portraits  of  tinecn  Victoria,  Prince  Albert, 
tbe  King  of  Hanover,  and  the  Dukes  of  Cambridge  and  Sussex.  (Pub.  at  14^.  14s.),  cloth,  with 
morocco  backs,  11. 7s.  1842 

■  the  same,  with  the  Plates  richly  coloured  but  not  ilhmiinated,  and  without  the  extra 


portraits,  4  vols,  royal  4to,  cloth,  il.  14s.  6d.  1842 

"Sir  Harris  Nicolas  has  produced  the  first  comprehensive  Historj'  of  the  British  Orders  of 
Knighthood;  and  it  is  o?ie  r^  tite  most  elaborately  j'^'^P'^''^^  '^"'^  splendidly  printed  works  that  ever 
Usued  from  the  press.  The  .4uthor  appears  to  us  to  have  neglected  no  sources  of  information,  and 
to  have  exhausted  them,  as  far  as  regards  the  geueral  scope  and  purpose  of  the  inquiry.  The 
Graphical  Illustrations  are  such  as  become  a  work  of  this  character  upon  such  a  subject;  at,  of 
course,  a  lavish  cost.  The  resom-ces  of  the  recently  revived  art  of  wood-engrav)ng  have  been 
combined  with  the  new  art  of  printing  in  co'ours,  so  as  to  produce  a  rich  etiect,  almost  rivalling 
that  of  tbe  monastic  illuraiuations.  huch  a  book  is  sure  of  a  place  in  every  great  library.  It  con- 
tains matter  calculated  to  interest  extensive  classes  of  readers,  and  we  hope  by  our  specimen  to 
excite  their  curi-jsity." — Quarterly  Recieiv. 

NICHOLSON'S  ARCHITECTURE;  ITS  PRINCIPLES  AND  PRACTICE. 

3  vols.Svo,  Fourth  Edition,  218  Plates  by  Lowry,  (pub.at  3/.3s.),  cloth,  1/.  16s.  1841 

For  classical  .Architecture  the  text  book  of  tbe  Profession,  the  most  useful  Guide  to  the  Student, 
and  the  best  Compendium  for  the  Amateur.  An  eminent  .Vrchitect  has  declared  it  to  be  "  uot 
only  the  most  useful  book  of  the  kind  ever  published,  but  absolutely  indispensable  to  the  stu- 
dent." 
PICTORIAL  HISTORY  OF  PALESTINE,  THE  HOLY  LAND,  AND  THE  JEWS. 
By  JouM  KiTTO,  editor  of  the  Pictorial  Bible.  2  vols,  super  royal  Svo,  « ith  above  SOU  tine  Wood- 
cuts (pub.  at  II.  15s.),  cloth  gilt,  U.  5s. 

.4-workwlucb  no  family  should  be  without.  It  will  interest  the  child,  and  instruct  tbe  philo- 
sopher. 


6  CATALOGUE  OF  NEW  BOOKS 


PICTORIAL  HISTORY  OF  GERMANY  DURING  THE  REIGN  OF  FREDERICK 

TDK  CiUi;AT;  incliiilins  a  cnniplfte  History  ol  the  f^evpn  Years' War.  By  Vbancis  KootBB. 
Illustrated  by  .VooLru  Mkszel.  Uoyal  8v6,  with  above  5UU  Woodcuts  (pub.  at  U.Ss.),  cloth 
gilt,  li».  1815 

PICTORIAL  HISTORY  OF  FRANCE, 

from  the  establishment  ol"  the  Franks  in  (iaul  to  the  period  of  the  French  Revolution.  "By  G.  M. 
BcssKV  and  T.  Gaspky.  2  vols,  imperial  Svo,  illustrated  by  upwards  of  500  beautiftil  En^avinKs 
on  wood  (pub.  at  ;;.  IGs.),  cloth  gilt,  1?.  is.  1S43 

PICTORIAL  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Hy  G.  M    Bi;ssEV.  '.'  vols,  imperial  Svn,  iUustratedby  nearly  500  beautiful  Engravings  by  IIobacb 

Vkkxkt  ipuh.  at  -21.  -Js.i,  silt  clotli,  W.  \s.  Thomas,  1S40 

PICTORIAL  GALLERY  OF  RACE-HORSES. 

Coiitainim;  I'drtrnits  of  all  the  Wiiinine  Horses  of  the  Perhy,  Oaks,  and  St.  hegCT  Stakes  during 
the  last  Thirteen  Years  ;  and  a  History  of  the  principal  OjieVatitins  of  the  TurfJ  By  Wildrakb 
(Geo.  Tatiersall,  Ksti.j.  Hoyal  8vo,  containing  7^  beautiful  En'.^raviiig.s  of  Horses,  alter  Pictures 
by  CooPKR,  HKUltl.^G,  Hancock,  Alkks,  &c.  .\1so,  tull-len;;th  characteristic  Portraits  of 
celebrated  living  Sportsmen  ("Cracks  of  the  Day")  by  SevMoun  (pub.  at  2/.  2<.),  scarlet  cloth, 
gilt,  ISs. 

PICTURESQUE  TOUR  OF  THE  RIVER  THAMES, 

in  its  \Vesti'rn  Course  ;  iiu-ludiiii;  particular  T>cserii)ti<)ns  of  Richmond,  AVindsor,  and  Uampton 
Court.  By  .lonN  Fishfh  .Muukay.  Illustrated  by  upwards  of  liHl  ver^'  hii;biy-iinished  \Vood 
Euffravings  by  Orki.n  Smith,  Bbanston,  1.am)EI.L8,  Linton,  and  other  eminent  artists;  to 
which  are  added  several  beautiful  Copper  and  Steel  Plate  EngravinKS  by  Cookb  and  others. 
One  large  handsome  volume,  royal  Svo  (pub.  at  U.  is.).  Kilt  cloth,  10s.  M.  1^5 

The  most  beautiful  volume  of  Topographical  Lignographs  ever  produced. 

PINELLI'S  ETCHINGS  OF  ITALIAN  MANNERS  AND  COSTUME, 

Including  his  Carnival,  tJ.indiiti,  \c.,  iiy  IMates,  imperial  -Ho.  Iialf-bound  morocco,  15*. 

Rome,  1»40 
PRICE  (SIR  UVEDALE)  ON  THE  PICTURESQUE 

in  Scenerj'  and  Landscape  Gardening ;  with  an  lOssay  on  the  Origin  of  Taste,  and  much  additional 
matter.  By  Sir  Thomas  Dick  Liudhb,  Bart.  Svo,  with  60  beautiful  Wood  Engravings  by 
MoNTAGi;  Stanley  (pub.  at  1/.  Is.),  gilt  cloth,  ll's.  1842 

PUGIN'S  GLOSSARY  OF  ECCLESIASTICAL  ORNAMENT  AND  COSTUME; 

setting  f'Tili  the  Origin,  History,  and  Signitieniion  of  tlie  various  Kmblenis,  Devices,  and  Symbol- 
ical Colours,  peculiar  to  Christian  Desian  of  the  Middle  .\gcs.  Illustrated  by  nearlvSd  Plates, 
splendidly  prmtcd  in  gold  and  colours.    Royal  4to,  half  morocco  extra,  top  edges  gift,  7/.  7». 

PUGIN'S  ORNAMENTAL  TIMBER  GABLES, 

selected  from  .\iicient  Examples  in  England  and  Normandy.    Royal  4to,  30  Plates,  cloth,  11.  U. 

1839 
PUGIN'S  EXAMPLES  OF  GOTHIC  ARCHITECTURE, 

selected  from  .\ncient  Ediliees  in  England  ;  consisting  of  Plans,  l^levations,  Sections,  and  Parts  at 
large,  «ith  Hi.storical  and  Descriptive  letter-press,  illustrated  by  225  Engravings  by  Ls  Kbcx. 
3  vols.  4to  (pub.  at  12(.  12».),  cloth,  7;.  17«.  6d.  1838 

PUGIN'S  GOTHIC  ORNAMENTS. 

HO  tine  Plates,  drawn  on  Stone  by  J.  1).  Harding  and  others.  Royal  4to,  half  morocco,  31.  3s.  1844 

RADCLIFFE'S  NOBLE  SCIENCE  OF  FOX-HUNTING, 

!■" or  the  use  of  Sportsmen,  royal  ^vo.,  nearly  40  beautiiul  Wood  Cuts  of  IluntiDg,  llounds,  &c., 
(pub.  at  ]l.  Hs.i,  cloth  gilt.  lis.  1839 

REYNOLDS'  iSIR  JOSHUA)  GRAPHIC  WORKS. 

.'ion  heautilnl  Engravings  (comprising  ncai-ly  400  siibiects)  after  this  delightful  painter,  engraved 
on  Steel  by  S.  Vt .  Reynolds.    3  vols.  f»dio  (pub.  at  36/.)  hidf  bound  nioroccj,  gilt  edges,  12/.  12s, 

REYNOLDS'  (SIR  JOSHUA)  LITERARY  WORKS. 

Comprismg  Ids  Discourses,  delivered  at  the  Uoyal  Academy,  on  the  Theorj'  and  Practice  of  Paint- 
ing ;  his  Journey  to  I'landers  ami  Holland,  with  Criticisms  on  Pictures;  Du  Fresiiov's  Art  of 
Fainting,  with  Antes.  Tu  which  is  pretixed,  a  Memoir  of  the  Author,  with  Remarks  illustrative 
of  his  Principles  and  Practice,  by  Beecuby.  Kew  Edition.  2  vols.  leap.  Svo,  with  I'ortrait  (pub. 
at  ISs.),  gilt  cloth,  10s.  1846 

"  His  admirable  Discourses  contain  such  a  body  of  just  criticism,  clothed  in  such  perspicuous, 
eleeant,  and  nervous  language,  that  it  is  no  exaggerated  panegyric  to  assert,  that  they  will  last  as 
long  as  the  Knglish  tongue,  and  contribute,  not  less  than  the  productions  of  his  pencil,  to  render 
his  name  immortal."— .\or(Acofc. 

ROBINSON'S  RURAL  ARCHITECTURE  ; 

Being  a  Series  of  Designs  for  Ornamental  (.'ottages,  in  Ofi  Plates,  with  Eedmates.    Fourth, greatlj 

improved,  l^dition.     Royal  4to  (pub.  at  -U.  is.l,  halt  nioroeco,  2/.  5s. 

ROBINSON'S  NEW  SERIES  OF  ORNAMENTAL  COTTAGES  AND  VILLAS. 

56  Plates  by  Haboing  and  Allom.    Royal  4Io,  hall  morocco,  2/.  2s. 


PTTBLISHED   OR   SOLD   BY  H.  G.  BOHX. 


?iOBINSON'S  ORNAMENTAL  VILLAS. 

9G  Plates  (pub.  jit  4/.  4s.),  bah" morocco,  2/.  bs. 

KOBINSON'S  FARIVI  BUILDINGS. 

56  Plates  (pub.  at  '21.  2»'.),  half  morocco,  \t.  Us.  Gf/. 

ROBINSON'S  LODGES  AND  PARK  ENTRANCES. 

48  Plates  {pub.  at  '2f.  '2s.},  ball' morocco,  \L  \\.<.  Gil. 

ROBINSON'S  VILLAGE  ARCHITECTURE. 

Fourth  Edition,  with  ad<litional  Plate.    41  Plates  (pub.  at  U.  IBs.),  half  bound  uuiform,  II.  4s. 

SHAKSPEARE  PORTFOLIO; 

A  Series  of  %  Graphic  Illustb.itioxs,  after  Designs  by  the  most  eminent  British  Artists, 
including  Smirke,  Stothard,  Stephanoll',  Cooper,  Westall,  Hilton,  Leslie,  Briggs,  Corbould,  Clint, 
&c..  beautifully  engraved  by  Heath,  Greatbach,  Kobinson,  Pye,  Finden,  Englehart,  Armstrong, 
Rolls,  and  others,  (pub.  at  8/.  Ss.),  in  a  case,  with  leather  back,  imperial  8vo.,  1^  Is. 

SHAW  AND  BRIDGENS'  DESIGNS  FOR  FURNITURE, 

With  Candelabra  and  interior  Decoration,  CO  Plates,  royal  4to.,  (pub. at  31.  .'5s.,),  half-bound, uncut, 

ll.Ws.Rd.  1838 

The  same,  large  paper,  impl.  4to.,  the  Plates  coloured,  (pub. at  61.  6s.),  half-bound,  uncut,  3J.3», 

SHAW'S  LUTON  CHAPEL, 

Its  -\rchitecttire  and  Ornaments,  illustrated  iu  a  series  of  20  highly  finished  Line  Engravings, 
imperial  folio,  (pub.  at  a(.  3s.),  half  morocco,  uncut,  H.^ies.  1^ 

SMITH'S  (C.  J.)  HISTORICAL  AND  LITERARY  CURIOSITIES. 

Consisting  of  Fac-similes  of  interesting  Autographs,  Scenes  of  remarkable  Historical  Events  and 
interesting  Localities,  Engravings  of  Old  Houses,  Illuminated  and  Missal,  Ornaments,  Antiquities, 
&e.  &c. ;  containing  100  Plates,  some,  illuminated,  with  occasional  letter-press.  In  1  volume  4to, 
half  morocco,  uncut,  reduced  to  31.  1840 

SPORTSMAN'S  REPOSITORY; 

Comprising  a  Series  of  highly  linished  Line  Engravings,  representing  the  Horse  and  the  Dog,  in 
all  their  varieties,  by  the  celebrated  engraver  John  Scott,  from  original  paintings  by  Reinagle, 
Gilpin,  Stubbs,  Cooper,  and  Landsecr.  accompanied  by  a  comprehensive  Description  hy  the  Author 
of  the  "  British  Field  Pports,"  4to.,  with  37  larere  Copper  Plates,  and  numerous  "Wood  Cuts  by 
Burnett  and  others,  (imb.  at  '21.  12s.  6d.),  cloth  gilt,  1?.  Is. 

STOTHARD'S  MONUMENTAL  EFFIGIES  OF  GREAT  BRITAIN. 

147  beautifully  finished  Etchings,  all  of  which  are  more  or  less  tinted,  and  some  of  them  highly 
illuminated  in  gold  and  colours'^  with  Historical  Descriptions  and  Introduction,  by  Kemfe.  Folio 
(pub.  at  19;.),  half  morocco,  8(.  8s. 

STRUTT'S  SYLVA  BRITANNICA  ET  SCOTICA  ; 

Or,  Portraits  of  Forest  Trees  distinguished  for  their  Antiquity,  Magnitude,  or  Beauty,  comprising 
50  very  large  and  highly-finished  pamters'  Etchings,  imperial  folio  (pub.  at  9i.  9«.),  half  morocco 
extra,  gilt  edges,  41.  Ws.  1826 

STRUTT'S  DRESSES  AND  HABITS  OF  THE  PEOPLE  OF  ENGLAND, 

from  the  Establishment  of  the  Saxons  in  Britain  to  the  present  time;  with  an  Historical  and 
Critical  Inquiry  into  every  branch  of  Costume.  New  and  greatly  improved  Edition,  with  Critical 
and  Explanatory  Notes,  by  J.  K.  Planche',  Esq.,  F.S.A.  2  vols,  royal  4to,  153  Plates,  cloth,  41. 4s, 
The  Plates  coloured,  Tl.  7s.  The  Plates  splendidly  illuminated  in  gold,  silver,  and  opaque  colours, 
in  the  Missal  style,  '201.  1842 

STRUTT'S  REGAL  AND  ECCLESIASTICAL  ANTIQUITIES  OF  ENGLAND. 

Containing  the  most  authentic  Representations  of  all  the  English  Monarchs  from  Edward  the 
Confessor  to  Henry  the  Eighth;  together  with  many  of  the  Great  Personages  that  were  eminent 
under  their  several  Reigns.  New  a^nd  greatly  improved  Edition,  by  J.  K.  Planchk',  Esq.,  F.S.A. 
Royal  4to,  72  Plates,  cloth,  2Z.  2s,  The  Plates  coloured,  41.  4s.  Splendidly  Uluminated,  uniform 
with  the  Dresses,  12;.  125.  1842 

STUBBS'  ANATOMY  OF  THE  HORSE. 

24  tine  large  Copper-plate  Engravings.  Imperial  folio  (pub.  at  4^.  4s.),  boards  leather  back 
U.  lis.  6d. 

The  original  edition  of  this  fine  old  work,  which  is  indispensable  to  artists.    It  has  loug  been 
considered  rare. 

TAYLOR'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  FINE  ARTS  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN. 

2  vols,  post  8vo,  Woodcuts  (pub.  at  II.  Is.),  cloth,  9s.  1841 

•*  The  best  view  of  the  state  of  modern  art." — United  States  Gazette. 

TOD'S  ANNALS  AND  ANTIQUITIES  OF  RAJAST'HAN  ; 

OR,  THE  CENTRAL  AND  WESTERN  RAJPOOT  STATES  OF  INDIA,  (COMMONLT 
CALLED  RAJPOOT,\NA).  Bv  Lieut.-Colonel  J.  Ton,  many  years  resident  in  Rajpootana  as 
Political  Agent.  2  vols,  imperial  4to,  embellished  with  above  50  extremely  beautiful  line  Engrav- 
ings by  FiwDEM,  and  capital  large  folding  maps,  {pub.  at  9^.  9s.),  cloth,  6/.  6s,  1829-3% 


CATALOGUE   OF  NEW   BOOKS 


WALKER'S  ANALYSIS  OF  BEAUTY  IN  WOMAN. 

I'leccikd  by  a  critical  View  of  tlie  general  HypotliLEe:!  rcspictinpr  Beauty,  bv  Leosaudo  ba 
Vinci,  Mencs,  Wi.nckelimanx,  IIumk,  Uogaktii,  Bi  uke,  Kmght,  Alison,  ami  otlicrs.  New 
Edition,  royal  Svo,  illustrated  by  2J  beautiful  riatea,  after  drawings  from  lile  by  II.  llowtnu, 

by  (iAi  ci  auil  I.\m;  (pub.  at  ;/. -Js.),  Kilt  clotli,  H.  1«.  '  1846 

WATTS'S  PSALMS  AND  HYMNS, 

Ii.i.r.sTKATKi)  I'DiTio.N,  complete,  witb  indexes  of  "  Subjects,"  "  First  Lines,"  and  a  Table  of 
Scriptures,  8vo.,  nrinlei  in  a  very  lartre  and  beautiful  type,  embellislied  with  24  beautiful  Wood 
tuts  by  Martin,  \\cstall,  and  others,  (pub.  at  \l.  U.j,  j;ilt  cloth,  7».(W. 

WHISTON'S  JOSEPHUS,  ILLUSTRATED  EDITION, 

Coniple.e ;  contaii.iug  bnrli  the  .Vntiquities  and  the  Wars  of  the  Jews.  2  vols.  Svo,  handson.ely 
printed,  embellislied  with  ^2  beautimnVood  Engravings,  by  various  Artists,  (pub.  at  U.4(..),clota 
boards,  elegantly  (;ilt,  11».  1845 

V/ICHTWICK'S  PALACE  OF  ARCHITECTURE, 

A  Hcnuancc  of  Art  and  History  Imperial  Svo,  with  211  Illualratioiis,  Steel  Plates,  and  Wood'- 
cuts,  (pub.  at  2/.  12s,  (,</.),  clotb,  i;..)S.  1840 

WILD'S  ARCHITECTURAL  GRANDEUR 

Of  liehriuui,  Germany,  aad  Trance,  24  line  I'lates  by  Le  Ked.x,  &c.  Imperial  4to  (pub.  at  U.  1S».), 
h;ill  morocco,  INf.  ^  igo^ 

WILD'S  FOREIGN  CATHEDRALS, 

12  {Mates,  coloured  and  mounted  like  Drawings,  in  a  handsome  portfolio  (pub.  at  V21.  li.l.impe- 
rial  loiiu,  5f.  08.  .  '»      r 

WILLIAMS'  VIEWS  IN  GREECE, 

r;j  beautiful  I,ine  i:rt;,n-avings  by  .Mii.i.er,  IIoasnimcH,  and  others.  2  vols. imperial  Svo,  (pub. 
at  III.  (.«.),  Iiall  bound  morocco  extra,  gilt  edges,  2/.  12».  b,l.  1S29 

^°Avn'Lw<r?"'7^,^"^"'^^'-    ANTIQUITIES    AND    RUINS     OF     PALMYRA 

vo^Ti,  ,  „  1  V'l  V  ,■  '1''  "L'P-"'''  .f"','"'  <-"»ta>ning  Uo  Hnc  Copper-platc  Kngraviugs,  some 
\cry  large  and  loldmg,  (pub.at;/.  7s.),  haU  morocco,  uncut,  3;.  130.M.  1827 


natural  JUistox}),  .agniultui'c,  ^t. 


ANDREWS'  FIGURES  OF  HEATHS, 

rJ'l' e'ln)i',"'jM','  i'.'^^^'I'tiuns-    I'  vols,  royul  Svo,  with  :il)0  beautifully  coloured  Plates,   (puh.  at 

^^niT^i'V  f'!^?  CASTLE'S  BRITISH  FLORA  MEDICA; 

rae.  bv  n>w-,rl'*'fo,!nr  ^"^l''';-'-''-^''  PLA.\  I'S  01.'  GRE.\T  URITAIX.  2vols.Svo,  illus- 
'r.aid  b>  upwardsot  211(1  Coloured  Figures  of  Plants,  (pub.at  3(. :)«.),  cloth,  1M6«.  mi 

BAUER  AND  HOOKER'S  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  THE  GENERA  OF  FERNS, 

mn^MdtivllSV^s  in,?.?"'  f  r"'"''  ^■'■|"'V,"''  '"^'lave,!  in  the  most  elaborate  luamier.  i„  a  series  of 
magnified  Dissections  and  ).i,gures,  biglily  liiiished  in  Colours.     Imperial  Svo,  I'latei,  61.      lsJS-42 

BEECHEY.-BOTANY  OF  CAPTAIN  BEECHEY'S  VOYAGE, 

J:nv^;=i^  durm;;;,^^-;^^  ';::^'ri;:i^i^':^-h^^-^^'^.^-^-ir'z  ^^fl— j 

co:;:ii!^^  i;;":;;;^;;s,'^;!.  ^;u^  li}^^::^:-^^^-  *""—'  "^  >-  ^lates,  beauUfu.ly  eng^ved! 

B^^Cl^^Y.-ZOOLOGY  OF  CAPTAIN  BEECHEY'S  VOYAGE. 

Compileil  irom  the  Colleeti.ms  auJ  Notes  of  Cnptain  liKKCURi  midtiie  Scientific  Gentlemen 
ViGORs'Tr"'F  s  ;»  ^-"P/:'";''',"-  The  Mammalili,  by  ).r.  U,chai.i...o.n  ;  {)rnXdoir>^  bv  ?\  A 
UvKrEVQ  SLntne'.  (T/'i^-'^V-  ^"'-  '""'  i:i'"'^-^>K",  Fs«.;  Crustacea,  by  Richard 
Geoloev  bvtb..  ?!,.  I)7h  "•'  >■•"«■ '''"'  '■,"".  ^'^■■.  ^'-'Hs,  by  W.  Soweui.v,  Esq.  ;  and 
F^u?t?s  beLtift  llv  nlif;„^r''J'^''-  ■""•  i'  "'^"■'"-^''  by  47  Plata's,  containing  many  hundred 
ii„urts,  ueautUully  tolouredby  Soi.EKiit,  (pub.ati(.:),..),cloth,3M3».G</.  1S39 

BOLTON'S    NATURAL   HISTORY   OF   BRITISH    SONG    BIRDS. 

alul'itulr  their  w''^'  I'p  '"  '-;."■•  '.'^'.'"■  "''■'''^'  I"'"' -'^'^li-  ""J  I'V'Hal^-.  i"  tbcir  most  Natu- 
fe  viser«n  ver  eo^s  ,Ie™  1  ''''''■"•  '"'"';  l'>"",'""^  l"'-""".  ^l-rubs.  Trees.  A:c.  Itc.  .New  Edition, 
cSourcd  nlatc?  rimb  «f  s/  H  ■'  ""'.'"'•'"'■'^i  -  'o^^-  "'  L  medium  4to.  containing  80  beautifuli; 
coloured  piatts  (pub.  at  s(.  8y.;,  hali-bound  morocco,  gilt  backs,  gUt  edges,  3(.  3s;  11M5 


PUBLISHED   OR  SOLD   BY  11.  G.  BOIIN. 


BROWN'S   ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  THE  LAND  AND  FRESH  WATER   SHELLS 

OF  GREAT  BRITAIN  AMI  IKELAM);  with  Fis;nres.  Dfsrriptions,  an.l  Localities  of  all  the 
Specit's.  Koyal  8vo,  contaiuini,'  on  'J?  lar^c  Plati-s,  Xlll  Figures  of  all  the  known  British  Species, 
in  their  full  Size,  accurately  drawn  from  Nature,  (pub. at  fds.),  cloth,  Uls.  6d.  1846 

CURTIS'S  FLORA   LONDINENSIS; 

Revised  and  Improved  by  George  Graves,  extended  and  continued  by  Sir  W.  Jackson 
Hooker;  comprising  the  History  of  Plants  indigenous  to  Great  Britain,"with  Indexes;  the 
Drawings  made  by  Svdksiia.m  Edwards  and  Lindlet.  5  vols,  royal  folio  (or  109  parts),  con- 
tainiu'c  64/  Plates,  exhibiting  the  full  natural  size  of  each  Plant,  with  magnitied  Dissections  of 
the  Pai-ts  of  Fructification,  &c.,  all  beautifully  coloured,  (pub.  at  SJ/. -Is.  in  parts),  half  bound 
morocco,  top  edges  gilt,  30^  1S35 

DENNY— MONOCRAPHIA     ANOPLURORJJM     BRITANNI/E,     OR     BRITISH 

SPECIES  OF  P.illASITE  INSECTS  (published  under  the  patronage  of  the  British  Associa- 
tion), 8vo,  numerous  beautifully  coloured  plates  of  Lice,  containing  several  hundred  magnified 
figures,  cloth,  U.  11*.  Od.  1S42 

DONOVAN'S   NATURAL  HISTORY    OF   THE    INSECTS   OF  INDIA. 

Enlarged,  by  J.  O.  Westwood,  Esq.,  F.L.S.  4to.  with  58  plates,  containing  upwards  of  120  exqui- 
sitely coloured  figures  (pub.  at  tjl.  titl.),  cloth,  gilt,  reduced  to  2/.  5«.  1842 

DONOVAN'S    NATURAL   HISTORY  OF  THE   INSECTS   OF  CHINA. 

Enl.arged,  by  J.  O.  Westwood,  Esq.,  F.L.S. ,  4to.  with  .50  plates,  containing  upwards  of  120  exqui- 
sitely coloured  figures  (pub.  at  fi/.  ()*.),  cloth,  gilt,  '21.  bs,  '  1842 

"  Donovan's  works  on  the  Insects  of  India  and  China,  are  splendidly  illustrated  and  extremely- 
useful." — Naturalist. 

"The  entomological  plates  of  our  countryman  Donovan,  are  highly  coloured,  elegant,  and  use- 
ful, especially  those  contained  in  his  quarto  volumes  (Insects  of  India  and  China),  where  a  great 
number  of  species  are  delineated  for  the  first  time." — Sicatason. 

DONOVAN'S   WORKS    ON    BRITISH    NATURAL   HISTORY. 

Viz.— Insects,  IS  vols.— Birds,  10  vols.— Shells,  5  vols.— Fishes,  h  vols— Quadrupeds,  3  vols.— toge- 
ther :;'J  vols.  Svo,  containing  11<IS  beautifully  coloured  plates  (pub. at  m.  tls.l,  bds.  23M7s.  The  same 
set  of  :)9  vols,  bound  in  21,  (pub.  at  73/.  10s.),  half  green  moiocco  extra,  gilt  edges,  gilt  backs,  30;. 
Any  of  the  classes  may  be  had  separately. 

DRURY'S  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  FOREIGN  ENTOMOLOGY  ; 

Wherein  are  exhibited  upwanls  of  GOO  exotic  Insects,  of  the  East  and  West  Indies,  China,  New 
Holland,  North  and  South  America,  Germany,  &c.  By  J.  O.  Westv.'ood,  Esq.,  F.L.S.,  Secretary 
of  the  Entomological  Societj',  Sic.  3  vols.  4to,  l.io  Pla'tes,  most  beautifuUv  coloured,  containing 
above  600  figures  of  Insects,  (originally  pub.  at  Vol.  lis.},  half  bound  morocco,  6/.  16s.  6i/.  IKit 

EVELYN'S   SYLVA     AND_  TERRA. 

,\  Discourse  of  Forest  Trees,  and  theJPropagation  of  Timber,  a  Philosophical  Discourse  of  the 
Earth;  with  Life  of  the  Author,  and  Notes  bv  Dr.  .\.  Hunter,  2  vols,  royal  4to.  Fifth  improved 
Edition,  with  46  pl.ates  (pub.  at  5/.  5s.),  cloth,  2/.  1825 

CREVILLE'S  CRYPTOGAMIC  FLORA, 

Comprising  the  Principal  Species  found  in  Great  Britain,  inclusive  of  all  the  New  Species  recently 
discovered  in  Scotland.    6  vols,  royal  Svo,  'Mil  beautifully  coloured  Plates,  (pub.  at  W.  16«.),  half 


nmrocco,  8^  8s. 


1823-8 


This,  though  a  complete  Work  in  itself,  forms  an  almost  indispensable  Supplement  to  the 
thirty-six  volumes  of  Sowerby's  English  Botany,  which  does  not  comprehend  Cryptogamous 
Plants.  It  IS  one  oi  the  most  scientific  and  best  executed  works  on  Indigenous  Botany  ever  pro- 
duced in  tills  country. 

HARRIS'S    AURELIAN  ;    OR  ENGLISH   MOTHS  AND    BUTTERFLIES, 

Their  Natural  History,  together  with  tlie  Plants  on  which  tlu-y  feed;  New  and  greatly  improved 
Edition,  by  J.  tJ.  Wkstwood,  Esq.,  F.L.S.,  &c.,  in  1  vol.  sm.  folio,  with  44  plates,  containinc 
above  400  figures  of  Moths,  Butterliies,  Caterpillars,  &c.,  and  the  Plants  on  which  they  feed, 
exquisitely  coloured  after  the  <iriginal  draw  ings,  half-hound  morocco,  4/.  4».  1840 

This  extremely  beautiful  work  is  the  only  one  which  contains  our  English  Moths  and  Butter- 
flies of  the  full  natural  size,  in  all  their  changes  of  Caterpillar,  Chrysalis,  Ike,  with  the  plants  on 
which  they  feed. 

HOOKER  AND  GREVILLE,  ICONES  FILICUM  ;    OR,  FIGURES  OF  FERNS. 

W  ith  DESCRIPTIO.NS,  many  of  which  have  been  altogether  unnoticed  by  Botanists,  or  have 
not  been  correctly  figured.  2  vols,  folio,  with  24U  beautiiuUy  coloured  Plates,  (pub.  at  25?.  4s.), 
half  morocco,  gilt  edges,  12(.  12.«.  1829-31 

The  gTandest  and  most  valuable^if  the  many  scientific  Works  produced  by  Sir  WiUiam  Hooker. 
HOOKER'S  EXOTIC  FLORA, 

Containing  Figures  and  Descriptions  of  Rar',  or  otherwise  interesting  Exotic  Plants,  esp"cially 
ot  such  as  are  deserving  of  being  cultivated  in  our  Gardens.  3  vols,  imperial  8vo,  containing  23:? 
large  and  beautilully  coloured  Plates,  (pub.  at  15/.) ,  cloth,  6/.  6s.  1S23-1827 

This  is  the  most  superb  and  attractive  of  all  Dr.  Hooker's  valuable  works. 

"The  'Exotic  Flora,'  by  Dr.  Hooker,  is  like  that  of  all  the  Botanical  publications  of  the  inde- 
fatigable author,  excellent;  and  it  assumes  an  appearance  of  finish  and  perfection  to  which 
neither  the  Botanical  Magazine  nor  Register  can  externally  lay  claim."— iouiion. 

\ 


10  CATALOGUE  OF  NEW  BOOKS 

HOOKER'S  JOURNAL  OF  BOTANY; 

C'onta'minij  Ki;rur**s  hihI  Itcscriptiims  of  such  Plants  as  recommend  themselves  by  their  novelty, 
rarity,  or  history,  or  by  the  uses  to  whicli  tliey  are  applied  in  the  Arts,  in  iledicine,  and  in 
Domestic  Kconomv  ;  tojiether  with  occasional  Itotanical  Notices  and  Infonnation,  and  occa- 
sional Portraits  and  Memoirs  of  eminent  Botanists.  4  vols.  8vo,  numerous  plates,  some  coloured, 
(pub.  at :«.),  cloth,  1/.  18i4-42 

HOOKER'S  BOTANICAL  MISCELLANY; 

Coutainin;.;  I'ij^ures  anil  Descriptions  of  Plants,  which  recommend  themselves  hy  their  noveltjr, 
rarity,  or  history,  or  by  the  uses  to  vvliich  they  are  applied  in  the  Arts,  in  Medicine,  and  in 
Domestic  Kconomy,  tojrelher  with  occasional  Botanical  Notices  and  Information,  ineludin;.r  many 
valuable  Communications  from  distin);uishcd  Scientific  Travellers.  Complete  in  3  thick  vols, 
royal  8vo,  with  153  plates,  many  finely  coloured  (pub.  at  il.  o».),  gilt  cloth,  Ci.  12<.  6(1.  1830-33 

HOOKER'S  FLORA  BOREALI-AIVIERICANA ; 

OK.  TUli  BOTANY  Ol'  HKlTISll  NDItTII  AMERICA.  Illustrated  by  2 10  plates,  complete 
in  Twelve  Parts,  royal  Ito  (pub.  at  12/.  12«.),  »/.  The  Twelve  Parts  complete,  done  up  in  2  vols, 
royal  -Ito,  extra  clotli,  til.  1829-40 

HUISH  ON  BEES; 

TIIKIH  NATURAL  HISTORY  AND  GENERAL  MANAGEMENT.  Xew  and  ^eatly  im- 
proved Edition,  containinsT  also  the  latest  Discoveries  and  Improvements  in  every  department  of 
the  Apiary,  with  a  deseriution  of  the  most  approved  Hives  now  in  use,  thick  12mo,  Portrait  and 
numerous  Woodcuts  (pub.  at  lOs.  6d.),  cloth  gilt,  f>s.  6d.  1344 

LATHAM'S   GENERAL   HISTORY   OF   BIRDS. 

Bein^'  the  Natural  Ilistori'  and  Description  of  all  the  Birds  (above  four  thousand)  hitherto  known 
or  described  by  Natural'sts.  with  tlie  Synonymes  of  preceding  Writers  ;  the  second  enlarged  and 
improved  Edition,  compreliendin,^  all  "the  discoveries  in  Omitholojo'  subsequent  to  the  former 
publication,  and  a  General  Index.  11  vols,  in  li),  4to,  with  upwards  of  20(1  coloured  Plates, 
lettered  (pub.  at  iDI.  Ss.),  cloth,  7/.  17x.  M.  Winehexirr,  1821-28.  The  same  with  tlie  plates  exqui- 
sitely coloured  like  drawings,  11  vols,  in  10,  elegantly  hf.-hound,  green  morocco,  gilt  edges,  12M2* 

LINDLEY'S  BRITISH  FRUITS  ; 

OK.  EIGLRES  AND  DESCRU'TION.S  OF  THE  MOST  IMPORTANT  VARIETIES  OF 
FRUIT  CULTIVATED  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN.  3  vols,  royal  8vo,  containing  152  most  beau- 
tifully  coloured  plates,  chiefly  by  Mas.  Withers,  .\rtist  to  the  Horticultural  Society,  (pub  at 
10/.  1()».),  half-bound,  morocco  extra,  gilt  edges,  hi.  5«.  ISll 

"  This  is  an  exquisitely  beautiful  work.    Every  plate  is  like  a  highly  finished  drawing,  similar 
to  those  in  the  Horticultural  Transactions." 

LOUDON'S  (MRS.i  ENTERTAINING  NATURALIST, 

Beinii  Popular  Descriptions,  Tales,  and  .Vnecdotes  of  more  than  Five  Hundred  Animals,  compre^ 
bending  all  the  Quadrupeds,  Birds,  Fishes,  Reptiles,  Insects,  &c.,  of  which  a  knowledge  is  indis- 
pensable in  polite  education.  With  Indexes  of  Scientific  and  Popular  Names,  an  Explanation  of 
Terms,  and  an  .\pi)endix  of  Fabulous  .\nim.tls,  illustrated  bj- ujrwards  of  4m I  beautiful  woodcuts 
by  Bkwick,  II.\kvi-:y,  WniMrKK,  and  others.  New  Edition^  revised,  enlarged,  and  corrected  to 
the  present  state  of  Zoological  Knowledge.    In  one  thick  vol.  post  8vo,  gilt  cloth,  "is.  6d.  1S4S 

MANTELL'S  (DR.i  NEW  GEOLOGICAL  WORK. 

THE  .MEDALS  OF  CHKATION,  or  First  Lessons  in  Geology,  and  in  the  Study  of  Organic 
Remains;  inclvuling  Geological  Excursions  to  the  Isle  oi"  Sbeppy,  Brighton,  Lewes,  Tilgate 
Forest,  Chamwood  Forest,  Farringdon,  Swindon,  Calne.  Bf.tli,  Bristol,  Clifton.  Matlock,  Crich 
Hill,  &c.  By  GiDEOx  .Algeksox  'M.vntei.l,  Esu.  LL.D.,  F.R.S.,  &c.  Two  thick  vols,  foolscap 
Sto,  with  coloured  Plates,  and  several  hundred  beautiful  Woodcuts  of  Fossil  Kemains,  cloth  gilt, 
1/.  1».  1M4 

MUDIE'S  NATURAL   HISTORY  OF  BRITISH  BIRDS; 

OR,  THE  FEATHERED  TKIBES  OF  THE  BRITISH  ISLANDS.  2vols.8vo.  Xew Edition, 
the  Plates  beautifully  coloured  (pub.  at  1/.  85.),  cloth  gilt,  10».  I83i 

"  This  is,  without  any  exception,  the  most  truly  charming  work  on  Ornithology  which  has 
hitherto  appeared,  from  the  d4iys  of  WiUoughby  downwards.  Other  authors  describe,  Mudic 
paints;  other  authors  give  the  iiusk,  Mudie  the  kernel.  We  most  heartily  concur  with  the 
opinion  expressed  of  this  work  by  Leigh  Hunt  (a  kindred  spirit)  in  the  first  few  numbers  of  his 
right  peasant  London  Journal.  The  descriptions  of  Bewick,  Pennant,  Lewin.  Montagu,  and 
even  Wilson,  will  not  for  an  instant  stand  comparison  with  the  spirit-stirring  enianaiions  of 
Mudie's  '  living  pen,'  as  it  has  been  called.  \\  e  are  not  acquainted  with  any  author  who  so 
felicitously  unites  beauty  of  style  w  ith  strength  and  nerve  of  expression ;  he  docs  not  specify, 
he  paints.  — Wooit's  Ornithological  Guide. 

PARKINSON'S   ORGANIC    REMAINS   OF  A   FORMER  WORLD. 

Or  Examination  of  the  Mineralized  Remains  of  tlie  .\ninials  and  \'egetables  of  the  Antediluvian 
World,  if  %ols.   Ito.  54  coloured  plates,  by  Sowerby  (pub.  at  10/.  lite.),  cloth,  4/.  4s.  1833 

RICHARDSON'S  GEOLOGY  FOR  BEGINNERS, 

Comprising  a  familiar  Explanation  of  Geologj-  and  its  associate  Sciences,  Mineralogy,  Physical 
Geology,  i'ossil  Conchology,  Fossil  Botany,  and  Palxontolog}- ;  including  Directions  for  forming 


PUBLISHED  OR   SOLD   BY   H.  G.  BOHN.  11 

Collections,  &c.  By  G.  F.  Richardson,  F.G.S.  (formerly  with  Dr.  Mantell,  now  of  the  British 
Museum).  Second  Edition,  considerably  enlarged  and  improved.  One  thick  vol.  post  8vo,  illus- 
trated by  upwards  of  200  Woodcuts  (pub.  at  10s.  6rf.),  clotli,  7s.  (id.  1346 

"This  easy  and  popular  introduction  comprises  about  as  much  matter  as  two  ordinary  Svos. 
The  first  editiou  was  sold  off  in  one  twelvemonth." 

SELBY'S  COMPLETE  BRITISH  ORNITHOLOGY. 

A  most  masjuiticent  work  of  the  Fisures  of  British  Birds,  containingexact  and  faithful  representa- 
tions in  their  full  natural  size,  of  all  the  knowTi  species  found  in  Great  Britain,  3S:i  Figures  in  228 
beautifully  coloured  Plates.  2  vols,  elephant  folio,  elegantly  half  bound  morocco  (pub.  at  105^), 
gilt  back  and  gilt  edges,  31/.  10s.  1834 

"  The  grandest  work  on  Omitholo^  published  in  this  country,  the  same  for  British  Birds  that 
Audubon's  is  for  the  birds  of  America.  Every  figure,  excepting  in  a  very  few  instances  of  ex- 
tremely large  birds,  is  of  the  full  natural  size,  beautifully  and  accurately  drawn,  with  all  the  spirit 
of  life." — Oriutholof)isfs  Text  Bonk. 

"What  a  treasure,  during  a  rainy  forenoon  in  the  country,  is  such  a  gloriously  illuminated  work 
as  this  of  Mr,  Selby.  It  is,  without  doubt,  the  most  splendid  of  the  kind  ever  publislied  in  Britain , 
and  will  stand  a  comparison,  without  any  «clipse  of  its  lustre,  with  the  most  magnificent  ornitlio- 
logical  illustrations  of  tlie  French  school.  Mr.  Selby  has  long  and  deservedly  ranked  higli  as  a 
scientific  naturalist." — Blackwood's  Magazine. 

SELBY'S  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  BRITISH  ORNITHOLOGY. 

2  vols.  8vo.    Second  Edition  (pub.  at  \l.  Is.),  boards,  12s.  1833 

SIBTHORP'S  FLORA  CR/ECA. 

The  most  costly  and  magnificent  Botanical  work  ever  published.  10  vols,  folio,  with  1000  beau- 
tifully coloured  Plates,  half  bound  morocco,  publishing  By  subscription,  and  the  number  strictly 
limited  to  those  subscribed  for  (pub.  at  2.i2;.),  63/. 

Separate  Prospectuses  of  this  work  are  now  ready  for  delivery.  Only  forty  copies  of  the  original 
stock  exists.    No  greater  number  of  subscribers'  names  can  therefore  be  received. 

SIBTHORP'S  FLOR/E  GR/EC/E  PRODROIVIUS. 

Sive  Plantarum  omnium  Enumeratio,  quas  in  I'rovinciis  aut  Insulis  Grajcise  invenit  Jon.  Sib- 
thorp  :  Characteres  et  Synonyma  omnium  cum  Annotationibus  Jac.  Edv.  Smitu.  Four  parts, 
in  2  thick  vols.  8vo  (pub.  at  2/.  2s.)  14s.  Londini,  1816 

SOWERBY'S  MANUAL  OF  CONCHOLOCY. 

Containing  a  comiiletu  Introduction  to  the  Science,  illustrated  by  upwards  of  650  Figvires  of 
Sliells,  etched  on  copper-plates,  in  wliich  the  most  characteristic  examples  are  given  of  all  the 
Genera  established  up  to  the  present  time,  arranged  in  Lamarckian  Order,  accompanied  by  copious 
Explanations;  Oriscrvatious  respecting  the  GeoCTaphical  or  Geological  distribution  of  each; 
Tabular  Mews  of  the  Systems  of  Lamarck  andDe  Blainville  :  a  Glossary  of  Technical  Terms,  &c. 
New  Edition,  considerably  enlarged  and  improved,  with  numerous  woodctits  in  the  text,  now  first 
added,  8vo,  cloth,  1/.  bs.    The  plates  coloured,  cloth,  2/.  os.  1842 

SOWERBY'S  CONCHOLOCICAL  ILLUSTRATIONS  ; 

OR,  COLOURED  FIGURES  OF  ALL  THE  HITHERTO  UNFIGURED  SHELLS,  complete 

in  21K1  Shells,  Svo,  comprising  several  thousand  figures,  in  parts,  all  beautifully  coloured  (pub.  at 
15/.),  7/.  10s.  1841-45 

SPRY'S  BRITISH  COLEOPTERA  DELINEATED. 

Containing  Figures  and  Descriptions  of  all  the  Genera  of  British  Beetles,  edited  by  Shuckard, 
8vo,  with  94  plates,  comprising  638  figtires  of  Beetles,  beautifully  and  most  accurately  drawn 
(pub.  at  2/.  2s.),  cloth,  11.  Is.  1840 

"  The  most  perfect  work  yet  published  in  this  department  of  British  Entomology." 

SWAINSON'S  EXOTIC  CONCHOLOGY; 

OR,  FIGURES  AND  DESCRIPTIONS  OF  RARE,  BEAUTIFUL,  OR  UNDESCRIBED 
SHELLS.  Royal  4to,  containing  04  large  and  beautifully  coloured  figures  of  Shells,  half-bound 
morocco,  gilt  edges  (pub.  at  bl.  b.s.),  2/.  12s.  i]d. 

SWAINSON'S  ORNITHOLOGICAL  DRAWINGS  OF  THE  BIRDS  OF  BRAZIL, 

Being  Figures  of  the  rarer  and  most  interesting  Species.  Royal  Svo,  containing  78  beautifully 
coloured  Plates,  7  vols.  (pub.  at  3/.  13s.  6d.),  half-bound  morocco,  21.  as. 

SWAINSON'S  ZOOLOGICAL  ILLUSTRATIONS: 

OR,  ORIGINAL  FIGURES  .\ND  DESCRIPTIONS  OF  NEW,  RARE,  OR  INTERESTING 
ANIMALS,  selected  chiefly  from  the  Classes  of  Ornithology,  Entomology,  and  Conehology.  6 
vols,  royal  Svo,  containing  318  finely  coloured  plates,  (pub.  at  16/.  16s.),  half-bound  morocco,  gilt 
edges,  9/.  9s. 

SWEET'S  FLORA  AUSTRALASICA  ; 

OR,  A  SELECTION  OF  HANDSOME  OR  CURIOUS  PLANTS,  Natives  of  N,ew  Holland, 
and  the  South  Sea  Islands.  15  Nos.  forming  one  vol.  royal  Svo,  complete,  with  56  beautifully 
coloured  plates  (pub.  at  3/.  15s.),  cloth,  1/.  16s.  1827-28 

SWEET'S  CISTINE/E; 

OR,  NATURAL  ORDER   OF  CISTUS,   OR  ROCK  ROSE.     30  Nos.  forming  one  vol.  royal 

Svo,  complete,  with  112  beautifully  coloured  plates  (pub.  at  bl.  as.),  cloth,  2/.  12s.'6(/.  1823 

"  One  of  the  most  interesting,  aud  hitherto  the  scarcest  of  Mr.  Sweet's  beautiful  publications." 

WHITE'S  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  SELBORNE. 

By  Sir  W.  Jakdine,  18mo,  many  pretty  Woodcuts  bv  Braxstox  (pub.  at  6s.),  cloth,  2s.  6d. 
With  the  Plates  beautifully  coloured,  18mo,  (pub.  at  7s.  6d.j,  gilt  cloth,  5s.  1336 


12  CATALOGUE  OF  NEW  BOOKS 


iHtscellanfous  langltst  Hiterature, 

INCLUDINO 

HISTORY,  BIOGRArilT,  VOYAGES  AND  TRAVELS,  POETRY,  AXD  THE 
DRAMA,  MORALS,  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


ART   OF"   NEEDLEWORK, 

From  the  Earlipst  Ase*.  witli  Notices  of  the  Ancient  nistorical  Tapestries.  Edited  by  the  Right 
Hon.  tlie  CousiEss  op  Wiltox,  Second  Edition,  rerised,  in  1  vol.  post  8to,  (pub.  at  10».  M.), 
cloth,  irilt,  o».  1*M 

"A.  charming  volume:  it  should  be  possessed  by  every  lady."— Times. 

BACON'S  WORKS. 

Both   Ensli-h  and    Latin.    With  an    Introductorj-  Essay,  and  copious  Indexes.    Complete  in 

2  larije  vols,  imperial  >vo,  Portrait,  (pub.  at  -21.  is.),  cloth,  i(.  li*  1838 

BACON'S  ESSAYS  Ar:D  ADVANCEMENT  OF  LEARNING, 

With  Memoir  and  Notes  by  l)r.  Taylor.  Square  12mo.,  \j-ith34  Woodcuts,  (pub.  at  4*.),  ornamental 
WTapper,  2«.  6J.  I^IO 

BATTLES  OF  THE  BRITISH  NAVY, 

From  A.D.  IIHKI  to  IsKi.  Hv  .losrni  Ai.ikx,  of  Grernwich  Hospital.  2  thick  clcgantly.printed 
vols,  foolscap  Svo.  illustraiid  by  21  I'ortraits  of  British  .\dmirals,  licautifuUy  engraved  on  Steel, 
amj  numerous  Woodcuts  of  Battles,  (pub.  at  1/.  Is.),  cloth  ,^lt,  14».  1S42 

"These  volumes  are  invaluable;  they  contain  the  very  pith  and  marrow  of  our  best  Naval 
Histories  and  Chronicles." — Sun. 
"  The  best  and  most  complete  repositorj-  of  the  triumphs  of  the  British  Navy  which  has  yet 

issued  from  tl;c  jircss."— I'niffi/  Scrrice  Gazette. 

BOOK  OF  THE  COURT; 

Exliibitinir  tlie  History,  Duties,  and  rrivilea;es  of  the  several  Ranks  of  the  Enslish  Nobility  and 
Gt-ntrj-,  particularly  of  the  Great  Officprs'of  State,  and  Members  of  the  Royal  lIou»chold,  in- 
cludinV  tlie  variou"  Forms  of  Court  Etiquette,  Tables  of  rrccrJciiry,  Kuli;s  to  be  observed  at 
Levees  and  Drawing  Rooms,  itc,  with  an  Introductory  Essuy  on  Kcjjal  State  and  Ceremonial, 
and  a  full  Account  of  the  Coronation  Ceremony.  Dedicated  by  command  to  her  Majesty,  Kvo., 
elegantly  printed,  (pub.  at  16«.),  cloth  gilt,  7».  1S44 

BOSWELL'S  LIFE  OF  DR.  JOHNSON  ;  BY  THE  RIGHT  HON.  J.  C.  CROKER. 

Jncoiporntin^'  his  Tour  to  tlic  llebriiies,  and  accompanieil  by  the  Commentaries  of  all  nreceding 
Editors:  with  numerous  additional  .Notes  and  Illustrative  .\necdotes;  to  which  are  added,  Two 
Supplemcntarv  Volumes  of  Anecdolea  by  Hawkins,  I'lozzi,  Mrapuv,  Tvers,  Rkvnolds, 
Stf.evexs,  and  others.  10  vols.  12nio.  illustrated  by  upwards  of  50  Views,  Portraits,  anil  Sheets 
of  .\utO'.rraphs,  finely  enzravcd  on  Steel,  from  Drawings  by  Stanfield,  Harding,  isic,  cloth,  reduced 
to  U.  15».  '''■'='  liWO 

This  new,  improved,  and  grentlv  enlarged  edition,  bciutifully  printed  in  the  popular  form  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  Bvron's  Woiks,  is  just  such  an  edition  as  Dr.  Johnson  himself  loved  and 
recommended.  In  one  of  the  .Vna  recorded  in  the  supplementary  volume  of  the  present  edition,  he 
savs  :  "  Books  that  you  may  carry  to  the  lire,  and  hold  readily  in  your  hand,  arc  the  most  useful 
after  all.    Such  books  fonu  the  njass  of  general  and  easy  reading." 

BOURRIENNE'S  MEMOIRS  OF  NAPOLEON, 

One  stout,  closely,  liiit  eleu-antly  jiriute.!  vol.,  foohcap  12mo.,  with  fine  equestrian  Portrait  of 
Napoleon  and  I'roiitisiiieee,  (pub.  ai  .i.<.),  i-loih,  '63. 6d.  1844 

BRAND'S  POPULAR  ANTIQUITIES, 

Customs,  Ceremonies,  and  Superstitious  of  England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland ;  revised  and  con- 
siderably cnlurged  liy  Sir  Henry  ICllis,  S  vols,  square  12nio.,  New  Edition,  with  48  Woodcut 
Illustrations,  (pub.  at  Lis.),  ornamental  wrapper,  Ui«.  1S44 

BROWNE'S  iSIR  THOMAS)  WORKS,  COMPLETE. 

Including  his  Valiiar  Errors,  Religio  Medici,  Cm  Burial,  Christian  Morals,  Correspondence, 
Journals," ami  Tracts,  many  of  tlieui' hitherto  Cnpublislied.  The  whole  collected  and  edited  by 
Siuox  \Vii.Ki.v,  I'.L.S.  4  vols.  Svo,  fine  Portrait,  (pub.  at  2/.  8s.),  cloth,  H.  He.  liil.  I'ickeeing,  1S36 
"  Sir  Thomas  Urowne,  the  contcmponir)'  of  Jeremy  Taylor,  Hooke,  Bacon,  Selden,  and  Robert 
Burton,  is  undoubtedly  one  of  the  most  eloquent  and  poetical  of  that  great  literapf  era.  His 
thoughts  are  often  triily  sublime,  and  always  conveyed  in  the  most  impressive  language." — 
Chamlert, 


PUBLISHED   OR   SOLD  BY  H.  G.  BOHN.  13 

BUCKINGHAIVI'S  AMERICA;  HISTORICAL,  STATISTIC,  AND  DESCRIPTIVE, 

\  iz. ;  Northern  States,  a  vols.;  Eastern  ami  Western  States,  :>  vols. ;  SoutLern  or  Slave  Slates, 
2  vols. ;  Canada,  Kova  Scotia,  New  Brunswick,  and  the  other  British  Provinces  in  North  America, 
1  vol.    Together  9  stout  vols.  8vo,  numerous  line  Engravings,  (pub.  at  el.  liJs.  6d.),  cloth,  2/.  12s.  Cid. 

1841-4a 
"  Mr.  Buckiiigliam  goes  deliberately  through  the  States,  treating  of  all,  historically  and  statis- 
tically— of  their  rise  and  progress,  their  manufactures,  trade,  population,  topogTaphy,  fertility, 
resources,  morals,  manners,  education,  and  so.  forth.    Hi6  volumes  witt  be  found  a  storehouse  of 
krtowfettye" — Jthenenim. 

"  A  verj'  entire  and  comprehensive  view  of  the  United  States,  diligently  colketcd  by  a  man  of 
great  acuteness  and  observation." — Literary  Gazette.  * 

BURKE'S  (EDMUND)  WORKS. 

With  a  Biographical  and  Critical  Intrnductidn  by  Rogers.  2  vols,  imperial  8vo,  closely  but 
handsomely  printed,  (pub.  at  2^.  2«.),  cloth,  U.  Ills.  1841 

BURKE'S    ENCYCLOP/EDIA    OF    HERALDRY;    OR,    GENERAL    ARMOURY 

OF  ENGLAND,  SCOTLAND,  AND  IRELAND.  Comprising  a  Registry  of  all  Armorial  Bear- 
ings, Crests,  and  Mottoes,  from  the  Earliest  Period  to  the  Present  Time,  including  the  late  Grants 
hy  the  College  of  Arms.  With  an  Introduction  to  Heraldry,  and  a  Dictionary  of  Terms.  Third 
Edition,  with  a  Supplement.  One  very  large  vid.  imiierial  Svo,  IjeautUullv  printed  in  small  type, 
in  double  columns,  by  WnrTTiNOHAM,  embellished  with  an  elaborate  frontispiece,  richly  illu- 
minated in  gold  and  colours  ;  also  AVoodcuts,  (pub.  at  21.  Is.),  cloth  gilt,  V.  5s.  1844 
The  most  elaborate  and  useful  AVorl:  of  the  kind  ever  published.  It  contains  upwards  of 
30,(H.lfl  armorial  bearings,  and  incorporates  all  that  have  hitherto  been  given  by  Guillim,  Edmond- 
son,  Collins,  Nisbet,  Berry,  Robson,  and  others  ;  besides  many  thousand  names  which  have  never 
appeared  in  any  previous  Work.  This  volume,  in  fact,  in  a  small  compass,  but  without  abridg- 
ment, contains  more  than  four  ordinarj-  quartos. 

BURNS'  WORKS,  WITH  LIFE  BY  ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM,  AND  NOTES 
BY  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  CAMPBELL,  WORDSWORTH,  LOCKIIART,  &c.  KoyalSvo, 
fine  Portrait  and  Plates,  (pub.  at  18s.),  cloth,  uniform  with  Byron,  lUs.  Gd.  1842 

This  is  positively  the  only  complete  edition  of  Burns,  in  a  single  volume,  Svo.  It  contains  not 
only  every  scrap  which  Burns  ever  wrote,  whether  prose  or  verse,  but  also  a  considerable  number 
of  Scotch  national  airs,  collected  ami  illustrated  by  him  (not  given  elsewhere)  and  full  and  interest- 
ing accounts  of  the  occasions  and  circumstances  of  his  various  \\ritings.  The  very  complete  and 
interesting  Life  by  Allan  Cunningham  alone  occupies  Ifi4  pages,  and  the  Indices  and  Glossary  are 
very  copious.  The  whole  fonns  a  thick  elegiintly  printed  volume,  c.Ntending  in  all  to  848  pages. 
The  other  editions,  including  one  published  in  similar  shape,  with  an  abridgment  of  the  Life"  by 
Allan  Cunningham,  comprised  in  only  47  pages,  and  the  whole  volume  in  only  504  pages,  do  no't 
contain  above  two-thirds  of  the  above. 

CAMPBELL'S  LIFE  AND  TIMES  OF  PETRARCH. 

With  Notices  of  Boccaccio  and  his  illustrious  Contemporaries.  Second  Edition.  2  vols.  Svo,  fine 
Portraits  and  Plates,  (pub.  at  11.  lis.  Ci/.),  cloth,  12s.  1(^3 

CHANNING'S  COMPLETE  WORKS,  THE  LIBRARY  EDITION. 

Complete  to  the  Time  of  his  Decease.  Printed  from  the  Author's  coiTccted  Cojiies,  transmitted  to 
the  English  Publishers  by  the  .Author  himself.  6  vols,  post  Svo,  handsomely  printed,  with  a  fine 
Portrait,  (pub.  at  \Ll.  23.),  cloth,  \l.  Is.  .•  r  .  j^. 

"  Channing  is  vmquestionably  the  fnest  writer  of  the  age/'—Fruzei's  Maffozine. 

CHATHAM  PAPERS, 

Being  the  Correspondence  of  William  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham.  Edited  by  the  Executors  of  his 
Son,  John  Earl  of  Chatliani,  and  published  from  the  Original  Manuscripts  in  their  iiossession. 
4  vols.  Svo,  (pub.  at  3/.  12s.),  cloth,  U.  5s.  Murra;/,  1838-411 

"  A  prodiiciion  of  greater  historical  interest  could  hardly  be  imagined.  It  is  a  standard  work, 
which  will  directly  pass  into  every  library."— iiterory  Gazette. 

"  There  is  hardly  any  man  in  modern  times  who  tills  so  large  a  space  in  our  history,  and  of 
whom  ne  know  so  little,  as  Lord  Chatham  ;  iie  was  the  greatest  Statesman  and  Orator  that  this 
country  ever  produced.  ^Ve  regard  this  Work,  therefoix',  as  one  of  the  gTeatest  value."— Edin- 
(jurt/h  Review. 

CHATTERTON'S  WORKS, 

Both  Prose  and  Poetical,  including  his  Letters ;  w  th  Notices  of  his  Life,  History  of  the  Kowley 
Controversy,  and  Notes  Critical  and  Explanatory.  2  vols,  post  Svo,  elegantly  printed,  witli 
Engi-aved  Fae-similes  of  Chattertons  Uandwridng  and  the  Rowley  MSS.  (Pub.  at  los.),  cloth,  9«. 
Large  Paper,  2  vols,  crowa  Svo,  (pub.  at  U.  Is.),  cloth,  lis.  1S42 

"  Warton,  Malone,  Croft,  Dr.  Knox,  Dr.  Sherwin,  and  others,  in  prose  ;  and  Scott,  Wordsworth, 
Kirke  White,  Montgomerj-,  Shelley,  Coleridge,  and  Keats,  inverse  ;  have  conferred  lasting  immor- 
tality upon  the  Poems  of  Chatterton." 

"  Chatterton's  was  a  genius  like  that  of  Homer  and  Shakspearc,  which  appears  not  above 
once  in  many  centuiies."— f'jcesimns  Knox. 

COOPER'S  (J.  F.)  HISTO?lY  OF  THE  NAVY  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF 

aJIERICA,  from  the  Earliest  Period  to  tiie  Peace  of  1815,  2  vols.  8vo.,  (pub.  at  U.  lOs.),  gilt  cloth, 
l-«-  1S39 


14  CATALOGUE   OF   NEW   BOOKS 


COPLEY'S    (FORMERLY    MRS.    HEWLETT)    HISTORY   OF   SLAVERY   AND 

ITS  ABOLITION,  Scoonil  Edition,  witli  au  Appendix,  thick  email  8vo.,  fine  Portrait  of  Clarkson, 
(pub.  atCs.),cU)tli,  4s.  Ci/.  183» 

COSTELLO'S  SPECIMENS  OF  THE  EARLY  FRENCH  POETRY, 

rruni  the  liuif  111'  tlie  Trmibadours  to  tliu  Kciijuof  Ilrnrv  IV.,  post  .Svo  ,with4  Plates,  (pub.  at 
Uis.  irt/.),  clotb  7(1.  1835 

COWPER'S  COMPLETE  WORKS,  EDITED  BY  SOUTHEY; 

Comprisini;  hift  Poems.  Corrpsrondcnrc,  and  Translations;  with  a  Life  of  tlic  .\wthor.  15  vols, 
post  Svo,  enil)(Mlislied  witli  numerous  exquisite  Enj^ravin^s,  after  the  designs  of  Harvky,  (pub. 
at  3/.  los.),  clotli,  2/.  r:s.  (W.  1833-7 

This  is  the  only  complete  edition  of  Conper's  Works,  prose  and  poetical,  which  has  cer 
been  jriven  to  the  worhl.  Many  of  tlieui  arc  still  exclusively  copyriiidit,  and  consequently  cannot 
appear  in  any  otlier  edition. 

CRAWFURD'S  IJ.)  EMBASSY  TO  SIAM  AND  COCHIN-CHINA. 

■2  vols.  Svo,  Maps,  and  -.'5  Plates,  (pub.  at  V.  \U.  6d.),  cloth,  12».  1830 

CRAWFURD'S  EMBASSY  TO  AVA, 

With  au  Appendix  on  Possil  Remains  bv  Prof.  Buckland.  2  vols. Svo,  with  13  Maps,  Plates,  and 
Vignettes,  (pub.  at  1(.  lis.  M.),  cloth,  l-2s.  1834 

CRUIKSHANK'S  THREE  COURSES  AND  A  DESSERT. 

A  Series  of  Tales,  in  Three  Sets,  viz.,  Irisli,  Leijal,  and  Miscellaneou?.  Crown  Svo.  with  51 
extremely  clever  and  comic  Illustrations,  (pub.  at  \l.  Is.),  cloth,  gilt,  ys.  1844 

"This  is  an  extraordinarj' perfonnnncc.  Such  an  union  of  the  painter,  the  poet,  and  the  novelist, 
in  one  person,  is  unexampled.  A  tithe  of  the  talent  that  goes  to  making  the  stories  would  set  up 
a  dozen  of  animal  writers ;  and  a  tithe  of  the  inventive  genius  that  is  displayed  in  the  illustrations 
would  furnish  a  •gAWery."— Spectator. 

DIBDIN'S  BIBLIOMANIA,  OR  BOOK-MADNESS. 

A  Bibliographieal  Romance,  New  Kdition,  with  eon^ideralde  .\dditions,  iucluiling  a  Key  to  the 
assumed  Cliaracters  in  the  Drama,  and  a  Supplement.  2  vols,  royal  hvo,  hand-^oraely  printed, 
embellished  by  nunierous  Woodcuts,  many  of  wliich  are  now  first  added,  (pub.  at  3'.  3a.),  cloth, 
IJ.lls.Cirf.  Large  Paper,  imperial  Svo,  of  which  only  very  few  copies  were  printed,  (pub.ato'.5s.), 
clotli,  31. 13s.  M.  1842 

This  celebrated  Work,  which  unites  the  entertainment  of  a  romance  with  the  most  valuable 
information  on  all  bibliographical  subjects,  has  long  been  very  scarce  and  sold  for  considerable 
sums— the  small  paper  lor  8(.  8s.,  and  the  large  paper  for  upwards  of  50  guineas  !  !  I 

DRAKE'S  SHAKSPEARE  AND  HIS  TIMES, 

Inchiding  the  Biogriphy  of  the  Poet,  Criticisms  on  Ms  Genius  and  Writings,  a  new  Chronology 
of  his  Plays,  and  a  llistiirv  of  the  .Maimfrs,  Customs,  and  Amusements,  Superstitious,  Poetry,  aiid 
Literature  of  the  Elizabethan  Era.  2  vols.  4to,  (above  1400  pages),  with  fine  Portrait  and  a  Plate 
of  .\utographs,  (pub.  at  bl.lis.),  cloth,  1(.  lls.6rf.  1817 

"  A  mssterly  production,  tlie  publication  of  which  will  form  an  epoch  in  the  Shaksperian  his- 
tory of  tills  oiuiiitry.  It  comprises  also  a  complete  and  critical  analysis  of  all  the  Plays  and 
Poems  of  Shalispeare;  and  a  comprehensive  and  powerful  sketch  of  the  contemporary  litera- 
ture."— Gentteinan's  Mayuztne. 

ENGLISH  CAUSES  CELEBRES, 

OR,  KEMARK.iULE  TRIALS.    Square  12mo,  (pub.  at  4«.),  ornamental  wrapper,  2*.  \&iA 

FENN'S  PASTON  LETTERS. 

Original  Letters  of  tlie  Paston  Family,  Written  during  the  Reigns  of  Henry  VI.,  Edward  IV.,  and 
Richard  III.,  by  various  Persons  of  Rank  and  Consequence,  cliietly  on  Historical  Subjects.  New- 
Edition,  with  i^otes  and  Corrections,  complete  in  2  vols,  bound  in  1,  square  12mo,  (pub.  at  10s.), 
clotli  gilt,  7».  lit',  (iuaintly  bound  in  maroon  morocco,  carved  boards,  in  the  early  style,  gilt 
cdges,"l5«.  1»10 

The  original  edition  of  this  very  curious  and  interesting  series  of  historical  Letters  is  a  rare 
book,  and  sells  for  upwards  of  ten  guinea.''.  The  present  is  not  an  abridgment,  as  might  be  sup- 
posed from  its  form.  Out  gives  the  whole  matter  by  omitting  the  duplicate  versiim  of  "the  letters 
written  in  an  obsolete  language,  and  adopting  only  the  more  modern,  readable  version  published 
by  Fenn. 

"The  Paston  LPtters  are  an  important  testimony  to  the  prorressive  condition  of  society,  and 
come  in  as  a  precious  link  in  i  he  chain  nf  the  moral  liistorj-  of  England,  w  hich  they  alone  in  this 
period  supply.    They  stimd  indeed  singly  in  Europe." — llailam. 

FIELDING'S  WORKS,  EDITED  BY  ROSCOE, 

COMPLETE  IN  ONE  VOLUME,  (Tom  Jones,  Amelia,  Jonathan  Wild,  Joseph  Andrews, 
Plays,  Essavs,  and  MisceUauies.)  Medium  Svo,  with  20  capital  Plates  by  CKl;IKanA^K,  (pub.  at 
1(.4».),  clolli,  gilt,  14s.  1845 

"Of  all  the  works  of  imagination  to  which  English  genius  has  given  or  gin,  the  writings  of 
Henry  Fielding  are  perhaps  most  ilecidedly  and  exclusively  her  owu."— A'ir  Hatter  Scott. 

"  The  prose  Homer  of  human  nature."— Lon/  Byron. 


PUBLISHED   OR   SOLD   BY   H.  G.  BOHN.  15 


FOSTER'S  ESSAYS  ON  DECISION  OF  CHARACTER; 

On  a  Man's  Writing  Memoirs  of  Himself;  on  the  epithet  Romantic;  on  the  Aversion  of  Men  of 
Taste  to  Evauselical  Kelision,  &c.    Fcap.Svo,  Eighteenth  Edition,  (puh.  at  Cs.),  cloth,  5«.        1844 
"  I  have  read  with  the  greatest  admiration  the  Essays  of  Mr.  Foster.    He  is  one  of  the  most 
profound  and  eloquent  writers  that  England  has  produced."— Sic  James  Mackintosh. 

FOSTER'S  ESSAY  ON  THE  EVILS  OF  POPULAR  IGNORANCE. 

New  Edition,  elegantly  printed,  in  fcap.  8vo,  now  first  uniform  with  his  Essays  on  Decision  of 
Character,  cloth,  5s.  jg^j 

"  Mr.  Foster  always  considered  this  his  best  work,  and  the  one  by  which  he  wished  his  literary 
claims  to  be  estimated.*' 

"A  work  which,  popular  and  admired  as  it  confessedly  Is,  has  never  met  with  the  thousandth 
part  of  the  attention  which  it  deserves."— Dr.  Pye  Smith. 

GAZETTEER.- NEW  EDINBURGH  UNIVERSAL  GAZETTEER, 

AND  GEOGRAPHICAL  DICTIONARY,  more  complete  than  any  hitherto  published.  New 
Edition,  revised  and  completed  to  the  Present  Time,  by  John  Thomson,  (Editor  of  the  Universal 
^*;as,  &'C.),  very  thick  8vo,  (lll4fi  pages),  Maps,  ( pub. at  ISs.),  cloth,  lis.  Edinburgh.  \^6 

This  comprehensive  volume  is  the  latest,  and  by  far  the  best  Universal  Gazetteer  of  its  size.  It 
includes  a  full  account  of  .Affghanistan,  New  Zealand,  &c.  &c. 

GEORGIAN  ERA,  OR  MODERN  BRITISH  BIOGRAPHY, 

Comprisint;  Memoirs  of  the  Most  Eminent  Persons  who  have  tiourished  in  Great  Britain  from 
the  Accession  of  George  the  First  to  the  Demise  of  George  the  Fourth,  4  vols,  small  8vo.,  Portraits 
on  steel,  (pub.  at  1(.  l2s.),  cloth  gilt,  16s.  ^a;i<y 

CLEIG'S  IVIEIVIOIRS  OF  WARREN  HASTINGS, 

First  Gavcrnor-General  of  Bengal.    3  vols.  Svo,  fine  Portrait  (pub.  at  11  55.),  cloth,  \l.  Is.         1841 

COLDSIVilTH'S  WORKS, 

with  a  Life  and  Notes.  4  vols.  fcap.  Svo,  with  engraved  Titles  and  Plates  by  Stotuabd  and 
Cruiksuaxk.    New  and  elegant  Edition  (pub.  at  1(.),  extra  cloth,  lis.  184a 

"Can  any  author— can  even  Sir  Walter  Scott,  be  compared  with  Goldsmith  for  the  variety, 
beauty,  and  nower  of  his  composition?  You  may  take  him  and  '  cut  him  out  in  little  stars  '  so 
mam*  lights  does  he  present  to  the  imagination." — Athenaum. 

"  Tlic  volumes  of  Goldsmith  will  eveT'coustitute  one  of  the  most  precious  '  wells  of  English  uu- 
defilcd.'" — IXiuirterly  Review. 

CORDON'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  CREEK  REVOLUTION, 

And  of  the  Wars  and  Campaigns  arising  from  the  Struggles  of  the  Greek  Patriots  in  emancipating 
their  Country  from  the  Turkish  Yoke.  By  the  late  Thomas  Gordon,  General  of  a  Division  of 
the  Greek, army.    Second  Edition,  2  vols.  Svo.,  Maps  and  Plans,  (pub.  at  1/.  10s.),  cloth,  10s.  6d. 

IQJO 

CELL'S  (SIR  WILLIAIVl)  TOPOGRAPHY  OF  ROIVIE  AND  ITS  VICINITY. 

An  improved  Edition,  complete  in  1  vol.  Svo,  with  several  Plates,  cloth,  12s.  With  a  very  lar^e 
Map  of  Rome  and  its  Environs  (from  a  most  careful  trigonometrical  survey),  mounted  on  cloth 
and  folded  in  a  case  so  as  to  fonu  a  volume.    Together  2  vols.  Svo,  clotb,  11.  Is.  1846 

"  These  vilumes  are  so  replete  with  what  is  valuable,  that  were  we  to  employ  our  entire  journal, 
we  could,  after  all,  alTord  but  a  meagre  indication  of  their  interest  and  worth.  It  is,  indeed,  a 
lasting  memorial  of  eminent  literary  exertion,  devoted  to  a  subject  of  great  importance,  and  one 
dear,  not  only  to  every  scholar,  but  to  every  reader  of  intelligence  to  whom  the  truth  of  history 
is  an  object  of  consideration." 

GRANVILLE'S  (DR.)  SPAS  OF  ENGLAND 

and  Principal  Sea  Bathing  Places.  3  vols,  post  Svo,  with  large  Map,  and  upwards  of  50  beautifia 
Woodcuts  I  pub.  at  11. 13s.),  cloth,  15s.  1841 

GRANVILLE'S  (DR.)  SPAS  OF  GERMANY. 

Svo,  with  3'J  Woodcuts  and  Maps  (pub.  at  18s.),  cloth.  Us.  1843 

HEEREN'S  (PROFESSOR)  HISTORICAL  WORKS, 

Translated  from  the  German,  viz.— Asia,  New  Edition,  complete  in  2  vols.— Africa,  2  vols.— 
Europe  anu  irs  Colonikb,  2  vols.— Ancient  Greece,  1  vol.— Historio.l  Treatises,  1vol. 
—Manual  of  Ancient  History,  1  vol.— together  9  vols.  Svo  (pub.  at  7^.),  cloth  lettered,  uniform, 
■*'•  IDs-  1834-46 

"Professor  Heeren's  Historical  Reseai-ches  stand  in  the  very  highest  rank  among  those  with 
which  modern  Germany  has  enriched  the  Literatm-e  of  Europe."— Qiim-fcr/y  Review. 

HEEREN'S  HISTORICAL  RESEARCHES  INTO  THE  POLITICS,  INTER- 
COURSE, AND  TRADES  OF  THE  ANCIENT  NATIONS  OF  AFRICA;  including  the  Car- 
thaginians, Ethiopians,  and  Egjptians.  Second  Edition,  corrected  tliroughout,  with  an  Index, 
Life  of  the  Author,  new  Appendixes,  and  other  Additions.    2  vols.  Svo  (pub.  at  1/.  Ills.),  cloth,  11.  4s. 

Oxfij,-d,  Talbot/s,  1S3S 

HEEREN'S  HISTORICAL  RESEARCHES  INTO  THE  POLITICS,  INTER- 
COURSE, AND  TRADES  OF  THE  ANCIENT  N.ITIONS  OF  ASIA;  including  the  Persians. 
Phoenicians,  Babylonians,  Scythians,  and  Indians.  New  and  improved  Edition,  complete  in  2 
vols.  Svo,  elegauily  priuted  (pub.  originally  at  2(.  5s.),  cloth,  11.  is.  1816 

"  One  of  the  most  valuable  acquisitions  made  to  our  historical  stores  since  the  days  of  Gibbon." 
— Athenaiim. 


16  CATALOGUE   OP   NEW  BOOKS 


HEEREIM'S    MANUAL  OF  THE    HISTORY  OF  THE  POLITICAL  SYSTEM  OF 

KLltUl'E  A.NU  ITS  C  OLONIKS,  IVom  itsl'oimniion  at  the  tlosconiic  1  iltcinih  Cintury,  tu  its 
re-establislimcHt  \ipon  the  Fall  of  Kapolcou,  translated  from  the  fifth  Geriiiaii  luUtioii. "  -  vol«. 
8vo  (pub.  at  1(.  -is.),  cloth,  18«.  Oxford,  Talboys,  1S:!4 

"Tlie  best  Ilistorj-  of  Modem  Europe  that  has  yet  appeared,  audit  is  likely  long  to  remain  wiih- 
out  a  rival." — Athenaum. 

"A  work  of  sterling  value,  whieh  will  diffuse  nscful  Iniowledge  for  generations,  after  all  the 
hhallow  pretenders  to  that  distinction  are  fortunately  forgotten." — Literaiy  Gazette. 

HEEREIM'S  ANCIENT  GREECE. 

Translated  by  li.^.^cuo^T.    J'ourlh  iujproved  Edition.    Svo,  (pub.  at  ICs.),  cloth,  V*.  M.  1^5 

HEEREN'S  HISTORICAL  TREATISES; 

Viz.:~l.  The  I'olilical  (  iinsii|ui  lues  of  the  Deformation.  II.  The  Kise,  Progress,  and  Praotieal 
Inliucnce  of  I'olitical 'I'bcorics.  111.  Tlit;  liise  and  Growth  of  the  Contitiental  Interests  of  Great 
liritain.    Svo,  (pub.  at  ir>s.)  cloth,  7s.  6d.  Oxford,  1S36 

HEEREN'S  MANUAL  OF  ANCIENT  HISTORY, 

I'articularly  with  Kciianl  to  tin-  ('institutions,  tht*  roinnicrcc,  and  tlie  Colonics  of  the  States  of 
Autiiiuity.'  Third  Edition,  corrt'Oted  and  improved,    ttvo,  (pub.  at  15s.),  cloth,  I'Js. 

Oxford,  Talboys,  1840 

**We  never  remember  to  have  seen  a  Work  in  which  so  much  useful  knowledtre  was  condensed 
into  so  small  a  compa&s.  A  careful  examination  convinces  us  that  this  book  will  br  useful  for  our 
Kntrlish  hiurher  schools  or  collci?cs,  and  will  contribute  to  direct  attention  to  the  better  and  more 
instructive  parts  of  history.  The  translation  is  executed  \\ith  j^reai  fidelity." — Quarterly  Journal 
of  Education. 

HEEREN'S  MANUAL  OF  ANCIENT  GEOGRAPHY. 

For  the  Ise  of  Schools  and  Private  Tuition.  Compiled  from  the  Works  of  A.  11.  L.  Hekbek. 
ICnin,  (pub.  at  2«.  6d.).  eloth,  2».  Oxford,  Talboi/s,  1835 

"  An  excellent  and  most  useful  little  volume,  and  admirahly  adapted  for  the  use  of  schools  and 
private  instruction." — Literary  Gazette. 

*'  \  valuable  addition  to  our  list  of  school  books." — Atheittrum. 

JACOB'S    HISTORICAL    INQUIRY    INTO    THE    PRODUCTION    AND    CON- 

SLJII'TION  OF  TIIF  I'lil'.ClOUS  MliT,M.S,  -J  vols.  Svo.,  (pub.  at  H.  4s.),  cloth  1C«.  \Si\ 

JAMES'S  WILLIAM  THE  THIRD, 

Comprising  the  History  of  his  Kcign,  illustrated  in  a  series  of  unpublished  letters,  addressed  to 
the  Duke  of  Shrewsbury, (by  James  Vkknon,  Secretai-y  of  State,  witli  Introduction  and  ISotes 
by  G.  1'.  R.  J.\MES,  Esq.,  3  vols.  Svo.,  Portraits,  (pub.  at  2(.  2«.),  cloth,  ISs.  1*41 

JOHNSON'S  (DR.)  ENGLISH  DICTIONARY. 

Printed  verbatim  from  the  .\uthor's  last  Folio  Edition.  AVitli  all  the  Examples  in  full.  To  which 
are  prefixed,  a  llistorv  of  the  Language,  and  an  English  Grammar.  One  large  vol.  imperial  Svo, 
(pub.  at  2i.  2s.),  cloth;  1^  8s.  1340 

KNIGHT'S  JOURNEY-BOOKS  OF  ENGLAND. 

BFRKSlIIKi;,  incluilini'  a  full  Description  of  Windsor.    With  23  Engravings  on  ^^  ood,  and  a 

large  illuminated  Map.    Ueduced  to  I*,  (id. 

HAMPSHIRE,  including  the  Isle  of  Wiglit.     With   32  Engravings  on  Wood,  and   a    large 

illuminated  Map.    Reduced  to  2s. 

DICRBYSIIIRE,  including  the  Peak,  &c.    With  23  Engravings  on  Wood,  and  a  large  illuminated 

Map.    Reduced  to  Is.  G(/. 

KENT.    With  j8  Engravings  on  Wood,  and  a  largo  illuminated  Map.    Reduced  to  2».  M. 

LACONICS  ;    OR,  THE  BEST  WORDS  OF  THE  BEST  AUTHORS. 

Seventh  Edition.  3  vols.  ISmo,  with  elegant  Frontispieces,  containing  30  Portraits,  (pub.  at  l.is.), 
cloth  Kilt,  7s.  M.  ^'".  '8-"* 

This  pleasant  collection  of  pithy  aiul  sententious  readings,  from  the  best  English  authors  of  all 
ages,  has  long  cnji)}  cd  great  and  deserved  i)opularity. 

LAMB'S  (CHARLES)  PROSE  AND  POETICAL  WORKS, 

Ini'ludiii'.;  bis  Essays  of  Elia,  both  Scries,  liiisamund  (iray.  Tali's  from  Shakspcare,  Poems, 
Sonnets,  .lobn  \Voodvil,  a  Tragedy,  \c.  \c.,  .'>  vols,  post  Svo.,  (pub.  at  2/.  5s.),  cloth  1/.  Is.  1838 

LANE'S  MANNERS  AND  CUSTOMS  OF  THE  MODERN  EGYPTIANS. 

A  New  and  etUargcd  Edition,  with  great  Improvements.  2vols.  Svo,  numerous  M'oodcuts,  printed 
to  match  Wilkinson's  .\ncicnt  Egyptians,  (pub.  at  U.  Ss.),  eloth  gilt,  IHj.  1842 

"Nothing  ciui  be  more  accurate  than  Mr.  Lane's  descriptions;  the  English  inhabitants  say  that 
reading  them  upon  the  spot,  they  canncjt  detect  a  single  error." — Roberts. 

LEAKE'S  (COL.)  TRAVELS  IN  THE  MOREA. 

3  vols.  Svo.  With  a  very  large  Map  of  the  .Morea,  and  unwinds  of  30  various  Maps,  Plans,  Plates 
of  ancient  Greek  luscriptious,  \c.     (Pub.  at  2(.  5».),  cloth,  1(.  Ss.  1S30 


PUBLISHED    OR  SOLD  BY  H.  G.  BOHN.  17 

LISTER'S  LIFE  OF  EDWARD  FIRST  EARL  OF  CLARENDON. 

With  Orijrinal  Correspoiulcnce  and  Authentic  Papers,  never  before  published.  3  vols.  8vo,  Portrait, 
(pub.  at  21.  8s.),  cloth,  1/.  Is.  183S 

"  A  Work  of  laborious  research,  written  with  masterly  ability." — Atlas. 

LOCKHART'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  CONQUEST  OF  MEXICO  X  NEW  SPAIN, 
AM)   MEMOIRS  OF  THE  CONQUISTADOR,  BERNAL  DIAZ  DEL  CASTILLO.    Writteu 

by  himself,  and  now  first  completelj''  translated  from  the  original  Spanish.  2  vols.  8vo,  (pub.  at 
1?.  4s.),  cloth,  12«.  18-14 

"Bernal  Diaz's  account  bears  all  the  marks  of  authenticity,  and  is  accompanied  with  such 
pleasant  naivete,  witli  such  intcrestini;  details,  and  such  amusing  vanity,  and  yet  so  pardonable  in 
an  old  I  soldier,  who  has  been,  as  he  boasts,  in  a  hundred  and  nineteen  battles,  as  renders  his  book 
one  of  tlie  most  singular  that  is  to  be  found  in  any  language." — l)r.  Robertson  in  his  "Uistovi/  of 
America." 

MARTIN'S  (IVIONTCOIViERY)  BRITISH  COLONIAL  LIBRARY; 

Forming  a  popular  and  authentic  Description  of  all  tlie  Colonies  of  the  British  Empire,  and  em- 
bracing the  Historj'— Physical  Geography — Geology — Climate — Animal,  Vegetable,  and  Mineral 
Kingdoms — Government — Finance — Military  Defence — Commerce— Shipping — Monetary  S^'steni 
— Religion — Population,  AVhite  and  coloured— I*Mue  at  ion  and  the  Press — Emigration — Social 
State,  iS:c.,  of  eacli  Settlement.  Founded  on  Official  and  Public  Documents,  furnislicd  by  Govern- 
ment, the  Hon.  East  India  Company,  &c.  Illustrated  by  original  Maps  and  Plates,  lu  vols, 
foolscap  8vo,  (pub.  at  'M.),  cloth,  U.  15s.  13-i:i 

These  10  vols,  contain  the  o  vols.  8vo,  verbatim,  with  a  few  additions.  Each  volume  of  the  above 
series  is  complete  in  itself,  and  sold  separately,  as  follows,  at  :is.  Od. : — 

Vul.  I. — The  Caxadas,  Uiter  anu  Lower. 

Vol.  II. — New  South  Wales,  Van  Diemes's  LANn,  Swan  River,  and  South  Australia. 

Vol.  III. — The  Cape  op  Good  Hote,  Mauritius,  and  Seychelles. 

Vol,  IV. — The  West  Indies.  Vol.  I. — Jamaica,  Hondiu-as,  Trinidad,  Tobago,  Granada,  the 
Bahamas,  and  the  Virgin  Isles. 

Vol.  V. — The  West^Indies.  Vol.  II.— British  Guiana,  Barhadoes,  St.  Lucia,  St.  Vhiccnt.  De- 
merara,  EssequibO;  Eerbicc,  Anguilla,  Tortola,  St.Kitt's,  Barbuda,  Antigua,  Hontserrat,  Dominica, 
and  Nevis. 

Vol.  VI. — Nova  Scotia,  New  Brunswick.  Cape  Breton,  Prince  Edward's  Isle,  The. 
Bermudas,  Newfoundland,  and  Hudson's  Bay. 

Vol.  VII.— Gibraltar,  Malta,  The  Ionian  Islands,  &c. 

Vol.  VIII. — The  E.\st  Indies.    Vol.  I.  containing  Bengal,  Madras,  Bombay,  Agra,  &c. 

Vol.  IX,— The  East  Indies.    Vol.11. 

Vol.  X.— British  Possessions  in  the  Indian  and  Atlantic  Oceans,  viz. — Ceylon,  Penanp,^ 
Malacca,  Singapore,  Sierra  Leone,  the  Gambia,  Cape  Coast  Castle,  Accra,  the  Falkland  Islancfi, . 
St.  Helena,  and  Ascension. 

MAXWELL'S  LIFE  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON. 

li  handsome  volumes  Hvo.  Embeliishcd  with  numerous  highly-finished  Line-Engravings  by 
Cooi'ER  and  other  eminent  artists,  consisting  of  Battle-pieces,  Portraits,  Military  Plans  anil 
Maps;  besides  a  great  number  of  fine  Wood  Engravings.  (Pub.  at  3/.  7-»-)»  elegant  in  gilt  cloth, 
1/.  lUs.    Large  papier,  India  proofs,  {pub.  at  5/.),  gilt  clotX  \il.  Hs.  ISIiy-U 

"Mr.  l\Iaxwell's  'Life  of  the  Duke  of  "Wellington,*  in  our  opinion,  has  no  rival  among  similar. 

publications  of  the  day We  pronounce  it  free  from  liatterv  and  bombast,  succinct  aovi^t 

masterly The  type  and  mecnanical  execution  are  admirable  ;  the  plans  of  battles  »nd 

sieges  numerous,  ample,  and  useful;  the  portraits  of  tlic  Duke  and  his  wan'ior  contemporaries 
many  and  faithful;  tlic  battle  pictures  animated  and  brilliant;  and  the  vignettes  of  costumes 
and  manners  worthj'  of  the  military  genius  of  Horace  Vernet  himself." — Times. 

MILTON'S  WORKS,  BOTH  PROSE  AND  POETICAL, 

With  an  Introductory  Review,  by  Flktcuer,  complete  in  1  tiiick  vol.  imperial  8vo,  (pub.  at 
1/.  bs.),  cloth  lettered,  1?.  Is.  1838- 

Tliis  is  the  only  complete  edition  of  Milton's  Prose  Works,  at  a  moderate  price. 
MITFORD»S  HISTORY  OF  GREECE,   BY   LORD  REDESDALE, 

The  Chvonology  corrected  and  compared  with  Clijiton's  Fasti  Hcfl4>itiri,  bv  King,   (Cadell's  last 
andmvu'h  the  best  edition,  183H)  8  vols.  Hvo,  (pub.  at  At  As.),  gilt  cloth,  •2(.V2s'.6d. 
—Tree -mar bled  calf  extra,  by  Clarke,  4^  14s.  Gd. 

In  respect  to  this  new  and  imjtroved  edition,  one  of  the  most  Eminent  scholars  of  the  present 
day  has  expressed  liis  opinion  that  "the  increased  advantages  given  to  it  have  doubled  the  original 
value  of  the  work." 

It  should  be  obsei-ved  that  the  numerous  additions  and  the  amended  Chronology,  from  that 
valuable  performance,  the  Fasti  Hellenici,  are  subjoined  in  the  shape  of  Notes,  so  as  not  to  inter- 
fere with  the  integrity  of  the  text. 

As  there  are  many  editions  of  Mitford's  Greece  before  the  public,  it  may  be  necessary  to  observe 
that  the  present  octavo  edition  is  the  only  one  which  contains  Mr.  King's  last  corrections  and 
additions  (which,  as  stated  in  his  advertisement,  are  material)  ;  it  is  at  the  same  time  the  only 
editjon  which  should  at  the  present  day  be  chosen  for  the  gentleman's  library,  being  the  hand,-* 
Eomest,  the  most  correct,  and  the  most  complete. 

C 


18  CATALOGUE   OP  NEW  BOOKS 

MITFORD'S  HISTORY  OF  GREECE,  {contimted) 

LuHi>  livKon  says  of  Jlilford,  "  Ills  is  tlie  best  Modern  Ilistorv  of  Greece  in  any  lancrvia^e,  and 
he  is  perhaps  tlur  best  of  all  modern  liistorians  whatsoever,  ilia  virtues  are  learuiuj^,  labour, 
researcli,  and  earnestness." 

"  Considered  w  itli  respect,  not  only  to  the  whole  series  of  ancient  events  which  it  comprises,  but 
also  to  any  very  pronunent  portion  of  tliat  scries,  Mr.  Jlitford's  History  is  the  best  that  has 
apiiearcd  sinei'  tlie  days  of  Xcnophon." — Kdmb.  iierieie. 

MORE'S  UTOPIA,  OR,  THE  HAPPY  REPUBLIC, 

A  Thilosophical  Uomance  ;  to  which  is  added,  TIIK  M.AV  .\TI-.\XTIS,  by  Lord  BAroK;  with  a 
rreliniiuary  I)i-*coiirse,  and  Notes,  by  J.  .\.  St.  John,  fcap.  Ho,  (pub.  at  "6«.),  cloth,  As.  Gd, — With 
the  Life  of  Sir  Thomas  More,  by  SiB  James  Mackiktosb,  2  vols,  foolscap  8vo,  cloth,  8».      lS4o 

OSSIAN'S  POEMS, 

Translatcil  by  MArmEnaoN,  v\ith  Dissertations,  concerning  the  Era  and  Poems  of  Ossian;  and 
Dk.  Blaik's  Critical  Dissertation,  complete  in  1  neatly  printed  vol.,  iSmo,  frontispiece,  {pub.  at 
■)«.),  cloth,  ;)s.  1*»4 

OUSELEY'S    (SIR  WILLIAM)  TRAVELS  IN   VARIOUS  COUNTRIES  OF  THE 

EAST,  MORE  I'AKTICULARLY  I'EKSIA  ;  with  Extracts  from  rare  and  valuable  Oriental 
Manuscripts,  and  SO  plates  and  maps,  3  vols.  -Ito,  (pub,  at  lit.},  extra  cloth  boards,  3/.  3«.  1823 

PERCY'S  RELIQUES  OF  ANCIENT  ENGLISH  POETRY, 

Consisting  of  Old  Heroic  Ballads,  Soni:s,  and  other  Pieces  of  our  Earlier  Poets,  together  with 
some  few  of  later  date,  and  a  copious  Glossary,  complete  in  1  vol.,  medium  8vo.  New  and  elegant 
Edition,  with  beautifully  engraved  title  and  trontispiece,  by  Stephanoff,  (pub.  at  15«.),  cloth,  gilt, 
&i.  Or/.  1844 

"  But  above  all,  I  then  first  became  acquainted  with  Bp.  Percy's  '  Reliques  of  .\ncient  Poetry/ 
The  first  time,  too,  I  could  scrape  a  few  shillin2:s  together,  I  bought  unto  myself  a  copy  of  these 
beloved  volumes  ;  nor  do  I  believe  I  ever  read  a  book  half  so  frequently,  or  with  half  the  enthu- 
siasm."— Sir  It'alter  Scott. 

"  Percj-'s  Reliques  arc  the  most  agreeable  selection,  perhaps,  which  exists  in  any  language." — 
Ellis. 

POPULAR  ERRORS,  EXPLAINED  AND   ILLUSTRATED, 

By  JohnTimbs,  (Autlior  of  Laconics,  .tnd  Editor  of  the  "Illustrated  London  News,")  thick 
fcap.  8vo,  closely  but  elegantly  printed,  frontispiece,  cloth,  reduced  to  is.  1841 

PORTER'S  PROGRESS  OF  THE  NATION, 

In  its  various  Social  and  Economical  Relations,  from  the  beainning  of  the  Nineteenth  Ceuturj'  to 
the  present  Time,  3  vols,  post  8vo.,  (pub.  at  U.  4».),  cloth,  13».  6d.  Chas.  Knight,  1838-44 

PRIOR'S  LIFE  OF  EDMUND  BURKE, 

With  unpublisheil  Specimens  of  his  Poetry  :ind  Letters.  Third  and  much  improved  Edition,  Svo, 
Portrait  and  .Autographs,  (pub.  at  Us.),  gilt  cloth,  U».  1839 

"  Excellent  feeling,  in  perspicuous  and  forcible  langtiage."— Quorf  eriy  Rmiem. 

PRIOR'S  LIFE  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 

From  a  variety  of  Original  Somccs,  2  vols.  Svo,  handsomely  printed,  (pub.  at  U.  10».),  gilt  cloth, 
12».  l***? 

"The  solid  worth  of  this  biography  consists  in  the  many  strikine  anecdotes  which  Mr  Prior 
has  "athercd  in  the  course  of  his  anxious  researches  among  Goldsmitli's  surviving  acquaintances, 
and  the  immediate  descendants  of  his  personal  friends  in  London,  and  relations  in  Ireland;  above 
all,  in  the  nch  mass  of  the  poet's  own  familiar  letters,  which  he  lias  been  enabled  to  bring  together 
for  the  tirst  time.  No  poet's  letters  in  the  world,  not  even  those  of  Cowper,  appear  to  us  more 
interesting."— Quarterly  Rniew. 

RABELAIS'  WORKS,  BY  SIR  THOMAS   URQUHART, 

MoTTKi  X,  and  OztLi.  ;  \iith  Explan.-itorv  .Niiii;,  Ijy  Dec  hat  and  others.  4  vols.  fcap.  Svo,  (pub. 
l/.),cloth,  Ills.  "  18<4 

Rabelais,  althnush  a  classic  in  cverj'  fhiropean  language,  and  admitted  into  every  library,  is 
too  indecent  for  the  present  age,  and  should  not  be  jiut  in  the  way  of  females. 

"  The  most  celebrated  and  certainly  the  most  brilliant  performance  in  the  path  of  fiction  that 
belongs  to  this  age,  is  that  ol  Rabelais." — llallam's  Lttcrature  oj  Europe. 

"  I  class  Rabelais  with  the  great  creative  minds  of  the  world,  Shakespeare,  Dante,  Cervantes, 
Jtc." — CoUriiUje. 

RAFFLES'  HISTORY  OF  JAVA.  AND  LIFE, 

AVith  an  .\ecfnnU  of  Bcncnolcn,  and  Details  of  the  Commerce  and  Resources  of  the  Indian  Arrhi- 
pelago.  Edited  by  Lady  Raffles.  Together  4  vols.  8vo,  and  a  splendid  quarto  .\tlas,  containing 
upwards  of  100  Platts  by  Dahiel,  many  finely  coloured,  (pub.  at  4(.  14*.),  cloth,  2i.S«.  1830-85 


PUBLISHED   OR  SOLD   BY   H.  G.  BOIIN.  19 

RICH'S  BABYLON  AND  PERSEPOLIS, 

Viz.,  f{arrativ<"  of  a  Journey  to  the  Site  of  Babylon  ;  Two  Memoirs  on  the  Ruins  ;  Remarks  on 
the  Topograpliy  of  Ancient  Babylon,  by  Major  Rkbnu.l  ;  Narrative  of  a  Journey  to  Tersepolis, 
with  hitherto  uupublisheil  Cimeilbrm  Inscriptions.  Svo.  Maps  anil  I'lates,  (pub.  at  II.  Is.),  cloth, 
10s.  6rf.  Duncan,  1S39 

RITSON'S  VARIOUS  WORKS  AND  METRICAL  ROMANCES, 

As  Published  by  Pickering,  the  Set,  viz.— Robin  Hood,  2  vols.— Annals  of  the  Caledonians, 
2  vols. — Ancient  Songs  and  Ballads,  2  vols.— JI<nioirs  of  the  Celts,  1  vol.— Life  of  King  .\rthur, 
1  vol.— .Ancieut  Popular  Poetry,  1  vol.— Fairv  Tales,  1  vol.— Letters  and  Memoirs  of  Ritson,  2  vols. : 
together  12  vols,  post  Svo,  (pub.  at  6(.  bs.  6rf."),  cloth,  gilt,  'M.  »s.  1827-33 

Or  separately  as  follows; 

BITSON'S  ROBIN  HOOD,  a  Collection  of  Ancient  Poems,  Songs,  and  Ballads,  relative  to  that 
celebrated  Outlaw ;  with  Historical  Anecdotes  of  his  Life.    2  vols.  1S«. 

BITSON'S  ANNALS  OF  THE  CALEDONIANS,  PICTS,  AND  SCOTS.    2  vols.  16s. 

RITSON'S  ME.MOIRS  OF  THE  CELTS  OR  GAULS.    10s. 

BITSON'S  ANCIENT  SONGS  AND  BALLADS.    2  vols:  18«. 

BITSON'S  PIECES  OF  ANCIENT  POPULAR  POETRY.    Post  Svo.  7s. 

RITSON'S   FAIRY  TALES,  now  first  collected;  to  which  are  prefixed  two  Dissertations— 1.  On 
Pigmies ;  2.  On  Fairies,  8s. 

BITSON'S  LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF  JOSEPH  RITSON,  Esq.,  edited  from  Originals  in  the 
PossessioB  of  his  Nephew,  by  Sir  IIahris  Nicolas,  2  vols.  16s. 

■'No  librarj' can  be  called  complete  in  old  English  lore,  which  has  not  the  whole  of  the  pro- 
ductions of  this  laborious  aud  successful  antiquary." — Athenaum, 

*'  Joseph  Ilitson  was  an  antiquary  of  the  first  order." — Quarterly  Review, 

ROBINSON  CRUSOE,  CABINET  PICTORIAL  EDITION, 

Including  Ins  furtlier  Adventures,  with  Life  of  Defoe,  &c.,  upwards  of  GO  fine  Wood-cuts,  from 
Designs  by  Habvev,  fcap.Svo,  New  and  improved  Edition,  with  additional  Cuts,  cloth,  gilt,  5s.  1*44 

The  only  small  edition  which  is  quite  complete. 

"  Perhaps  there  exists  no  work,  either  of  instruction  or  entertainment,  in  the  English  language, 
which  has  been  more  generally  read,  or  more  deservedly  admired,  than  the  Lile  and  Adventures 
of  Robinson  Crusoe." — Sir  Walter  Scott. 

ROLLIN'S  ANCIENT  HISTORY, 

A  New  and  cmnplete  Edition,  with  engraved  Frontispieces  and  7  Maps.  2  vols,  bound  in  1  stout 
handsome  vol.  royal  Svo,  (pub.  at  II.  4s.),  cloth,  12s.  1S44 

The  only  complete  eiiition  in  a  compact  form-  it  is  uniform  in  size  and  appearance  with 
Mox"n's  Series  of  Dramatists,  &C.  The  previous  editions  of  Rolliii  in  a  single  volume  are  greatly 
abridged,  and  contain  scarcely  half  the  work. 

ROSCOE'S  LIFE  AND  PONTIFICATE  OF  LEO  THE  TENTH. 

New  and  much  improved  Edition,  edited  by  his  Son,  Thomas  Roscoe.  Complete  in  2  stout  vols. 
Svo,  closely  but  very  liandsomely  printed,  illustrated  by  3  fine  PortraitSj  and  numerous  illus* 
trative  Engravings,  as  head  and  tail-piet-es,  cloth,  1/.  4s.  1S45 

ROSCOE'S  LIFE  OF  LORENZO  DE  MEDICI,  CALLED  "  THE  MAGNIFICENT." 

New  and  much  improved  Edition,  edited  by  his  Son,  Thomas  Koscoe.  Complete  m  1  stout  vol. 
Svo,  closely  but  very  handsomely  printed,  illustrated  by  numerous  Engravings,  introduced  as  head 
and  tail-pieces,  cloth,  12s.  1S45 

**  I  hftve  not  terms  sufficient  to  express  my  admiration  of  Mr.  Roscoe's  genius  and  erudition,  or 
my  gratitude  for  tiie  amusement  and  information  I  have  received.  I  recommend  his  labours  to 
our  country  as  works  of  unquestionable  genius  and  uncommon  merit.  They  add  tlie  name  ©f 
Roscoe  to  the  very  first  rank  of  English  Classical  Historians." — Mattkiaa,  Pursuits  o/ Literature. 

"Roscoe  is,  I  think,  by  far  the  best  of  our  Historians,  both  for  beauty  of  style  aud  for  deep 
reflections ;  and  his  translations  of  poetry  are  equal  to  the  originals."— IFa'^jwie,  Earl  of  Orford. 

ROSCOE'S  ILLUSTRATIONS,  HISTORICAL  AND  CRITICAL, 

of  the  Life  of  LoRE?izo  dk  Medici,  with  an  .\ppendix  of  Original  Documents.  Svo,  Portrait 
of  Lorenzo,  and  Plates  (pub.  at  14s.),  boards,  'is.,  or  in  4to,  printed  to  match  the  original  edition, 
Portrait  and  Plates  (pub.  at  \l.  Us.  firf.),  boards,  lus. 

*,*  This  volume  is  supplementary  to  all  editions  of  the  work, 

SCOTT'S  (SIR  WALTER)  POETICAL  WORKS. 

Containing  Lay  of  the  Last  Jlinstrel,  Marmion,  Lady  of  the  Lake,  Don  Roderic,  Rokeby,  Ballads, 
Lyrics,  and  Songs,  with  Notes  and  a  Life  of  tiie  Author,  complete  in  one  elegantly  printed  vol. 
ISrao,  Portrait  aud  Frontispiece  (pub.  at  5s.),  cloth,  3s.  ci.  1S43 

C  2 


20  CATALOnUE   OF   NEW  BOOKS 


SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS  AND  POEMS. 

Valpy's  CabimiT  Pictorial  Kuition,  wiili  Life,  Glosfarial  Noto,  nnil  Historical  Dipcsts  of 
lacli  Play,  .tc.  l.'>  vol«.  lool«cap  Svn,  with  171  I'lates  enifravcJ  on  Steel  after  desiims  of  tlii' most  di«- 
linscuislied  Britisli  Artists,  also  Kac-siiiiiles  of  all  the  known  AutOKraphs  of  Shakespeare  (pub.  at 
3(.  IS«.),  cloth,  richly  gilt,  2/.  is.  1**^ 

SHERIDAN'S  (THE  RIGHT  HON.  R.  BRINSLEY)  SPEECHES, 

«  itli  :i  Sketch  of  his  Life,  cditeil  t>y  ^i  ('onMit\itioiial  l-'neiul.  New  mid  limidsonie  library  Edition, 
\iiib  Portrait,  complete  ma  vols.  Svo,  (pub.  at  ;/.  5*-.),  clotli,  IS,?.  ti  'P 

••  Whatever  Sheridan  has  done,  ha.s  been  par  excellence,  always  the  best  of  its  kind.  "^  has 
written  the  (/M^  comedy  (School  for  Scamlal),  the  6f«?  drama  (The  lluenna),  the  Iml  larce  (Ihe 
Critic),  and  the  if»f  address  (Monoloirue  on  Garrick)  ;  and  to  crown  all,  delivered  the  very  best 
oration  (the  famous  Bei^um  Speecli)  ever  conceived  or  heard  in  this  country." — Byron. 

SIVIOLLETT'S  WORKS,  EDITED  BY  ROSCOE. 

Cniui.lctc  in  1  vol.  (  Knderick  Unn.lom,  llmuplirev  Clinker,  Percirrine  Pickle,  Launcelot  Greaves, 
Count  Katboni,  Adventures  of  an  Atom,  Travels,  "Plays,  &c.)  Medium  8vo,  with  il  capital  Plates 
by  CttiiKsiiAXK  (pub.  at  l/.4«.),  doth  gilt.  Us.  l*™ 

"  Perhaps  no  books  over  written  excited  such  peals  of  inextiniruisliablc  laughter  as  Smollett's." 
—gir  Walter  Scolt. 

SOUTHEY'S  HISTORY  OF  BRAZIL. 

;(  vcd'i.  tto,  (pub.  at  71.  1.1S.),  clotk,  scarce,  '21.  bs.  '°'7 

SOUTHEY'S  LIVES  OF  UNEDUCATED  POETS. 

To  which  arc  added,  "  Attempts  in  Verse,"  by  Jon.v  Junes,  an  Old  Ser%ant.  Crown  8vo,  (pub. 
at  U\s.  ChI.),  cloth,  AS.  M.  Murray,  ISSt. 

SPENSER'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

Ccmiplito,  with  Intnuluctorv  Ohservaticmson  the  Faerie  Queen,  and  Glossanal  Notes,  handsoincly 
printed  in  .=>  vciN.  llo^t  S^o,  tine  Portrait  I  pub.  at  2;.  lit.  6rf.),  cloth,  H.  4».  184a 

SWIFT'S  WORKS,  EDITED  BY  ROSCOE. 

Complete  in  2  vols.    Medium  Svo,  Portrait  (pub.  at  lM2s.),  cloth  gilt,  U.4«.  1845 

"  Wlioevcr  in  the  three  kingdoms  has  any  books  at  all,  has  Swift."— iorrf  Chesterfield. 

TUCKER'S  LIGHT  OF  NATURE  PURSUED. 

Complete  in  2  vols.  Svo  (pub.  at  U.  HIk.j,  <  lotli,  V-ts.  l*** 

"The 'LiMit  of  Nature'  isawork  which,  after  much  consideration,  I  think  myself  authorised 
to  call  the  most  original  and  profound  that  has  ever  appeared  on  moral  philosophy."— *irJom«« 
Mackintosh, 

VMDE'S  BRITISH  HISTORY,  CHRONOLOGICALLY  ARRANGED. 

Comproheadinir  a  elassitied  Analysis  of  Kvpnts  and  Occurrences  in  Church  and  i^tate,  and  of  the 
Conslitutiunal,  Political,  Commercial,  Intellectual,  and  Social  Progress  of  the  I  niied  hingdotr., 
from  the  1-irst  Invasion  by  the  liomans  to  the  Accession  of  Queen  \  ictoria,  with  very  copious 
Index  and  Supplement.  Second  Edition.  1  large  and  remarkably  thick  vol.  royal  Svo  (1200  ?'?••«•. 
(pub  at  IMPS.),  cloth,  ISi.  ">■* 

WATERSTON'S  CYCLOP/EDIA  OF  COMMERCE, 

Ml-UCVNTILE  I,\W,  IlNVNCi;,  CUMMDIU  lAL  (ilCtJGRAPHY  AND  NAVIG.4TI0N. 
NewEdition,  including  the  New  Tariff  (complete  to  the  present  timcl  ;  the  Frkxcii  Tariff, 
as  far  as  it  conccnis  this  countr)- ;  and  a  Treatise  on  the  Principles,  Practice,  and  History  of 
Commerce  by  .1.  li.  M'Cili.och.  One  very  thick,  closely  printed  vol.  Svo  (900  pages),  with  loor 
maps  (pub.  at  I/.  4«.),  extra  cloth,  10».  M.  l***" 

"  This  capital  w  ork  w  ill  be  found  a  most  valuable  manual  to  every  commercial  man,  and  a 
useful  hook  to  the  general  reader. 

V/HYTE'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  BRITISH  TURF, 

lUOM  THE  I:aUL11;sT  PKKIOD  TO  Till;  PKESENT  D.\Y.  2  vols.  Svo,  Plates,  (pub.  at 
J(.8».),  cloth,  12*.  '*"• 

WILLIS'S  PENCILLINGS  BY  THE  WAY. 

\  new  and  beautil'ul  Kdition.  with  additions,  fcap.  8vo,  fine  Portrait  and  Platcs,'(pab.  at  6».),  extra 
rid  Turkey  chith,  richly  gilt  back,  4«.  M.  1835 

".\  lively  reconl  of  first  impressions,  conveying  vividly  what  was  seen,  heard,  and  felt,  by  an 
active  ami  inquisitive  traveller,  through  some  of  the  most  interesting  parts  of  Kiirope.  Hie 
curiosity  and  love  of  enterprise  are  unbounded.  The  narrative  is  tolil  in  easy,  Ihient  language, 
with  a  p'oct's  p<jwer  of  illustration."— t'rfiiidui-i;*  Rrrievi. 


PUBLISHED   OR  SOLD  BY  H.  G.  BOHN.  21 


C^fOtosB,  iHorals,  iSrcIrsiasttfal  i^tstorp,  ^c. 


BAXTER'S  (RICHARD)   PRACTICAL  WORKS, 

"With  ail  Account  of  the  Author,  and  an  Essay  on  his  Genius,  Works,  and  Times,  4  vols,  imperial 
Svo,  portrait,  (pub. at  41.  4s.}  cloth,  -21.  lis.  Gd.  1645 

BINCHAIVI'S  ANTIQUITIES  OF  THE  CHRISTIAN  CHURCH. 

Hew  and  improved  Edition,  carefully  revised,  with  an  enlarged  Index.  2  vols,  imperial  Svo,  cloth, 
1M1».  M.  1846 

"Bina;ham  is  awTiterwho  does  equal  honour  to  the  English  clerey  and  to  the  English  nation, 
and  w  hose  learning  is  only  to  be  equalled  by  his  moderation  and  impartiality." — Quarterly  Review. 

BUNYAN'S  PILCRIM'S  PROGRESS. 

Quite  complete,  with  a  Life  and  Notes,  by  the  llev.  T.  Scott.  Fcap.  12mo,  with  25  fine  full-sized 
\Voodcuts  by  Uauvey,  containing  all  in  Southey's  edition  ;  also,  a  fine  Frontispiece  and  ^'ignette, 
cloth,  3«.  6d.  1*44 

CALMET'S  DICTIONARY  OF  THE  BIBLE,  WITH  THE  BIBLICAL  FRAG- 
MENTS, by  the  late  Cuaules  Tayloh.  5  vols.  4to,  illustrated  by  "JoJ  Copper-plate  Engravings. 
Eighth  greatly  enlarged  Edition,  beautifully  printed  ou  line  wove  paper  (pub.  at  10/.  ios.j,  gilt 
cloth,  5/.  5*.  1S40 

** Mr.  Taylor's  improved  edition  of  Calmct's  Dictionary  is  indispensably  necessary  to  every 
Biblical  Student.  Tlie  additions  made  under  the  title  of  'Fragments,'  are  extracted  from  the 
most  rare  and  authentic  Voyages  and  Travels  into  Judea  and  other  Oriental  countries ;  and  com- 
prehend an  assemblage  of  curious  and  illustrative  descriptions,  explanatory  of  Seriptm'e  incidents, 
customs,  and  manners,  wliich  could  not  possibly  be  explained  by  any  othermedium.  The  nume- 
rous engravings  throw  great  light  on  Oriental  customs." — IJonie. 

CALIVIET'S  DICTIONARY  OF  THE  HOLY  BIBLE, 

Abridged,  1  large  vol.  imperial  Svo,  Woodcuts  and  Maps,  doth,  \l.  1S45 

GARY'S  TESTIMONIES  OF  THE  FATHERS  OF  THE  FIRST  FOUR  CENTU- 
RIES, TO  THE  CONSTITUTION  AM)  DOCTRINES  OF  THE  CHURCH  OF  ENGLAND, 
as  set  forth  in  the  XXXIX  Articles,  Svo,  (pub.  at  12s.),  cloth,  7«.  6d.  Oxford,  Talboys. 

"  This  Work  may  be  classed  with  those  of  Pearson  and  Bishop  Bull ;  and  such  a  classificatioa 
is  no  mean  honour." — Church  of  Engtand  Quarterly. 

CHARNOCK'S    DISCOURSES    UPON   THE   EXISTENCE  AND  ATTRIBUTES 

OF  GOD.  Complete  in  one  thick  closely  printed  volume,  Svo,  with  Portrfiit  (pub.  at  14s.),  cloth, 
7«.  6d.  1S46 

"  Perspicuitv  and  depth,  metaphysical  sublimity  and  evangelical  simplicity,  immense  learning" 
but  irrefragable  reasoning,  conspire  to  render  this  perlormance  one  of  the  most  inestimable  pro- 
ductions that  ever  did  honour  to  thesanctilied  judgment  and  genius  of  a  human  being." — Topladtj. 

CHRISTIAN  EVIDENCES. 

Containing  ti'C  following  esteemed  Treatises,  with  Prefatory  Memoirs  by  the  Rev.  J.  S.  Mbmks, 
LL.D.,  vi7.— Watson's  Apology  for  Christianity;  Watson's  Apology  for  "the  Bible;  Paley's  Evi- 
dences of  Christianity;  Palej's  Ilora:  Paulina-,  Jenyn's  Internal  Evidence  of  the  Christian 
Religion  ;  Leslie's  Truth  of  Christianity  Demonstrated;  Leslie's  Short  and  Easy  Method  with  the 
Deists;  Leslie's  Short  and  Easy  Metliod  with  the  Jews;  Chandler's  Plain  Reasons  for  being  a 
Christian;  Lyttleton  on  the  Conversion  of  St.  Paul;  Campbell's  Dis?'Crtarion  on  Miracles;  Sher- 
lock's Trial  of  the  Witnesses,  with  Sequel;  West.on  the  Resurrection.  In  1  vol.  royal  Svo.,  (pub. 
at  14s.),  cloth,  10s.  1845 

CHRISTIAN  TREASURY. 

Consisting  of  the  following  Expositions  ,ind  Treatises,  edited  by  Memes.viz. — Magee's  Discourses 
and  Dissertations  on  the  Scriptural  Doctrines  of  Atonement  and  Sacrifice;  Withcrspoon'a  Prac- 
tical Trcatiseou  Regeneration  ;  Boston's  Crook  in  the  Lot ;  Guild's  Moses  Unveiled;  Guild'sllar- 
mony  of  all  tlie  Pr0|)hets;  Less's  .Autlienticity,  Uncorrupted  Preservation,  and  Credibility  of  the 
New  Testament;  Stuart's  Letters  on  the  Divinity  of  Christ.  In  1  vol.  royal  8vo.,  (pnb.  at  12s.), 
cloth,  8s.  1844 


22  CATALOGUE  OF  NEW  BOOKS 


CRUDEN'S  CONCORDANCE  TO  THE  OLD  AND  NEW  TESTAMENT, 

revved  and  condensed  by  U.  II.  Uannat,  thick  ISmo.  beautifully  printed  (pub  at  .i.'),  cloth. 


1»I4 


«-nrU  n^V,y  -^F "^"^ ""i^™"^'  '■'"'.«P  ''''"'™-  I*  contains  aU  that  is  useful  in  the  original 
^^ihT  /^  only  prepositions  conjunctions,  &c.,  whicl,  can  never  he  made  available  for  puF- 
poses  of  reference.    Indeed  it  is  all  that  the  Scripture  student  can  desire."-G>/«rrfi<;«.  ^ 

DONNE'S  (DR.  JOHN)  WORKS. 

llKl"RTA,'yoK^„""r"r„'nl'™""'''-/^'"''H"f"' „*<■••  fdi'f'i.^Hh  a  new  Memoir  by  the  Hey. 

cloth  reJuceTto  1/16*      '  ™''-  ^™'  "'"'  ""''  '^""™"  «""  ^"""'J'*-''  (?"»-•  «'  ^'-  '2*).  e'^*^* 

„,,'  "  I'arker,  1839 

mons  re'DHn,''e,l  ?■  f/il??*'"''  n''  Co'-'ri'lse's  qnestion.  'Why  are  not  Donne's  volumes  of  Ser- 
KnmvfeKn  His  Lc  is  published  in  a  cheap  form  by  the  Society  for  Promotini,' Christian 

Tbi?  V  Sn",^A  J^K  'V  '.'u"  'T'-''  ■;''''"■"•■  ''"t  why  does  Ovford  allow  One  Hundred  and 
to  SafnTrn  ,^,  .  the  greatest  Preacher  of  the  seventeenth  eentnr^-the  admired  of  all  hearers- 
to  remain  all  but  totally  unknown  to  tlie  students  in  divinity  of  the  Church  of  En-'land  and  to  the 
Uteratj-  world  in  general  V— Quarterly  Review,  vol.  lix.  p.  6.  ^""'■•°  °i  i^u^ianu,  ana  to  me 

FULLER'S  (REV.  ANDREW)  COMPLETE  WORKS  • 

U.'llM.^ciot'ri'/.yii"  ^"''''  ^^'  ^'^  ^""'  """  '"'■■"''  ™'-  '■"P^i'J  8V0,  New  Edition,  Portrait  (pub.  at 

GREGORY'S  (DR.  OLINTHUS)  LETTERS  ON  THE  EVIDENCES    DOCTRINES 

w-Ui?m''an;"4di\"LY'fr"^'''''^'^^r'^'^V^«'«^'»<^'»^-^^^^ 

«  7».  M.°-  cloth  0°  Corrections.    Complete  in  1  thick  well-printed  volume,  fcap.  8vo,  (pub! 

'  *  '      *  1S46 

»^l',^f„?''7''''!J.''  '■'''■^mmeo'J  'tis  work  to  the  attentive  perusal  of  all  cultivated  minds.  We  are 
acquainted  vMtli  no  book  in  the  circle  of  English  Uterature,  which  is  equally  calculated  to  rive 
Jfoiert  ifa??"'''"     "*''*  evidence,  the  nature,  and  the  importance  of  revealed  religion  "- 

GRAVES'S  (DEAN)  WHOLE  WORKS. 

mf  )h!?  kL^I^'u^I;'-  <-,<""P."sin?  Essay  on  the  Character  of  the  Apostles  and  Evangelists ;  Lectures 
on  the  Four  last  Books  ol  the  Pentateuch;  Proofs  of  the  Trinity;  Absolute  Hredestinition  com- 
pared with  tlie  -Scripture  statement  of  the  Justice  of  God;  and  iSermons; -with  Life  by  his  Son 
iir.  K.  ii.  Ukavbs.    4  vols.  8vo,  handsomely  printed,  Portrait  (pub.  at  2/.  IC3.),  cloth,  W.  8*.      ia40 

GRAVES'S  (DEAN)  LECTURES  ON  THE  PENTATEUCH. 

Svo.  New  Edition  (pub.  at  Vis.),  cloth,  10*.  6J.  ]8l4 

HALL'S  (BISHOP)  ENTIRE  WORKS, 

A\  ith  an  Account  of  his  Life  and  Sufferings.  New  Edition,  with  considerable  Additions,  a  Trans- 
lation 01  all  the  Latin  Pieces,  and  a  Glossarj-,  Indices,  and  Notes,  by  the  Hev.  Pkteb  Hall, 
12vols.  Svo.  Portrait,  (pub.  at  71.  is.),  cloth,  5/.  Oxford,  Talboys,  1837-39 

HALL'S  (THE  REV.  ROBERT)  COMPLETE  WORKS, 

A\  It  ha  Memoir  of  bis  Life  liy  Dr.  Oli.nthis  Uregorv,  and  Ubscrvations  on  his  Character  as  a 
1  readier,  by  Job  .-«  Foster,  Author  of  Essays  on  Popular  Ignorance,  &c.,  6  vols.  8vo,  handsomely 
printed,  with  beautiful  Portrait,  (pub.  at  3/.  !&«.),  cloth,  contents  lettered,  2i.2».  1845 

The  same,  printed  in  a  smaller  size,  B  vols.  fcap.  8vo,  V.  Is.,  cloth,  lettered.  184 

"  Whoever  wishes  to  see  the  English  language  in  its  perfection  must  read  the  writings  of  tha 
Jfeat  Divine,  Robert  IlalL  He  combines  the  beauties  of  Johnson,  Addison,  and  Burke,  without 
their  imperfections."— DujaW  IStewart. 

"  1  cannot  do  better  than  refer  the  academic  reader  to  the  immortal  works  of  Robert  Hall.  For 
moral  grandeur,  for  Christian  troth,  and  for  sublimity,  we  may  doubt  whether  they  have  their 
match  in  the  sacred  oratory  of  any  age  or  country." — Professor  Sedgwick. 


■'The  name  of  Robert  Hall  will  be  placed  by  posterity  among  the  best  writers  of  the  age, 
well  as  tlie  most  vigorous  defenders  of  religious  truth,  and  the  brightest  e.vaiuples  of  Christi 
charity." — Sir  J.  Mackintosh. 


a« 
ian 


HENRY'S  I  MATTHEWi  COMMENTARY  ON  THE  BIBLE,  BY  BICKERSTETH, 

In  (i  vols.  Ito,  New  Edition,  printed  on  fine  paper  (pub.  at  9(.  'is.),  cloth,  4i.  14».  tii/.  1846 

HOPKINS'S  (BISHOP)  WHOLE  WORKS, 

Witli  a  Memoir  of  the  Author,  in  1  tliiek  vol.  roval  Svo,  (pub.  at  ia».),  cloth.  \As.  The  same,  with 
a  very  extensive  general  Index  of  Texts  and  Subjects,  3  vols,  royal  Svo,  (pub.  at  1(.  4s.),  cloth, 
18«.  1841 

"Bishop  Hopkins's  works  form  of  themselves  a  sound  body  of  divinity.    lie  is  clear,  vehement 
and  persuasive."— Bic*erj<e«A. 


PUBLISHED   OR   SOLD  BY   R..  G.  BOHN.  23 


HILL'S  (REV.  ROWLAND)  MEMOIRS, 

?>' '■',»  l;r.'™J.  *h>-'  Kuv.VV.JoxEs,  edited,  with, 1  Preface,  by  the  Rev.  Jamks  SaEHHiN,  (Row- 
land Hills  Successor,  as  Mmister  ol  burrey  Chapel.)  Secuud  Edition,  carcfally  revised  thick 
post  8vo,  tine  steel  Portrait,  (pub.  at  lUs.),  cloth,  5«.  j  -  .  v  ^  w^ 

HOWE'S    WORKS, 

Witli  Life  by  Cilamy,  one  large  vol.  imperial  8»o,  Portrait,  (published  at  \l.  ICs.),  cloth,  H.  10s. 

"  I  have  learned  far  more  from  John  Howe,  than  from  any  other  author  I  ever  read  There  is 
an  astonishing  masn<ficence  in  his  coaceptioas.  lie  was  unquenionably  the  greatest  of  the 
puritan  dwines."— /{o6e/-<  Hall. 

HUNTINGDON'S  (COUNTESS  OF)  LIFE  AND  TIMES. 

By  a  Member  of  the  Houses  of  -Shirley  and  Hastings.  Sixth  Thousand,  with  a  copious  Index. 
-  large  vols.  8vo,  Portraits  of  the  Countess,  Whitefield,  and  Wesley,  (pub.  at  H.4s.),  cloth,  14«.  1.S4 

ILLUSTRATED  COMMENTARY  ON  THE  OLD  AND  NEW  TESTAMENTS, 

Chiefly  E\plaiiator>'  of  the  Manners  and  Cu.stoins  mentioned  in  the  Sacred  Scriptures  ■  and  also 
ot  the  Ilistorj-,  Geogriyihy,  Natural  lliston,-,  and  Antiquities;  being  a  Re-publication  of  the 
JNotesot  the  Pictorial  Bible,  5  vols,  post  Svo,  with  upwards  of  60U  tine  Woodcuts,  (pub.at  l(,17«.6rf  ) 
cloth,  gilt,  i;.  OS.  jg^lj 

LEICHTON'S  (ARCHBISHOP)  WHOLE  WORKS; 

To  which  is  prefixed  a  Life  of  the  Author,  by  the  Rev.  X.  T.  Peabbon.  New  Edition,  2  thick  vols 
8vo,  Portrait,  (pub.  at  U.  4s.),  extra  cloth,  ICs.  1846 

Tlie  onlj/  complete  Edition. 

LEICHTON'S  COMMENTARY  ON  PETER; 

With  Life  by  Pbabson,  complete,  in  1  thick  haodsomely  printed  vol.  8vo,  Portrait,  (pub.  at  12s.), 
cloth,  9s.  1846 

MACEE'S  (ARCHBISHOP)  WORKS, 

Comprising  Discourses  and  Dissertations  on  the  Scriptural  Doctrines  of  Atonement  and  Sacri- 
fice; Sermons,  and  \  isitiition  Charges,  With  a  Memoir  of  bis  Life  by  the  Rev,  A.  H.  Kennt. 
D,D.    2  vols.  Svo,  (pub.  at  1/.  6s.),  cloth,  ISs.  1842 

"  Discovers  such  deep  research,  yields  so  much  valuable  information,  and  affords  so  many  helps 
to  tlie  refutation  of  error,  as  to  constitute  tlie  most  valuable  treasure  of  biblical  learning,  of  which 
a  Christian  scholar  can  be  possessed."— CAristta/i  Observer. 

MANUSCRIPT  SERMONS, 

A  Series  of  Sixty  Kiiglish  Sermons  on  the  Doctrine,  Principles,  and  Practice  of  Christianity, 
adapted  to  the  Pulpit,  by  a  Doctor  of  Divinitv,  complete  in  15  parts,  small  4to,  (each  containing 
four  Sei-mous),  Litliograplied  oq  Writing  Paper  to  resemble  MSS.  (pub.  at  3/.  lis.),  15s. 

MORE'S    HANNAH)  WORKS, 

With  a  Memoir  and  Xotes,  9  vols,  fcap,  Svo,  flue  Portrait  and  Frontispieces,  gilt  cloth,  21.  5s. 

Fisher,  1840 

This  edition  does  not  contain  the  Spirit  of  Prayer,  or  the  Essay  on  St.  Paul,  but  these  may  be 
had  separately. 

MORE'S  (HANNAH)  WORKS. 

Cadell's  Library  Edition,  in  large  type,  11  vols,  post  Svo,  Portrait,  (pub.at  il.),  cloth,  3?.  13«.  6(i.  1830 

MORE'S  (HANNAH)   LIFE, 

By  the  Rkv.  Henry  Thomson,  post  Svo,  printed  uniformly  with  her  works.  Portrait,  and  wood 
engravings,  (pub.  at  12s,),  extra  cloth,  6s.  Cailell,  1S3S 

"This  may  be  called  the  official  edition  of  Hannah  More's  Life.  It  brings  so  much  new  and 
interesting  matter  into  the  field  respecting  her,  that  it  will  receive  a  hearty  welcome  from  the 
public.  Among  the  rest,  the  particulars  of  most  of  her  publications  will  reward  the  curiosity  of 
literaiy  rci;ders."^ii(erarj/  Gazette. 

MORE'S  (HANNAH)  SPIRIT  OF  PRAYER, 

Fcap.  Svo,  Portrait,  (pub.  at  6s.),  cloth,  4s.  Cudell,  lSi3 

MORE'S  (HANNAH)  STORIES  FOR  THE  MIDDLE  RANKS  OF  SOCIETY, 

.A.nd  Tales  for  the  Common  People,  2  vols,  post  Svo,  (pub.  at  14s.),  cloth,  9s.  Cadell,  1830 

MORE'S  (HANNAH)  POETICAL  WORKS, 

Post  Svo,  (pub.  at  Ss.),  cloth,  3s.  (W.  Cailell,  1829 

MORE'S  (HANNAH)  MORAL  SKETCHES  OF  PREVAILING  OPINIONS  AND 

MANNERS,  Foreign  and  Domestic,  with.  Reflections  on  Prayer,  post  Svo.,  (pub.  at  9«.l,  cloth,  4s. 

Cadell,  1830 


24  CATALOGUE  OP  NEW  BOOKS 


MORE'S    (HANNAH)    ESSAY    ON    THE    CHARACTER    AND    PRACTICAL 

WIUTINGS  OF  ST.  I'Al'L,  post  Svo.,  (pub.  at  Ws.  6d.).  cloth,  5».  Cadell,  183; 

IVIORE'S  (HANNAH)  CHRISTIAN  MORALS. 

Post  Svo,  (pub.  ut  111*.  M.),  clotli,  is.  Cadell,  1836 

IVIORE'S  (HANNAH)  PRACTICAL  PIETY; 

Or,  the  luHucuie  of  tbu  Hcli^'iou  of  the  Heart  on  the  Conduct  of  the  Life,  32nio,  portrait,  cloth. 
^- !«'•      ,  ,  Cadell,  imO 

The  only  complete  small  edificm.  It  was  revised  just  before  her  death,  and  contains  much 
Improvement,  which  is  cojjyritfht. 

IVIORE'S  (HA-NNAH)  SACRED  DRAMAS, 

chiefly  intended  for  Young  I'eoplc,  to  wliieh  is  added  "  Scnsibilitv,"  an  Epistle,  3-nio,  (pub.  at 
is.  6(/.),  gilt  cloth,  gilt  edfc'es,  2j.  "  Cadell, 

This  is  the  last  genuine  edition,  and  contains  some  copyright  editions,  which  arc  not  in  any 
other. 

IVIORE'S  (HANNAH)  SEARCH  AFTER  HAPPINESS; 

^^  ith  Ballads,  Tales,  Hymns,  and  Epitaphs,  a2mo,  (pub.  at  -Zs.  6d.),  gilt  cloth,  gilt  edges.  Is.  M. 

Cadell, 

IVIORE'S  (HANNAH)  BIBLE  RHYMES, 

On  the  names  and  prinripal  Incidents  of  all  the  Books  of  the  Old  and  New  Testament,  3'2mo, 
portrait  and  woodcuts,  (pub.  at  is.),  gilt  cloth,  gilt  edges,  U.  Gd.  Cadell, 

PALEY'S  WORKS, 

ly  ONK  voMiMB,  consisting  of  his  Natural  Theologj-,  Moral  and  Political  Philosophy,  Kvidenccs 
of  Christianity,  Hora^  Paulina-,  Clergyman's  Companion  in  Visiting  the  Sick,  Sc.Svo,  handsomely 
printed  in  double  columns,  (pub.  at  Ul».  (kl.),  cloth,  bs.  '  IWi 

PICTORIAL  DICTIONARY  OF  THE  HOLY  BIBLE, 

Or,  a  Cj  elopa_'dia  of  Illustrations,  Cirapliic,  Historical,  and  Pescriptive,  of  the  Sacred  Writings, 
by  reference  to  the  Manners,  Customs,  Kites,  Traditions,  Antiquities,  and  Literature  of  Lastern 
ISations,  2  vols.  4to.  (upwards  of  Hail  double-column  pages  in  good  type),  with  upwards  of  UIUO 
illustrative  Woodcuts  (pub.  at  •;;.  Ids.),  extra  cloth,  \l.  Ids'.  1(M6 

POOL'S  (MATHEW)  ANNOTATIONS  UPON  THE  HOLY  BIBLE, 

Wherein  the  Sacred  Text  is  inserted,  and  various  Readings  annexed,  together  with  the  Parallel 
Scriptures  ;  the  more  dilBeult  Terms  in  each  Verse  are  explained,  seeming  Contradictions  recon- 
ciled. Questions  and  Doubts  resolved,  and  the  whole  Text  opened,  3  large  vols,  imperial  Svo,  (pub. 
atl3/.  \bs.),  cloth,  3(.  3«.  1»»6 

Cecil  says,  'if  we  must  have  commentators,  as  we  certainly  must.  Pool  is  incomparable,  and  I 
had  alrnost  said,  abundant  of  himselr,'  and  the  Rev.  E.  Biekersteth  pronounces  the  annotations  to 
be  judicious  and  full.  It  is  no  mean  praise  of  this  valuable  work  that  it  is  in  the  list  of  books 
recommended  to  clergymen  by  Bp.  Tomline.  It  is  likewise  recommended  by  (jUpin,  Urs.  E. 
WiUiams,  Adam  Clarke,  Doddridge,  Uorne,  and  the  learned  in  general. 

SCRIPTURE  GENEALOGIES, 

Containing  38  beautifully  executed  Lithographic  Drawings,  of  all  the  Genealogies  recorded  in 
the  Sacred  Scriptures,  according  to  every  Family  and  Tribe ;  with  the  line  of  our  Saviour  Jesus 
Christ  observed  from  Adam  to  the  Virgin  Mary,  by  J.  P.  Morris,  Esq.,  royal  4to,  (pub.  at  ll.\U.6d.) , 
cloth,  gilt,  7».  ed. 

SIMEON'S  WORKS, 

Including  his  Skeletons  of  Sermons  and  Iloa.t  Homilktic.e,  or  Discourses  digested  into 
one  continued  Series,  and  forming  a  Commentary  upon  every  Book  of  the  Old  and  r\ew  Testa- 
ment;  to  which  are  annexed  an  improved  edition  of  Claude^s  Essay  on  the  Composition  of  a 
Sermon,  and  very  comprehensive  Indexes,  edited  by  the  Kev.  THo.MAa  Uabtwei,l  Horne,  21 
vols.  Svo,  (pub.  at  10/.  lite.),  cloth,  71.  7». 

The  following  miniature  editions  of  Simeon's  popular  works  are  uniformly  printed  in  32nio,  and 
bound  in  cloth  : 

THE  CHRISTIAN'S  ARMOUR,  M. 

THE  EXCELLENCY  OF  THE  LITURGY",  M. 

THE  OFFICES  OF  THE  HOLY  SPIRIT,  M. 

HUMILIATION  OF  THE  SON  OF  GOD:  TWELVE  SERMONS,  9d. 

APPEAL  TO  MEN  OF  WISDOM  AND  CANDOUR,  Od. 

DISCOURSES  ON  BEHALF  OF  THE  JEWS,  U.  Gd. 

"The  works  of  Sinieon,  containing  Z't'.iC,  discourses  on  the  principal  passages  of  the  Old  and  New 
Testament  will  be  found  peculiarly  ailanted  to  assist  the  studies  of  the  younger  clergy  in  their 
preparation  lor  the  pulpit;  they  will  likewise  serve  as  a  Body  of  Divinity;  and  are'by  many 
recouuneuded  as  a  Biblical  Commcntar)-,  well  adapted  to  be  reau  in  families.  '—XauindM. 


PUBLISHED  OR  SOLD  BY  H.  G.  BOHN.  25 

SOUTH'S  (DR.  ROBERT)  SERMONS: 

To  which  are  annexed  the  chief  heads  of  tlie  Sermons,  a  Biographical  Memoir,  and  General  Index, 
•2  vols,  royal  Svo,  (pub.  at  11.  is.),  cloth,  ISs.  1S4-4 

TAYLOR'S  (JEREMY)  COMPLETE  WORKS, 

With  an  Essay,  Biographical  and  Critical,  i  large  vols,  imperial  Svo,  portrait,  (pub.  at  3/.  15s.), 
cloth,  31.  Ss.  183(i 

TAYLOR'S  (ISAAC  OF  ONCAR)  NATURAL  HISTORY   OF  ENTHUSIASM. 

Tenth  Edition,  fcap.  Svo,  cloth,  5s.  1SM5 

"  It  is  refreshing  to  us  to  meet  with  a  ^\o^k  bearing  as  this  unquestionably  does,  the  impress  of 
bold,  povs'erful.  and  original  thought.  Its  most  strikingly  original  views,  however,  never  trans* 
gress  the  boimds  of  jnire  Protestant  ovthoiloxy,  or  violate  the  "spirit  of  truth  anil  soberness;  and 
yet  it  discusses  topics  constituting  the  very  root  and  basis  of  those  furious  polemics  which  have 
shaken  repeatedly  the  whole  intellectual  and  moral  world  " — Athenaum. 

TAYLOR'S  (ISAAC)  FANATICISM. 

Tliird  Edition,  carefully  revised.    Foolscap  Svo,  cloth,  6s.  1S43 

"It  is  the  reader's  fault,  if  he  does  not  rise  from  the  perusal  of  such  a  volume  as  the  present  a 
wiser  and  a  better  man." — Ecclectic  Rei-iem. 

TAYLOR'S  (ISAAC)  SATURDAY  EVENING. 

Seventh  Edition.    Foolscap  Svo,  cloth,  as.  1844 

"'Saturday  Evening,'  and  '  Aatural  History  of  Enthusiasm,'  are  two  noble  productions." — 
Blackwood's  Magazine. 

TAYLOR'S  (ISAAC)  ELEMENTS  OF  THOUGHT, 

Or  concise  Explanations,  aliihabetically  arranged,  of  the  jirincipal  Terms  employed  in  the  usual 
Branches  of  Intellectual  Philosophy.    Seventh  Edition,    ll'mo,  cloth,  4«.  lS4d 

TAYLOR'S  (ISAAC)  ANCIENT  CHRISTIANITY, 

AND  THE  DOCTRINES  OF  TUE  OXFOKD  "TRACTS  FOR  TUE  TIMES."  Fourth  Edi- 
tion, with  a  Supplement  and  Indexes.    2  vols.  Svo,  (pub.  at  11.  is.),  cloth,  ISs.  1344 

TAYLOR'S  (ISAAC)  LECTURES  ON  SPIRITUAL  CHRISTIANITY. 

Svo,  (pub.  at  -is.  W.),  cloth,  'is.  1S41 

TAYLOR'S  (ISAAC)  HOME  EDUCATION. 

Fourth  Edition.    Foolscap  Svo,  (pub.  at  7s.  I3('.|,  cloth,  5s.  1^2 

TOMLINE'S    (BISHOP)    INTRODUCTION    TO   THE   STUDY   OF  THE  BIBLE, 

OR  ELEMENTS  OF  CHRISTIAN  THEOLOGY.  Containing  Proofs  of  the  Authenticity  and 
Inspiration  of  the  Holy  Scriptures  ;  a  Summary  of  the  History  of  the  Jews ;  an  Account  of  the 
Jewish  Sects;  and  a  brief  Statement  of  the  Contents  of  the  several  Books  of  the  Old  and  New 
Testaments.  Nineteenth  Edition,  elegantly  printed  on  tine  paper.  12mo,  (pub.  at  os.  6(i.),  cloth, 
3s.  ed.  lS4.i 

"  Well  adapted  as  a  ntanual  for  students  in  divinity,  and  may  be  read  with  advantage  by  the  most 
experienced  divine." — Marsh's  Lectures. 

WADDINGTON'S   (DEAN    OF    DURHAM)    HISTORY   OF  THE     CHURCH. 

FROM  THE  EARLIEST  AGES  TO  THE  REFORM.YTION,   (published  by  the  Society  for 
the  Promotion  of  Useful  Knowledge)  complete    in  one  closely-printed  volume,  Svo.,  (pub.  at 
14s.),  cloth,  10s. 
Enlarged  Edition.    3  vols.  Svo,  (pub.  at  11. 10s.),  cloth  bds.,  11.  Is. 

WADDINGTON'S     (DEAN    OF     DURHAM)     HISTORY     OF    THE     CHURCH 

DURING  THE  REFORMATION.    3  vols.  Svo,  (pub.  at  U.  lls..Ci/.),  cloth  bds.,  ISs.  1841 

WILBERFORCE'S  PRACTICAL  VIEW  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

With  a  comprehensive  Memoir  of  the  Author,  by  the  Rev.  T.  Pkice,  ISmo,  printed  in  a  large 
handsome  type,  (pub.  at  tis.),  gilt  cloth,  28.  6d.  1845 

WILLMOTT'S  (R.  A.)  PICTURES  OF  CHRISTIAN  LIFE. 

Fcap.  Svo,  (pub.  at  6*.),  cloth,  3s.  tii/.  Hatchard,  1841 


S6  CATALOGUE   OF   NEW  BOOKS 


jfTorrtgn  ILnnguagrs  nnti  llitfrnturc; 

INCLCDINQ 

CLASSICS  AND  TRANSLATIONS,  CLASSICAL  CRITICISM,  DICTIONARIES 
GRAMMARS,   COLLEGE   AND   SCHOOL   BOOKS. 

♦ 

ATLASES.— WILKINSON'S  CLASSICAL  AND  SCRIPTURAL  ATLAS, 

Witli  Historical  niid  ChroniilniricHl  Tables,  imp.  .Ito,  ucw  and  improved  edition,  Sli  maps,  coloured 
fjiub.  at  -21.  ■!«. I,  h.ill-bd.  moroecii,  1/.  11*.  M.  1**2 

WILKINSON'S  GENERAL  ATLAS. 

New  and  imnnived  eilition,  with  all  the  Uailroada  inserted.  Population  accordins  to  the  laBt 
Census,  I'arliamentary  Returns,  S:c.,  imp.  4to,  4G  maps,  coloured,  (pub.  at  U.  IBj.),  ball'  bound 
morocco,  U.  5«.  ^^^ 

AINSWORTH'S  LATIN  DICTIONARY. 

Reprinted  from  the  best  Fnlio  Kdition,  with  ntimcrous  Additions,  Emendations,  and  Improve- 
ments, by  the  Uev.  B.  W.  Be atsi>.\.  .\.M.  Hevised  and  cotxected  by  W.  Ellis,  Ksy.,  AM.  One 
large  vol',  imperial  8vo,  (pub.  at  II.  Us.  6</.),  cloth,  1/.  U.  ^^*3 

BENTLEY'S  (RICHARD)  WORKS. 

Containing'  Hissertations  upon  the  Kpistles  of  Phalaris,  Themistocles,  Socrates,  Euripides,  and 
the  I'ablcs  of  .Ksop;  Kpistnla  ad  Jo.  Millium;  Sermons;  Boyle  Lecture;  Keniarks  on  Free- 
thinking;  Critical  Works,  &e.  Edited,  with  copious  Indices  and  Notes,  by  the  1!ev..1lexasdbk 
Dyce.    3  vols.  8vo,  a  beautifully  printed  Edition,  (pub.  at  11. 18s.),  cloth,  II.  Is.  l!i36-38 

BI3L1A  HEBRAICA,  EX  EDITIONS  VANDER  HOOCHT. 

lteeo"iiovit  J.  D'.Vllemand.    Very  thick  8vo,  hiindsoniely  printed,  (pub.  at  U.  is.),  cloth,  lo». 

Lond.  Dunca*.  1840 

CORPUS  POETARUIVI  LATINORUM. 

Ediilit  G.  S.  W.u.KER.    Complete  in  oiu-  verv  thick  vol.  royal  8vo,  (pub.  at  2'.  2s.),  cloth,  18s.    1840 
This  compreheriVive  volume  contains  a  library  of  the  poetical  Latin  classics,  correctly  printed 

from  the  best  texts,  viz. :  „  ,         .      „.     , 

Catidlus,  Virffil,  Lucan,  Sulpicia,  Colpurnuis  Siculus, 

Tibullus,  Ovid,  Versius,  Statins,  Ausoniu*, 

Vroperiius,  Horace,  Juvcn.il,  Silius  Italicus,  Claudian. 

Eucietius,  I'ha-drus,  Martial,  Valerius  EUccus, 

DAMMll    LEXICON  CR/ECUM,    HOMERICUM   ET  PINDARICUM. 

Cura  Duncan,  royal  4to,  new  edition,  printed  on  fine  paper,  (pub.  at  hi.  hs.J.  cloth,  1/.  Is.  1842 

"  \n  excellent  "w  ork  ;  the  merits  of  w  hich  have  been  universally  acknowledged  by  literary  ch«. 
meters. "— 7>r  Uihdin. 

GAELIC-ENGLISH  AND   ENGLISH-GAELIC  DICTIONARY. 

With  E.xamples,  Phrases,  and  Etymological  Remarks,  by  Two  Mk.m»ebs  op  tde  1Iigbl.4T«i> 
Society.  l'om|>lctc  in  one  thick  vol.  Svo.  New  Edition,  containing  many  more  words  than  the 
Quarto  Edition,  (pub.  at  U.  Is.),  cloth,  lis.  1***" 

HERMANN'S  WANUAL  OF  THE  POLITICAL  ANTIQUITIES  OF  GREECE, 

Historically  considered,  translated  from  the  German,  Svo,  (published  at  los.),  d  'lb.  H;;'-  "d. 

Oxtoril.  Tullmys.  1836, 
"  Hermann's  Manual  of  Greek  Antiquities  is  most  important."— TAirtwoH's  Wui<..o/6r«c«. 
vol.  i.  ]).  443. 

LEMPRIERE'S  CLASSICAL  DICTIONARY.  .... 

MiMATiiKK  Edition,  containing  a  lull  Account  of  all  the  Pronrr  Names  mentioned  in  Ancient 
Authors,  and  much  useful  information  respecting  the  uses  and  habits  ol  the  Greeks  and  llomans, 
new  and  complete  edition,  blkcamlv  i-uinied  in  peakl  tvpe,  in  one  vtrj' tuick  vol.  ISino, 
(pub.  at  7s.  C((.),  cloth,  4s.  M.  1*" 

LEE'S  HEBREW  GRAMMAR,  ,  w    .u   tr  „ 

Compiled  from  the  be^t  Avitbciriiies,  and  principally  from  Oriental  Sources,  designed  fop  the  y«e 
of  Students  in  tlie  Cniversities.  New  Edition,  enriched  wiih  much  original  niaitcr.  i5i.«li 
Thousand,  Svo,  (published  at  12«.),  cloth,  8«.  londo.t,  Duncan,  ISM-J 


PUBLISHED   OR  SOLD   BY  H.  G.  BOIIX.  27 

LEE'S  HEBREW,  CHALDEE,  AND  ENGLISH  LEXICON. 

Compiled  from  tbe  best  Authorities,  Oriental  and  European,  Je\^i8h  and  Chrietian,  including 
BuxTOKF,  Taylor,  PiaKHOBST,  and  CrKSENiiis;  containing  all  the  Words,  with  their  Inflec- 
tions, Idiomatic  Usages,  etc.  found  in  the  Hebrew  and  Cbaldee  Text  of  tlie  Old  Testament; 
with  numerous  corrections  of  former  Lexico^-aphers  and  Commentators,  followed  by  an  English 
Index,  iu  one  thick  vol.  8vo.    Third  Thousand,  (pub.  at  U.  5s.),  cloth.  Ids.  Lond.  1844 

LIVII  HISTORIA,  EX  RECENSIONE  DRAKENBORCHII  ET  KREYSSIG  ; 

Et  Annotationcs  Crevikrii,  Stkotuii,  RnpERTT,  Kaschig  et  alinrum  ;  Animadversiones  Nik- 
BUHRii,  Wachsmuthii,  et  suas  addidit  Traveks  Twiss,  J.  C.  B.  Coll,  Univ.  Oxon.  Sociua  et 
Tutor.    Cum  Indice  amplissimo,  4  vols.  8vo,  (pub.  at  U.  ISs.),  cloth,  II.  8s.  Oxford,  1841 

This  is  the  best  and  most  useful  edition  of  Livy  ever  published  in  octavo,  and  it  is  preferred 
in  all  our  universities  and  classical  schools. 

NIEBUHR'S  HISTORY  OF  ROME, 

Epitomized,  (for  the  use  of  Colleges  and  Schools,)  with  Chronological  Tables  and  Appendix,  by 
Tkavebs  Twiss,  B.CJJ.,  complete  in  2  vols,  bound  in  1,  8vo,  (pub.  at  \l.  Is.),  clolh,  Vis. 

Oxford,  Tallioys,  lKi7 
"  This  edition  by  Mr.  Twiss  is  a  very  valuable  addition  to  classical  learning,  clearly  and  ably 
embodying  all  the  latest  efforts  of  the  laborious  Niebuhr." — Literary  Gmette. 

OXFORD  CHRONOLOGICAL  TABLES  OF  UNIVERSAL  HISTORY, 

From  til*.'  earliest  Perioil  to  the  present  Time;  in  which  all  the  j;reat  P^vents,  Civil,  Religious, 
Scientifip,  and  Literary,  of  the  various  Nations  of  the  AVorld  are  placed,  at  one  view,  under  the 
eye  of  the  Header,  in  a  Series  of  parallel  columns,  so  as  to  exhibit  the  state  of  the  whole  Civilized 
\Vorld  at  any  epoch,  and  at  the  same  time  I'orm  a  continuous  chain  of  History,  with  Genealog:ieal 
Tables  of  all  the  principal  Dynasties.  Complete  in  3  Sections,  vijn — 1.  Ancient  History.  II.  Middle 
Ages.  III.  Modern  History.  With  a  most  complete  Index  to  the  entire  work,  folio,  (pub.  at  U.168.), 
half  hound  morocco,  \l.  Is.  1839 

The  above  is  also  sold,  separately,  as  follows : — 

THE  MIDDLE  AGKS  AND  MODERN  IIISTOKY, 

2  parts  iu  1,  folio,  (pub.  at  \l.  'Is.  (id.),  half  bound  morocco,  15s. 

MODERN  HISTORY, 

Folio,  (pub.  at  12s.),  sewed,  8s. 

RITTER'S  HISTORY  OF  ANCIENT  PHILOSOPHY, 

Trnnslated  from  the  German  by  A.  J.  \S .  Jolinson,  B..\.  Trin.  Coll.  Cambridge,  3  vols.  Svo,  (pub. 
at  2(.  8s.),  cloth,  i;.  lls.iirf.  Oxford,  Talhoys,  1838 

Vol.  IV.  to  complete  the  work  is  in  the  press,  and  will  be  ready  iu  February  184ii.  It  will  be 
published  at  Ifis. ;  but  those  who  purchase  copies  of  tbe  3  vols,  from  the  advertiser,  will  be  en- 
titled to  have  tbe  4th  at  the  same  rate  of  reduction  iu  price. 

"  An  imiiortant  work ;  it  may  be  said  to  have  superseded  all  the  previous  histories  of  philo- 
sophy, and  to  have  become  the  standard  work  on  the  subject.  Mr.  Jonnson  is  also  exempt  from 
the  usual  faults  of  translators." — Quarterhj  Rerieiv. 

SCHOMANN'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  ASSEMBLIES  OF  THE  ATHENIANS, 

Translated  from  the  Latiu,  with  a  complete  Index,  Svo,  (published  at  10s.  6d.l,  cloth,  as. 

Cainb.  1838 
A  book  of  the  same  school  and  character  as  the  works  of  Ileeren,  Boechk,  Schlegel,  &c. 

SOPHOCLES,  LITERALLY  TRANSLATED  INTO  ENGLISH  PROSE, 

With  Notes.    Svo,  4th  improved  Edition,  (pub.  at  15s.),  cloth,  9s.  Oxford,  Talbays,!^^ 

ELLENDT'S  GREEK  AND  ENGLISH  LEXICON  TO  SOPHOCLES, 

Translated  by  Caby.    Svo,  (pub.  at  12s.),  cloth,  6s.  Crf.  Oxford,  Talboys,\M\ 

STUART'S  HEBREW  CHRETSOMATHY, 

Desiirned  as  an  Introduction  to  a  Course  of  Hebrew  Study.  Srd Edition,  Svo,  (pub.  at  14s.), cloth, 
9j.  Oxford,  Tallmys,  IS*4 

This  work,  which  was  desig;ned  by  its  learned  author  to  facilitate  the  study  of  Hebrew,  has  had 
a  very  extensive  sale  in  America.  It  forms  a  desirable  adjunct  to  all  Hebrew  Grammars,  and  is 
suflicient  to  complete  the  system  of  instruction  in  that  language. 

TACITUS,    CUM  NOTIS  BROTIERI,  CURANTE  A.  J.  VALPY. 

Editio  nova,  cmn  Appeudice.    4vol3.  Svo,  (pub.  at 2/.  Ifc-.),  cloth,  \l.  6s. 

The  most  complete  Edition. 

TACITUS,  A  NEW  AND  LITERAL  TRANSLATION. 

Svo,  (pub.  at  IDs.),  cloth,  lUs.  (jd.  Oxford,  Talboys,  1839 


28  CATALOGUE   OP   NEW  BOOKS. 

TENNEMANN'S  MANUAL  OF  THE  HISTORY  OF  PHILOSOPHY, 

Translated  from  the  Geniian,  by  the  Uev.  AuTutin  Joussox,  M.A.,  Professor  of  Aiij?loSaxon  in 
the  Universitj'  of  0.\fonl.    In  one  thick  closely  printed  volume,  8vo,  (nub.  at  H».),  boards,  'Jji. 

Oxford,  TalOoyii,  1S32 
"  A  work  which  marks  out  all  the  Icadine  epochs  in  philosophy,  and  (civcs  minute  chronological 
information  conccruini;  them,  with  bioifraphical  notices  of  the  founders  and  followers  ot  the 
principal  schools,  amp(e  texts  of  their  works,  and  an  account  of  the  principal  editions.  In  aword, 
to  the  student  of  |)liilosopliy,  I  know  of  no  work  in  English  likely  to  prove  half  so  useful."— 1/ay- 
ward,  in  his  Translation  o/Gotfhe's  Faust. 

TERENTIUS,  CUM  NOTIS  VARIORUM,  CURA  ZEUIMII, 

Cura  Giles  ;  acred.  Index  copiosisi^imus.       Complete  in  one  thick  vol.  8vo,    (pub.  at  Ifi*.), 
cloth,  8».  lasr 

WILSON'S  (JAMES,  PROFESSOR  OF  FRENCH  IN  ST.  GREGORY'S  COL- 
LEGE), FUENril-ENGl.lSIl  AMI  ENGLISH. FRENCH  DICTIONARY,  containini;  full 
Explanations,  l)etinitions.  Synonyms,  Idioms,  I'roverbs,  Terms  of  .\rt  and  Science,  and  Rules  of 
Pronunciation  in  each  Laniiuape.  Compiled  from  the  Dictiosabies  ov  the  Acade:«y,  Bowykr, 
CuAMBAUD,  Garmeb,  Laveai  X,  Des  CABBiEnEs  ASD  Fain,  JoH.Nsos  anuWalkeb.  1  lantc 
closely  printed  vol.  imperial  nvo,  (pub.  at  -/.  is.),  cloth,  H.  8«.  1**1 

XENOPHONTIS  OPERA,  GR.  ET.  LAT.  SCHNEIDERI  ET  ZEUNII, 

.\ccedit  Index,  (I'obson  am»  Elmsi.ky's  Editig.n),  10  vols,  limo,  handsomely  i>rinted  in  a  larjije 
type,  done  up  in  o  vols.  (pub.  at  4^  1(»k.),  cloth,  ISs.  1841 

— ^—  The  same,  larije  paper,  ID  vols,  crown  Svo,  done  up  in  5  vols.,  cloth,  U.  hs. 


Nobfls,  21«Jaorfes  of  dFirtton,  flight  Kratiing. 


AINSWORTH'S  TOWER  OF  LONDON. 

.An  Historical  Romance,  illustrated  by  Geubije  Cruikshank.  Thick  medium  Svo.  New  Edition, 
with  %  hii^hly-tinished  Etchings  on  steel,  and  fine  wood  Engravings  (pub.  at  16«  ),  cloth,  richly 
gilt,  Itls.  6d.  l»4a 

Of  this  very  elegant  and  popular  volume  fifteen  thousand  copies  have  already  been  sold. 

AINSWORTH'S  WINDSOR  CASTLE. 

An  Historical  Romance,  illustrated  by  George  Cbcikshaxk  and  Tost  Joba>mot.  Medium 
Svo,  fine  Portrait,  and  life  Steel  and  Wood  Engravings,  gilt  cloth,  10«.  6d.  1S4J 

BREMER'S  (MISS)  NOVELS  AND  TALES,  BY  MARY  HOWITT; 

Viz.  Home — Neighbours  — President's   Haughter—Niua— Every    Day  Life,    a    Diarj-— Strife    and 

Peace — II Family — Tralinnan — .\xeland.\nna — Tales.  Together  11  vols,  post  Svo,  comprisinff 

14  Novels  and  Tales,  being  the  wliole  of  the  Author's  published  Works;  with  an  authentic 
Portrait  of  Miss  Bremer.  (Pub.  at  5(.  lbs.  6d.),  handsomely  printed  on  fine  paper,  extra  gilt  cloth, 
uniform,  U.  16s.  l*B-4i 

"  By  far  the  best  translations  of  these  charming  fictions,  and  the  only  authentic  ones." 
yiiss  Breme/s  yoveU  are  also  sold  separately  as/olloics ; 

THE   HOME:    OR,   FAMILY    CARES    AND.  FAMILY   JOYS.     Second  Edition,    revised 

2  vols,  post  Svo,  (pub.  at  11.  Is.),  cloth,  7«.  6d.  1843 

THE  NEIGHBOUKS,  A  STORY  OF  EVERY-DAY  LIFE.    Translated  by  Maby  IIowiii. 
Third  Edition,  revised.    2  vols,  post  Svo,  (i>ub.  at  ISj.),  cloth,  7s.  fid.  1S43 

THE  PRESIDENT'S  DAIGHTER.  AND  NINA.  Two  Novels,  translated  by  Maby  IIowitt. 

3  vols,  post  Svo,  (pub.  at  II.  lis.  Gii.),  cloth,  Ms.  6rf.  1343 

NEW    SKETCHES   OV   EVERY-DAY    LIFE,    A    DIARY;    together  with    STRIFE    AND 
PE.VCE.    Translated  by  Mary  Uowitt.    e  vols.  postSvo,  (pub.  at  H.  Is.),  cloth,  7s.  W.  ISJl 

TRALINNAN  ;  A.XEL  AND  ANNA  ;  THE  U FAMILY  ;  AND  OTHEH  TALES.  Trans- 

lated  by  Maby  Uowitt.    2  vols,  post  Svo,  with  a  Portrait,  (pub.  at  1».  1».),  cloth,  7».  6d.  IS+J 

CRUIKSHANK  "AT  HOME;" 

;V  New  Family  .\lhuin  of  Endless  Entertainment,  consisting  of  a  Series  of  Tales  and  Sketches  by  the 
most  popular  .\utliors,  with  numerous  clever  and  humorous  Illustrations  on  Wood  by  CartK. 
SHANK  and  Seymour.  Also,  CRUIKSH  AN  K'S  ODD  VOLUME,  OR  HOOK  OF  VARIETY. 
Illustrated  by  Two  Odd  Fellows— Seymoib  and  Cbuiksuask.  Together  4  vols,  bound  in  ". 
Foolscap  Svo,  (pub.  ut  -^l.  ISa.),  cloth  gilt,  10*.  6d.  1845 


PUBLISHED   OR   SOLD   BY  H.  G.  BOIIN.  29 

HOWITT'S  (WILLIAM)  LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  JACK  OF  THE  MILL. 

A  Fireside  Story.  By  Wii,lia:m  IIowitt.  Secoml  Edition.  2  vols,  foolscap  8vo,  witli  46  Illustra- 
tions on  AVooil,  (pub.  at  lo«.),  cloth,  ^s.  6d.  1S45 

HOWITT'S     (WILLIAM)     WANDERINGS     OF     A    JOURNEYMAN     TAILOR, 

TIIROUGn  EUROPE  AND  THE  EAST,  DURING  THE  YEARS  1824  to  1840,  Trans- 
lated by  William  Howitt.    Foolscap  Svo,  with  Portrait,  (pub.  at  6s.),  cloth,  3s.  6d.  1844 

HOWITT'S  (WILLIAM)  GERMAN  EXPERIENCES. 

.\ddressed  to  the  English,  both  Goers  abroad  and  Stayers  at  Home.  One  vol.  foolscap  Svo,  (pub. 
at  6s.),  cloth,  3s.  6</.  1844 

JOE  MILLER'S  JEST-BOOK. 

Beins  a  Collection  of  the  most  excellent  Bon  Mots,  Brilliant  Jests,  and  Striking  Anecdotes  in  the 
English  Languajje.  Complete  in  one  thick  and  closely  but  elegantly  printed  volume,  foolscap 
12mo,  Frontispiece,  (pub.  at  4«.),  cloth,  3s.  1840 

JERROLD'S  (DOUGLAS)  CAKES  AND  ALE. 

A  Collection  of  Humorous  Tales  and  Sketches.  2  vols,  post  Svo,  with  Plates  by  Geokge  CnuiK- 
SHANK,  (pub.  at  los.),  cloth  gilt,  84-.  1842 

LEVER'S  ARTHUR  O'LEARY  :    HIS   WANDERINGS   AND    PONDERINCS    IN 

M.\N'Y  LA^'1)S.  Edited  by  Harkt  Lorbequeb.  Cruikshank's  New  Illustrated  Edition.  Com  - 
plete  in  one  vol.  Svo,  (pub.  at  12s.),  cloth,  9s.  1845 

LOVER'S  LEGENDS  AND  STORIES  OF  IRELAND. 

Both  Series.  2  v(ds.  foolscap  Svo.  Fourth  Eihtion,  embellished  with  Woodcuts  by  Harvet, 
(pub.  at  los.1,  cloth,  /s.  6((.  I837 

LOVER'S  HANDY  ANDY. 

A  Tale  of  Irish  Life.  Medium  Svo.  Third  Edition,  with  24  c'  aracteristic  Illustrations  on  Steel, 
(pub.  at  13s.),  cloth,  7s.  6rf.  1845 

LOVER'S  TREASURE  TROVE;  OR,  L.  S.  D. 

A  Romantic  Irish  Tale  of  the  last  Centurj-.  Medium  Svo.  Second  Edition,  with  2G  characteristic 
Illustrations  on  Steel,  (pub.  at  14s.),  cloth  9s.  1846 

MAN-C'WAR'S-MAN.     BY  BILL  TRUCK,  SENIOR, 

Boatswain-  of  the  Royal  College  of  Gbee.nwicu.  Complete  in  a  thick  closely  printed 
volume,  foolscap  Svo,  (pub.  at  6s.),  gilt  cloth',  4s.  Blackwood,  1843 

"  These  sea-papers  are  among  the  best  we  ever  read.  They  give  an  animated  picture  of  life  on 
board  a  man-of-war." — Literary  Gazette. 

MARRYAT'S  (CAPT.)  POOR  JACK, 

Illustrated  by  46  large  and  exquisitely  beautiful  Engravings  on  wood,  after  the  masterly  designs 
ofC'LARKSON  Stanfield,  R.  .A.    One  handsome  volume,  royal  Svo,   (pub.  at  14s.),  gilt  cloth,  9s. 

1840 

MILLER'S  GODFREY  MALVERN,  OR  THE  LIFE  OF  AN  AUTHOR. 

By  the  Author  of  "  Gideon  Giles,"  "  Royston  Gower,"  "  Day  in  the  Woods,"  &c.  &c.  2  vols  in  1, 
Svo,  with  24  clever  Illustrations  by  Phiz,  (pub.  at  13s.),  cloth,  6s.  M.  1843 

"  This  Work  has  a  tone  and  an  individuality  which  distinguish  it  from  all  others,  and  cannot  be 
read  without  ])leasure.  Mr.  Miller  has  the  forms  and  colours  of  rustic  life  more  completely  under 
his  control  than  any  of  his  predecessors." — Athenteum. 

MILLER'S  GIDEON  GILES  THE  ROPER. 

A  Taleof  EngUsh  Countrj-  Life.  With  36 etched  Illustrations.   Svo,  (pub.  at  13s.),  gilt  cloth,  5s.  fid. 

laii 
PICTURES  OF  THE  FRENCH. 

A  Series  of  Literary  and  Graphic  Delineations  of  French  Character.  By  Jules  Janin%  Balzac, 
CoR3iEMK,  and  other  celebrated  French  .Authors.  One  large  vol.  royal  Svo,  illustrated  by  upwards 
of  230  humorous  and  extremely  clever  Wood  Engravings  by  distinguished  Artists,  (pub. "as  \L  bs.), 
cloth  gilt,  12s.  1»40 

This  book  is  extremely  clever,  both  'in  the  letter-press  and  nl.r  es,  and  has  had  an  immense  run 
in  France,  greater  even  than  the  Pickwick  Papers  in  this  co  intry. 

TROLLOPE'S  (MRS.)  LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  MICHAEL  ARMSTRONG, 

The  Factorj-  Boy,  medium  Svo.  with  24  steel  plates,  (pub.  at  12s-),  gilt  cloth,  6s.  Hd.  184U 

TROLLOPE'5  (MRS.)  JESSIE  PHILLIPS. 

A  Tale  of  the  Present  Day,  medium  Svo,  port.&'  12  steel  plates  (pub.  at  12».),  cloth  gilt,  6s.  G(/.  1844 


CATALOGUE   OF   NEW  ROOKS 


gubenile  an^  irlnnrntarg  13oofes,  (S^smnastics,  ^c. 


BINGLE-y'S  USEFUL  KNOWLEDGE, 

Or.  a  t'ainiliar  Account  of  all  the  various  rroductions  of  Nature,  Mineral, Vegetable, and  AnimaL 
systematically  arranscd,  which  arc  chiefly  employed  for  the  use  of  Man,  illustrated  hy  Plates  and 
l.'jii  ^^■or.d.cuts,  Hiul  intended  as  a  work  both  of  Instruction  and  Kefercnce.  Sixth  Kdiiion,  revised, 
enlarged,  and  altered  to  the  existini;  state  of  Bcieace,  by  D.  Coof  eb,  of  the  British  Museum,  2 
vols,  post  Svo,  (pub.  at  10s.),  cloth,  Ul«.  6d.  Trade  edition,  1842 

DRAPER'S  JUVENILE  NATURALIST, 

Or  Country-  \\  alks  in  Sprins;,  Summer,  Autumn,  and  Winter,  square  12niO, with  eighty  beautifully 
executed  Uoodeuts,  (pub.  at  /«.  lii/.),  cloth,  gilt  edges,  is.  Gd.  1S45 

ENCYCLOP/EDIA  OF  MANNERS  AND  ETIQUETTE, 

Comprising  an  iiunroved  editiou  of  C'hestcrlielJ's  .Vdvice  to  his  Sou  on  Men  and  Manners;  and 
The  Young  MaVs  Own  Book;  a  Manual  of  Politeness,  Intellectual  Improvement,  and  Moral 
Deportment,  24mo,  frontispiece,  cloth,  gilt  edges,  2s.  l&W 

HOWITT'S  (MARY)  CHILD'S  PICTURE  AND  VERSE  BOOK, 

Commonly  called  "Otto  Speckter's  Fable  Book;"  translated  into  English  Verse,  with  French  and 
German  Verses  opposite,  forming  a  Triglott,  square  12mo,  with  100  large  AT  cod  Engravings,  (pub. 
at  lUs.  6d.),  e.\tra  Turkey  cloth,  gilt  edges,  as.  184o 

This  is  one  of  the  most  elegant  juvenile  books  ever  produced,  and  has  the  novelty  of  being  in 
three  languages. 

LAMB'S  TALES  FROM  SHAKSPEARE, 

Designed  principally  for  the  Use  of  Young  Persons,  (written  by  Miss  and  Chislbs  Lamb),  sixth 
edition,  embellished  with  20  large  and  beautiful  Wood-cut  Engravings,  from  designs  by  Uahvby, 
fcap.  8vo,  (pub.  at  7s.  6d.),  cloth,  gilt,  5s.  1843 

"One  of  the  most  useful  and  agreeable  companions  to  the  understanding  of  Shakspeare  which 
have  been  producerl.  The  youtbful  reader  who  is  about  to  taste  the  charms  of  our  great  Bard,  is 
strongly  recommended  to  prepare  himself  by  first  reading  these  elegant  tales."— Quarterln  Uevien 

L.  E.  L.  TRAITS  AND  TRIALS  OF  EARLY  LIFE. 

A  series  of  Tales  addressed  to  Young  People.  By  L.  E.L.  (Miss  LiUDiis).  Fourth  edition,  fcap. 
8vo,  with  a  beautiful  Portrait  Engraved  on  Steel,  (pub.  at  as.),  gilt,  cloth,  3».  6d.  ISla 

LOUDON'S  iMRS.)  ENTERTAINING  NATURA'J:  T, 

Being  popular  l)c5cri])ticins,  Tales,  and  ,\necdotcs  of  m  ire  than  Five  Hundred  Animals,  com- 
preliendins  all  the  Quadrupeds,  Birds,  Fishes,  Keptiles,  Insects,  &c.,  of  which  a  knowledge  is 
indispensalile  in  I'idite  Education  ;  illustrated  hy  upwards  of  400  beautiful  Woodcuts,  by  BswicK, 
Il.\BVEv,  Whimpeb,  and  others,  post  Svo,  gilt,  cloth,  7».  Gd.  1843 

MARTIN  AND  WESTALL'S  PICTORIAL  HISTORY  OF  THE  BIBLE, 

The  letterpress  by  the  R«v.  Uobakt  CAitNTKit,  svo.  144  extremely  beautiful  Wood  Engravings, 
by  the  first  Artists,  (including  reduced  copies  of  .Maiitin'b  celebrated  Pictures.  Belsbazzar's 
Feast,  The  Deluge,  Fall  of  .Mneveb,  &c.),  cloth  gilt,  gilt  edges,  reduced  to  lis.— Whole  bound 
morocco,  richly  gilt,  gilt  edges,  !;<».  1846 

A  most  elegant  present  to  young  people. 

PERCY  TALES  OF  THE  KINGS  OF  ENGLAND; 

Stories  of  Lamps  and  Battle- Fiel.ls,  Wars,  and  VieKiries  (modernized  from  Iloliushed,  Frolssart, 
and  tlie  otlier  Chroniclers).  2  vols,  in  1,  square  12nio.  ( Pailcy  size).  Fourth  Edition,  considerably 
improved,  completed  to  the  present  time,  embellished  with  16  exceedingly  beautiful  Wood 
Engravings,  (pub.  at  9«.),  cloth  gilt,  gilt  edges,  6s.  1846 

This  beautiful  volume  has  enjoyed  a  large  share  of  success,  and  deservedly. 

PINNOCK'S     COMPREHENSIVE  GRAMMAR    OF     MODERN     GEOGRAPHY 

AM)  IIISTOUY,  for  the  use  of  Sclnxds  and  for  Private  Tuition,  in  1  thick  vol.  ISmo,  with 
numerous  Maps,  Views,  and  Costumes,  tinely  Engraved  on  Steel,  (lortieth  thousand),  roan,  os.  Gd. 

1*13 

PINNOCK'S     COMPREHENSIVE    GRAMMAR    OF    ANCIENT    GEOGRAPHY 

AND  IIISTOUY,  for  the  u«e  of  Sebnids  and  for  Private  Tuition,  ISmo,  with  Maps,  Views,  and 
Costumes,  licely  Engraved  on  Steel,  new  edition,  (pub.  at  3s.  Ik/.),  roan,  4«.  6rf. 


PUBLISHED  OR  SOLD  BY  H.  Q.  BOHN.  31 

PINIMOCK'S     COIVIPREHENSIVE    GRAMMAR     OF    SACRED     GEOGRAPHY 

AKI)  HISTOUY,  lor  the  use  of  Schools  and  for  Private  Tuition,  ISmo,  with  Maps,  Views,  and 
Costumes,  finely"  en^tared  on  Steel,  newcdhion,  (pub;  at  5«,  Gd.),  roan,  4s.  Gd.  1345 

PINNOCK'S  COMPREHENSIVE  CRAWtWlAR  OFTHE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE, 

with  Exercises ;  written  in  a  familiar  style,  accompanied  with  Questions  for  lixaniination,  and 
Notes  Critical  and  Explanatory,  intended  lor  the  use  of  Schools,  12mo,  (pub.  at  5s.  6i/.),  roan, 
is.  6d.  lS4a 

STRICKLAND'S  (MISS)   EDWARD  EVELYN, 

A  Tale  of  the  Rebellion  of  1745  ;  to  which  is  added,  "  The  Peasant's  Tale,"  by  Jeffekts  T.1TI.OR, 
foolscap  Svo,  two  line  Plates,  (pub.  at  5s.},  cloth  ti;Ut,  2s.  Od.  1843 

By  the  popular  Author  of  the  Lives  of  the  Queens  of  England. 

WOOD-NOTES  FOR  AtL  SEASONS  (OR  THE  POETRY  OF  BIRDS), 

A  Series  of  Souets  and  Poems  lor  Youn;^  People,  contributed  by  Barry  Cornwall,  Words- 
worth,  Moore,  Coleridge,  C.\.mpbell,  Jo.wna  Baillie,  Eliza  Cook,  Mart  Howitt,  Mas. 
Hemass,  Hogg,  Charlotte  Smith,  &c.,  fcap.  Svo,  TCry  prettily  printed,  with  15  beautiful  Wood 
En^aving's,  (pub.  at  3s.  dd.),  cloth,  gilt  edges,  2s.  1342 

YOUNG  ENGLAND'S  LITTLE  LIBRARY; 

A  Collection  of  Original  Tales  lor  Children,  in  Prose  and  Verse,  by  Mrs.  IIall,  AIrs.  TIowitt  , 
Albert  Smith.  Mit.  Gasfey,  the  .\uthor  of  the  "  New  Tale  of  a  Tub,"  and  other  Autliors,  hand- 
somely jiriiited  in  small  4to.  illustrated  with  upwards  of  SO  very  lars^e  and  clever  Engravings  on 
Wood  and  Stone,  moral  and  humorous,  (pub.  at  lUs.  Od.),  cloth,  gilt  edges,  7s-  ^d.  1S44 

YOUTH'S  (THE)  HANDBOOK  OF  ENTERTAINING  KNOWLEDGE, 

In  a  Series  of  Vamiliai-  Conversatons  (m  the  most  interesting  Productions  of  ]\ature  and  Art,  and 
on  other  Instructive  Topics  of  Polite  Education.  By  a  Lady  (Mrs.  Pallise  r,  the  Sister  of  Capt. 
Marrj'al),  2  vols.  fcap.  Svo,  Woodcuts,  (pub.  at  15s.),  cloth,  gilt,  Gs.  1344 

This  is  a  very  clever  and  instructive  bool(,  adapted  to  the  capacities  of  young  people,  on  the  plan 
of  the  Conversations  on  Chemistry,  Mineralog}',  Botany,  &c. 


JHusic  anti  iEusical  212acirk0. 


THE  MUSICAL  LIBRARY. 

A  Selection  ot  the  best  Vocal  and  Instrumental  Music,  both  English  and  Foreign.  Edited  by  W. 
Ay  RTON,  K«q.,  of  tlic  Opera  House.  S  vols,  folio,  comprehendinBT  more  than  4U0  pieces  of  JNlusic, 
beautifully  printed  with  metallic  types,  (pub.  at  41.  4s.),  sewed,  i;.  Us.  6d. 

The  Vocal  and  Instmmental  may  be  had  separately,  each  in  4  vols,  at  16s. 

MUSICAL  CABINET  AND  HARMONIST. 

A  Collection  of  classical  and  piroulur  Vocal  and  Instrumental  Music ;  comprising  Selections  ft'om 
the  best  productions  of  all  the  Great  Masters;  English,  Scotch,  and  Irish  Melodies;  with  many 
of  the  National  .\irs  of  other  Countries,  cmbi-aeing  Overtures,  Marches,  Bondos,  Quadrilles, 
AValtzes,  and  Gallopades;  also.  Madrigals,  Ilucts,  aiid  Glees;  the  whole  adapted  either  lor  the 
Voii  e,  tlie  Piano-forte,  the  Harp,  or  the  Organ;  with  Pieces  occasionally  for  the  Piute  and  Guitar, 
under  tlip  su]>erint'-ndence  of  an  eni'uent  Professor.  4  vols,  small  folio,  comprtdiending  more  than 
300  pieces  ot  Music,  beautifully  printed  with  metallic  types,  (pub.  at  21.  2s.),  sewed,  IGs". 

The  great  sale  of  the  MirsicAL  Library,  in  consequence  of  its  extremely  low  price,  has  induced 
the  .\dvertiser  to  adopt  the  same  plan  of  selling  the  present  capital  selection.  As  the  contents 
are  quite  dilTerent  from  the  Musical  Libiary,  and  the  intrinsic  merit  of  the  selection  is  equal, 
the  worlt  w ill  no  doubt  meet  with  similar  success. 

MUSIC/v  L  GEM ; 

A  Collection  of  3011  Modern  Sonss,  Duets,  Glees,  &c.,  by  the  most  celebrated  Composers  of 
the  present  day,  adai.ted  for  the  Voice,  Flute,  or  Violin,  (edited  by  John  Pakrv),  3  vols,  in  1, 
Svo,  with  a  beautifully  engraved  Title,  and  a  verj-  richly  illuminated  Frontispiece,  (pub.  at  U.  Is.), 
cloth,  gilt,  lOs.  6rf.  1-       ■  u  ^^^j 

Tiie  above  capital  collection  contains  a  sreat  number  of  the  best  copyright  pieces,  including 
some  of  the  most  popular  songs  of  Braham,  Bishop,  He.     It  fonns  a  most  attractive  volume. 


32  CATALOGUE  OF  NEW  BOOKS. 


iHftiifinc,   Surgery,  iHnatomi?,   (JlTfjcmtstrp, 


BARTON  AND  CASTLE'S   BRITISH   FLORA  MEDICA. 

OrHistorj'of  the  Mcdicinnl  Plants  ol  tJrcat  Britain,  2  vols.  Svo,  upwards  of  200  finely  coloured 
fijniros  of  Plants,  (pnb.  at  :^^3^t.).  cloth.VH.  l(i».  1S45 

An  excpotiinirly  cheap,  clotjant,  and  valuable  work,  heccssarj'  to  evcrj'  medical  practitioner. 

BATEIVIAN  AND  WILLAN'S  DELINEATIONS  OF  CUTANEOUS  DISEASES, 

•Ito,  containing  7-  I'latcs.  bcantifnlly  and  very  accurately  coloured  under  the  superintendence  of 
an  eminent  Professional  Uentleumn,  (Ur.  Cabswell),  (pub.  at  12/.  12*.),  half  bound  morocco, 
5/.  5s.  1840 

"  Ilr.  Bateman's  valuable  work  has  done  more  to  extend  the  knowledjfe  of  cutaneous  diseases 
than  any  other  that  has  ever  appeared." — Dr.  A.  T.  Thompson. 

BOSTOCK'S  (DR.)  SYSTEM  OF   PHYSIOLOGY, 

Coniprisinir  a  Complete  Viev*'  of  the  Present  State  of  the  Science.  4th  Kdition,  revised  anil  cor- 
rected throughout,  Svo  {9UUJ>ages),  (pub.  at  H.),  cloth,  8».  1834 

CELSUS  DE  MEDICINA,  EDITED  BY  E.  MILLIGAN,  IVI.D., 

Cum  liiiUcc  copiosissiino  e\  tnlit.  Tar^M'.     Thick  Svo,  Frontispiece,  (i)ub.  at  16*.)>  floth,  Os. 

Kdinhurgh,  1831 

This  is  tlie  vcn' best  edition  of  Celsus.  It  contains  critical  atid  medical  notes,  applicable  to 
the  practice  of  this  countiy  ;  a  parallel  Table  of  ancient  and  modem  Medical  terms,  synonynies, 
weights,  measures,  &c.,  and,  indeed,  everything  which  can  be  useful  to  the  Metlical  Student ; 
together  with  a  siuijularly  extensive  Index. 

CELSUS,   LATIN  AND  ENGLISH,  INTERLINEAR, 

With  "  Ord()"  and  the  Latin  Text  beneath,  for  the  i-\amination  of  Candidates  at  Apothecaries' 
Hall,  Jind  other  l'u!)hc  liy^rds;  by  Vkmabi.es.     1-mo,  (i)ub.  lOs.  M.),  chith,  hs.  1S.J7 

HOME'S  (SIR  EVERARD)  GREAT  WORK  ON  COWPARATIVE  ANATOMY, 

Beint?  tlie  Substance  of  his  numerous  Lectures,  and  includinjy  Explanations  (if  nearly  all  the 
Vreparatinns  in  the  Hunterian  Collection:  with  a  General  Index.  (J vols,  royal  4t(),  Portrait,  and 
;itU  line  riates,  after  I)rawin:.,'s  by  BA^En  and  others,  (pub.  at  18/.  18^.),  cloth,  (i^  G*.  1S14-2S 

HOPE^S  MORBID   ANATOMY, 

Uoyal  Svo,  w ith  4S  hii;hly  linished  coloured  Plates,  containing'  200  accurate  Delineations  of-  Cases 
in  every  known  variety  of  Dis^ease,  (pub.  at  5^  5».),  cloth,  M.  'As.  1834 

JAMIESON'S  MECHANICS  FOR  PRACTICAL  MEN, 

Including  Treatises  on  the  fomposition  and  Resolution  of  Forces;  the  Centre  of  Gravity;  and 
the  Mechanical  I'owers;  illustrated  by  K.xamples  and  Debigns.  Fourth  Kdition, great lyimprovcd^ 
Svo,  (pub.  at  lbs.),  cloth  7».  (>d.  1845 

**  A  great  mechanical  treasure." — Dr.  Birkbeck, 

LAWRENCE  iW.)  ON  THE  DISEASES   OF  THE  EYE. 

Third  Edition,  revised  ani  enlarged.  Svo,  (SiO  closely  printed  pages),  (pub.  at  U.  4».),  cloth 
lll<.  M.  1»44 

LIFE  OF  SIR  ASTLEY  COOPER, 

Interspersed  wit li  his  Sketelies  of  Distinguished  Characters  ;  by-BBAi5.'!nv  Cooper.  2  vols.  Svo, 
witii  line  Portrait,  after  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  (pub.  at  U.  Is.),  cloth,  Ills.  fi</.  1843 

TYRRELL  ON  THE  DISEASES  OF  THE    EYE, 

Being  a  i'ractieal  Woik  on  their  Treatment,  .Medically,  Topicall^r,  and  by  Opfralion;  by  F. 
Tyrkki.i..  i^enior  Surgeon  to  the  Uoyal  Ltuidon  Ophthalinic  llospital.  2  thick  vols.  8vo,  illus- 
trated by  1.1  riates,  containing  upwards  of  lio  finely  coloured  figures,  tpub.  at  1(.  l&s.),  cloth,  1/.  1». 

1840 

WOODVILLE'S  MEDICAL  BOTANY. 

Third  Kdition,  enlarged  by  Sir  \V.  .Iackson  IIookkr.  '>  vols.  4to,  with  ,110  Plates,  Kngraved  by 
Sowi:Kn\,  most  carefully  coloured,  (pub.  at  10/.  Ids.),  half  bound  morocco,  hi.  hs.  The  t'iftii,  or 
Supplementary  Voliune,  entirely  by  Sir  W.  J.  Hookeb,  to  complete  the  old  Editions.  4to,  a6 
coloured  Plates,  (pub.  at  2/.  12».  (id.),  hoards,  M.  lls.6</.  1832 

LONDON ; 
BRADBCRT    AND    SVANS,    PRINTERS,   WBITErRIABS. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


m  L9-Series  4939 


Ul  StJlJTHtRfj  HU,lili\AL  L  IHfiAHY  FACILITY 


AA      000  339  401    2 


'  I 


lit 


'li      '    ■    ll 


]> .,vi'!|, 


"'I'll 


,     :i       .;      ,  I 


III'  I 


I 


'i,i.^^^..;"" 


■  I      V  ''      i, 


i  :'  I 


>ij 


M',    '■'■:!!■', 


I 


I'.        ':;ii 


/'f.    !,       li