HISTORICAL VIEW 
 
 LITERATURE 
 
 or THE 
 
 SOUTH OF EUROPE; 
 
 J. C. L.JJJMONDE DE SISMONDI: 
 
 OF THE ACADEMY AMD SOCIETY OF ARTS OP GENEVA, 
 
 BDMOEARY MEMBER OF THE UNIVERSITY OF WILNA, OF THE ITALIAN ACADELJY. 
 ETC. ETC. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL, 
 
 WITH NOTES, AND A LIFE OP THE AUTHOH, 
 BY THOMAS ROSCOE. 
 
 jFourtf) E&ttion, 
 VOL. IL 
 
 LONDON : GEOROE BELL & SONS, YORK STREET, 
 
 Ji^T GARDKN. 
 1890.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, 
 STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CKOSS,
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE SECOND VOLUME. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. Pa^t 
 
 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 Poetry of the Thirteenth Century. 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 . . . 204 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 On the Dramas of Cervantes 229 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Novels and Romances of Cervantes ; the Araucana of Don Alonzo 
 deErcilla . 254
 
 4 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. Pags 
 
 On the Romantic Drama. Lope Felix de Vega Carpio . . . 2fc3 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 Continuation of Lope de Vega 318 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 Lyric Poetry of Spain, at the close of the Sixteenth and commence- 
 ment of the Seventeenth Century. Gongora and his followers, 
 Quevedo, Villegas, &c 341 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 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 ; Eodriguez Lobo ; 
 Cortereal ; Portuguese Historians of the Sixteenth Century . 528 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 Continuation of the Literature of Portugal. Conclusion . . 568
 
 VIEW OF THE 
 LITERATURE OF THE SOUTH OF EUROPE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 ALPIKRI AND 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 which 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. U
 
 26 ON THE LITERATCUE 
 
 dramatic writers of other nations, whose superiority had long 
 been a humiliating reflection Though divided in opinion 
 upon the laws and the esseno of the drama, they all united 
 in applauding the elevation, the nobleness, and the energy of 
 Alfieri's sentiments ; and opinirns, which, till that time, had 
 been banished from Italy, burst forth at once, like the long 
 suppressed voice of public ieeling. 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 an 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 which 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, exposing 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 publication, 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 Philip, which was published in 
 1783, appeared Polyniccs, slntiyonc, 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
 
 OK THE ITALIANS. 
 
 resemble each other still more in the author's obstinate 
 attachment to his system ; in the stiffness of the action, in the 
 bitterness of the sentiments, and in the baldness botli 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 stran<r<' 
 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 that the audience i* 
 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. The rigorous notions which compelled the 
 author to let the curtain fall exactly ten lines after the deatli 
 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 thn 
 poem. 
 
 Amongst the tragedies of Alfieri, of the second period, \v< 
 shall select the Agamemnon, in order to give some idea ot 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 
 yEgisthus, 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 by destiny to commit the crime. Hour 
 after hour he awaits the return of the conqueror of Troy, 
 and he promises the shade of his father to immolate him and 
 his family. Clytemnestra seeks him, wishing to divert thooc 
 painful thoughts which are so plainly depicted on his coun- 
 tenance. ^Egisthus only speaks to her of his approaching 
 departure, and of the necessity of avoiding the sight of the son 
 of Atreus, the 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 pri'i
 
 28 ON THK LITERATURE 
 
 which Clytemnestra feels in the object of her love, and excites 
 and directs against Agamemnon the irritation of his delirious 
 spouse. Clytemnestra at last beholds in Agamemnon only the 
 murderer of Iphigenia. She calls to mind with bitterness 
 that horrible sacrifice, and trembles at the name of such a 
 father. All her affections are concentrated in JEgisthus and 
 her children, and she loves to think that yEgisthus will be a 
 more tender father than Ag-amemnon toElectra and to Orestes. 
 Electra approaches, and Clytemnestra, in order to speak 
 with her, prevails upon JEgisthus to leave them. 
 
 Electra relates the various reports 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 father, and of affection and deep pity for 
 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 when 'tis unhappy, 
 Is apt to inspire, these, mother, are the baits 
 By which, without thyself suspecting it, 
 Thou hast been caught. Thou hast not hitherto 
 Each secret impulse rigorously examined : * 
 
 * O amata madre, 
 
 Che fai 1 Non credo io, no, che ardento fiarnma 
 II cor ti avvampi ; involontario afl'etto 
 Misto a picta, che giovinczza inspira 
 Quando infelice ell' e, son qucsti gli ami. 
 A cui, senza avvedertcne, sei presa. 
 Di te, finor, chiesto non hai scvcra 
 Ragione a te ; di sua virtu non cade 
 Sospetto in cor couscio a se stesso ; e force
 
 OF THE ITALIANS. 2fc 
 
 A bosom conscious of its rectitude 
 Hardly admits suspicion of itself ; 
 And here, perchance, there is no ground lor 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 that love 
 Which 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 1 ? 
 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 ^Egisthus : stop malignant tongues 
 By thy deportment : with thy children weep 
 The hardships of Atrides, and frequent 
 With them the sacred temples of Che Gods 
 To implore his swift return. 
 
 Clytemnestra is moved; she weeps, she accuses herself, 
 and she likewise accuses the blood of Leda which runs 
 through her veins ; and the 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 ^Egisthus 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 ^Egisthus 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 the flight of her lover, it is her part, she 
 says, to fly with him, like Helen. JEgisthus, 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 oenno 
 Sublime ammenda esser ne pud. Per 1'ombra 
 Sacra, a te cara, del la uccisa figlia ; 
 Per quell' amor che a me portasti, ond' io 
 Oggi indegna non son : che piu ] Ten priego 
 Per la vita d'Oreste ; madre, arretra, 
 Arretra il pie dal precipizio orrendo. 
 Lunge da noi codesto Egisto vada : 
 Fa che di te si taccia : in un con noi 
 Piangi d'Atride i casi : ai templi vieni 
 II suo ritorno ai implorar dai numi.
 
 30 ON iHE LITEUATURii 
 
 of bis absence, to add fuel to her love and jealousy. He, in 
 fact, wishes to be prevented from going, and Clytemnestra 
 begs him to remain a single day, exacting an oath from him 
 that he will not quit the walls of Argos before the ensuing 
 dawn. He consents, and Electra appearing, begs her 
 mother to fly to the king. Clytemnestra, instead of answer- 
 ing her daughter, solemnly requests JEgisthus to repeat his 
 oath ; and this appeal, which she again makes at the end of 
 the scene, after Electra has manifested her aversion for 
 ./Egisthus, and the dread with which his stay inspires her, 
 fully displays all Clytemnestra's passion, and makes the 
 spectators shudder. JEgisthus, 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. 
 
 Alfieri 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 spot 
 Where once I wandered with my infant feet. 
 All that I see around me are my friends ; 
 My wife, my daughter, and my faithful people, 
 And you, ye household gods, whom I at last 
 Return to worship. What have I to wish ] 
 What does there now remain for me to hope ? 
 How long and tedious do ten years appear 
 Spent in a foreign country, far from all 
 The heart holds dear ! With what profound delight,* 
 
 * Riveggio al fin le sospirate mura 
 
 D'Argo mia : quel ch'io premo, e il suolo amato. 
 
 Che nasco.ndo calcai : quanti al mio fianco 
 
 Veggo, amici mi son ; figlia, consorte, 
 
 Popol mio fido, e voi, Penati Dei, 
 
 Cui finalmcnte ad adorar pur torno. 
 
 Che piti bramar, che diu sperare omai 
 
 Mi rcsta, o lice ! Oh come lunghi, e gravi 
 
 Son due lustri vissuti in strania terra 
 
 Lungi da quanto s' ama ! Oh quanto e doloe 
 
 Uipatriar, dopo gli affanni tanti
 
 OP THE ITALIANS. 3J 
 
 After the labours of a bloody war, 
 
 Shall I repose ? Ob 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 ? 
 
 My wife, my daughter ! silently ye stand 
 
 Fixing upon the ground unquietly 
 
 Your conscious eyes. heaven, do ye not feel 
 
 A joy that equals mine in being thus 
 
 Restored to my embrace ? 
 
 Clytemnestra is agitated, and Electra is in fear for her ; 
 but her presence of mind is restored by the very sound of 
 her own voice ; and as she proceeds her answers become 
 more intelligible. 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 inquires for Orestes, and longs to embrace him. Ik> 
 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 sparkle with 
 ardour. 
 
 Agamemnon and Electra appear at the commencement of 
 the third act ; and the king inquires 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 
 l)i tutta pace, esser tra suoi ! Ma, il solo 
 Son io, che goda qul ? Consorte, figlia, 
 Voi taciturne state, a terra incerto 
 Fissando il guardo irrequieto ? Oh cielo ! 
 Pari alia gioia mia non 6 la vostra, 
 Nel ritoruar fra le inie braccia ? 
 
 * Io spesso 
 
 Chiuso nell' elmo, in silen/io 
 
 31 1, nol sa]>ea, che il padre.
 
 32 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 exculpating himself to the audience from all the odium which 
 that sacrifice hud cast upon him. He then asks how it hap- 
 pens that the son of 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 his name with repugnance. 
 Electra replies that JEgisthus is unfortunate, but that Aga- 
 memnon will judge better than she can whether he is worthy 
 of pity. jEgisthus is afterwards brought before him, and 
 informs him that the hatred and jealousy of his brothers have 
 driven him from his country. He represents himself as a 
 proscribed suppliant ; he flatters Agamemnon to obtain his 
 favour ; he is humble without debasing himself, and treach- 
 erous without creating disgust. Agamemnon reminds him 
 of the family enmities, which should have induced him to 
 look for an asylum in any other place than in the palace of 
 Atreus : 
 
 Hitherto, ^Egisthus, 
 
 Thou wert, and still thou art, to me unknown ; 
 
 I neither hate nor love thee ; yet, though willing 
 
 To lay aside hereditary discord, 
 
 I cannot, without feeling in my breast, 
 
 I know not what of strange and perplex'd feeling, 
 
 Behold the countenance, nor hear the voice 
 
 Of one that is the offspring of Thyestes.* 
 
 As JEgisthus, however, implores his protection, he pro- 
 mises to employ his influence amongst the Greeks in his 
 favour, but he commands him to leave Argos before the 
 morrow. As JEgisthus leaves the king, Clytemnestra enters. 
 She is much agitated, and fears lest her husband has dis- 
 covered her inconstancy. She rejects the consolatory atten- 
 tions of her daughter, and the 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 her melancholy reflections in solitude. 
 
 The fourth act opens with a conversation betweec 
 
 * Egisto, a me tu fosti 
 E sei finora ignoto, per tc stcsso : 
 lo non t' odio, ne t' amo ; cppur, bench" io 
 Voglia in disparte por gli odi nefandi, 
 Senxa provar non so qua! moto in petto, 
 No, mirar ncn poss'io, no udir la voce, 
 La voce pur, d^l figlio :li Tieste.
 
 OF THE ITALIANS. 33 
 
 Clytemnestra and JEgisthus. jEgisthus 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. JEgisthus, while he appears 
 submissive, tender, and despairing, aims only at instilling 
 poison into the heart of his victim. She despises infamy 
 and danger. She wishes 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. 
 
 &Gia. Another step, perhaps, e'en now remains, 
 
 But unbecoming 
 
 CLY. And it is] 
 
 /Eois. Too cruel 
 
 CLY. But certain 
 
 /Eois. Certain ! ah, too much so ! 
 
 CLY. How 
 
 Canst thou then hide it from me ? 
 yEois. How canst thou 
 
 Of me demand it?* 
 
 Clytemnestra still hesitates ; she wavers ; she considers 
 nil 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 which ^Egisthus 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 strengthens herself 
 to commit the crime, and jEgisthus chooses that moment to 
 tell her that the king has brought Cassandra with him, that 
 she is his mistress, and that he intends speedily to sacrifice 
 Iris wife to her. The approach of Electra compels the guilty 
 
 * HOIST Altro partito, forse, or ne rimane 
 
 Ma indegno 
 
 CLIT. Ed c 1 
 
 EOIST. Crude. 
 
 CLIT. Ma certo. 
 
 EOIST. Ah ! ccrto 
 
 Pur troppo ! 
 
 Ctrr. E a me tu il cell ? 
 
 JOIST. E a me tu il chicdi.
 
 34 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 pair to separate. She perceives with terror the agitation of 
 her mother, and forebodes the crimes of JEgisthus. She 
 beseeches the king to dismiss him immediately. Agamemnon 
 attributes her terror to the hereditary enmity between the 
 blood of Atreus and of Thyestes, and feels that he would be 
 wanting in hospitality, if he should hasten the banishment of 
 an unfortunate stranger. He then consults Clytemnestra, 
 who, at the very name of JEgisthus, betrays the most extreme 
 emotion. Demanding the cause of her disturbance, he 
 laments with 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 witli 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 JEgisthus 
 remorse attacks her. She is shocked at the enterprise, and 
 casts away the dagger ; when JEgisthus again making his 
 appearance, rekindles her fury. He informs her that 
 Agamemnon is acquainted with their love, and that on the 
 morrow they 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 ; with that which sacrificed the sons of Thyestes. 
 He hurries her into the apartment of 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 Agamemnon are 
 heard, who recognizes his wife as he dies. Of Clytemnestra, 
 who returns to the stage distracted, ^Egisthus takes no notice, 
 whilst the palace resounds with terrific cries. JEgisthus 
 perceives that the time is now come when it is necessary to 
 ehew himself in his true colours, and to gather the fruit of 
 his protracted hypocrisy. He determines to murder Orestes 
 and to mount the throne of Atreus. Electra, rushing in, 
 accuses -ZEgisthus 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 jEgisthus has been gratifying his hatred and not 
 his love, and she flies after him to preserve the life of her sou.
 
 OF THE ITALIANS. 35 
 
 Agamemnon was published by Alfieri at the end of the 
 year 1783, with five other tragedies, Orestes, Rosmunda, 
 Octavia, Timoleon, and Merope. The Orestes is a continua- 
 tion of Agamemnon, witli an interval of ten years, and the 
 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 more 
 atrocious ; and Alfieri 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 o;* 
 tenderness with the natural acerbity of his genius ; but, by a 
 total abandonment of it, he fatigues 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 murder 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 meaus happy ; for the 
 plot is riot natural, and the developement resembles that of a 
 romance. The two tragedies of Octavia and Timoleon both 
 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-
 
 56 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 ness of Nero, nor the fratricide of Timoleon, although it 
 restored liberty to Corinth, is, in my opinion, a fit subject 
 for the drama. Merope is the 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 Maffei and of Vol- 
 taire. The coincidence in the subject may render an analysis 
 of it uninteresting, and they who wish to compare the three 
 dramas should read them entire. 
 
 Amongst the tragedies which made their first appearance 
 in the third edition, I shall select Saul as affording the best 
 extracts. This play, which was a favourite with the author, 
 has 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 forget that he was a shepherd-king. On the other hand, 
 in this drama, Alfieri 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, clothed 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 
 has led him thither ; God, who has protected him from the 
 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. He tells him how his 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 that Michal, the sister of 
 Jonathan and the wife of David, is in the camp with Saul, 
 her father, whom she is comforting and consoling in his 
 afflictions, and from whom she has begged, in return, that he 
 will restore David to her. He addresses David with 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 affections ;
 
 OF THE ITALIANS. 37 
 
 out his enthusiasm, however exalted, does not extinguish tho 
 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 approaches, he persuades David to 
 conceal himself, in order that he may guard her against the 
 surprise. Michal is a tender and suffering 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 with 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 affected. 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 inc the horror of my state ! 
 Ah ! were I not a father as I am, 
 Alas ! too certainly of much loved children 
 Would I now wish life, victory, or the throne ] 
 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 1 My children,* 
 
 * Ah ! no ; deriva ogni sventura mia 
 Da piil tcrribil fonte ! E chcl Celarmi 
 L'orror vorresti del mio stato 1 Ah, s' io 
 Padre non fossi, come il son, pur troppo ! 
 ]M cari figli or la vittoria e il rcgno, 
 E la vita vorrci ] Precipitoso 
 Giil mi sarei fra gl'inimici ferri 
 Scagliato io, da gran tempo ; avrei gia tronca 
 Coel la vita orribile ch' io vivo. 
 Quanti anni or son, che sul mio labro il riso 
 Noii fu visto spuatare 1 I figli miei 
 
 Ch 1
 
 3 s * ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 Whom 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 see 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 terrors that distract me. 
 
 Why should I add to this dark catalogue 
 
 Who would believe it 1 The sonorous trumpet 
 
 Speaks to my ears in an appalling voice, 
 
 And fills the heart of Saul with deep dismay. 
 
 Thou seest clearly that Saul's tottering house 
 
 Is desolate, bereft of all its splendour ; 
 
 Thou seest that God hath cast me off for ercr. 
 
 The character of Saul throughout the whole drama is con 
 eistent with the representation of it in this scene. He 
 impetuously abandons himself to the most contrary passions, 
 and the latest word which lie 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 fresh 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 has nourished. Jonathan and Michal, 
 who enter at this moment, entreat him, on the contrary, to 
 belijve that his power and glory are connected with the 
 ret .rn of David, whom they announce as the messenger of 
 
 Ch' amo pur tanto, le piu volte all' ira 
 Muovonmi il cor, se mi accarczzan Fero, 
 Impazicnte, torbido, adirato 
 Sempre ; a me stcsso incresco ognora c altrui : 
 Bramo in pace far gucrra, in gucrra pace : 
 Entro ogni nappo ascoso tosco io bevo ; 
 Scorgo un neinieo in ogni amico ; i molli 
 Tappeti Assiri, ispidi dumi al fiance 
 Mi sono ; angoscia il breve sonno ; i sogni 
 Terror. Che piu ? Chi 1' crederia '? Spavcnto 
 M' b la tromba di gucrra ; alto spavcnto 
 E la tromba a Saul ! vedi sc e fatta 
 Vedova omai di suo splendor la casa 
 Di Saul ; vedi, se omai Dio sta meco.
 
 OK THE ITALIANS. 3y 
 
 God, and the pledge of divine protection. When the mind ol 
 Saul is thus warmed, David enters and throws himself at his 
 feet. He calms by his submissive deportment the first burst 
 of anger 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, when Michal appears, to 
 inform her husband that the general, having seen Saul, has 
 awakened with a single word all his former fury. She feara 
 that David will again be forced to fly, and she swears to 
 nccompany him in his exile. Saul now appears with Jonathan, 
 and displays symptoms of strong insanity : 
 
 Who, who arc 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 rnc 
 A fatal wreath of blood surrounds the sun 
 Ileard'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 yc weep also ]* 
 
 * Chi setc voi 1 Chi d' aura aperta e pura. 
 Qui favella ? Qucsta ] e caligiu dunsa, 
 Tenebre sono ; ombra di morte Oh mira ; 
 Piii mi t' accosta ; il vedi ] II sol d'intorno 
 Cinto ha di sangue ghirlanda funesta 
 Odi tu canto di sinistri augclli i 
 Lugiibre un pianto sull' acre si spande, 
 Che me percuotc, e a lagrimar mi sforw 
 >ia c'jc f Voi pur, voi pur piangetc .'
 
 40 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 He then asks for David, and reproaches him in turn fcf 
 his pride (for deep jealousy is the true madness of Saul), and 
 for the enthusiastic tone in which he speaks of God ; sine* 
 the divinity is his enemy, and his praises are insults to Saul. 
 He is astonished at beholding the sword which David had 
 taken from Goliath, and which had been afterwards dedicated 
 to God in the tabernacle of Nob, and he becomes furious 
 when he learns that Abimelech has restored this sword to 
 David. But even this fury exhausts itself. He 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 he 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 
 animated dithyrambic verse he paints the glory of Saul in 
 his battles, and represents himself 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 
 order-; Michal 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 Abimelech, 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 awakened, and on learning his name, he charges him 
 with having dared to grant protection to David, and with hav- 
 ing restored to him the sword of Goliath. Abimelech answers 
 him with all the haughtiness of an enthusiast ; menaces him
 
 OF THK 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 death 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 prophets, 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 without 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 lie 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 Abimelech, 
 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 LITERATURE 
 
 offers up his supplications and intreats that at least the anjrer 
 of God may pass away from the heads of his children. His 
 delirium is truly sublime, and the 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 ol 
 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 Michal to a place of safety, and forces her to leave 
 him, and he then remains alone on the stage : 
 
 Oh my children, 
 
 I was a father See thyself alone, 
 King ! Of thy so many friends and servants, 
 Not one remains. Inexorable God ! 
 Is thy retributory wrath appeased 1 
 But thou remain'st to me, O sword ! Now come, 
 My faithful servant in extremity. 
 Hark ! hark ! the bowlings 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 these words he falls, transfixed by his own 
 sword. The victorious Philistines surround him in a crowd, 
 with blazing torches and bloody swords. "While they are 
 rushing 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 iigli miei ! Fui padre ! 
 Eccoti solo, O re ; noil un ti resta 
 Dei tanti amici, o servi tuoi. Sei paga, 
 D' inesorabil Dio terribil ira '< 
 Ma tu mi resii, brando, all' ultim uopo. 
 Fido ministro, or vieni. Ecco, gia gli urli 
 Dell' insolente vincitor : sul ciglio 
 Gift lor fiaccolc ardcnti balenarmi 
 Veggo, e le spade a mille. Enipio Filistc, 
 He troverai, ma almen da re, qui mortis
 
 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 Saul, appeared the eight last trage- 
 dies of Alfieri. In Mary Stuart, the scene is laid, not at the 
 melancholy termination of her long 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 anJ 
 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 family 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, with 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 fouith 
 tragedy is Agiss, 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 JJrutus, who judged his own 
 c 2
 
 44 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 sons. The next, Myrrha, who died the victim of her sinful 
 passions. The last of these dramas is founded on the story of 
 the younger Brutus, the assassin of Caesar. Amongst these 
 latter tragedies we shall find Mary Stuart, the conspiracy of 
 the Pazzi, and the two Brutuses most worthy of our study 
 and attention. We have already expended so much time on 
 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. 
 His Aristodemo is one of the most affecting of all the Italian 
 tragedies. This Messenian, who, to gain the suffrages of his 
 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 remorse 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 1'or 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 conclusion he 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 tragedy. 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 absence of all foreign pomp, and in the interest 
 sustained without the assistance 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 
 tl.ey charm our minds, never fail to delight our ear. 
 
 Monti has written another tragedy, entitled Galcotto 31a~i-
 
 OF THE ITALIANS. 46 
 
 fredi; the subject of which is drawn from the Italian chron- 
 icles of the fifteenth century ; a period so fertile in tyrants 
 and in crimes. This 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 the talents of Monti, I have selected the scene in 
 which Zambrino excites Matilda to assassinate her husband. The 
 situation resembles that of JSgisthus and Clytemnestra, in the dra" 
 of Alfieri. 
 
 MATILD. Meco ti vieta 
 
 Ogni colloquio il crudo, (Manfredi) e so ben io 
 
 Perche lo vieta ; accusator ti teme 
 
 De' tradimenti suoi, 1" infame tresca 
 
 Tenermi occulta per tal modo, ei pensa. 
 
 Ben lo comprendo. 
 
 ZAKB. Io taccio. 
 
 MATILD. Ho d' uopo io forse 
 
 Che tu mel noti ? Si ; me sola intende 
 
 II tiranno oltraggiar, quando mi priva 
 
 Dell' unico fedel, 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. 
 ZA.V. u. Ah ! Principessa, il cielo 
 
 M'b testimon, che mi sgomenta solo 
 
 De' tuoi mali il pensiero ; in me si sfoghi 
 
 Come piil vnol Manfredi, e mi anisca 
 
 D' aver svelato alia tradita moglie 
 
 La nuova infedelta ; soinmo delitto 
 
 Che Bommo traditor mai non perdona. 
 
 Di te duolmi infelice. Alia mia mentc, 
 
 Funesto e truce, un avvenir s'affaccia 
 
 Che fa tremarmi il cuor sul tuo destine. 
 
 Tu del consorte, tu per sempre, donna, 
 
 Hai perduto 1'amor. 
 Si KID. Ma non perduta 
 
 La mia vendetta ; ed io 1'avro ; pagarl* 
 
 Dovessi a prezzo d'anima e di <*angue ; 
 
 Si, compita 1'avrd.
 
 46 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 Some less celebrated authors also have profited by the 
 precepts and the models which Alfieri bequeathed to them. 
 
 ZAMB. Ma d'un ripudio 
 
 Meglio non fora tollerar 1'affronto ? 
 MATILD. Di ripudio che parli ] 
 ZAMB. E chi potria 
 
 Campartene 1 Non vedi 1 Ei per Elisa 
 
 D'amor delira. Possederla in moglie, 
 
 Abbi sicuro che vi pensa, e due 
 
 Capirne il letto marital non puote. 
 
 A scacciame te poscia ; il suo dispetto 
 
 Fia di mezzi abbondante, e di pretesti. 
 
 L'odio d'entrambi, 1'infecondo nodo, 
 
 D'un successor necessita, gran possa 
 
 Di forti amici, e bastera per tutti 
 
 Di Valentino Tamista. Di Eoma 
 
 L'oracolo fia poi mite e cortese. 
 
 Intercessore Valentino. E certo 
 
 II trionfo d'Elisa. 
 MATILU. Anzi, la morte. 
 
 Vien meco. 
 
 ZAMB. E dove 1 
 
 MATILD. A trucidarla. 
 
 ZAMB. Ignori 
 
 Che Manfred! e con lei ? L'ho visto io steso 
 
 Furtirvo entrarvi col favor dell' ombre, 
 
 E serrar 1'uscio sospettoso e cheto. 
 
 Avvicinai 1'orecchio, e tutto intorno 
 
 Era silenzio, e nulla intesi, e nulla 
 
 Di piu so dirli. 
 MATILD. Ah taci ! Ogni parola 
 
 Mi drizza i crini, assai dicesti, basta 
 
 Basta ccsi, non preseguir . . . L' hai visto 
 
 Tu stesso, non e ver ] Parla. 
 ZAMB. T' accheta : 
 
 Oh ! taciuto 1' avessi ! 
 MATILD. Kbben, ti prego, 
 
 Tiriamo un velo, oh Dio ! Spalanca, terra, 
 
 Le voragini tue : quest' empi inghiotti 
 
 Nel calor della colpa, e queste mura 
 
 E 1' intera citU ; sorga una fiamma 
 
 Che li divori, c me con essi, e quant i 
 
 Vi son ribaldi, che la fede osaro 
 
 Del talamo tradir. 
 
 (Pungi, prosegui 
 
 Demone tutelar, colmala tutta 
 
 E testa e cuor, di rabbia e di veleno, 
 
 E d'una crudeltil limpida, pura, 
 
 Senza mistura di pieta.)
 
 OF THE ITALIANS. 47 
 
 Amongst these we may mention Alessandro Pepoli of Bologna, 
 an enthusiastic lover of the drama, who attempted, and some- 
 times imprudently, to make new discoveries in his art. 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 Polyxena. From the 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 
 conspicuous passion. Polyxena, the daughter 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 ringrazio 
 
 Delia tua reita. Cosi mi spogli 
 
 Di qualunque 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 Manfrcdi, Atto v. Sc. 5. 
 
 * The following lines, from the commencement of his Rotrude, ars 
 bvidently in the manner of Alfieri : 
 
 ADALCLFO. Parla, mio re, che vuoi ? 
 
 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. 
 AI>AL. Intrndo. 
 
 Vuoi parlar di Rotrude ; a lei sol pensi, 
 
 E non vivi che a lei. 
 ARIOV. Perdona, amico, 
 
 Alia mia dcbolezza ; io la compresOo, 
 
 E quasi U deteato. 
 
 Attol.Sc. 1.
 
 18 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 Pyrrhus, 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 who 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, the 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. We 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, tin: 
 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 preserved more of the customs and opinions of the 
 Greeks, than may perhaps be allowable in the modern 
 drama. He 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 that 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, whose first attempt it was. Calchas describes to Ulysses the 
 apparition of Achilles : 
 
 CALCANTE. Pirro 
 
 Coi Minnidoni suoi sfidava in guerra 
 E la Grecia, c gli Dei, dove d'Achille 
 S' ergo il sepolcro : in resta era ogni lancia(}), 
 
 t This is an error in costume ; it was only in the middle ages that 
 he lance was ever put in the rest.
 
 OF THE ITALIANS. 49 
 
 But to return to Alfieri. In the collection of his works, 
 published during his life, of eight volumes, five contain his 
 
 E teso ognt arco, allor chc i passi miei 
 
 Guida incognita forza : ah ! certo un Dio 
 
 M' empica di se, ch'io piil mortal non era. 
 
 Volo in mezzo alle schiere, affronto Pirro 
 
 E grido : Questc alia paterna tomba 
 
 Son le vittime care ] Ah ! sorgi, Achille, 
 
 Sorgi, e rimira dell' insano Pirro 
 
 Le sacrileghe imprese, ed arrossisci 
 
 D'esser gli padre. Allor dai marmi un cupo 
 
 Gemito s'ode : nell' incerte destre 
 
 Tremano Taste, le contrarie schiere 
 
 Unisce la paura, il suol vacilla, 
 
 II cielo tuona, agli sdegnati flutti 
 
 L'ira s'accresce del preseute Achille ; 
 
 Orrendo ei stette sulla tomba : in oro 
 
 Gli splendean 1' armi emule al sole, e fiamma 
 
 Dell' antico furor gli ardea negli occhi. 
 
 CosJ K volse nel funesto sdegno 
 
 Contro il figlio d'Atreo. Tu, prole ingrata, 
 
 Tu, grida a Pirro, mi contrasti onore 
 
 In vano. Trema, 1'o.stia io scorgo, il ferro 
 
 A me promesao. II sacerdote, il sangue 
 
 Si Polissena. Allor venniglia luce 
 
 Call' armi sfolgoro, maggiore, immenso, 
 
 Torreggid Achille sulla 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. I Numi 
 
 A tua crudel clemenza egual mercede 
 Daranno, io tel predico. 
 AOAM. E quale 1 
 
 CAS. Un figlio 
 
 Simile a te ; che ardisca, e tremi, e sia 
 Empio per la pieta ; che non s'appelli 
 Innocente, ne reo ; che la natura 
 Vendichi e offenda ; .... a che mi rendi, Febo, 
 Inutil dono ! . . . Ilio non cadde ] . . . Ahi dove 
 Sono ! Che veggo ! patria mia, raflrena 
 II pianto, e mira sull' Euboico lido 
 Le fiamme utrici . . . Gitl la Grecia nuota 
 Dalle tue spoglie oppressa . . . Orribil notte 
 Siedc sul mare ... II fulmino la squarcia . . . 
 Ah ! chi Io vibra 1 ... Tardi, O Dea, conosc; 
 I Greci, tardi a yendicanni impugni 
 
 La
 
 CO OK THE LITERATURE 
 
 tragedies, which are known to every one ; and the cnhei 
 three are filled with his political works and poems, witli 
 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 
 with the best writings in the Italian language. It is rich in 
 thought and high sentiment ; and treats, with profound 
 ability and in every view, of that important question, the 
 protection which it is said a prince ought to extend to lite- 
 rature, and the 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 Machiavelli, take away all our pleasure in the 
 perusal of this book. We are so well acquainted, before 
 
 La folgore paterna . . . Eccomi in Argo : 
 
 Tenebre eguali alle Troiane stanno 
 
 Sovra la reggia Pelopca : di pianto 
 
 Suonan gli atri regali . . . Imbelle mano 
 
 Vendica FAsia, e la nefanda scure 
 
 Cade pur sul mio collo. Ah ! grazie, Numi, 
 
 Alfin libera io sono, e gi3- ritrovo 
 
 L'ombre de'miei . . . Che dissi ! Ah ! ch' io vaneggio. 
 
 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 het 
 father's murderer, thus takes leave of her sister Cassandra : 
 
 Certo il mio fato, 
 
 Non cercarne perche. Meco sepolto 
 llesti cid, che a te duolo, a me vergogna 
 Saria, se tu il sapessi. A quest' arcano 
 Dono il mio sangue : ne acquistarne onore, 
 Ma non perderlo il frutto. Io non t' inganno : 
 Son giusti i Numi, e la mia morte e giusta. 
 La madre assist! ; tu le asciuga il pianto, 
 E in consolar la sventurata, adempi 
 Pur le mie veci. Esser sostegno, e guida 
 Agl' infermi anni suoi tu dei, ne troppo 
 Rammentanni all' afflitta; il suo dolore 
 Accresceresti. Sul materno volto 
 Ai tuoi baci, Cassandra, aggiungi i miei. 
 All' ombre io scenderd, ma questa cura 
 Verril meco insepolta. A Priamo, ai figli, 
 Di lei ragionerd. Uiro che teco 
 Lasciai la madre Ah ! tu mi guardi, c 
 Deh ! col tuo duol non funestarmi, cara. 
 II piaccr della morte.
 
 OF THE ITALIANS. 51 
 
 sommencing it, with the prejudices of the author, that we 
 sometimes combat opinions to which we might have yielded, 
 had they been less roughly presented to us. Alfieri, 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 Alfieri'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 age, under the 
 influence of other manners, and of other circumstances. 
 
 Alfieri also attempted to write an epic in four cantos, in 
 the Ottawa rinia, entitled Etruria Vendicata. The hero is 
 Lorenzino de' Medici, and the catastrophe is the murder of 
 the contemptible Alexander, first duke of Florence. 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 supernatural part, the appearance of Liberty, ot 
 Fear, and of the shade of Savonarola, produces no other 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 
 to me 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 sonnets, and some ether poems in various styles, 
 complete the 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 Trameloycdy, 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 the most 
 powerful workings of the feelings. The allegory, however, 
 is fatiguing upon the stage, and the versification of Alfieri 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 from 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 resemble any of his former tragedies. Con- 
 jugal tenderness is beautifully painted in it ; and the inter- 
 vention of supernatural powers and of the chorus, together 
 with a happy termination, 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. 
 The four first, which are in fact only one drama divided into 
 four parts, are written to illustrate the monarchical, the aris- 
 tocratical, the democratical, and the mixed form of govern- 
 ment. He has entitled them, One, Few, Too many, and 
 The Antidote. They are all in iambics, like his tragedies. 
 The scene of the first is laid in Persia, and the subject of it ia 
 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 THF. 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. The scene of the second, the drama of aristo- 
 cracy, is laid at Rome, in the house of the Gracchi ; the 
 subject of it is the contest between the latter and Fabius, for 
 the consulate. Their defeat, and humiliation, induces them 
 to propose an Agrarian law. The scene of the third drama, 
 Democrat y, or Too many, 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 are divided into two parties, of which Demosthenes and 
 jEschines 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 Mixed Government, or, as it is also 
 singularly entitled, Mix three Poisons and you will have the 
 Antidote, is a plot of his own 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 thought 
 it necessary to introduce into his comedies the most dis- 
 tinguished men, merely to display their low and vulgar 
 qualities. lie has endued them with all the passions which 
 their rank should have 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 repug- 
 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 human race, which 
 even in the highest ranks can be thus debased. Of the two 
 remaining comedies of Alfieri, the one entitled La Finestrina 
 is very fantastical : the scene is laid in Hell, and the comedy, 
 in fact, consists of the dialogues of the dead dramatised. The 
 other is entitled The Divorce; 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 finely 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 the 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, when 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 years, after he had renounced dramatic composition, 
 and when the want of occupation, which he never felt until 
 an advanced age, had induced him to study Greek. 
 
 The two last volumes contain the life of Alfieri, written by 
 himself, with that warmth, vivacity, and truth of feeling, 
 which throw such a charm over confessions like these, and 
 which never fail to interest the reader, although the author, 
 honestly displaying his faults, sometimes appears in no very 
 amiable light. If the study of the human 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-
 
 OF THE ITALIANS. 55 
 
 racter upon the age in which they lived, are cited by posterity 
 as having constituted the glory of their times ! 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 which 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 his 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 dH^Uje.l
 
 CHAPTER XXIL 
 
 OH THE TBOSK "MTERS AND EPIC AND LYRIC POETS OF ITALY, DCR1J3 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 ALTHOUGH we have devoted the five last Chapters to the 
 Italian poets of the eighteenth century, we have not yet pro- 
 ceeded farther than the dramatic writers. Metastasio, Gol- 
 doni, Gozzi, and Alfieri, almost at the same time, carried the 
 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, however, other Italians who, at this period, 
 devoted themselves to other branches of literature ; and who, 
 without being able to take 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 who ap- 
 proached most nearly to the spirit of earlier times, and who 
 almost appeared to belong to another age and another state of 
 things, was Niccolo Forteguerra, the author of Ricciardetto, 
 the 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 the priesthood, and 
 was made a prelate by the Roman Court. This was one of the 
 reasons which induced him not to publish his poem under his 
 own name, assuming that of Carteromacho, which is a trans- 
 lation of it into Greek. He displayed at an early period his 
 talents for verse; but he bad 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 were enthusiastic admirers of Ariosto, and 
 who, discovering some hidden meaning in every freak of the 
 poet's imagination, fell into ecstasies at the richness of iuven-
 
 OP 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 founil 
 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 under 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 extraordinary short 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 thnn in Ariosto. The manner o/ 
 that great poet appears to have l>een blended by Forteguerra 
 
 VOL. II. X>
 
 58 OK THE LITERATURE 
 
 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 perdoco: 
 E presa Ferrau la disciplina 
 Batteasi forte si, che parve un tuono. 
 Disse llinaldo : Sino a domattina 
 Per me, seguita pur cotesto suono : 
 Ma quella func e troppo piccolina; 
 S' io fossi in te, Ferrau beato, 
 Mi frusterei con un bel correggiato. 
 
 Io ti vorrei corregger con rnodestia 
 Se si potesse, (disse Ferrau) ; 
 Ma tu sei troppo la solenne bestia, 
 E a dirla giusta, non ne posso piu. 
 Disse llinaldo : Disprezzo e niolestia 
 Sofi'erta in pace e grata al buon Gesu 
 Ma tu sei, per la vergine Maria, 
 Romito falso, e piu briccou di pria. 
 
 A quel dir Ferrau gli die sul grugno 
 La disciplina sua cinque o sei volte : 
 E llinaldo aflibiogli un cotal pugno, 
 Che gli fe dar dugeuto giravolte. 
 
 Ma nel inentre che ognuno urla e fecuiamazza 
 S'ode un gran picchio all' uscio della cella, 
 Che introna a' combatteiiti la cervella. 
 
 E grida Ferrau'.e : AVC Maria ; 
 E nicna intanto un pugno al buon Kinaldc : 
 Gridano : Aprkc. quelli della via. 
 Niun si muove, cd in pugnar stil saldo. 
 Pur Fcrrai dall' ostc si disvia 
 E sbufl'ando, per 1" ira e per Io caldo, 
 Bi affaccia al bucolino della chiavc, 
 toi epranga V uscb con pesante trave. 
 
 CaiUo 3. *. 8a.
 
 OF THE ITALIANS. 59 
 
 libraries, and excite but little curiosity. The long thraldom 
 to which the intellect of the Italians had been subjected, prt- 
 yented them from raising themselves to the same rank as 
 other cations, whenever reason or philosophy was the object 
 of their labours. Even after they had partially recovered 
 that liberty of which they 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 iind 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 pi-evented 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 witli great courage tin 
 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 cf 
 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 ; o
 
 60 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 1576, 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 which 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 III. and the 
 capitulation of Paris, Davila served for five 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 1559 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 Xani, 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 8vo. Venice, 1791 1794. Xavier Betti-
 
 OF THE ITALIANS. 6* 
 
 nelli, of Mantua (1718 1808), a Jesuit and professor, whoso 
 numerous writings are comprised in twenty-four volumes in 
 12mo, should likewise be noticed. The fine arts, philosophy, 
 and polite literature, fill the greater 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, which 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 ot' 
 their merit, and a translation of them would fully supply the 
 place of the originals. From what has been said, it may be 
 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 whose 
 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 conric 
 poet, wrote against Bettinelli a defence of Dante. He wrote also, at 
 Venice, an Osservatore, published twice a week, in imitation of tho 
 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 hig works.
 
 62 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 about to give of these writers is a matter of some delicacjr t 
 Their present reputation is confounded with their real lame. 
 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 ourselves 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 the prejudices of the Italians ; who, in- 
 stead of being, as they were formerly, an isolated people, have 
 now become members of the great literary Republic of Europe. 
 
 The 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 abolished, while the beauties 
 of the great original will never pass away. It is the admira- 
 ble 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 Ccsarotti, and to enable the 
 reader to perceive in what manner he has preserved or altered the 
 original, we have given below the celebrated scene between Priam and 
 Achilles, where the former demands the body of his son. (Iliad xxir. 
 v. 486 to 606. Trans. 657 to 689.) 
 
 Ecco c in vista d'Achille : a quella vista 
 Un tumulto d' affetti, un gruppo, un ncmbo, 
 
 L'anima
 
 OF TUB 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 repress! singulti ; ognun si volge, 
 
 Scosso I'Eroe fiso sel giiarda, il vecchio 
 
 Pria che '1 ravvisi, a pie gli casca, c man 
 
 A lui strette e ginocchia, ah pieta, grida. 
 
 Divino Achille, il padre tuo t' implora; 
 
 Per tuo padre pieta. Mirati innanzi 
 
 Un immagine sua : canuto e carco 
 
 D'anni e di cure in sua solinga reggia, 
 
 E cinto forsc di perigli anch' csso, 
 
 Langue e sospira, e chiama il figlio ; ali'l figlio 
 
 Ei rivedra, fra le sue braccia un giorno 
 
 Cadra per gioia ; me tapino ed orbo, 
 
 Diserto me ! tutto perdei ; piii speme, 
 
 Pifl conforto non ho : di tanta prole 
 
 {Cinquanta del mio talamo fecondo 
 
 Erano i frutti) omai gia pochi, (Achilla, 
 
 Troppo tel sai) rcstano in vita : io vidi 
 
 L'un dopo 1'altro, di sanguigne morti 
 
 Contaminar gli occhi patcrni ; e quello 
 
 Ch' era il primo e '1 miglior, quel che fu solo 
 
 Mio sostegno e mia speme (oime, nomarlo 
 
 Pur non ardisco) per tua man mel tolsc 
 
 II fato incsorabilo. Ti basti, 
 
 Placati alfin, terribil Dio ; trcmante 
 
 A tc ricorro c lagrimoso ; ah rendi 
 
 Gli avanzi a me della slraziata sahna 
 
 Ch' Ettor gia fu. Quelle in compenso accogii 
 
 Ch' io rccai meco, preziose offerte 
 
 Che a to consacro ; dell' ct;\ cadento 
 
 Rispctta i dritti ; ti disarm! il sacro 
 
 Carattcre paterno ; e sc pur vago 
 
 Sei dello strazio mio. pensa che immenao 
 
 Lo sotfro gia, non mai provato in terra 
 
 Dal cor d'un padre, poiche adoro e bacio 
 
 La fatal destra, quella detra, oh Dio ! 
 
 (Jbe ancor del sanguc de' mici figli e tiatfi
 
 64 ON THE LITERATLftii 
 
 displayed in the form which he has given to these compos* 
 tions, as well as much truth and precision in the fidelity with 
 which he has rendered the original ; and as there are none 
 who 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 the 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 has 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 infinite 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 feel 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 the 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, Phnedrus, Esop, 
 and Pilpai. A few, indeed, are of his own invention, but 
 they are not in general his best. The moral of a fable
 
 OF THE ITALIANS. ;i5 
 
 .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 instilling 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 o ' 
 simplicity. 
 
 Pignotti did not confine himself to the composition ol 
 
 * 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, leggiadra Fillide, E anch' essa dilettavasi 
 
 Quel fraudolento insetto Come tu appunto fai, 
 
 Che ascoso sta nell' angolo I piu brillanti giovani 
 
 Del obbliato tetto ? Ferir co' suoi bei rai. 
 
 E che nol foro piccolo Ora uno sguardo tenero, 
 Mezzo si mostra e cela, Ma insiem falso e bugiardo, 
 
 Attento ai moti tremuli Con un linguaggio tacito 
 
 Delia sua fragil telal Parea dicesse, io ardo ; 
 
 Ci nurano le favole E di pieta la languida 
 
 Che bestia si schifosa Faccia si ben pingea 
 
 Fu gia donzella amabile Che i cuori anche i piu timidi 
 
 E al par di te vezzosa. Assicurar parea, &c. 
 
 Hut 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
 
 86 ON 1-fifi LITERATURE 
 
 fables only, for he has left some odes and a poem, in blank 
 verse, entitled The Shade of Pope. Pignotti was well ac- 
 quainted with English literature, but the turn of his mind, 
 and the peculiarity of his talents, did not fit him to take full 
 advantage of that circumstance. He vras of the classic, not 
 the romantic, order of poets. 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 J^uigi Savioli, of Bologna, are entirely 
 amatory ; and none of the poets of the present age so com- 
 pletely remind the reader of Ariacreon. 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 have been 
 made to experience the torments of jealousy, or the im- 
 petuosity of anger, or, indeed, suffering under any of its 
 forms. 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 fourth 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 highly 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 difficult task, though a very useful 
 one, to those who wish to excel in the poetical art. The
 
 Or 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 language. 
 
 Giovanni Gherardo di Rossi, a Roman by birth, of whom 
 we have, in one of the preceding chapters, 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 ; 
 
 * Figlia alma d'Egioco, 
 
 Leggiadro onor dell" acque, 
 Per cui le grazic apparvero, 
 E '1 riso al mondo nacque. 
 
 molle Dca, di ruvido 
 Fabbro, gelosa cura, 
 O del figliuol di Cinira 
 Beata un di ventura. 
 
 Teco il garzon cui tcmono 
 Per la gran face cterna, 
 Ubbidienza e imperio 
 Soavemente alterna. 
 
 Accesse a tc le tencre 
 Fanciulle alzan la mano, 
 Pol te ritrosa invocano 
 Le antichc madri invano. 
 
 Te sulle corde Eolie 
 Saffo invitar solea, 
 Quando a quiete i languid! 
 liegli occhi amor togliea. 
 
 E tu richiesta, Ycnere, 
 Sovente a lei scendcsti, 
 Posta in obMio 1' ambrosia 
 E i tctti aurci cclesti. 
 
 II gentil carro Idalio 
 
 (Jh'or le colombe addoppia, 
 Lieve traea di passera 
 Nera amorosa coppia. 
 
 E mentre udir propizia 
 Solevi il flebil canto, 
 Tergean le dita rosee 
 Delia fanciulla 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 clla innanzi a Paride 
 Pcrde la lite antica 
 
 A che valer pud 1' Egida 
 Se '1 figlio tuo percote ? 
 Quel che i euoi dardi possono 
 L' asta immortal non puote. 
 
 Meco i mortali innalzino 
 Solo al tuo nomc altari ; 
 Citera tua divcngano 
 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 the inspiration, 
 of a poet. What he 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 
 larigua^- permitted him, and he has likewise endeavoured to 
 preserve his style of thinking, and the turn of his wit ; but 
 it was, 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, Marquis of Fosdinovo, did 
 not forget the interests and the destinies of Europe, in the 
 beautiful mountains of Lunigiana, 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 druda, or serva di stranicrc gcnti, 
 
 Raccorcio il crin, breve la gonna, il femore 
 Sulle piume adagiato, i di languenti 
 Passi oziosa. e di tua gloria immemore. 
 
 Aile
 
 OF iilE ITALIANS. OS 
 
 of the Italians whose poetry is thoughtful anil melancholy. 
 TLe loss of a friend, and an illness which attacked himself, 
 and which he considered fatal, made a deep impression upou 
 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 tomb, 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, allc danze, i figli tuoi 
 Ti seguon sconsigliati, e il nostro orgoglio 
 
 Piu non osa vantar Duci ed Eroi, 
 Che i spiranti nel marmo in Campidoglio. 
 
 Squarcia le vesti dell' obbrobrio ; al crinc 
 
 L' elrno riponi, al sen 1' usbergo ; destati 
 Dal lungo sonno, sullc vette alpine 
 
 Alia ciifesa ed ai trionfi apprcstati. 
 Sc il mar, sc 1' onda che ti parte, e serra 
 
 Vano fia schermo a un vincitor terribile, 
 Serba la tomba nell' Esperia terra 
 
 All' audace stranicr fato invincibile. 
 
 * cosi dolccmcnte della fossa 
 Nel tacito calar sen tcnebroso 
 E a poco a poco ir terminand' io possa 
 Questo viasigio uman caro e affanuoso : 
 Ma il dl ch' or parte, riedcrii ; quest' ossi 
 Io piil non alzcrd dal lor riposo ; 
 Nf il prato, e la gentil sua varia prole 
 KivedrO piu, nc il dolce addio del sole. 
 
 Forse per queati amcni colli uu giorur> 
 Volgcra qualche amico spirto il passo. 
 E chiedeudo di me, del niio soggiorno 
 Sol arli fia mor-tro senza uomc uu sauso 
 
 Sotto
 
 70 ON THE L1TERATUHE 
 
 My tomb .his nameless stone where oft I strav, 
 
 And rest 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. 
 
 " happy thou !" my friend perchance shall cry, 
 " The calm 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 North thus using Italian accents, and 
 it is dfficult to imagine a thoughtful spirit breathing forth 
 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 her 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 the cascade of Arpinas ; names 
 which we are more astonished to find in the mouth of an 
 Italian, than in that of an American. 
 
 Sotto quell' elce, a cui sovente or torno 
 Per dar ristoro al fianco errante e lasso. 
 Or pensoso ed immobile qual pietra, 
 Ed or voci Febee vibraudo all' etra. 
 
 Mi coprira quella stess' onibra morto, 
 L' ombra, mentr' io vivca, si dolce avuta, 
 E 1' erba, de' niiei luini ora conforto, 
 Allor sul capo mi sara cresciuta. 
 Felice to, dira forse ei, cue scorto 
 Per una strada e ver solinga e muta, 
 Ma d' onde in altro suol mcglio si varca, 
 Oiungesti quasi ad ingaunar la Parca. 
 
 La S?-a, st, 12, p. 72
 
 OP THE ITALIANS. 71 
 
 It has been said that Pinderaonti 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 affection for his own country, which 
 is always the mark of a noble mind. The following verses 
 are most pleasing : 
 
 Oh ! happy 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 tb.3e, dost not fear 
 That it should find thee in the wretchc 1 chamber 
 Of some p oor 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 1 
 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.t 
 
 * Oh felice chi mai non pose il piede 
 
 Fuori della natia sua dolce terra ; 
 
 Egli il cor noil lascio fitto in oggetti 
 
 Che di piu riveder non ha speranza, 
 
 E cio, chc vive ancor, mono non piange. 
 f Se 1' iinportuna 
 
 Morte te vuol rapir, br.:mi tu dunque 
 
 Che nella stanza d'un ostier ti colga 
 
 Lunge da tuoi, tra ignoti volti, c in braccio 
 
 D' un servo, die fedel prima, ma guasto 
 
 Anch' ci dal lungo viaggiar, tuoi bianchi 
 
 Lini, le scte, e i prcziosi arrcdi 
 
 Mangia con gli occhi, e nel suo cor t' uccide 1 
 
 Non picti di congiunto, non d' amico 
 
 Vienti a chiuder le ciglia ; debilmente 
 
 Stringer uon puoi con la mano majicante 
 
 Una man cara, e un caro oggetto indarvo 
 
 Da' moribondi erranti occhi cercato, 
 
 Gli chini sul tuo sen con un sospiro.
 
 72 ON THE i-iTERATCRE 
 
 Discerning nought they love to gaze upon, 
 They close amid thy sighs. 
 
 The Cavaliere Pindemonti, the brother of the Marquis 
 whom we mentioned in a preceding chapter, has likewise 
 written a tragedy, the hero of which is Arminius, the great 
 antagonist of the Romans, and the liberator of Germany. 
 We have not space to give any extracts from this 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 the 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, which 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 \\\\\ 
 doubly feel the force of M. de Sismoiuli's observation. Tr.] 
 Una lucertoletta Un della mia famiglir 
 
 Diceva al cocodrillo : Si grande e si potente ! 
 
 quanto mi diietta Ho fatto mille miglia 
 
 Di vedcr finalmente Per venirvi a vedere :
 
 OJ 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 'twas 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 mouth to reply, 
 The Crocodile, snoring, 
 
 Again shut his eye. 
 
 The admiration of Bertola for Gcssner, 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 though 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 he 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 
 his most faithful servants, is expressed with a strength of 
 feeling which we rarely find in the Italian poets. P^xcept 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 ; which indeed may also be said of Ber- 
 
 Sire, tra noi ri acrba Pur sugli ultimi accent! 
 
 Di voi memoria viva, Dal sonno si riecosse 
 
 Benche fuggiam tra 1' crba E addimandd chi fosse ; 
 
 E il sassoso scntierc, La parentcla antica, 
 
 In sen perd non langue 11 cammin, la fatica, 
 
 L' onor del prisco sangue. Quella gli torna a dire 
 
 L' anfibio re dormiva Ed ei torna a doraihe. 
 A qucsti compliment! ; Favola xvii. p. 29 
 
 TOT.. II. E
 
 74 ON THE LITERATUKK 
 
 tola, and some others. The amiable Abbate was invited tc 
 the neighbouring mansion, where he was entreated to write 
 an epithalamium for a marriage, or some congratulatory 
 verses at a christening, or some stanzas for the fete of the 
 Lord or the Lady, or some pretty couplet on a journey, or 
 on some villegniatura 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 Villereccia; A Day in the Country, 
 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 from 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 generality 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 
 forget, that he is an Abbate. I know not whether, in fact, 
 Bondi was of a warm temperament ; but his amatory effusions 
 certainly appear to rne 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, therefore, 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
 
 OK THE ITALIANS. 75 
 
 rerses 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 Man of the World. With much wit, elegance, and 
 refinement, 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 
 afford. He has painted high society with some delicate 
 satirical touches ; and whilst he has adorned that effeminate 
 life with 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 sowiene il giorno, 
 
 Ahi fero giorno ! allor che la sua bella 
 
 Vergine cuccia, delle Grazie alunna, 
 
 Giovenilmente vezzeggiando, il piede 
 
 Villan del servo con 1' eburneo dente 
 
 Segnd di lieve nota : ed cgli audace 
 
 Con sacrilego pie lanciolla ; e quella 
 
 Tre volte rotolld ; 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 1' impietosita Eco rispose ; 
 
 E dagl' infimi chiostri i mesti servi 
 
 Asccser tutti ; e dalle somme stanze 
 
 Le damigelle pallide tremanti 
 
 Precipitaro. Accorse ognuno ; il volto 
 
 Fu spruzzato d' essenze alia sua dama ; 
 
 Ella rinvcnnc alfin : 1' ira, il dolore, 
 
 L' agitavano ancor : fulminei sguardi 
 
 Gctto sul servo, e con languida voco 
 
 Chiamd tre volte la sua cuccia ; e questa 
 
 Al sen le corse ; in suo tenor vendetta 
 
 Chieder sembrolle : c 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 
 
 Zolo d'arcani uftici : in van per lui 
 
 Fu prfgato e pror;-.3sso ; e! uudo andonnc 
 
 -Vsir
 
 76 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 }f a high mind, who, amidst the various revolutions which ve 
 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 of 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 yictime, presents a rare mixture of 
 beauty and of energy, of gallantry and of indignation. Parini 
 makes his mistress blush for having dared to adopt a dress, 
 the name of which alone recalled such terrible crimes. He 
 ohews 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 elder, of Ferrara, is one of those 
 religionists, who, gifted with real eloquence and original 
 fervour, devote themselves to the career to which their vows 
 huve 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 most 
 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. 
 
 Dell' assisa spogliato, ond' era un giorno 
 Vcncrabile al vulgo. Iiivan novello 
 Signer spcrO ; che le pictose danic 
 Inorridiro, c del inisfatto atroce 
 Odiar 1' autorc. 11 miscro si giacque 
 Con la squallida prole, e con la nuda 
 Consorte a lato, sulla. via spargendo 
 Al passcggiere inutile lamento. 
 E tu, vergine cuccia, idol placato 
 Dalle vittime uinane, isti superba. 
 
 11 Mczzogiorno, p. 100.
 
 OP THE ITALIANS. 77 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 \Mien Jesus, uttering his last mortal sigh, 
 
 Open'd the graves, while shook the earth's wide boanc 1 , 
 Adam, his head, in 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, while doubt and dread his heart aatou 
 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 almost an equal reputation in Italy. It is 
 
 * Quando Gesu con 1" ultimo lamcnto 
 
 Schiusse le tombe, e le montagne scosse, 
 Adamo rabuifato e sonnolento 
 Levd la testa, e sovra i pie rizzosc. 
 Le torbide pupille intorno mosse 
 Piene di maraviglia 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 f e danni ed onte. 
 
 Si volse lagrimando alia consorte, 
 
 E gridd si, che rimbombonne il monte : 
 lo per te diedi al mio signor la morte. 
 
 The following is the French translation alluded to in the text. 
 Quand Jesus expirait, H ses plaintes funebres 
 Lc tombeau s'entrouvrit, le mont fut ebranle. 
 Un vieux mort 1'entcndit dans le sein des tenebres, 
 Son antique repos tout a coup fut troub!6 : 
 C'etait Adam ; alors soulcvant sa paupiere, 
 II tourne lentement son ceil plein de tcrreur, 
 Et demande quel est, sur la croix meurtriere, 
 Cct objet tout sanglant vaincu par la douleur. 
 L'infortune le sut, et son pale visage, 
 Ses longs cheveux blanchis, et son front sillonne", 
 De sa main repentante eprouverent 1'outrage. 
 En pleurant, il reporte un regard constcrne 
 Vers sa triste compagne, ct sa voix lamentable, 
 Que 1'abime, en grondant, r6pfctc au loin encore, 
 Fit entendre ces mots : Malheureuse coupable ! 
 Ah ! pour toi, j'ai livrt mon Seigneur a la mort '.
 
 78 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 burlesque both in the subject and in the rhymes. In othei 
 respects it is a true monkish sonnet, heartless and unfeeling. 
 He complains of his misfortunes in being compelled alone to 
 supply all the wants of his family. He complains of the 
 voracity of his 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 Gil Animali JParlanti ; in which he 
 has given an epic form to his apologue, and, like JEsop, 
 endowing animals with human passions, has pleasantly enough 
 satirized the character of 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 L, and the vices of Lion II. 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 sempre e malaticcia, 
 
 E non ha parte che non sia malconeia, 
 
 Pure si mangia un sacco di salsiccia 
 
 E si beve d'aceto una bigoncia ; 
 Un paio di Sorelle, a cui stropiccia 
 
 Amor le gote, ed i capegli acconcia, 
 
 Ma nella testa impolverata e riccia 
 
 Loro non lascia di cervello un' oncia : 
 Un-picciolo fratello cosi gonzo 
 
 Che dalla micia non distingue il cuecio, 
 
 L'acqua dal vino, dalla pappa il brorizo ; 
 Ecco cid di che spesso io mi corruccio : 
 
 Que' poi che mi fann' ire il capo a zonzo 
 
 Sono un velo, una spada, ed un capuccio. 
 
 This sonnet has, besides, something which I ssuppreaa, w^thi^i fear af 
 causing regret
 
 OF THE ITALIANS. 79 
 
 cantos in length, with more than six hundred lines in each 
 canto ; and the slovenly and negligent 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 language 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 Novette of Casti are of equal celebrity with his Oli A niniali 
 Parlanti, 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- 
 iation 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 gome mean what they say the generality 
 
 Of them smoke, too, segare, and love hard drinking ; 
 
 Yet, as they pay, and for the most part do well 
 
 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 built 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 Nabob'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.
 
 90 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 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 feelings 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 fame 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 Basclgliana is 
 the most celebrated of them. The readers of Monti will soon 
 perceive that the author, who always copies Dante, not un- 
 irequently copies himself. 
 
 Hughe Basville was a French envoy, who, at the com- 
 mencement of the revolution, was massacred by the people of 
 Rome, for attempting 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 commutation 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
 
 OP THE ITALIANS. 81 
 
 this beautiful country; and after leading him to Paris, that 
 he 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 suffering 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 preserved in him 
 any traces of his revolutionary character. He makes him 
 feel 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 a glance upon the corse, 
 His earthly consort, in whose every vein 
 Anger and zeal had open'd life's red source. 
 
 Oh sleep in peace ! he said : oh ! of my pain 
 Beloved companion, till that final day, 
 When 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 affisse, 
 
 Gi& suo cousorte in vita, a cui le vene 
 
 Sdegno di zelo e di ragion trafisse ; 
 Dormi in pace, dicendo, di mie pene 
 
 Caro compagno, infin che del gran die 
 
 L' orrido squillo a risvegliar ti viene. 
 Lieve intanto la terra, e dolci e pie 
 
 Ti sien 1'aure e le pioggie ; e a te non dica 
 
 Parole il passegger acorteai e ~ic. 
 
 Jltre
 
 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 angei, 
 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, 
 
 'Mid guarded looks, and fearful questionings, 
 While grief within each heavy 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 il rogo non vive ira nemica, 
 E nell' ospite suolo ove io ti laseo, 
 Giuste son 1'alme, e la pietade e antica. 
 
 * E 1' ombra si stupia quinci vedendo 
 Lagrimoso il suo duca, e possedute 
 Quindi le strade da silenzio orrendo. 
 
 Muto de' bronzi il sacro squillo, e mute 
 L'opre del giorno, e muto lo stridore 
 DelV aspre incudi, e delle seghe argute. 
 
 Sol per tutto un bisbiglio ed un terrore, 
 Tin domandarc, ud sogguardar sospetto, 
 Una mestizia che ti piomba al cuore ; 
 
 E cnpe voci di confuso afletto, 
 
 Voci di madri pie, che gl' innocent! 
 Figli si serran, trepidando, al petto ; 
 
 Voci di spose, che ai mariti ardenti 
 Contrastano 1' uscita, e suglc soglie 
 Fan di lagriine intoppo e di lamenti. 
 
 Ma tcnerezza e carita di moglie 
 
 Vinta e da furia di maggior possan/a, 
 Che dall' amplesso conjugal li scioglie.
 
 OF THE ITALIANS. 83 
 
 We have 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, yielding 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 language 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, 
 like the concords naturally elicited from the vibrations of a 
 musical chord. 
 
 The improvvisatore generally begs from the audience a 
 subject for his verse. The topics usually presented to him 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 which has already been the 
 object of his verse. 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 the 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 that pow- 
 erful emotion, which makes him as it were a new being. In 
 about seven or eight minutes he is fully prepared, and com- 
 mences his poem, which often consists of five or six hundred 
 verses. His eyes wander around him, his features 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 the Pythia of Delplios, when the god descended 
 and spoke by her mouth. 
 
 There 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 Improwisatori. 
 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 stanza 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 persons
 
 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 rima of 
 Dante, or the ottava rima 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 thought 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 Capitol, was distinguished for her lively 
 imagination, her grace, and her gaiety. Another poetess, La 
 Bandettini, of Modena, 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 het- 
 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 worthy of the name she bore, and a facility of 
 composition, which gave full employment to her melodious 
 voice. Madame MazzeS, whose former name was Landi, a 
 lady of one of the first families in Florence, surpasses, perhaps, 
 all her compeers in the fertility of her imagination, in the 
 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 effusions, the most harmonious language in
 
 86 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 the world srems at her bidding to assume new beauties. We 
 are delighted 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 rima celebrate the genius of Dante, of 
 Machiavelli, 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 never 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 literary 
 career, but that there still perhaps remain in reserve for her 
 greater glories than any which she has as yet acquired. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 ORIGIN OF THE SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. POEM 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 which 
 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 which 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 language of which we are now about 
 to treat, we are not so familial ly acquainted as with the 
 T *alian, 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 efforts I have made to procure 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, 
 Boutterwek, 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 Spn- 
 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 nor 
 regard, works which have been composed upon absolutely 
 different principles. 
 
 On the other hand, the literature of Spain will 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 uivl 
 religious liberties, and which, after it had lost both the one
 
 8 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 and the other, under Charles V. and his successors, seemed 
 desirous of burying both Europe and the 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 richness 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 magnificence 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. Even in the universal decay which suc- 
 ceeded, we behold the loftiness of the Spanish character. The 
 poets of later times sunk under the weight of their riches, 
 and yielded to the strength of their own efforts, less for the 
 purpose of vanquishing 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 dramas 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 known 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 ; 
 and 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 /"or six centuries had been sub- 
 jected to the dominion of the Romans, and had completely 
 adopted the language and civilized arts of its masters, expe- 
 rienced those changes in its manners, its opinion?, its military 
 Bpirit, 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 which arose on the overthrow
 
 OK 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 the west were by far the 
 most just and enlightened ; affording greater protection to the 
 vanquished, and establishing amongst them 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 Africa, for the -purpose of 
 founding that warlike monarchy which was destined to avenge 
 Carthage and to pillage Rome. The Suevi, who had preserved 
 their independence for a century and a half, were at last 
 overcome in their turn in the year 585. The 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, were 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 the German with the Latin, the termination of the words in 
 the latter language being contracted. The Arabic afterwards 
 enriched it with a number of expressions, which preserve their 
 foreign character in the midst of a language derived from tho 
 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. The 
 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 different letters 
 kave undergone, may enable us to recognize words which hare passed 
 VOL. U. V
 
 00 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 of aspirates and accents, has something in it more dignified 
 firm, and imposing ; while, on the other hand, having been 
 less cultivated by philosophers 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 ail 
 that remains of their history and their manners is too scanty 
 to allow us to form any judgment respecting them. 
 
 The extreme corruption of the Goths, under their later 
 sovereigns, was the cause of their ruin, at the period when 
 the Arabs were extending their conquests in Africa. 
 Roderick having driven the sons of Witiza, the legitimate 
 heirs to the throne, into exile, mortally offended 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 h, and sometimes the h into /. Thus 
 fdbulari, to speak, is hablar in Spanish; in Italian, fave liar; and as 
 the b and the v are continually used for one another, this word is, in 
 fact, precisely the same in both languages. The j, which is strongly 
 aspirated by the Spaniards, is frequently substituted for the liquid I, so 
 that hijo and figlio 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, piano, Italian ; Plenus, Latin, 
 tteno, Spanish, pieno, Italian. The Spanish ch supplies the place of the 
 Latin ct, and the Italian tt. Foetus, hecho,fatto; dictus, dicho, detto. 
 The Spanish terminate their words with consonants more frequently 
 than the Italians ; and the language is full of words ending in ar, er, os, 
 and as. The infinitive of verbs, and the plural of nouns, are terminated 
 by consonants ; but the former are accentuated, and the latter not. In 
 short, the Italians have softened down the pronunciation of the Romans, 
 while the Spaniards have preserved a great number of harsh syllaVloe, 
 and have multiplied aspirates in the letters x, j, g, h, and f.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 91 
 
 Afnca, dispatched Tariffa, or Tarikh, in the year 710, with 
 a Musulman army to their 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 the 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, however, 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 Christian 
 governor, whom the Arabs had placed there ; and they at 
 length succeeded in establishing their independence. This 
 example was imitated ; and from these fugitives proceeded 
 the kings of Oviedo, descended from Pelagius, one of the 
 princes of the 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 toleration in religious matters, and 
 who freely communicated to them the knowledge of which 
 they were themselves masters. In a former chapter we have 
 given some account of the literary splendour of Spain during 
 the government of the Moors, and of the influence which they 
 exercised 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 
 witli the use of their Roman language, did not all speak the 
 same dialect. In Catalonia the Proven9al or Limousin, 
 
 F2
 
 92 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 which so long engaged cur attention, was spoken In Astu- 
 rias, in old Castile, and in the kingdom of Leon, the Castilian 
 prevailed ; and in Galicia, the Galleyo, whence the Portuguese 
 had 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 influence over its litera- 
 ture. When the Christians, profiting by the extinction of 
 the Caliphate of the Ommiades of Cordova, and the division 
 of the Musulmans 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 
 &lgarves. 
 
 The Christians who had preserved their independence 
 amidst the 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. These 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 rather 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 who had abandoned their country, in 
 order that they might preserve amidst the solitude of the 
 too un tains their religion and \l\vir laws, were not likely to
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 98 
 
 recognize, to any great degree, tts distinctions which fortune 
 created. The son of the 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 foi 
 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. The 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 any 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 Visigoth. The Court, the general 
 nobility, and the equal balance of ranks, of which no one was 
 suffered to feel degraded, preserved in the manners, 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 the most timid 
 vassals, when once deprived of their free constitution. The 
 religious independence of the Spaniards has been little re
 
 94 OX THE LITERATURE 
 
 markel upon, because the native writers of the present day 
 are ashamed of the fact, and have endeavoured to conceal it 
 while foreign authors have formed their opinion of that 
 nation from its situation during their own time. We shall, 
 however, have occasion to remark in examining the 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 liberty 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 
 hundred 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 Luna, 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 extinguish it. Alfonso V. of Aragon again 
 renewed it, after the council of Constance, and even after the 
 death of Benedict XIII. He consented in 1429 to the 
 ieposition. of that shadow of a Pope, which he had himself.
 
 OF THE SPANIABP8. 9-3 
 
 created ; an act of condescension which was repaid by tl* 
 Holy Pontiff with great sacrifices. Until the reign of 
 Charles V., this monarch, his son, and his successors 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 prolonged contests with the church. It is not to be 
 doubted that they frequently sacrificed their religion to their 
 temporal interests 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 II. 
 ultimately succeeded in reducing it. The last struggles in 
 defence of the liberties of Aragon occurred in the year 1485 , 
 when the people rose 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 
 were 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 Musul- 
 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 
 ta 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 
 CasMliun poets, of whose works he had been able to procure
 
 96 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 manuscripts. Th.3 first in the collection is the poem of the 
 Cid, which, in his opinion, was written towards the middle 
 of the twelfth century, 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 absolutely barbarous, it is 
 yet so curious on account of its simple and faithful descrip- 
 tions of the manners of the eleventh century, and still more 
 on account of its date, it being the most ancient epic in the 
 modern languages, that we have 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 written. 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., the last king of Leon, for his second SOD, 
 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 birth, and perhaps a conquest of his father's. 
 On the female side he was descended from the ancient Counts 
 of Castile ; yet, though his birth was illustrious, he was com- 
 
 * The MS. which has been preserved, bears the date of 1207, or 1245, 
 of the Spanish sera, though it is certainly not the most ancient. M. 
 Raynouard has promised us a Proveiial poem on Boethius, anterior to 
 the year 1000, and which must consequently be of higher antiquity thau 
 the poem of the Cid. This discovery is due to M. Raynouard, who aa 
 yet is the only person who possesses the means of forming a judgment 
 upon the co upositioo. [This poem may be found in Itaynouanl, vol. ii. 
 >. 4.-IV.]
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 9') 
 
 paratively poor, before his valour had acquired him riches a 
 well as glory. 
 
 D. Sancho divided his states amongst 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 Movvajed, 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 race 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 afterwards 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 hia 
 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 the Cid are said to have occurred ; his attach- 
 ment to Ximena, the only daughter of Count Gormaz ; his 
 duel with the Count, who had mortally injured his father; 
 mid lastly his marriage with the daughter of the man who
 
 98 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 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 against 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 Campeador. 
 
 D. Sancho, who merited the friendship of a hero, and who 
 always remained faithful to him, was, notwithstanding, no less 
 ambitious and unjust than his father, whose example he fol- 
 lowed in endeavouring to deprive his brothers of their share 
 of the paternal inheritance. To the valour of the Cid he 
 owed his victories over D. Garcia, King of Galicia, and D. 
 Alfonso, King of Leon, whose states he 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 his 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 throne, after having taken an 
 oath, administered by the hands of the Cid, that he had been 
 in no degree accessary to his brothers death, endeavoured to 
 attach that celebrated leader to his interests, by promising 
 him in marriage his own niece Ximena, whose mother was 
 sister-in-law to Ferdinand the Great and Bermudez III. the 
 last King of Leon. This marriage, of which historical 
 evidence remains, was celebrated on the 19th 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 great victory over the King of Grenada ; bu:
 
 OF THB SPANIARDS. 9.** 
 
 scarcely hnd tlie heat of the battle passed away, when 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 him 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 1081 to 
 1085, 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 Morabite, who had invaded Spain with a 
 new army of Moors 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 are torn down, the win- 
 dows driven in, and the rooms usually appropriated to the 
 protection of treasure and valuable effects, <"*e broken open
 
 100 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 and empty. The falcons' mews are deserted, and within 
 them neither falcons nor hawks are to be found.* The hero 
 weeps as he quits these scenes ; for to shed tears was never 
 deemed by the ancient knights to be inconsistent with their 
 character 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 faith to each other in battle ; and 
 those who had marched beneath the triumphant standard of 
 Rodrigo, 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 otter 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. He 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 witli sand, which, as he pretended, held 
 his treasures, and which he commanded the Jew not to open 
 until a year had expired. This deception, the only one of 
 
 * The following are the opening lines : 
 
 De los BUS ojos tan fuertemientre lorando, 
 
 Tornaba la cabeza, e estabalos catando : 
 
 Vio puertas abiertas, e uzos sin canados, 
 
 Alcandaras vacias, sin pielles e sin mantos : 
 
 E sin falconcs, e sin adtores mudados. 
 
 Sospiro mio Cid, ca mucbo avie grandes cuidadoe 
 
 Fablo niio Cid, bien e tan mcsurado. 
 
 Grado a ti, senor padre, quo estas en alto, 
 
 Esto me ban buelto mios enemigos 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 rostoration 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 1 
 
 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 late.f 
 
 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 ; 
 
 111 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 the for- 
 tunes of the Cid, and in company with him abandoned 
 Castile.J 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.jj 
 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." Tr.] 
 
 + Sanchez, v. 265. t. i. p. 241. J Sanchez, v. 422, p. 246. 
 
 I Sanchez, v. 645, p. 254.
 
 102 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 routed them, wounding two of their kings, dispersing their 
 whole army, and possessing himself of a vast booty. He 
 immediately despatched an ambassador to D. Alfonso to 
 compliment 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. He 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 Rodrigo 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 Raymond 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 him : 
 
 " I will not eat a morsel for the sum of all Spain's wealth ; 
 
 Not for my soul's salvation, no, nor for my body's health, 
 
 Since, by such vagabonds as these, I have been vanquished." 
 
 Now listen what my Cid, Ruy Bias straightway to him said : 
 
 " Eat, Count, this bread, and drink this wine, and do as I command, 
 
 And speedily from prison free, believe me, you shall stand ; 
 
 Or elsewise 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."-)- 
 
 * Sanchez, v. 855, p. 261. 
 
 f A mio Cid Don liodrigo grant cocinal adobaban ; 
 
 El Conde Don llemont non gelo presia nada. 
 
 Aducenle los comerea, delante gelos paraban ; 
 
 El non lo quiere comer, a todos los sozanaba. 
 
 Non combre un bocado por quanto ha en toda Esparto, 
 
 Antes perdere el cuerpo e dexare el alma : 
 
 Foes qne tales malcalzados me vencierou 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 morsel of bread. At last 
 the Cid said to him : 
 
 Eat, Count, or ne'er again Christian visage shalt thou see ; 
 But if you will 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 honour, 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 Emperoi 
 of Morocco, landed with an army of fifty thousand men. 
 The Cid soon received intelligence of this : 
 
 This news unto my Cid thus suddenly being' given, 
 
 He cried, " Thanks to God, my Father who is in Heaven, 
 
 That all that I 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 Virgin, my daughters and my wife, 
 
 Those blessings of the land, haw; 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 they by their eyes shall know." 
 
 His daughters and his wife, from the towers of Alcazar, 
 
 Their eyes they lifted up, and beheld the tento of war. 
 
 Mio Cid Ruy Bias odrides lo que dixo. 
 
 Corned, 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. 1026, p. 267. 
 
 * According to Muller, whose Dissertation on the Cid has 1 teen c ftei 
 consulted by us, Valencia yielded to the hero in April, 1094.
 
 104 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 " What is this luatter, Cid 1 God keep you safe from harm !" 
 " You need not, honoured Lady," said he, " feel the least alarm ! 
 The riches which are shown to us are great and marvellous, 
 For scarcely have you here arrived, when God vouchsafeth 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 * 
 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. 
 
 The 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 Rodrigo 
 used to keep fastened up in his palace, broke its chain, and 
 rushed into the hall, where 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 opportunity of again acquiring fame and 
 riches ; but his sons-in-law sighed for their peaceable retreat 
 in the castle of Carion. The bishop of Valencia, more war- 
 like than the young 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 I grace my holy garb, and sanctify my hands, 
 
 And now good licence do I ask to march before your bands. 
 
 My banner and my arms I bear, and if it pleases God, 
 
 Eight soon will I rejoice my heart, and cover them with blood- 
 
 Your noble soul, my Cid, thus gladly would I cheer, 
 
 But if this favour you deny, no more I tarry here.* 
 
 Y. 2380, p. 320.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 10.) 
 
 The prayers of this prelate, though not of a very Christian 
 character, were heard, and at the 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 2'izon, 
 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 permit them to carry their wives to 
 Carion, to bestow upon them the investiture of those seign- 
 ories and castles which they had promised 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 Tlzon, which he 
 had won from the Catalans and the Moors, and at the same 
 time he charged his cousin, Felez Munos, to accompany the 
 travellers. The sons of Carion had, 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 otf 
 their treasures, to espouse the daughters of the king. They 
 commenced their treacherous proceedings against the Moor 
 Aben Galvon, King of Molina, Arbuxuelo, and Salon, an ally 
 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 latinudo, 
 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. u. o
 
 106 OX THE LITERATURE 
 
 Bat now i do dismiss you both, as villains and traitors toa. 
 
 A gentle farewell, ladies, both : I wish to hear no more 
 
 Of these your husbands ; but may Heaven great blessings have in store 
 
 For marriages that please my friend, the gallant Campeador. 
 
 The Infants of Carion continued their journey until they 
 arrived at the oak forest of Corpus. 
 
 The mountains there are high, and the branches seem'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 they 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 
 
 affords ; 
 
 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, 
 Excepting Donna Elvira and 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, we 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 
 be 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- see, 
 " 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 we, 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 supplications, however, were useless. The Infants 
 lashed them with the thongs, until the blood started from the 
 \vounds. They 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 Muftoz, however, whom the Cid had directed to ac- 
 company them, uneasy at their delay, waits until the party 
 passes. When he sees the two Infants unattended by tln-ir 
 wives, without discovering himself, which would undoubtedly 
 have occasioned his 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 'tis day, 
 
 Lest the night arrive, and wild beasts should eat us on our wa7-" 
 
 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, we 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 Mufioz 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 6 o ; 
 
 So he placed them on his horse, and with his mantle he 
 
 Did cover them, and he took the reins, and they journe/d joyfully 
 
 Through the oak woods of Corpes, 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 ot' 
 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,* representing to him that it wu* 
 through his means that the marriages had taken place, am] 
 that the Infants of Canon had outraged the king as much us 
 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 which had been offered to the Cid and to himself, and 
 he convoked at Toledo the Cortes of the counts and nobles U 
 adjudge this cause at the expiration of seven weeks. 
 
 The very animated and dramatic description of the Corte 
 
 V. 2960. p. 342. 
 i 9
 
 10 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 is, perhaps, the most interesting portion of the volume. It 
 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 the catastrophe, than 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 Ordonez, 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. 
 He 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 offered to him. 
 He appoints judges to decide between the Cid arid 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 his sons-in-law, two 
 swords of great price, Colada and Tizon, which he had won, 
 the one from the Count of Barcelona, the other from the King 
 of Morocco. He demands that the 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, 
 
 V. 3005. This city had been lately conquered from the Moor*.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 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.] 
 
 t ' Merced ay, Rey e 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 quern' desondraron tan mal, 
 ' A menos de riebtos no los puedo dexar. 
 ' Decid que vos mereci Infantes en juego d en vero : 
 ' en alguna razon aqui lo meiorare a juuicio de la cort. 
 ' A quern' descubriestes las telas del corazon ? 
 A la salida de Valencia mis fijas vos di yo, 
 * Con rnuy ^rand ondra e haberes 4 nombre. 
 
 ' Quando
 
 110 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 " Why did you take them irom me, Dogs and Traitors as you were ! 
 
 " In the forest of Corpes, why did you strip them there ? 
 
 " Why did you mangle them with whips ] Why did you leave them bara 
 
 " 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 favour, 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 and tied it in a braid, 
 
 " We are half of us astonish'd, the other half afraid. 
 
 " The blood of the Counts of Carion is of too high a line 
 
 " Tc take a daughter from his house though it were for a concubine, 
 
 " A concubine or a leman 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 ; 
 
 |-.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 suffered an affront since the day it first was worn. 
 
 " What business, Count, have you to speak of it with scorn 1 
 
 ' It never yet was 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, 
 
 " For que las sacabades de Valencia sus onores ] 
 
 " A que las firiestes il cinchas e u espolones 1 
 
 " Solas las dexastes en el Robredo de Corpes 
 
 " A las bestias fieras e a las aves del mont. 
 
 " For quanto les ficiestes menos valedes vos. 
 
 " Sinon recudedes vealo esta cort." 
 
 El Conde Don Garcia en pie se levantaba ; 
 
 " Merced ya, Key, el meior de toda Espafia. 
 
 " Vezos Mio Cid alias cortes pregonadas ; 
 
 " Dexola crecer e luenga trae la barba. 
 
 " Los unos le han miedo e los otros espanta. 
 
 " Los de Carion son de natural tal, 
 
 " Non gelas debien querer sus fijas por barraganas ; 
 
 " quien gelas diera por pareias 6 por veladas. 
 
 " Derecho ficieron porque las han dexadas. 
 
 " Quanto el dice non gelo preciamos nada." 
 
 Esora el Campeador prisos' a la barba , 
 
 " Grado a Dios que Cielo e tierra nianda, 
 
 ".For eso es luenga que a delicio fue criada. 
 
 " Que habedes vos, Conde, por retraer la mi barba 
 
 " Ca de quando nasco a delicio fue criada ; 
 
 " Ca non me priso a ella fijo de mugier nada, 
 
 " Nimbla meso fijo de Moro nin de Christiano, 
 
 " Como yo a vos, Conde, en el Castiello de Cabra, 
 
 " Quaodo pris' a Cabra, e a vos por la barba,
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. i 1 1 
 
 : As yours was once, Sir Count, the day Cabra was taken ; 
 " When I was master of Cabra that beard of yours was shaken, 
 " There was never a footboy in my camp but twitch'd away a bit ; 
 " The side that I tore off grows all uneven yet." 
 Ferran Gonzales started upon the floor, 
 He cried with a loud voice, " Cid, let us hear no more ; 
 " Your chum 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 Bermuez, that was sitting at his foot : 
 " Speak thou, Peter the Dumb, what ails thee to sit mute ? 
 " My 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. 
 w Cid, I'll tell you 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 mes6 su pulgada ; 
 
 " La que yo mese aun non es eguada." 
 
 Ferran Gonzales en pie se Ievant6 ; 
 
 A altas voces ondredes* que fablo. 
 
 " Dexasedes vos, Cid, de aquesta razon ; 
 
 " De vuestros haberes de todos pagados sodes. 
 
 ' Non crecies' baraia entre vos e nos. 
 
 ' De Natura somos de Condea de Carion ; 
 
 ' Debiemos casar con fijas de Reyes d de Emperadoren ; 
 
 Ca non pertenecien fijas de Infanzones. 
 
 ' Porque las dexamos ; durecho ficiemos nos ; 
 
 ' Mas nos preciamos, sabet, que menos no." 
 Mio Cid Ruy Diaz ii Pero Bermuez cata ; 
 " Fabla, Pero Mudo, 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 entraraa en armaa." 
 Pero Bermuez conpezd de fablar : 
 Detienea' le la lengua, non puede delibrar, 
 Mas quando enpieza, sabed, nol' da vagar. 
 " Direvos, Cid, costumbres habedes tales ; 
 Siempre en las cortes, Pero Mudo me lamadee. 
 * Bi^n lo sabedes que yo non puedo mae ; 
 " i*or lo que yo ovier' a fer por mi non mancarii. 
 
 * Probably oudredes. 
 
 " Miente*
 
 112 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 I cannot help my nature ; I never talk nor rail ; 
 But when a thing is to be done, you know 1 never fail. 
 Fernando, you have lied," you hav<i lied in every word : 
 ' You have been honour'd by the Cid, and favour'd and prefen'A 
 ' I know of all your tricks, and can tell them to your face : 
 Do you remember in Valencia the skirmish 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 I never said a word. 
 You praised yourself before the Cid, and I stood by and hear I, 
 How you had kill'd the Moor, and done a valiant act, 
 And they believ'd you all, but they 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 knights 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 ; 
 
 " Mientes Ferrando de quanto dicho has : 
 
 " For el Campeador mucho valiestes mas. 
 
 " Las tus mafias yo te las sabre contar ; 
 
 " Miembrat' quando lidiamos cerca Valencia la grand, 
 
 " Pedist' las feridas primeras al Campeador leal : 
 
 " Vist' un Moro, fustel' ensaiar; antes fugiste quo al te alegasea 
 
 " Si yo non uvjas' el Moro te jugara mal, 
 
 ' Pas6 por ti con el Moro me off de aiuntar : 
 
 ' De los primeros colpes one de arrancar ; 
 
 ' Did el cavallo, tobeldo en poridad : 
 
 ' Fasta este dia no lo descubri a nadi. 
 
 ' Delant' Mio Cid, e delante todos ovistete de alabar, 
 " Que mataras el Moro fc que ficieras barnax. 
 " Crovierontelo todos, mas non saben la verdad. 
 " E eres fermoso, mas mal barragan. 
 " Lengua sin manes, cuemo osas fablar ] 
 " Di Ferrando, otorga esta razon ; 
 " Non te viene en uiiente en Valencia lo del Leon, 
 
 ' Quando durmie Mio Cid e el Leon se desat6 1 
 
 ' E tu Ferrando que ficist' con el pavor 1 
 
 ' Metistet" tras el escafio, de Mio Cid el Campeador, 
 
 ' Metistet' Ferrando, por6 menos vales hoy. 
 
 ' Nos cercamos el escaflo por curiar nucstro Seiior, 
 
 ' Fasta do despertd Mio Cid el qne Valencia gauo. 
 
 ' Levant6s' del escano fe flies' poral Leon : 
 
 "K.
 
 OP THE SPANIARDS. 113 
 
 " The lion was abash'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 ask'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 suffer'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 thoo 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 increas'd." 
 
 Uprose Martin Antolinez when Diego ceas'd : 
 
 " Peace, thou lying mouth ! thou traitor coward, peace ! 
 
 " The story of the l:oa should have taught you shame at least : 
 
 " El Leon premi6 la cabeza, a Mio Cid esper6, 
 
 " Dexos' le prender al cuello, e a la red le metio. 
 
 " Quando se torn6 el buen Campeador 
 
 " A sos vasallos, violos aderredor. 
 
 " Demando por sus Yernos, ninguno non fallo". 
 
 " Riebtot' el cuerpo por malo e por traydor. 
 
 " Estot' liiliuiv aqui antel Rey Don Alfonso 
 
 " Por fijas del Cid Don" Elvira e Dona Sol. 
 
 " Por quanto las dexastes menos valedes vos. 
 
 " Ellas son mugieres, e vos sodes varones ; 
 
 " En todas guisas mas valcn 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 natura 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 rctraido; esto lidiare" a till' el mui 
 
 ardido. 
 
 " Que porque las dexamos ondrados somos nos." 
 Martin Antolinez en pie se levantaba; 
 
 " tala.
 
 U4 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 ' You rush'd out at the door, and ran away so hard, 
 
 " You fell into the cispool that was open in the yard. 
 
 " We dragg'd you forth in all men's sight, dripping from the drain . 
 
 " For shame, never wear a mantle, nor a knightly robe again ! 
 
 " I fight upon this plea without more ado, 
 
 " The daughters of the Cid are worthier far than you. 
 
 " Before the combat part you shall avow it true, 
 
 " And that you have been a traitor and a coward too." 
 
 Thus 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 Buy Diaz of Invar ? 
 
 '" Has he been to Riodivirna to besiege the windmills there 1 
 
 "" Does he tax the millers for their toll, or is that practice past } 
 
 " Will he make a match for his daughters, another like the last i" 
 
 Munio Gustioz rose and made reply ; 
 
 " Traitor, wilt thou never cease to slander and to lie 1 
 
 ' 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 qu6 las vos dexastes 1 
 ' En todas guisas, sabet, que mas valen que vos. 
 ' Al partir de la lid por tu boca lo diras, 
 ' Que eras traydor e mentiste de quanto dicho has." 
 
 Destos amos la razon finc6. 
 
 Asur Gonzales entraba por el Palacio ; 
 
 Manto armino & un brial rastrando ; 
 
 Bernieio viene, ca era almorzado. 
 
 En lo que fablo avie poco recabdo. 
 
 " Hya varones quien vio nunca tal mal 1 
 
 " Quien nos darie nuevas de Mio Cid el de Bibar ? 
 
 " Fues' a Riodouirna los molinos picar, 
 
 " E prender maquilas como lo suele far' : 
 
 " Quil' darie con los de Carion a casar'l" 
 
 Esora Muno Gustioz en pie se Ievant6 : 
 
 " Gala, alevoso, malo e traydor, 
 
 " Antes almuerzas que bayas a oracion ; 
 
 " A los que das paz, fartaslos aderredor. 
 
 " Non dices verdad amigo ni a Seflor, 
 
 " Falso a todos e mas al Criador. 
 
 " En tu amistad non quiero aver racion. 
 
 " Facertelo dccir que tal ores qual digo yo."
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 115 
 
 * You breakfast before mass, you drink before you pray ; 
 
 " There is no honour in your heart, nor truth in what you say ; 
 
 " You cheat your comrade and your Lord, you flatter to betray : 
 
 " Your hatred I despise, your friendship I defy : 
 
 " False to all mankind, and most to Go I 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 daughters in marriage to the two 
 Kings or Infant* % f Navarre and Aragon ; a request suffi- 
 ciently singular aftei the adventures which they had undergone. 
 Rodrigo, at the solicitation of Alfonso, accedes to the demand. 
 Menaya Alvar Fam z, one of the Cid's friends, takes this 
 opportunity of again defying either of the Infants who may 
 be inclined to meet him. The Hng, 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 three 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 then 
 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 themselves under the superintendence 
 of the Count Garcia Ordonez. They beg the king to forbid 
 their adversaries to use the two good swords Colada and
 
 116 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 Tizon, which they had restored, and which were about to be 
 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 procure good 
 weapons. He directs the barriers to be raised ; he names 
 the heralds and the judges, and then thus addresses them : 
 
 " Infanta of Carion ! Attend to what I say : 
 
 " You should have fought this battle upon a former day, 
 
 " When we were at Toledo, but you would not agree ; 
 
 " And now the noble (Jid has sent these champions three, 
 
 " To fight in the lands 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 ia 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 perfonn'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.* 
 
 * ' Oyd que vos digo. Infantes de Carion ; 
 
 ' Esta lid en Toledo la ficierades, mas non quisiestes vos : 
 
 ' Estos tres cavalleros de mio Cid el Campeador, 
 
 ' Hyo los aduj' a salvo a tierras de Carion. 
 
 ' Habed vuestro derecho, tuerto non querades vos ; 
 
 ' Ca qui tuerto quisiere fazer, mal gelo vedare yo ; 
 
 ' En todo mio regno non habra buen sabor." 
 Hya les va pesandc a los Infantes de Carion. 
 Los Fieles e el Key ensenaron los moiones. 
 Librabanse del campo todos aderredor ; 
 Bien gelo demonstraron a todos seis como son, 
 Que por y serie vencido qui saliese del moion. 
 Todas las yentes esconbraron aderredor 
 DC seis astas de lanzas que non Icgasen al moion. 
 Sorteabanles el campo, ya les partien el sol ; 
 Salien los Fieles de mcdio 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 mientes tiene al so. 
 Abrazan los escudos delant' los corazones ; 
 Aoaxan las lanzas abuoltas con los pendones ; 
 
 Enclina\>;ui
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 117 
 
 Earnestly their minds are fix'd each upon his foe ; 
 
 Face to face they take their place, anon the trumpets blow. 
 
 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 show : 
 
 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 his 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 movedorcs. 
 
 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 rebtfi, 
 
 Con Ferran Gonzalez de cara se junt6 ; 
 
 Feriense en los escudos sin todo pavor ; 
 
 Ferran Gonzalez ;i 1'ero Bermuez el escudol' pas6 , 
 
 Prisol' en vacio, en carne nol' tomo : 
 
 Bien en dos lugares el ast il le qucbro ; 
 
 Firine estido I'ero Bermuez, por eso nos' encam6 
 
 Un colpe recibiera, mas otro firi6 ; 
 
 Quebranto la boca del escudo, apart gela ech6 ; 
 
 Pasogelo todo que nada nol' valio ; 
 
 Metiol' la lanza por los pechos, que nada nol' valio ; 
 
 Tres dobles de loriga tcnie Fernando, aquestol' preatu 
 
 Las dos le desmanchan, fc la tercera finco : 
 
 Ki bclmez con la caniisa e con la guarnizon 
 
 ])e dciitro en la carne una mano gel* metio ; 
 
 Por la boca afuera la sangrel' salio. 
 
 Quebrar onle las cinchas, ninguna nol' ovo pro ; 
 
 Por la copla del cavallo i?n tierra lo echo, 
 
 Ac
 
 113 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 The people think him dead as he lies on the sand ; 
 Bennuez left his lance and took his sword in hand. 
 Ferran Gonzales knew the blade which he had worn of old, 
 Before the blow came down, he yielded and cried, " Hold !" 
 Antolinez and Diego encounter'd man for man, 
 Their spears were shiver'd with the shock, so eagerly they ras. 
 Antolinez drew forth the 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, the coif and hair are shorn. 
 He stood astounded with the stroke, trembling and forlorn, 
 He waved his sword above his head, he made a piteous cry, 
 " save me, save me from that blade, Almighty Lord on high 
 Antolinez came fiercely on to reach the fatal 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 Munio Gustioz, two combats now are done ; 
 How he fought with Assur Gonzales, you shall hear anon. 
 
 Aai lo tenien ks yentes que mal ferido es de muert. 
 
 El dexo la lanza, e al espada metio mano. 
 
 Quando lo vio Ferran Gonzalez, conuuo a Tizon. 
 
 Antes que el colpe esperase, dixo, " venzudo so," 
 
 Otorgarongelo los Fieles, Pero Bermuez le dexo. 
 
 Martin Antolinez e Diego Gonzalez firieronse de las lanzas ; 
 
 Tales fueron los colpes que les quebraron Ian lauzas , 
 
 Martin Antolinez mano metio al espada ; 
 
 llelumbra tod' el campo, tanto es limpia e clara. 
 
 Di61' un colpe, de traviesol' tomaba ; 
 
 El casco de somo apart gelo echaba ; 
 
 Las moncluras del yelmo todas gclas cortaba : 
 
 Alia lebo el almofar, fata la cofia legaba ; 
 
 La cofia e el almofar todo gelo lebaba ; 
 
 Raxol' los pelos de la cabeza, bien a la came legaba. 
 
 Lo uno cayo en el campo e lo al suso fincaba. 
 
 Quando dcste colpe ha ferido Colada la preciada, 
 
 Vio Diego Gonzalez que no escaparie con alma. 
 
 Bolvio la rienda al cavallo por tornase de cara. 
 
 Esora Martin Antolinez rccibiol' con el espada. 
 
 Un colpel' di6 de lano, con cl agudo nol' tomaba. 
 
 Dia Gonzalez espada tiene en mano, mas nou la ensaiaba. 
 
 Esora el Infante tan graudes voces daba, 
 
 " Valme, Dios glorioso, Senor, ti curiarin' desta espada !' 
 
 El cavallo asorricnda e meHurandol' del espada, 
 
 Sacol' del moion, Martin Antolinez en cl campo fincaba. 
 
 Esora dix6 el lley, " vcnid vos a mi compaiia, 
 
 " Por quanto avcdes fccho, vcncida avedes csta batalla." 
 
 Otorgangelo los Fieles que dice verdadera palabra. 
 
 Los dos nan arrancado : direvos de Muno Gustioz
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 119 
 
 A -Mir Gonzalez, a fierce and hardy knight, 
 
 He rode at Munio Gustioz with all his force and might : 
 
 He struck the shield and pierced it through, but the point camt wide, 
 
 It passed by Munio Gustioz, betwixt his arm and side : 
 
 Sternly, like a practised knight, Munio met him there. 
 
 His lance he levell'd steadfastly, and through the shield him bare j 
 
 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 cloth-yard and more ; 
 
 The pennon and the point were dripping down with gore. 
 
 Munio still clench'd his 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. The latter, however, are conveyed 
 during the night from the lands of Carion, and return to their 
 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, without stating the year or 
 the mode of his death. Commentators have supposed that it 
 was on the 29th of May. 1099 ; and Muller has conjectured 
 that it was in the month of July, in the same year. In ex- 
 Con Asur Gonzalez como se adobo : 
 
 Firiense en los escudos unos tan grandes cslpes : 
 
 Asur Gonzalez, furzudo e de valor, 
 
 Firio en el escudo a Don Muno Gustioz. 
 
 Tras el escudo fals6ge la guarnizon ; 
 
 Fjn vacio fue la lanza, ca en carne nol' tomo. 
 
 Eete colpe fecho, otro did Muno Gustioz, 
 
 Tras el escudo fals6ge la guarnizon. 
 
 Por medio de la bloca del escudo quebrant6. 
 
 Nol' pudo guarir, falsoge la guarnizon. 
 
 Apart' le pris6, que non cabel corazon. 
 
 MetidT por la carne adentro la lanza con el pendon. 
 
 De la otra part una braza gcla ecb.6 : 
 
 Con el dio una tuerta, de la siella lo encam6, 
 
 Al tirar de la lanza en tierra lo ech6. 
 
 Bcnneio salio el astil, e la lanza e el pendon. 
 
 Todos se cuedan que ferido es de muert. 
 
 La lanza recombrd 6 sobrel se par6. 
 
 Dixo Gonzalo Asurez, nol' firgades por Dio* 
 . Vcnzudo cs el campo quaudo e.-to sc acabo.
 
 120 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 amining, in the 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 POETRY OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY. ROMANCES OF THB D. 
 
 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 whom he served, in founding the 
 monarchy of Castile, and who, during the course of his long 
 life, led the 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 Rodrigo, 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 which 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 Musulman origin. This poem, which is anterior 
 by a hundred 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,
 
 OP THE SPANIARDS. J21 
 
 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- 
 dinary character in his eyes. There was to him 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 
 sometimes 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 tate. 
 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. H
 
 122 ON THE 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 tLe 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 the monastery of Saint 
 Millan, who was born in 1198, and died about the year 1268. 
 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 the 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 redondilJias 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 01 
 friars-preachers and the Inquisition. The poet gives an 
 account of his religious infancy, when, amidst the shepherds 
 and guarding his flock, he nourished his pious fancies ; of 
 his reception in the monastery of St. Millan ; the noviciate 
 which he was compelled to undergo, and the courage with 
 which he resisted Ferdinand I. of Castile,* who demanded 
 
 * CopU as.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS 123 
 
 a contribution from the monastery, to assist him in carrying 
 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 ; the 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 whimsicality which it displays, that 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 
 Celi, where they loaded him with irons, and enclosed him in 
 a narrow cell surrounded with thick walls. The Moors by 
 every means rendered 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 daring his 
 
 n 2
 
 L24 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 Bufferir" was Jesus Christ. Lord ! cried he, who com 
 mandest 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 thy name. 
 O Lord ! who sufferedst for me death and martyrdom, may 
 thy mercy succour me in my sins ! When Servan had 
 finished 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 : 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 poor captive, terrified at the sight, turned aside his head, 
 and threw himself upon 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 I 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 him 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. When Servan had 
 broken through the bars of his prison, St. Dominick bade 
 him 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 Lad 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 
 enough 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 
 held 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, war 
 presiding over the assembly, and had brought with him & 
 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 Tibi laus, in company with 
 a mac. 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 poem of Gonzalez de Berceo is a life of St. Mil-
 
 I 6 OK TTTE ITTERATUBE 
 
 Ian, the founder of the monastery to which the poet belonged. 
 The Saint died in 594, before the invasion of Spain by the 
 Moors. The various miracles which he wrought form the 
 subject of a second book ; and his appearance, long after his 
 death, at the battle of Simancas, in 934, when the Moors were 
 conquered, 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 this 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 has furnished Lope de Vega with the 
 subject of one of his most brilliant tragedies, Las Donzellas 
 de Simancas. 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 Segura de Astorga. The editor 
 assures us that this poem is not a translation of that which 
 Philippe Graultier de Chatillon wrote in Latin in the year 1 180, 
 and which was afterwards turned into French verse by Lam- 
 bert li Cors and Alexandre de Paris. However, there 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 ignorance of antiquity in which the world 
 was plunged at the period when it was written, renders the 
 work interesting. For the author, 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 Spaniard of the thirteenth century ; nor ia he ever 
 able 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 Hi. Copla, 78.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 127 
 
 being impatient to wage war against the Jews and the Moors. 
 believed that he had already 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 the work is that in which, in a 
 Greek story, the manners and opinions of the thirteenth cen- 
 tury are described: as, for example, in the lessons which 
 Aristotle gives to his pupil.* " Master Aristotle, who was 
 his teacher, had been all this while shut up in his chamber, 
 where 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 affairs 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. 
 
 CcplaSO.
 
 128 N THE LITERATURE 
 
 Some are the workmanship of tin- fairies, others of Vulcan; and 
 every piece is gifted with some enchanted power, strengthening 
 the courage, the virtue, and the chastity 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 was 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 meets with a king whom the poet calls 
 Nicholas, who asks Alexander his name and occupation, f 
 Alexander answers, " 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 \ve 
 have already had some specimens in the history of the Cid, 
 and we shall soon meet with others in the 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 
 
 * Copla79. t CoplaU9.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 129 
 
 Ron, he died in 1284. Alfonso was surnamed the Wise, from 
 his acquaintance with astronomy and chemistry, and is known 
 by a system which he proposed as to the arrangement of the 
 heavenly bodies, and which subjected him to a charge of im- 
 piety ; a treatise which must be considered merely as a com- 
 mentary upon the 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 manufactures 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 the 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 dorvn 
 the tree, but tfie wise monarch prunes it. In fact, this mon- 
 arch 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 Qucrelas, 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 Treasure, or TJie Philosopher's 
 Stone, is a pretended exposition of this hidden knowledge, 
 which had 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 LITERATURE 
 
 the grand arcanum of the alchemists.* When he cornea to 
 explain the secret itself, the reader is presented with thirty- 
 five stanzas of eight lines each, in cypher, which it is impos- 
 sible for any one to comprehend ; although 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 having debased the coin, by alloying the silver with copper, 
 and issuing it as a pure silver coinage, we cannot help sus- 
 pecting that 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. He 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 redondilhas, 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 Libra del Tesoro : 
 
 Llego pucs la fama a los mis oidos 
 Quen tierra de Egipto un sabio vivia, 
 E con su saber oi que facia 
 Notos los casos ca non son venidos : 
 Los astros juzgaba, e aquestos movidos 
 Por disposicion del cielo, fallaba 
 Los casos quel tiernpo future ocultaba, 
 Bien fuesen antes por cstc entendidos. 
 
 Codicia del sabio movid mi afieion, 
 Mi pluma e mi lingua, con grande humildad 
 Postrada la alteza de mi magestad, 
 Ca tanto poder tiene una pasion. 
 Con ruegos le fiz la mia peticion, 
 E si la mande con mis mcnsageros. 
 Averes faciendas e muciios dineros 
 Alii le ofreci con santa intencion. 
 
 + I must repeat here, that nothing is more irregular than this sue- 
 -wssion of four trochees. The accent on the seventh syllable a'oue ii
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 131 
 
 Hne terminated with an assonant, while the first lh.es were 
 unrhymed. It was in this metre that the deeds of many 
 a brave Spaniard, and more especially of the Cid, were 
 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 from 
 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 them, 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 Cid, became acquainted with the glories of his 
 country. In 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 aera. 
 
 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 chronological order. Herder, 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 sufficient to giro a trochaic movement to the 
 whole verse. 
 
 * There existed long before Herder's work appeared, a collection 
 entitled Tesoro escondido de todos loa mas famosos Komnncesaesi an- 
 , como modemos, del C\d: por Franc. Afeige. Barcelona, 1626,
 
 132 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 The life of the Cid may be 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 Spain ; 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 differently given in different 
 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 Cid appears to be that which 
 is mentioned by Sarmiento : Historia del muy valeroso Cavallero el 
 Cid Ruy Diaz de Bivar, en Romances en lenguage antiquo, recopilados 
 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. Tr.~] 
 
 * 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 given 
 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 
 aa soon as the project was formed, and which could only be met Vy tho 
 bravery of the soldiery, and not prevented by the policy of the prince. 
 
 t [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 German version, and by occasional remarks on those 
 extracts by M. de Sismondi. As Mr. Lockhart has favoured the public
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 133 
 
 In the ballad of the young Cid,* Rodrigo is represented as 
 riding with his father, Diego Laynez, to do homage to the 
 king. Three hundred gentlemen accompany the father and 
 son on this expedition : 
 
 All talking with each other thus along their way 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, Rodrigo rein'd his horse, 
 
 Eight scornfully he shouted when he heard them so discourse 
 
 " If any of his kindred or vassals dare ap|;)ear, 
 
 The man to give them answer on horse or foot is here." 
 
 No one, however, dares to notice the defiance, and Diegc 
 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 be obey'd :" 
 With that he sprang down lightly, before the king to kneel, 
 But as the knee was bending, oufleap'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 beaten alien Kpanishen historichen Ritter 
 und Maurislien ' Romanzen, <tc. 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 Spanish 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 hia power to 
 produce. He has, therefore, made a selection from the eight ballads of 
 the Cid, given by Mr. Lockhart, connecting the fragments, when neoes- 
 eary, by an explanatory text. The matter thus substituted occupies 
 from p. 133 to p. 189. TV.] 
 * [This ballad is the fifth in Escobar's collection. Tr.}
 
 134 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 " I'd think it little honour to kiss a kingly palm, 
 And if my fathers kiss'd it, thereof ashamed I am. 
 
 When he these words had utter'd, he turn'd him from the gate. 
 His true three hundred gentles behind him follow'd straight ; 
 If with good gowns they came that day, with better arms they W61t , 
 And if their mules behind did stay, with horses they're content. 
 
 Diego Laynez having been insulted by Count Gomez, the 
 lord of Gormaz, the young Rodrigo challenges him to single 
 combat, and slays him. In consequence of this affair, Ximena 
 Gomez, the daughter of the Count, demands vengeance from 
 the king, against the youthful Cid.* The monarch is dis- 
 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 Rodrigo, I wot his cheek was red ; 
 With haughty wrath he listen'd to the words Ximena said 
 " Good king, I cry for justice; now as my voice thou nearest, 
 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 thy sword once more, 
 And pierce the breast which wide I 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. TV.]
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 135 
 
 There is considerable doubt with regard to the authenticity 
 of that portion of the Cid's history, which relates to hi? mar- 
 riage with Xiinena Gomez.* From the ballad of the Pid's 
 courtship, 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, 
 Came then Ximena Gomez, and thus to him did say; 
 " I 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 pleasing in God our Saviour's view, 
 And I forgive him 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 JIM in 1 : 
 
 " 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. 6. 7V.]
 
 136 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 Layn Calvo, the Lord Bishop, he first comes forth the gate. 
 Behind him comes Ruy 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 helm*. 
 
 Brought by the Campeador from out the Moorish 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 with clappings ; 
 The fool with cap and bladder upon his ass goes prancing 
 Amidst troops of captive maidens, with bells and cymbals dancing. 
 
 With antics and with fooleries, with shouting and with laughter, 
 They 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, 
 liut the king lifts oif her bosom sweet whatever there is lying. 
 
 Quoth Suero, when he saw it, (his thought you understand) 
 
 " Tis 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 
 ballad 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 snnue 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 God and Mary 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 Escobur and 
 ee Southey's Chron. of the Cid, p. 8. Tr~l
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 137 
 
 Aud there in middle of the path, a Leper did appear ; 
 In a deep slough the leper la v , none would to help come near ; 
 With a loud voice he thence did cry, " For God our 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 Rodrigo slept, 
 A breath came from the leprous man, it through his shoulders crept ; 
 Right through the body, at the breast, pass'd forth that breathing cold, 
 1 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 turn'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 T 
 
 " I sleep not," quoth Rodrigo, " but tell me who art. thou, 
 For, in the midst of darkness, much light is on thy brow }" 
 " 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 shal 1 make men's cheeks full pale, Christians and Moslems too ; 
 A death of honour shall 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 li#ht; 
 Unto the heavenly Father, and Mary Mother dear, 
 He made his prayer right humbly till dawn'd the morning clear. 
 
 The subject of the next ballad is Havicca, the Cicl's charger, 
 whose fame has been celebrated in almost every romance 
 which has recorded the exploits of his master. He is also 
 mentioned in the Cid's will. " When ye bury Bavieca, dig 
 deep ; for >hameful thing were it that he should be eat by 
 
 VOL. 11. l
 
 138 5N THE LITERATUKE 
 
 curs who hath 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 suffered to 
 bestride the gallant charger. Bavieca survived his master 
 about two years, having lived, according to the history, full 
 1'orty years. 
 
 The king look'd on him kindly, as on a vassal true, 
 Then to the king Ruy Diaz spake, after reverence due : 
 " 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, clad 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, 
 Stream'd 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-rushiug the fierce and furious steed 
 He snapt in twain his hither rein " God pity now the Cid ! 
 " God pity Diaz !" cried the lords but when 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 peeiless 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 Flowcr-de-lys doth make a gallant show ; 
 For his puissance the king of France next to the pop may sit, 
 The rest more low, all in a row, as doth their station fit."
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. J 39 
 
 " Ha i" quoth the Cid, " now God forbid ! it is a shame, I wis. 
 To see the Castle* planted beneath the Flower-de-lys.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, lie from his feet, did kick it far away, 
 And the Spanish chair he planted upon its place that day ; 
 Above tnem 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 pray 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 T 
 
 " Who is this sinner," quoth the pope, " who at my foot doth kneel V 
 
 " 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 ot 
 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 
 Rodrigo. 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 Muller as authentic documents ; while the 
 poets of Spain have chosen them as the most brilliant subjects 
 for their dramatic compositions. Diamante, an old poet, p.nd 
 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 Almcuat 
 de Torn, has dramatised the second period of the warrior's 
 life, and the death of Sancho the Strong. Other writers hav* 
 
 The arms of Castila. f The arms of France. 
 
 I 2
 
 HO ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 introduced other incidents of his life upon the 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. 
 
 IN 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 Spain into separate kingdoms, and by the right
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 141 
 
 of very 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 these 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 the 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 the 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 
 III , and the kingdom of Leon then fell into the hands of 
 Ferdinand thi Great of Navarre, who united under his 
 soeptre all the Christian states of Spain. On his death, he 
 again severed Navarre and Castile in favour 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 1035 ; Saragossa 
 was won from the Moors in 1 112, 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 
 Provence 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, which 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, which, as it inherited the conquests, the 
 grandeur, and the glory of 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 other 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 Hiaia, the son of his benefactor, of his dominion*
 
 Or THR SPANIARDS. 143 
 
 In 1085, he conquered Toledo and New Castile. Tin; 
 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 knights, who established themselves 
 amongst them. Alfonso VI. in his dominions, the extent of 
 which he had almost doubled, counted more than two 
 millions of Musulman 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 
 Montanes, on account of their residence in the mountains, 
 from the Mo9arabians, or freedmen of the 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 Mo9arabian ceremony. The conquerors 
 wished to establish the Ambrosian 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 Mo5arabian 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 Tcschfin the Mora-
 
 144 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 bite, who, with a band of fresh fanatics, from the deserts of 
 Africa, restored the balance of the war, and, giving strength 
 and courage to the Arabians of Spain, arrested the progress 
 of the Castilians. In vain did Alfonso VI. attempt to sepa- 
 rate the Spanish from the 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 difficulty 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 important conquest being made ; whilst, 
 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- 
 mately, 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. 
 (1295-1350) 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 Musulmans 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 1. 
 ournamed the Cruel, attempted to re-establish his power by a
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 145 
 
 system of severity ; but his cruelties drove his brother anJ 
 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, who 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, 
 were 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 fifty 
 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 
 the Christians two centuries and a half 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 
 
 dient thus tc present to the reader the principal events which 
 occurred during a very considerable portion of the history of 
 that country, and to pursue the progress of those conquests, 
 from north to south, which flattered the national pride by 
 daily successes, trained the inhabitants to the use of arms, and 
 secured to the brave such brilliant and immediate rewards. 
 
 The first distinguished author of the fourteenth century, is 
 the Prince Don Juan Manuel, a cadet of the royal family, 
 who traced his descent up to Saint Ferdinand. In him 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 XL, a prince of 
 jealous feelings, and exceedingly difficult to please, with great 
 fidelity, and was by him named governor (adelantado mayor) 
 of the Moorish frontiers. For twenty years 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 production 
 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, whose 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 simplicity, 
 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 vith 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 towards me speak of me in derision. 
 They praise the Cid Buy 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 then 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 are 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. The effect of this was that the 
 albogon yielded a much finer note than before. This was a 
 very clever invention, but not 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-Haquein 
 himself.' This saying was so often repeated, that it came at 
 last to the ears cf 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 tu
 
 148 ON THE LITRR \TURE 
 
 explain it to him. When he knew this, the king griet ed 
 sorely, as, after all, he was in truth a very good king. He in- 
 flicted no punishment upon those who had thus spoken of him, 
 but he made a resolution in his own heart to invent some 
 other improvement which should compel the people to praise 
 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. Praise 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, that if his improvements on thf- 
 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 which 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 them- 
 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 depth 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 writings, so far as regards them, 
 ind not ourselves. 
 
 Prince Juan Manuel was likewise the author of sonw
 
 OK THE SPANIARDS. 14H 
 
 didactic pieces on the duties of a knight, which have no! 
 come down to us. Some of his romances are, however, pre- 
 served ; they are written with a simplicity which adds tj the 
 value of compositions in themselves tender and touching. 
 The Spaniards had not yet renounced that 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 which 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 
 Grand 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 which 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 bis 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 -A'hom he had lived, Peter, 
 Henry II., John I., and Henry Hi., he paints in the blackest 
 colours the ferocity of the firs', and it is chiefly upon his 
 authority that the accusation? rest which have cast such 
 infamy upon the memory of this ancient tyrant of Spain. 
 Ayala, who first translated I. ivy into the Castilian, was the 
 first likewise to lead the w;n in adapting the narrative style 
 of the ancients to modern history. Amongst his poems, the 
 most celebrated is his Rinxido de palacio, which was written 
 in prison, for the express purpose of rendering Peter odious 
 to his subjects, and of conciliating their good will towards 
 his brother. 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 the gloomy
 
 /i f> ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 prison in which he was confined, the wounds utder which he 
 was suffering, and the chains with which he was loaded. His 
 Riniado de palacio, contains sixteen hundred 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 Ayal.i's muse ; and Sanchez 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 him feel 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, which 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 had 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 
 than 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 which 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. Vasco 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 Sanchez has published in his fourth volume of the 
 Coleccion de Poesius Caeteltanag. They may perhaps afford some idea 
 of the Rimado de Palacio, 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 them, however, sufficiently interesting to merit iuaerti jn iu 
 this work.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 151 
 
 born in the latter part of the thirteenth century, ani 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 the 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 works passed to the romances, which 
 were equally popular, and it is to the fourteenth century that
 
 152 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 we owe those poetical tales for which the Spaniards are so emi 
 nently distinguished. In most of these romances, we maj 
 remark a touching simplicity of expression, a truth of paint- 
 ing, and an exquisite sensibility, which invest them with 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 tho 
 whole nation. Few individuals were able to read, or indeed 
 
 * The Romancero general, collected by Pedro de Florez, and printed 
 at Madrid in 1614, in quarto, was probably 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, Que ni poso en raino verde 
 
 Do todas las avezicas Ni en prado que tenga flor, 
 
 Van toraar consolacion, Que si el agua hallo clara 
 
 Sino cs la tortolica Turbia la bevio yo, 
 
 Que esta biuda y con dokr ; Que no quiero aver marido 
 
 For ay fuera a passar Porque hijos no aya no, 
 
 El traydor del ru; aenor, No quiero plazcr con ellos 
 
 Las palabras que el dezia Ni menos consolacion ; 
 
 Llenas son de traycion : Dcxame triste enemigo 
 
 Si tu quisisses sefiora Malo falso, mal traydor, 
 
 Yo seria tu servidor; Qne no quiero ser tu amiga 
 
 Vete de ay euemigo Ni casar contigo no. 
 
 It is difficult to explain in what consists the charm of this little 
 romance, unless it be in the air of truth and the absence of all desiga 
 for which it is so remarkable. It was certainly highly appreciated bj 
 tlw Spaniards, and the romance has been annotated upon by Tapia.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 163 
 
 had any kind of literary instruction ; and yet it would have 
 been difficult to have found amongst them one who waa not 
 acquainted with the brilliant adventures of Bernard de 
 Carpio, of the Cid, of Don Gayferos, of Calaynos the Moor, 
 and of all the knights of the time of Amadis, 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 Grenada gentlemen, 
 although Moors :" Caballeros Granadinos aunque Muros 
 hijos (faltjo: strengthened the ties between the two nations, 
 and by cherishing those benevolent feelings, 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 thig 
 pretended impiety. 
 
 Renegaron a su ley Y ofrecieron a Mahoma 
 
 Los romancistes de Espana ; 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 espanol don llodrigo Las Zambras tambien lo son 
 
 Espanol fue el fuert Audalla Pues es Espana Granada ; 
 
 Y entienda el misero pobre 
 
 Que son blazoucs de Espana 
 
 Si una gallarda espanola Ganados a fuego y saugre 
 
 Quiere baylar, dona Juaua, No (como el dize) prestada& 
 
 TOL. D. K
 
 154 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 Bernard del Carpio, who has been celebrated in so many 
 romances and tragedies, belonged equally to botL 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 Saldafia, and Ximena, the sister of Alfonso the 
 Chaste, a marriage which that king never pardoned ; of the 
 long and wretched captivity of the Count of Saldana, whom 
 Alfonso threw into the dungeons of the Castle 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 which 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 the 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 Charlemagne, 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 the 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 
 charm in the monotonous harmony of the Spanish redondilha, 
 in which the short lines of four trochees eacli follow one 
 another with great sweetness, as well as in that imperfect but 
 reiterated rhyme with which the second line in each stanza 
 f these romances terminates. These rhymes, which preserve
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 155 
 
 the image by the repetition ot 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, however, 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 Musulman-s, 
 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 OP DON RODERIO. 
 
 The hosts of Don Rodrigo were scattered in dismay, 
 When 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 clim'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 
 
 Bus enemigos vcncian. 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 llcva abolladas 
 
 . Que non lleva compania. Que eran dc gran pedreria 
 
 El cavallo dc cansado La cspada lleva hecha sierra 
 Ya mudar no se podia, De los golpes quo tenia, 
 
 Camimi por donde quicre 1 almetc de abollado 
 
 V-e no le estorva la via. En la eabe^a se hundia.
 
 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 Spait, 
 But all were fled, except the dead. and who could count the slain I 
 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 1 
 Last night a hundred pages did serve me on the knee, 
 To-night not one I call my own ; not one pertains to me. 
 
 luckless, luckless was- the hour, and cursed was the day 
 When I was born to have the power of this great seignory ! 
 Unhappy me, that I should see the sun go down to-night ! 
 O death, why now so slow art thou, why fearest thou to smite 1 * 
 
 I 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 the 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' Espana 
 
 Del trabajo que sufria ; Oy no lo soy de una villa. 
 
 Subiose en cirna de uu cerro Ayer villas ^^^ 
 
 El mas alto que veya, Oy ninguno posseya . 
 
 Dende alii mira su gente Ayer tenia criados 
 
 Como yva de vencida, Y gente que me servia. 
 
 Dalli mira sus vanderas no t una almena 
 
 Y estandartes que tenia. Que ?ueda dezir que e3 mia _ 
 
 Como estan todos pisados Dosdichada fue la hora 
 
 Que la tierra los cubria. Desdichado fue aquel dia. 
 
 Mira por los capitanes Eu nad hcred6 
 
 Que nmguno parecia. jj tan gra J ndc gefioria) 
 
 Mira el campo tinto en sangre Pues lo avia de perdcr 
 
 La qual arroyos corria, Todo junto y en un dia. 
 
 El tristc de rer aquesto Q muerte no vicncg 
 
 Gran manzilla en si tcnia. Y llcva8 F C8 alma mia 
 
 Llorando de los sus ojos De aqueste cuerpo mezquiuo 
 
 Desta manera dezia : Puez se te agradeceria ] 
 
 * [The spirited translation in the text is borrowed from Mr. Lock- 
 hart's Ancient Spanish Ballads. The Lamentation of Don Kodcric ia 
 mentioned in the 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 father. 
 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 presence, 
 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 he 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 bod.f 
 
 * Llorando se parte el Conde El uno era de teta, 
 
 Llorando sin alegria, Quo la Condesa lo cria, 
 
 Llorando a la Condesa Quo no queria mamar 
 
 Quc mas que a si la queria. De tres amas que tenia 
 
 Lloraba tambien el Conde Si no era de su madrc. 
 Por tres hijos que teaia, 
 
 (The whole ballad of the Count Alarcos and the Infanta Soliza if 
 translated by Mr. Lockhart, p. 202. From his version the extracts if 
 the text are borrowed. Tr.\ 
 
 4" Sentose el Conde a la mesa Con sus hijos al costado. 
 
 No ccnava ni podia ; Que muj mucho los queria. 
 
 Echo
 
 138 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 The apparent fatigue of the Count induces the Countess to 
 accompany him herself to his chamber ; but no sooner are 
 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 see."-f < 
 
 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 then 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. The prophecy is subsequently ac- 
 complished. On the twelfth day after the murder, the Prin- 
 cess dies suddenly. On the twentieth the King follows her ; 
 and on the thirtieth tne 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 hoinbros, De lagrimas de sus ojos 
 
 Uizo como Be donnia : Teda la mesa eubria. 
 
 * De morir aveis, Condesa, 
 
 Antes quo amanesca el dia. 
 
 f Abrazad este chiquito Pesa me de os, Oondesa, 
 
 Que aqueato es el que os perdia, Quanto pesar me podia.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 159 
 
 incident which 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 incoheKent 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. It 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 witli 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 II. (1407-1454,) 
 during which Castile lost all its power and nearly all it*
 
 160 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 consideration abroad, is one of the most brilliant epochs of 
 Castilian poetry. That feeble 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 poetry, 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 Marquis 
 Henry de Villena, who, on the paternal side, was 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 Proven9al 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 Consistorio de la Oaya Ciencia, 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, he did not invariably 
 attach himself to the fortunes of King John, though that 
 monarch frequently 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 oi 
 Spain, is still preserved ; a little work remarkable for the
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 161 
 
 srudition and the sound criticism which it contains. Sanchea 
 has reprinted it and added a commentary ; and in many of 
 the preceding pages we have been much 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 which 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 Marquis 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 he seems to have 
 put all antiquity under contribution, render his poems dull 
 and fatiguing. His Centiloquio, or Collection of a hundred 
 maxims on morals and politics, each inculcated in eight short 
 verses, was composed for the instruction of the Prince Royal, 
 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 TJie 
 Prayer of the Nobles, The Tears of Queen Margaret, and 
 La Comedieta 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 atfairs of state, we fini som
 
 162 
 
 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 light poems possessing all the simplicity and sweetness of th 
 most pleasing pastorals.* 
 
 Juan de Mena, who was born at Cordova in 1412, and 
 died in 1456, was another of the poets of the court of John 
 II., and was patronised by that monarch, and by the Marquis 
 de Santillana. He is called by the Spaniards, the Ennius of 
 
 * As for example, the following serrana, or serenade, to the shep- 
 herdess 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 I ne'er on the border 
 
 Non vi en la frontera, Saw girl fair as Eosa, 
 
 The charming milk-maiden 
 Of sweet Finojosa. 
 
 Once making a journey 
 
 To Santa Maria, 
 Of Calatavefio, 
 
 From weary de. ire 
 Of sleep, down a valley 
 
 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 primroses 
 
 Have half her smile's sweetness, 
 Or mild modest beauty ; 
 
 (I speak with discreetness.) 
 
 had I beforehand 
 
 But known of this Rosa, 
 The 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 I 
 
 By learning 'twas Rosa, 
 The charming milk-maiden. 
 Of sweet Finojosa. 
 
 Como una vaquera 
 De la Finojosa. 
 
 Faciendo la via 
 De Calateveno 
 A santa Maria, 
 Vencido del sueno 
 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 pastores, 
 La vi tan fermosa 
 Que apenas creyera 
 Que fuese vaquera 
 De la Finojosa. 
 
 Non crio las rosas 
 De la primavera 
 Sean tan fermosas 
 Nin de tal manera ; 
 Fablando sin glosa, 
 Si antes supiera 
 Da quella vaquera 
 De la Finojosa. 
 
 Non tanto mirara 
 Su mucha bcldad 
 Porque me dejara 
 En mi liberdad ; 
 Mas dixe, donosa, 
 Por saber quien era 
 Aquella vaquera 
 De la Finojosa.
 
 OF THE SPAJOAIUyS. 163 
 
 Castile. From his education at Salamanca he had derived 
 much more pedantry than learning ; and a journey which he 
 made to Borne, 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 Labyrintho, or 
 las tresciento Coplas; an allegorical composition in tetradac- 
 tylic verses of eight lines each, descriptive of human life. 
 His object is to describe every sera 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 tresciento Coplas of Juan de Mena, 
 printed at Toledo in 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. 
 
 Bolviendo 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 quo 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 quo no so movia, 
 La gente que en ella avia de ser, 
 Y la que debaxo esperava caer, 
 Con turbido velo su morte cubria ; 
 Y yo que dc aquello muy poco sentia 
 Fiz de uii dubda wmplida palabra, 
 A mi guiadora, jogando que me abr 
 Aquesla figura que yo no cntendia. St. 56 and 57. 
 
 Ttw
 
 j.54 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 The Spanish poets of the fifteenth century, however, rarelj 
 undertook works of any length. Their poems in general were 
 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 the ancient Troubadours, and 
 have been united in a work which may be regarded as a com- 
 plete collection of the Spanish poetry of the fifteenth century. 
 This work is entitled the Cancione.ro 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 that 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 Cancionero, the devotional poems 
 are placed at the commencement of the volume. Boutterwek, 
 with 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 poems.f The amatory 
 pieces which fill the greater part of this work are very mono- 
 
 The only portion of the whole poem which possesses any interest, is 
 the episode of the Count de Buelna, overwhelmed together with his 
 Boldiers 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 commentora have neglected it, considering it unworthy 
 of their notice. 
 
 * Tesoro de los Romanceros y Cancioneros Espafioles. 8vo. Paris, 
 Baudry, 1838. 
 
 + It was regarded as a high effort of the poetic art, to describe the 
 most incomprehensible mysteries in a few verses, which thus formed a 
 mass of contradiction. The following cancion of Soria is an instance ; 
 
 El sy, By, el como no se Ser un ser, estremos dos, 
 
 Desta tan ardua quistion, Y en un ser no ser ygual, 
 
 Quo no alraiira la ra/uu Es sicmpre, sera, no f'ue. 
 
 Adonde sube la ft:. Siempre fue, y siempre son, 
 
 Ser Dios ombre, y ombre Dies, Siempre son, mas no son due, 
 
 fier mortal y no mortal, Y ! ul ta **">* e f6 -
 
 OP THE SPANIARDS. 165 
 
 tonous and fatiguing. The Castilian poets of this period 
 appear to have 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 
 peivaded 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- 
 thagenn, afterwards archbishop of Burgos, we meet with a 
 storm of passion, to which the now neglected measure of the 
 versos dc arte mayor, which is well adapted to describe the 
 emotion of the heart, adds great truth and nature. 
 
 Oh ! fierce is this flame that seizes my breath, 
 My body, my soul, my life, and my death ;* 
 
 * La fucra del fuego que alumbra que ciega 
 Mi cuerpo, mi alma, mi muerte, mi vida, 
 Do entra, do hiere, do toca, do llega, 
 Uata y uo muere su llama encendida. 
 
 Putt
 
 4OO ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 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 iadifferent to joy or to woe ; 
 
 For this Same 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 I say or I do. 
 
 Many of the amatory poems of the Spaniards are para- 
 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 T/ie 
 
 Pues que hare triste, que todo me ofende ] 
 Lo bueno y lo malo me causan congoxa, 
 Quemandome el fuego que rnata, qu'enciende, 
 Su fuenja que fuera, que ata, que prende, 
 Que prende, que suelta, que tira que afloxa. 
 
 A do yre triste, que alegre me halle, 
 Pues tantos peligros me tienen en medio, 
 Que llore, que ria, que grite, que calle, 
 Ni tengo, ni quiero, ni espero remedio. 
 Ni quiero que quiere, ni quiero querer, 
 Pues tanto me quiere tan raviosa plaga, 
 Ni ser yo vencido, ni quiero veneer, 
 Ni quiero pesar, ni quiero plazer, 
 Ni se que me diga, ni s6 que me haga. 
 
 Pues que hare triste con tanta fatiga ? 
 Aquien me mandays que mis males quexe 1 
 A que me mandays que siga que diga, 
 Que sienta, que haga, que tome, que dexe 1 
 Dadme remedio que yo no lo hallo 
 Paraeste mi mal que no es escondido ; 
 Que muestro, que encubro, que sufro, quo callo, 
 Por donde de vida ya soy de.spedido. 
 
 These three stan/x-vs are amongst the most celebrated Rpccimens of 
 ancient Spanish poetry ; as we may gather from the numerous com- 
 mentaries of which they have been the subject. The first in date is by 
 Carthagena himself, who has extended the same thoughts into tweiur
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 167 
 
 Seven Joys of Love, in imitation of The Seven Joys of the 
 Virgin Mary. He likewise published The Ten Command- 
 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 soul. 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 the Proven9als 
 their retrouanges. In the first rank must be placed the 
 cancioni, properly so called, which resemble epigrams 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 highly wrought 
 El Pater noster de las mugeres, hacho por Salazar: 
 
 Rey alto a quien adoramos, Y" algunas damas quo van 
 
 Alumbra mi entendimiento, Sobre interesse de aver, 
 
 A loar en lo que cuento Dizien con mucho plazer 
 
 A ti que todos llamamos Si cosa alguna las dan 
 
 Pater noster. Adveniat. , 
 
 Porque diga el dissavor Y con este dessear 
 
 Que las crudas damas hazen, Locuras, pompas y arreos, 
 
 Como nunca nos complazen, Por cumplir bien sus desseos 
 
 La suplieo a ti sefior No se curan de buscar 
 
 Qui es in ccelis. JKcgnum tuum. 
 
 Porque las hcziste belas, Y estas de quien no se escondt 
 
 Dizien solo con la lengua, Bondad que en ellas se cuida, 
 
 Porque no eaygan en mengua A cosa que se les pida 
 
 De mal devotas donzcllas, Jamas ninguna responde 
 
 Sanctijicetur. Fiat. 
 
 Pero por su vana gloria Mas la que mas alto csta 
 
 Viendose tan estimadas, Miraldo si la hablays, 
 
 Tan qucridas, tan amadas, Si a darle la combidays 
 
 No les cube en la memoria Sereys cierto que os dira 
 
 Nomen tuum. Voluntas tua, d-c. 
 
 t The following cancion, likewise by Carthagena, is very much in the 
 Spanish spirit and taste : 
 
 No se para que nasci, De la muertc, pucs no quiere 
 
 Pues en tal cstremo esto A mi, queriendo yo a ella. 
 
 Que 1 morir no quiere a mi, Que fin espero de aqui, 
 
 Y el bivir no quiero yo. Pues la muerte me nego ; 
 
 Toio el tiempo que biviere Porque claramente vio 
 
 Tere muyjusta querella Que era vida para mi.
 
 168 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 The Villancicos contain 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 the 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, which 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 sentiment 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 villancico, by Escriva, is here given : 
 
 Que sentis corafon mio No dezis, 
 
 No dezis, . Donde estays que no venis ? 
 
 Que mal es el que sentis 1 Qu . eg de VQS> qu - en mi no j^ 
 
 Que sentistes aquel dia Cordon, quien os agena 1 
 
 Qnando mi senora vistes, g u C3 f de vos, que aunque callo, 
 
 Que pcrdiKtes alcgria ? JJuestro mal tambien me fena ? 
 
 Y des quando despedistes, g uie , n 3 atd tol cadcna 
 
 Como a mi nunca bolvistes ? aesa f . 
 
 Que mal es el que sentis ] 
 
 f The following motto was the device of a knight : 
 
 Sin vos, y sin Dios, y mi. . Sin Dios P orc i uc eD vos adoro > 
 
 Stn vos pues no me quereys, 
 Olosa de don Jorge Manrigue. p uca 8 in mi ya esta decoro, 
 
 Que vos soys quien me teneys. 
 Yo soy quien libre me vi, Agsi tr J ist ^ nad 
 
 Yo quien pudiera olvidaros, p UC8 4 licra ol vid 
 
 Yo soy cl que por amaros Yo 8C J A * 
 
 Bstoy desque os conoci Eato ^ / conod 
 
 Bin Dios y sin vos y mi. Sin Dio ^ sin v mi<
 
 OF THE 8PAMIA.AD8. 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- 
 media 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 chancellor 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 the Life of Count Pedro Nino 
 de Buelna, one of the most valiant knights of the court of 
 Henry III. The following is the description given by 
 Gamez of the French, after the expedition of Du Guesclin 
 against Peter the Cruel had given him an opportunity of 
 observing that 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 j 
 
 VOL. II. i.
 
 170 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 they lo not allow their pique or anger to endure 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 poetry has, therefore, preserved its 
 own strong and original colours. The drama thus arose 
 amongst them before they had intermingled with other . i- 
 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 which the Greek philosophers had subjected 
 the art of poetry. Its object was to affect 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 Minyo Ilebulyo, and the dramatic romance of 
 Calixtus and Melilxea, or la Ccle.stina. The Mysteries with 
 which their religious solemnities were accompanied, and in 
 which the most gross buffooneries wsre introduced into tha
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 1? I 
 
 representations of sacred writ, had incontestably a considera- 
 ble influence on the Spanish drama. The Autos sacramen- 
 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 Minyo Rubulyo, 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- 
 tina, 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 Bazocke, 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 different countries, for it was soon generally trans- 
 lated, and the difficulty of meeting with it, now induce me 
 to think that a detailed analysis will afford pleasure: 1 shall 
 confine it, however, to the first act. Fernand de Kojas, 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 Kodrigo 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 edition 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 j& 
 Italian vusion. 
 
 I 2
 
 172 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 otage is supposed to represent a garden, in which 
 Calixtus, a young and handsome cavalier, enters in pursuit 
 of a falcon, and where he finds Melibcea, daughter of a great 
 lord of the country ; the piece commences with these words. 
 
 CALIXTUS. I recognise clearly in this, oh Melibcea, the greatnew oi 
 God! 
 
 MELIBCEA. In what, Calixtus ? 
 
 CAL. In what 1 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 1 I am quite sure the glorious saints, who 
 take such delight in the divine vision, cannot possess more bliss than I 
 do now in contemplating thee. 
 
 But, alas ! see what a difference 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 1 
 
 CAL. Truly, it is so great, that if God were to offer me the most pre- 
 cious earthly blessings, I should esteem them of far less worth.. 
 
 MEL. However, if you persevere, I will give you a yet greater 
 reward. 
 
 CAL. Oh ! my lucky ears, which, vile as they are, have heard a word 
 BO sweet ! 
 
 MEL. Unlucky, rather, as they will soon hear ; for the punishment 
 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 1 Begone, begone, wretch ! It is not in 
 patience to bear the idea of seeing a man so far inflated, as to express 
 to me the delirium of an illicit amour. 
 
 After this reprimand Meliboea withdraws and appears no 
 more during the first act. Calixtus remains on the stage 
 with Sempronio, his valet, to whom he communicates his 
 despair, gets into a passion with him, chases him off, calls him 
 back again; to whom he describes his beloved, pouring a 
 torrent of theological and fabulous lore, and everything which 
 we may regard as the invariable character of this dramatic 
 romance. 
 
 ' Sempronio endeavours to enliven the scene by his pleasant- 
 ries. He 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 catastrophe. 
 
 SKJCPBOMIO. For my part I protect that what you have just said ii 
 awnright heresy !
 
 OV THE 8PAKIARD8. 178 
 
 CAL.- Why ? 
 
 SKMP. Because it is against the Christian religion. 
 CAL. And what care I ] 
 SKMP. Are you not a Christian, then? 
 
 CAL. I ? I am a Meliboean ; it is Melibcea whom I adore. I belieTe 
 in Melibcea, 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 Meliboea 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 either 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 
 \alets. They see the hag approaching, and Parmenio gives 
 free vent to the horror and contempt her sight inspires. 
 Calixtus asks him the reason. 
 
 PARMENIO. That fine lady possesses, at the far end of the town, close 
 to a stream, a solitary house, half in ruins, of ugly aspect, and vilely 
 furnished. She there follows six different trades 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 femmes-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 ov 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 
 ribaldry ; 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. The new writer 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 
 Melibcea 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 r.nd the 
 two valets on the head of Calixtus. They apply to some 
 bandits smitten with their charms, and bring them to the 
 house of Melibcea. 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 with which to resist 
 them. Widely diffused by the armies of Charles V. which
 
 OF THK. 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 XXVL 
 
 AGS OF CHARLES V. THE CLASSICS OF SPAIN I BOSCAN J GARCILASO J 
 MEKDOZA J MIRANDA J MONTEMAYOR. 
 
 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 sufficient 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 OU THE LITERATURE 
 
 dinia, and the Balearic Isles, had been already united to the 
 crown of Aragon. The marriage of Ferdinand with the 
 queen of Castile, without consolidating the two monarchies, 
 gave that ambitious prince the command of all the armies of 
 Spain, of which he speedily availed himself in 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 territories 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. The 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 territories, was 
 always, in proportion to his situation, weaker and poorer 
 than Ferdinand and Isabella, his immediate predecessors. In 
 every enterprise he was deprived of the fruits which he 
 should have gathered, by the want of soldiers and of money; 
 a want unknown to the for/ner monarchs. The taxes col-
 
 OP THE SPANIARDS. 177 
 
 fected 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 had 
 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 Ximcnes 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, they entirely reduced 
 their duties to the observance of the most severe discipline. 
 In the midst of nations with whose language they were 
 unacquainted, and whom they regarded with contempt, they 
 signalized themselves by their inflexibility and their cruelty. 
 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 TTTF LITERATURE 
 
 soldiery, as duplicity, of their chiefs. The most celebrated 
 men of this age sullied themselves with acts of treachery, 
 unequalled in history. The grep* Captain, Gonsalvo de 
 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. He 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 da fe 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 exasperated 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 would employ all her power in persecuting heretics and 
 infidels, was the first Grand Inquisitor. In the space of fourteen years 
 be summoned before the holy tribunal, a hundred t h<>u.sund persons, and 
 condemned six thousand to the flumes.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 179 
 
 of their commercial prosperity, were the first victims of the 
 Inquisition. Though they formed a large 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 numbers 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 
 the 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 which 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. was 
 laying 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, lie 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 Provenal, which was still preserved in the 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 was 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 1526, 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 lar 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 waa 
 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 redondilhas they seldom 
 made use of more than six or eight syllables, and in the verses 
 de 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. He died before the year 
 1544. 
 
 The 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- 
 ean's poetry to those who are not acquainted with the Spanish.
 
 182 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 ludeed, that precision of style and that rare judgment which 
 constitute his chief merits, will, 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 subjoin 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 affectation : 
 
 Aun bien no fuy salido de la cuna, 
 Ni de 1'ama la leche huve dexado, 
 Quando el amor me tuvo condennado 
 A ser de los que siguen su fortuna ; 
 
 Diome luego miserias, de uua en una, 
 For hazerme 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 mucrte. 
 
 coraon, que siempre has padecido, 
 Dime, tan fuerte mal como cs tan largo, 
 Y mal tan largo, di, como es tan fuerte 1 
 
 The following is the conclusion of his poem of Hero and Lcander, 
 which, as it contains about 2,800 verses, may be considered his principal 
 work : 
 
 Canta con boz suave y dolorosa, 
 
 Musa, los amores lastimeros 
 
 Que en suave dolor fueron 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 diligente lumbrezilla 
 
 Testigo fiel y dulce mensagera 
 
 De los fieles y dulces am.idores. 
 
 Pero comien9a ya de cantar Musa, 
 
 El proceso y el fin de estos amantes. 
 
 El mirar, el hablar, el entenderse, 
 
 El yr del uno, el esperar del otro, 
 
 El dessear y ei 4cudir conforme, 
 
 La lumbre mucrta, y a Lomdro muerto. 
 
 Boscan, who survived Oarcnaso by five or six years, was desirous ot 
 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 tho
 
 OF THE 8PANIAKDS. 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, 
 iddressed to Diego de Mendoza, gives us a pleasing picture 
 }f the poet enjoying, in his country retreat and in the bosom 
 :>f 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 po< j t. But the ideas, the sentiments, and the thoughts, 
 are all that can be transferred from one language to another. 
 When 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. He 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 character, 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.
 
 184 OX THE LITERATURE 
 
 which he was engaged at the instigation of one of his relatives, 
 drew upon him the displeasure of the Emperor. He was 
 banished to one of the islands on the Danube, where he em- 
 ployed himself in the composition of some melancholy poema^ 
 In 1535, 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 
 despatched by the Emperor to attack a fortified tower, he was 
 the first to mount the 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 than even the works 
 of Boscan. Unfortunately, he occasionally abandons himself 
 to that refinement and false wit which the Spaniards mistook 
 for the language of passion. Amongst the 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 : 
 
 SONNET XIII. 
 
 If lamentations and complaints could rein 
 
 The course of rivers as they roll'd along, 
 
 And move on desert hills, attir'd in song, 
 The savage foresta ; 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 History of Pern 
 and of Florida. 
 
 f Si quexas y lamentos puedcn tanto 
 Que enfrenaron el curso de los rios, 
 Y en los desertos monies y sombrioB 
 Los arboles movicron COR su canto ;
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 186 
 
 Pierce tygers and chill rocks to entertain 
 The sound, and with less urgency than mine, 
 Lead tyrant Pluto and stern Proserpine, 
 
 Sad and suhdued with magic of their strain ; 
 
 Why will not my vexations, being spent 
 In misery and in tears, to softness soothe 
 A bosom 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 which sorrow'd for a forfeit ghost ! 
 
 But the most celebrated of Garcilaso's poems is that in 
 which he has given a model to the Spanish writers, which 
 has been imitated by numbers who have never been able to 
 equal the original. This 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 ot 
 the latter, a depth of grief ; while in both we find a purity ot 
 pastoral feeling which appears more remarkable when we 
 remember 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 cscuchar su llanto 
 Los ficros tigrcs, y pciiascos frios, 
 Si en fin con menos casos que los mios 
 Baxaron a los reynos del cspanto : 
 
 Porque no ablandarii mi trabajosa 
 Vida, en miseria y lagrimas passada, 
 Un conwjon comigo endurecido 1 
 
 Con mas picdad dcvria ser escuchada 
 La voz del que se llora por pcrdido, 
 Que la del que pcrdio y llora otra cona. 
 
 [The above translation, as well as that which follows from the Eclogue, 
 is borrowed from Mr. Wiffen's very elegant and spirited translation of 
 the works of Oarcilaso; to which he has prefixed an able Essay en 
 Spanish Poetry Tr.] 
 
 VOL. II. X
 
 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 
 die 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 blew. 
 
 Oh, how completely was I in all this 
 
 Myself deceiving ! Oh, the different 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 fancy's mystical deceit,) 
 
 Have I beheld my fate in dreams foreshown. 
 
 One day methought that from the noontide heat,* 
 
 * SALICIO. 
 
 For ti el silencio de la selva umbrosa, 
 For ti la <?squividad y apartamiento 
 Del Bolitario montc me agrabada. 
 For ti la verde hicrba, el fresco viento, 
 El bianco lirio y colorada rosa 
 Y dulce primavera descaba. 
 Ay ! quanto me enganaba 1 
 Ay ! quan difcrente era, 
 Y quan dc otra manera 
 Lo que, en tu falso pecho, sc escondia 1 
 Bien claro con su voz me lo dccia 
 La siniestra corneja repitiendo 
 La desventura mia. 
 feslid sin duelo lagnmas corriendo. 
 
 See (Jarcilaso de la Vega, Obras Porticos
 
 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 what magic, changed its track, 
 And in new channels, by an unused way, 
 Roll'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, 
 Plow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should floir. 
 * * * * 
 
 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 meadows full of verdure, myrtles, bays, 
 Woodlands, and lawns, and running waters clear, 
 Belov'd in other days ; 
 To which, bcdew'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. 
 * * * * 
 
 NEMOROSO. 
 
 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 mysterious 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 lor sun to re-appear, 
 Of thine angelic face, my soul to cheer, 
 Resurgent from the tomb. 
 
 * * * 
 
 .Poor lost Eliza ! of thy locks of gold 
 One treasured ringlet in white silk I keep 
 For ever at my heart, which when unroll'd, 
 Fresh frricf and pity o'er my spirit creep. 
 And mv y**Uate eyes, for hours untolti, 
 O'er the icor pledge will like an infant wc^p ;
 
 188 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 With sighs more warm than fire, anon I dry 
 The tears from off it, number, one by one, 
 The radiant hairs, and with a love-knot tie ; 
 Mine eyes, this duty done, 
 Give over weeping, and with slight relief, 
 1 taste a short forgetfulness of grief. 
 
 The two other eclogues of Garcilaso are regarded as 
 inferior to the first. They are all three of considerable length. 
 He has likewise written a lew 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 principal part in the important events of that 
 period ; but the extreme severity of his character lias 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 Tonnes, the first and pleasantest of 
 those memoirs of rogues, for which the Spaniards have mani- 
 fested a peculiar tasfe. Being distinguished by Charles V. 
 a* 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 protect the interest of 
 the Emperor, and his speech to this assembly in the year 
 1545 excited the admiration of all Christendom. In 1547 
 he proceeded with the title of Ambassador to the Papal 
 Court, where he directed the movements of the imperial 
 party, 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
 
 Or THE SPANIARDS. 189 
 
 time, named Captain-general and Governor of Sienna. In 
 concert with Cosmo de' Medici he succeeded in enslaving 
 this last of the Republics of the Middle Ages, and, with a 
 sceptre of iron, he crushed the spirit of liberty which 
 still animated the Tuscans. Detested by Paul III., whom 
 he was directed to humble even in his own court, hated by 
 all the friends ot' 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 1554 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 manuscript;;, 
 while he at the same time attempted to preserve from the 
 injuries of time those works 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 Mcndoza, 
 seizing his 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 : Redondilhas, estando 
 preso por una pendancia que tuvo enpalacio. Being banished 
 to Grenada, he was an attentive observer of the progress of 
 the Moorish revolt in the Alpuxarra, of which he afterwards 
 wrote an account ; a work esteemed one \n the masterpieces 
 of Spanish history, lie occupied himself during the rest of 
 his life in literary puiauiti. ind in translating and comment-
 
 1 90 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 ing upon a work of Aristotle. He died at Talladolid iu 
 1575. His library, which he bequeathed to the King, forma 
 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 him 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 
 models of this kind of composition to his countrymen. 
 With the 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. The happy mixture of opinion and descrip- 
 tion preserves them from 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 ol 
 Boscan. We are astonished to discover in the tyrant ol 
 Sienna so much delicacy and so much sensibility.* 
 
 * Tu la veras, Boscan, y yo la veo, 
 
 Que los que amamos, vemos mas temprano. 
 
 Hela, en cabello negro y bianco arreo. 
 Ella te cogera con blanca mano 
 
 Las raras ubas, y la fruta cana, 
 
 Dulces y frescos dones del verano. 
 Mira, que diligencia, con que gana 
 
 Viene al nuevo servicio, que pomposa 
 
 Esta con el trabajo, y quan ut'ana. 
 En blanca leche colorada rosa 
 
 Nunca para su amiga vi al pastor 
 
 Mezclar, que pareciesse tan uermosa. 
 El verde arrayan tuerce en derrador, 
 
 De tu sagrada frente, con las flores 
 
 Mezclando oro immortal a la labor. 
 Por cima van y vienen los amores, 
 
 Con las alas en vino rcmojadas, 
 
 Suenan en el carcax los passadores. 
 
 Eemedie quien quisiere las pissadas 
 
 De los prrandcs, que el mundo govemarvu, 
 Cuyaa obras, quiza, estan olvidu.u-.io.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 19l 
 
 Nor are we less surprised at finding this ferocious man 
 entertaining in the midst of his ambitious career a wish t'ir 
 retirement, and for the happiness and repose of domestic lit-* 
 In his epistle to Don Luys de Zuiiiga he thus expresses 
 himself : 
 
 Another world I seek, a resting place, 
 
 Sweet times and seasons, and a happy home, 
 
 Where I 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 dreams 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; 
 While 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 grac3 
 
 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 Menduza are deficient in that grace and 
 harmony which form the charm of Roseau's style. In all of 
 them, however, the language is correct and noble. The fol- 
 
 Desvelese en lo quo cllos no alcancaron, 
 ] )uerma descolorido sobre el oro, 
 Que no les quedara mas quo llevarou. 
 
 Yo Boscan no procure otro tcsoro 
 Sino poder vivir medianamente, 
 Ni escondo la riqueza, ni la adoro. 
 
 8i aqui hallas algun inconvenient*, 
 Como discrete y no como yo soy, 
 Me desengana luego incontinent* , 
 
 Y siflo Ten can migo adonde voy.
 
 192 Otf THE LITERATURE 
 
 lowing is a very characteristic specimen, as it exhibits lha 
 national taste and the prevailing spirit of gallantry, together 
 with some traces of those troubled scenes through which 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 naming sword, in storm and fire, 
 
 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 impress'd, 
 
 Through every change, a vision of delight ! 
 Where'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 model. The ancient Castilian style attracted his 
 attention, and he endeavoured to carry it to a higher state of 
 polish and perfection. His redondilhas, in little stanzas of 
 four verses, his quintillas, in stanzas of five verses, and his 
 villancicos, are more finished than those of the ancient school, 
 while they are at the same time more suited to his genius 
 than the poems which he has written in the Italian metre. 
 
 * Aora en la dulce ciencia embevecido, 
 
 Ora en el uso de la ardiente espada, 
 
 Aora con la mano y el sentido 
 
 Puesto en seguir la pla$a levantada. 
 Ora el pesado cuerpo estfe dormido, 
 
 Aora el alma atenta y dcsvelada ; 
 
 Siempre en el coracou tendre esculpido 
 
 Tu ser, y hermosura cntrctallada. 
 Entre gentes estrafias, do se encierra 
 
 El sol fuera del mundo, y se dcsvia, 
 l)urare y permanecere deste arte. 
 En el mar en el cielo su la tierra 
 
 Contemplare la gloria de aquel di* 
 
 Quo tu vista figura cu todo parte.
 
 OP 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 
 Tonnes, the first of its kind, has been translated into all 
 languages, and read in every nation of Europe. It was 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 Tonnes 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 the bed of a torrent, was 
 educated by the mistress of a negro, and who afterwards 
 oecame 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 
 commerce. 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 ON THE 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 length he enters the service of a 
 noble esquire, who passes a portion of the day at church, and 
 the 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 his 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 shoemaker, 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 Spaniards El Gusto Picaresco ; and if we may 
 believe them, no beggars of any country have ever equalled 
 theirs in artifice, roguery, and subordination to their own 
 private police, which always acts in opposition to that of 
 society. The romances of Guzman d'Alfarache, and of 
 Picara Justina, 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 otfice afterwards acquired the art 
 of making even those whom it was destroying commend its 
 proceedings. 
 
 The second work in prose by Mendoza, which was written
 
 O THE SPANIARDS. 195 
 
 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. Taking Sallust and Tacitus alternately as 
 his models, he may be Paid 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 the 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 the 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 was not permitted to be printed 
 until the year 1610, thirty-five years after the death of the 
 author, and then not without great alterations. The edition 
 of 17"6 alone is complete. 
 
 The revolt of the Moors of Grenada, the subject of this 
 history, broke out in the 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 ti> 
 estimate at once the style of the historian, and the policy of 
 the Spanish court. " The 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 their Arabian habits, in the purchase of 
 which they had spent considerable sums, constraining them 
 to adopt the Castilian dress at a great 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 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 from them their children, in order that they might be educated 
 in Castile. They were interdicted from the use of their 
 baths, which were at once necessary and delightful to them : 
 and at the same time their music, their songs, their festivals, 
 all their usual amusements, all their cheerful assemblies, were 
 forbidden. All these new orders were promulgated without 
 any addition to the guarus, without despatching any fresh 
 troops, and without any reinforcement of the old, or establish- 
 ment of new garrisons." The Moors soon began to collect 
 arms 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-Humeya. Grenada was too strong to be sur- 
 prised ; and they had received only very inefficient succours 
 from the Turkish Emperor Selim. Notwithstanding their 
 weakness, they defended themselves for eight months in the 
 mountains, with unconquerable valour, against a numerous 
 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- 
 Humeya and his successor Aben-Boo, were both assassinated 
 by Moors, to whom the Spaniards had promised an indemnity 
 at that price. The rest of the inhabitants of the Alpuxarra 
 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 with 
 regard to the Moors. The latter, whose name was Oradici, 
 answered that " 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, Miranda and Montemayor, who 
 distinguished themselves by their compositions in both lan- 
 guages. Saa Miranda, who was born in 1494, and died in 
 1558, may be more especially claimed by the Portuguese ;
 
 OP T*TE SPANIARDS. 197 
 
 and in treating of the literature of that country, we shall 
 again have occasion to mention him. In Castilian, he wrote 
 only a few pastorals, which resemble Theocritus much more 
 than the pastorals of Garcilaso 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 sty'e of composition from another. His pastorals, 
 therefore, sometimes 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 which 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 fare 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 warr'd with thee upon this mortal shore, 
 
 Burning that breast which now lies still and cold. 
 
 What thy clear eyes behold, 
 
 Amid those regions bright, 
 
 Are not the vain shews of a false delight, 
 
 Such as crcwhile thou kncw'st in this dim bound ; 
 
 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.* 
 
 Vote, buen Diego, en paz, que en esta tierra 
 
 El plazer de oy no dura hasta a mafiana, 
 
 Y dura mucho quanto desaplaze. 
 
 Alia aora no vcs la vision vana, 
 
 Que aca vivicndo te hizo tanta guerra, 
 
 Ardiendo el cuerpo que ora frio yaze. 
 
 Lo que alU satisfaze 
 
 A tus ya claros ojos, 
 
 No son vanos antojos 
 
 De que ay por esto cerros muclieduuibre ;
 
 198 ON THE LITEKATURE 
 
 George de Montemayor was born at Montemor, in Portu 
 gal, about the year 1520. As his family was very obscure, 
 he translated into Castilian the name of the village at which 
 he was born, and he assumed it as his own. He had received 
 no education, and served as a common soldier in the 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 the 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 Marfida. This Marfida was 
 the divinity of his verses ; but upon his return to Spain i'rom 
 a journey on which he had accompanied tlie 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 readied the 
 seventh book, ought rather 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 Arnadis 
 had been 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 died a violent death in Spain or in Italy, about the year 
 1561 or 1562. 
 
 The prose writings of Montemayor 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- 
 
 Maa siempre una paz bucna en clara lumbro. 
 
 Contentamiento cierto 1 aeoinpafta, 
 
 No tanta pesadumbre, 
 
 Como aca va por esta ticrra estntna.
 
 OK THE SPANLARPS. 199 
 
 uon of the scholastic rules that he is a novice in them. The 
 grace, harmony, and delicacy of his writings have placed him 
 in the first rank of Spanish poets. 
 
 The bcene of Montemayor's pastoral is laid at the foot of 
 the mountains of Leon. The period is more difficult to de- 
 termine. The geography, the names, and every reference to 
 real manners and customs, are modern. The mythology, 
 however, 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 
 brought 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 lias 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 
 Dver the bravest ivarriors. The adventures of Abindarraes 
 and Xarifa, who were contemporary with 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 Montemayor is laid in so poetical a world, and 
 is so far removed from all reality, that it is perfectly useless 
 to notice anachronisms 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 tuste 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 
 sung 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 weri
 
 200 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 tilled with tenderness alone. Syrenus, far from feeling to 
 wards Sylvanus either distrust or jealousy, pitied his unfor- 
 tunate friend, whose sighs were breathed to an inexorable 
 mistress. Sylvanus, on the other hand, found some consola- 
 tion in his sorrow, when he beheld the happiness of liis friend. 
 Syrenus 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 flocks which had been committed to his charge. 
 The despair of the two lovers at this separation was extreme, 
 and they vowed by the most sacred oaths to preserve an 
 eternal fidelity. Scarcely, however, had Syrenus departed, 
 when the parents of Diana compelled her to marry Delio, a 
 rich shepherd 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, Sylvanns, resigning 
 himself to all the pains of despised affection, exhibits both 
 in his conversation and in his verses a decree of submission 
 
 * In order to give some idea of the poetical talents of Montemayor, 
 I have given in this note the first song addressed by Syrenus to a 
 ringlet of Diana's hair, which he wears in his bosom : 
 
 Cabellos, quanta mudanza No vistcs vos quo algun dia 
 
 He visto despues que os vi, Mil lagrimas derramaba, 
 
 Y quan mal parece ahi Iiasta que yo le juraba 
 
 Esa color de esperanza. Que sus palabras crcial 
 
 Bicn pcnsaba yo, cabellos, Quicn vido tanta hennosura 
 
 Aunque con algun tcmor, En tan mudab i c su j c to 1 
 
 Que no fucra algun pastor y en amador tan pcrfctto 
 
 Digno de verse cabe ellos. Quicn vio tanta dc8VC ntura i 
 
 Ay cabellos, quantos dias cabellos no os correis 
 
 La mi Diana mirava, For vcnir de ado vcnistcs, 
 
 Si os traya, o si os dexava, Viendome como me vistes, 
 
 Y otras cien mil nificrias : En vcrmc como me vcis 1 
 
 Y quanta vezes llorando gol>rc d arcna scntada 
 
 (Ay lagrimas cnganosas) ])c } rio , a v( vo 
 
 Pedia celos de coma Do con cl (icdo csi : r n,i : 
 
 De que yo cstava burlaudo. Antes musrta quc n :udada. 
 
 Los ojos que me mataban Mira el amor 1<> quc ordcna, 
 
 Decid, dorados capellos, Quc os vicnc a hacer creer 
 
 Quc culpa tuve en crcellos, Cosas dichas por muger, 
 
 Pues ellos me aseguraban ? Y cscritas ea cl arena !
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 20 1 
 
 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 bve, though hopeless is my suit ; 
 I suffer 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 1 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 reader 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 that 
 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 with 
 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 nunca fuy oydo ; 
 . > Quexarme quise, y no fuy escuchado ; 
 
 Huyr quise de amor, quede corrido : 
 .De solo olvido no podre quexanne, 
 Porque aun no se acordaron de olvidarmc. 
 VOL. II. K
 
 202 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 are in love with them, and who 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 prepare 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 the beautiful Xarifa ; and of Danteo 
 and Duarda, two Portuguese, together with the verses which 
 they composed in their own language. The 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 witch at the same time, influences 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 passion, and they are happily married. 
 Syrenus becomes indifferent 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 she 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 
 tli at 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 Spain ; who, during the brilliant reign of Charles 
 V., and in the midst of the disturbances which the ambitious 
 policy of that prince created in Europe, changed the versi- 
 fication, the 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 their submissive 
 love. Whilst Europe and America were inundated with 
 blood by the Spaniards, Boscan, Garcilaso, Mendoza, and 
 Montemayor, 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, 
 a Lydian luxury, which 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 Vega 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 Master 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 
 M2
 
 204 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 feat of arms to the 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, the 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, the Italians, and the Ger- 
 mans, against whom they marched. The army, of which 
 they formed a part, had already begun to delight in blood, in 
 order that they 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 fierce 
 find 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 who 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 highest pitch of its 
 reputation the symptoms of its approaching decay might be 
 distinctly seen. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 SPANISH LITERATURE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY CONTINUED. HERREEA ; 
 PONCE DE LEON J CERVANTES ; HIS I>ON QUIXOTE. 
 
 WHEN we consider to what extent genius and talent are 
 Aidividual qualities, and how such qualities are modified by 
 difference of opinion, oi character, and of circumstances, we
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 20o 
 
 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 whether 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. The reign of Charles V., to which 
 we 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 Amadis to astonish the imagination by super-human 
 exploits, suddenly deserted all the Spanish authors. The art 
 of conceiving new characters, of endowing them with senti- 
 ments, of placing them 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 great poets, but a sameness is obser 
 vable in them all. Their object was merely to express, in 
 harmonious numbers, the most noble and delicate feelings of 
 the soul. The 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 them. 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 them. I have searched for many of them 
 in vain, in the libraries to which I have had access ; and
 
 06 ON THE LITKRATURE 
 
 were they before me, there would still remain the impossi 
 bility of adequately translating them. 
 
 It is therefore to historical notices, to a few rapid analyse* 
 and to criticisms, for the most part original, but occasionally 
 borrowed, that we must confine ourselves upon the present 
 occasion, as we have hitherto been compelled to do, until we 
 arrive at the noblest 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, Herrera 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. Herrera 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 
 
 vatlons were considered by the party who patronized Herrera 
 as forming the perfection of true poetry, while at the preseirt 
 day they are rather an object of reproach to him. The real 
 dignity of his language, the harmony of his verse, and the 
 elevation of his ideas, must, however, be acknowledged. 
 Herrera is the most truly lyrical poet of Spain, as Chiabrera 
 is of Italy ; his flight is completely Pindaric, arid 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 
 effeminate 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- 
 gious 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 
 EQ el grandc aparato de sus naves, 
 Que de los uucstros la cerviz cautiva, 
 Y las manos aviva, 
 Al ministerio injusto de su estado ; 
 Derribo con los brazos suyos graves 
 Los cedros inas excelsos de la cima ; 
 Y el arbol, que ma.s yurto se sublima 
 liebio agenas aguas, y atrevido 
 Piso el vando nuestro y defendido. 
 
 Temblaron los perquenos, confundidoa 
 Del impio furor suyo, alzo la frente 
 Contra te, senor Dioz ; y con semblanU), 
 Y con pecho arrogante, 
 Y los armados brazoa estendidos, 
 MoviO el ayrado cuello aquel potent* :
 
 208 OH THE LIi-ERATUBE 
 
 An ode of Herrera 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, 
 
 With dewy poppies crown'd, pursuest 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 ! 
 
 hear my prayer ! I ask it by thy love, 
 
 Whom Juno gave thee in the realms above.* 
 
 Cerc6 su corazon de ardiente safia 
 Contra las dos Esperias, que el mar bana. 
 Porque en ti confiadas le resisten, 
 Y de annas 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 1 
 valieron sus pcchos 
 Contra ellos con cl Ungaro medroso, 
 Y de Dalmacia y Kodas en las guerras 1 
 Qui6n las pudo librar '! Quicn de sus manos 
 Pudo salvar los de Austria y los Gcrmanos? 
 Podra su Dios, podra por suerte ahora 
 Guardallas de mi diestra vencedora. 
 
 * Soave sueno, tu que en tarde buelo, 
 Las alas perczosas blandamente 
 Bates, de adormideras coronado, 
 Por el puro, adormido y vago cielo ; 
 Ven a la ultima parte de Ocidente, 
 Y de licor sagrado 
 Bana mis ojos tristes, que cansado, 
 Y rendido al furor de mi tormento, 
 No admito algun sosiego ; 
 Y el dolor dcsconorta al sufrimiento. 
 Ven a mi humilde rucgo, 
 Ven a mi ruego humilde, o amor de aquelut 
 Que Juno te ofrecio tu ninf'a bella. 
 
 Vide Herrera, in Parnaso Espaflol.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS 209 
 
 Sweet Power, that doet 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 hear'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 crown 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 who 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 LITERATURE 
 
 disposition to retirement, which rendered him indifferent to 
 fame and to worldly pleasures. His heart, which was mild 
 and tender, was never a prey to the dark fanaticism of the 
 monks ; moral and religious contemplations formed his only 
 delight, without inducing a contempt for 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 theological studies, in which his writings 
 gained him considerable reputation. Poetry was to him a 
 relaxation, while the exquisite sensibility to harmony, which 
 nature had bestowed upon 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 supposed 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 the Bible, 
 without special permission. Ponce de Leon confided his 
 version, under an injunction of secrecy, to a single friend, 
 who indiscreetly shewed it to others. The author was in 
 consequence denounced to the 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. He was ultimately 
 restored to his dignities, and re-established in his monastery. 
 His talents raised him to the rank of Vicar general of the 
 province of Salamanca, which he continued to fill until the 
 period of his death in 1591. 
 
 No Spaniard, it is said, ever expressed in poetry the inti- 
 mate sentiments of the heart with a more happy mixture of 
 elegance and of sensibility. He 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 
 only secondary consideration. The classical simplicity and 
 dignity of expression, for which the ancient authors, and 
 more especially Horace, whose works he had deeply studied, 
 are remarkable, were the objects of his emulation. His
 
 OP THE SPANIARDS. 211 
 
 resembvzxnce, however, to Horace was the result of too deep 
 a feeling ever 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 
 approached more nearly to the poetry of the ancients. But 
 whilst the compositions of Horace generally breathe only the 
 Epicurean philosophy, 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 shall 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 the&e versions his object has been 
 to make the ancients speak as they would have spoken, had 
 
 * Alma region luciente, Y de su esfera quando 
 
 Prado dc bien andai^a, que ni al A cumbre toca altissiino subside 
 
 hielo, El sol, el sesteando, 
 
 Si con el rayo ardiente De su hato cenido, 
 
 Fallece, fertil suelo, Con dulce son deleyta el santo oido. 
 Producidor eterno de consuelo. 
 
 . . Toca el rabel sonoro 
 
 DC purpura y de nieve Ye j immorta i du i 90ra i a i ma p.^ 
 
 Florida la cabe 9 a coronado, Cou invilece *j 
 
 A dulces pastes mueve Y ar & enao se traspassa 
 
 Bin honda ni cayado Y lanca en aqucl bien libre de tassa. 
 El buen pastor en ti su hato amado. 
 
 El va, y empos dichosas son, o voz si quicra 
 
 Le siguen sus ovejas, do las pace Pequefla parte alguua decendiesse 
 
 Con minor-tales rosas, En mi scntido, y fuera 
 
 Con flor que siempre nace, ^ c 8 i e l alma pusicsse 
 
 Y quauto mas se goza, mas renace. Y l da en ti, o amor, la convertiera, 
 
 Y dent.ro a la moutana Conoceria donde 
 
 Del alto bien las guia, y en la vena Sesteas dulce esposo, y desatada 
 
 Del gozo fiel las baiia, Dcsta prision adonde 
 
 Y les da mesa llena, Padece, a tu manada 
 
 Pastor ypasto el soloy sucrtc bucna. Vivira j unta, sin vaga errada.
 
 212 CN THE LITERATURE 
 
 they lived at his time and had their language been the Ca8' 
 tilian. Pursuing this principle, he was more properly an 
 imitator than a copyist, and has only given an imperfect idea 
 of the ancient authors. His example was generally followed ; 
 and all the translations from the 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 has displayed in his elegies, his sonnets, 
 and his canzoni. Gutiere de Cetina was the first happy 
 imitator of Anacreon in the Spanish language. Pedro de 
 Padilla, a knight of St. James, was the rival of Garcilaso in 
 pastoral poetry ; and Gaspar Gil Polo continued the romance 
 of Montemayor, under the name of Diana enamorada, 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 homage 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 Fatnoso by Louis Zapata, 
 Carlos Vitorioso 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. Chi is- 
 toval de Castillejo, devoting himself to the ancient style of 
 Spanish poetry, gave the preference to the redondilkas, or 
 verses composed of four trochees, over the Italian models.
 
 OF THE SPANIAKD3. 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 they may be in their own country, he was probably 
 unacquainted ; but we are now about to introduce *>ne 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 the world. It will readily be 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, which appears to me to possess all the grace of 
 Anacreon, with all the gallantry of a Castilian : 
 
 For unas huertas hermosas Pero viendo la blancura 
 
 Vagando, muy linda Lida, Que sus tetas descubrian, 
 
 Texio de lyrios, y rosas Como leche fresca y pura, 
 
 Blancas frescas y olorosas Que a su madre en hermosura 
 
 Una guirnalda florida ; Ventaja no conocian ; 
 
 Y andando en esta labor, Y su rostro que encender 
 
 Viendo a deshora al amor Era bastante, y mover 
 
 En las rosaa escondido, Con su mucha Io9ania 
 
 Con las que ella avia texido, Los mismos Dioses ; pedia 
 
 Le prendio como a traydor. 1'ara dexarse veneer. 
 
 El muchacho no domado, Buelto a Venus, a la hora 
 
 Que mmca penso prenderse, Hablandole desde alii, 
 
 Viendose preso y atado, Dixo, madre, Eniperadora, 
 
 Al principio muy ayrado Desde oy mas, busca senora 
 
 Pugnava por defendcrse. Un nuevo amor para ti. 
 
 Y en sus alas estrivandc Y esta nueva con oylla, 
 
 Forcejava peleando, No te inueva, o de manzilla ; 
 
 Y tentava, (aunque desnudo) Que aviendo yo de reynar, 
 
 DC desatarse del nudo, Este es el propio lugar 
 
 Pra valerse bolando. Kr. ^ue se pouga mi silla.
 
 214 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 Philips, during the latter part of the sixteenth, and the com- 
 mencement of the seventeenth century. 
 
 Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra was born in poverty and 
 obscurity, in 1549, at Alcala de Henares. He assumed the 
 title of Jfidalyo, or gentleman, but nothing is known of his 
 family or early education. The only circumstance relative to 
 this with which we are acquainted is, that he was sent to a 
 school 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 
 m his youth a number of poems and romances, as well as a 
 pastoral romance entitled Filena, which has been lost. The 
 entire want of fortune compelling him to travel in search of a 
 livelihood, which he was unable to find at home, he attached 
 himself to the person of the Cardinal Aquaviva, with whom 
 he visited Rome. A love of glory and the activity of his 
 mind soon induced him to abandon 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, he 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 half in slavery, and was ransomed in 1581. 
 
 Thus 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 
 approbation by the public. It was in the year 1584, and 
 consequently when he was thirty-five years of age, that he 
 published hia Gul/iteti, 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, who, about the sama
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 215 
 
 period, met with prodigious success, humiliated him a little, 
 and induced him for some time to lay 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 
 weighed down by his despotism. Cervantes, who had not 
 appeared before the public for one-and-twenty years, gave to 
 the 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. Neither 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 full 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 
 theft. In 1615, he published a second volume of Don Quixote, 
 in which he frequently turns into ridicule the Aragoriese 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 very inconsiderable 
 Bum. He likewise bestowed much time upon a romance 
 which he entitled the Labours of Persilcs 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 waa written a little 
 time before the author's death, 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 mj 
 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 us 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. He had a sword in a 
 huge sheath, and a band tied with tape. He had indeed but 
 two tapes, so that his band got out of its place, which 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 you.' 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 had 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 his face, he sprang towards me, and seizing 
 ine by the left hand, exclaimed : ' This, then, is the famous 
 one-handed author, the merriest of writers, the favourite of 
 the Muses!' As for me, when I heard him pouring forth all 
 these praises, I thought myself obliged in politeness to answer 
 him ; so embracing his neck, whereby I contrived to pull off 
 his bands altogether, I said : ' I am indeed Cervantes, Senor, 
 but not the favourite of the Muses, nor any other of those 
 fine things which you have said of me. Pray, 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, which all the water 
 in the ocean, if you could drink it, would not cure ; you must 
 drink less, Senor Cervantes, and not neglect to eat, for this 
 
 il< me. can cure you.' ' Many other people,' said I, ' have told
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 217 
 
 me the same thing; but it is as impossible for me not to 
 drink, as if 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 I 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 me as ill inclined to prosecute my journey, 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 lirmly 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, 1616. " 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 stirrup : 
 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, tins letter. Yesterday 
 I received extreme unction. To-day 1 have again taken up 
 ray 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 Leraos was then on his road trom Naples, and was 
 expected at home. Cervantes died on the twenty-third rf 
 
 VOL. II. O
 
 2.8 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 April, 1616, aged sixty-seven years, four days after he Uau 
 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 success. 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 Amadis and Orlando, whose histories 
 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. Every common object is 
 transformed by his poetical imagination. Giants, Paladins, 
 and enchanters, meet hira at every step, and all his misfor- 
 tunes are not sufficient to undeceive him. But the Don, 
 with his faithful Rosinante and his squire Sancho 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 which 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, which 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 wouiJ
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 219 
 
 not for a moment be contented with an extract ; and with 
 regard to those who have not read it, I can only congratulate 
 tliem on the pleasure which they have yet in store. 
 
 The most striking feature in the composition of Dor 
 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, courage, and chivalry, are still in existence. 
 Without calculating upon their own powers, they expose 
 themselves in the service of the ungrateful, and sacrifice 
 themselves tc laws and principles altogether 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 
 bistory can boast of; who affronts the most terrific, not only
 
 220 ON THE JTERAIUKE 
 
 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 he 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. 
 While he is thus repairing wrongs and redressing injuries, 
 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 
 ;he perusal of Don Quixote is, that a high degree of enthu- 
 iasm is not only prejudicial to the individual who nourishes 
 t, 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 whom tli3 ridicule is 
 directed, are themselves susceptible of generosity and high 
 feeling. It is amongst such persons that we ought to look 
 
 * Don Quixote, book iii. c. 18.
 
 Or THB SPANIARDS. 221 
 
 for a Don Quixote. There was, in fact, a sort of knight- 
 errantry in the character of Cervantes. It was the love of 
 glory which 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 the battle of 
 Lepanto, that in his own person he 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 the 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 chivnlric 
 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 LITERATURE 
 
 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 ol 
 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 conqueror, 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, though 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 or 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 whick
 
 OK THE SPANIARDS. 22S 
 
 the romance writers might wander without encountering 
 u siivrle 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 \ve 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 
 \ve do not look for, but not even the probability of fiction. 
 Even in prodigies and in fairy-tales, a certain probability 
 must 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. The 
 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 Feliciano de Sylva : " Tin- 
 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 ami 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 the 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 we 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, boastmg, 
 egotism, and cunning, all of them mingled with a certain 
 degree of worth, fidelity, and even sensibility. Cervantes 
 was aware that he could not place on the fore ground, more 
 especially in a comic romance, an odious character. In spite 
 of all his ridicule, he wishes Sancho as well as Don Quixote
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 224 
 
 wi attract the affections of the reader ; and though he has in- 
 variably placed the two characters in contrast, he has not given 
 virtue to the 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 
 philosophy 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 presented to us by a pow- 
 erful imagination, remain impressed upon the memory as 
 though they possessed an actual existence. Their form, theii 
 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 could 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 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 of the Captive, and of the Curious Impertinent, for_n 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 Pnnza. He promises the latter the 
 government of an island, which he always denominates, ac- 
 cording to the ancient language of the romance writers, insula, 
 and not isla. 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 thoughts. 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 ia 
 a subject to which every writer ought to devote the most
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 227 
 
 mature reflection. The examination of the library ot 
 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 which the subject u 
 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 asks 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 nothing. We must wait for the second part which 
 he promises (which Cervantes never published) ; who knows 
 whether, when it is corrected, the author may not obtain the 
 mere)' which we are now compelled to refuse him?" 
 
 Cervantes, three years before his death, wrote another 
 work more immediately devoted to criticism and literary satire: 
 it was a poem in terza rima, in eight 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 fora 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 iind 
 a thousand lost pretenders to happiness ! Adieu, agreeable 
 and deceitful residence! Adieu, theatres, honoured by well- 
 praised ignorance, where 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 LITERATURE 
 
 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 their assist- 
 ance asainst 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 difficult 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 maj 
 be cited as an instance : 
 
 Smooth-gliding verses were its oars ; by these 
 
 Impell'd, the royal galley, fast and 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 bright, 
 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 greett 
 
 Bright azure tints the dazzled eye behold*
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 229 
 
 Upon the deck the passengers are seen 
 
 In converse. These discuss the arts of ve^e, 
 Arduous and nice ; those sing ; and all between, 
 
 Others the dictates of the muse rehearse.* 
 
 Cervantes pleads his own cause before Apollo, and seta 
 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 
 had so truly merited ? 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 ON THE DRAMAS OF 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 the 
 preface to his comedies : 
 
 " I must entreat your pardon, dear reader, if you should 
 ee me in this prologue a little overstep my accustomed 
 
 Cervantes, Viage ai Parnaso, 8vo. Madrid, 1784.
 
 modesty. Some time since I happened to find myself ir 
 company with a few friends who were discoursing about 
 comedies, and other matters relating thereto, and they treated 
 this subject with so much subtilty and refinement, that they 
 appeared to me almost to approach 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 pomp and mag- 
 nificence. As the oldest of the company, I remarked that I 
 had frequently heard the great Lope de Rueda 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. 
 Although I could not judge of the excellence of his poems, 
 for I was then but a child, 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 this 
 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 shepherds, four beards 
 and wigs, and four crooks, more or less. The dramas were 
 mere dialogues, or eclogues between two or three shepherds 
 and a shepherdess ; and these conversations were enlivened 
 and prolonged by two or three 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 rested 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 
 renowned madman Luis Lopez is interred. Naharro, a
 
 OP 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 icpresented old men, or changed 
 their characters. He invented scenes, clouds, thunder, 
 lightning, challenges, and combats ; but nothing of this kind 
 was carried to tlie 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 wa* there that I made an attempt 
 to reduce the comedies of five acts into three. I was the 
 first to represent 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. 
 f 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- 
 ixmtrived comedies, of which he wrote so many, that they 
 could not be comprised in ten thousand pages. What is no 
 less surprising, he himself 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, who was t In- 
 most laborious writer after the great Lope, have been much 
 esteemed. The ingenious plots of the licentiate Miguo. 
 Sanchez, and the gravity of Doctor Mira de Mescua, have
 
 832 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 likewise met with applause, which has also been granted tn 
 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, lastly, to the love-plots of Gaspard 
 d'Avila ; for 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 Boutterwek, dramatic poetry 
 never assumed in Spain more than two different 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 
 D\ve the great Corneille. As it is my object rather 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, which 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 with indecent 
 interludes, with 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 
 genius, 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. 232 
 
 profit 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 
 represented 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, recognized no 
 rule but that of conforming themselves to the spirit of the 
 nation and to the taste of the populace. Their 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, 
 where 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 the public. None of them were acquainted with 
 the nature of the independence which they possessed, or of 
 that system of romantic poetry which hag 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 11. p
 
 234 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 I write a play ! Then, ere I pen a line, 
 Under six locks and keys let me confine 
 All rules of art Next, Plautus ! 'tis thy doom. 
 And, Terence, thine, to quit forthwith the room, 
 Lest ye upbraid me. Books can speak, though inuib, 
 And tell unwelcome truths. By other laws 
 I write, laid down by those who seek applause 
 From vulgar mouths ; what then ? the vulgar pa) ; 
 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, who, 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 poetry. The censor would be sufficiently 
 ridiculous who should maintain upon tiie 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 kacer Comedias en este tiempo ' 
 Y quando he de escribir una comcdia 
 Encierro los pcrceptos con seis Haves ; 
 Saco a Tcrencio y Plauto de mi cstudio, 
 Para quo no me den voces, quo sucle 
 Dar gridos la verdad an libros mudos ; 
 Y escribo por el arte quo inveiitaron 
 Los que el vulgar aplanso pretcndieron : 
 Por que como las paga el vulgo, es justo 
 Hablarle en ncuio, para darle gusto.
 
 OI THE SPANIARDS, 235 
 
 the comedy of Life in Algiers, which we are about to analyse, 
 are the only two which have been preserved out of twenty or 
 thirty dramas, written in 1582, soon after the author's release 
 from captivity. Those which he published in 1615 were 
 never represented, and therefore merit less attention ; though 
 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 this 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 proportion as his poverty rendered success desirable 
 to him. 
 
 " Some years since," says he, " I returned to the ancient 
 occupation of my leisure hours ; and imagining that the ag 
 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 findestany tiling good in them, I pray thee : 
 when thou meetest any other calumniator, to tell him to 
 amend his manners, and not to judge so severely, since, after 
 al!, the plays contain not any incongruities or striking 
 faults." 
 
 1 must beg the same kind indulgence towards the dramas 
 p2
 
 236 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 of Cervantia, 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 subject. In some he has endea- 
 voured to excite the noblest sentiments of the heart : in his 
 Numantia, patriotism ; in his Life in Algiers, zeal for the 
 redemption of captives. Such are the only unities for which 
 we must seek in his dramas. Let us abandon ourselves to 
 his eloquence, without endeavouring to resist the feelings of 
 terror or of pity 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 
 jEschylus, 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. He has taken as the subject of his 
 tragedy, the destruction of a city which valiantly opposed the 
 Romans, and whose 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 suitable 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, oannot 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, in 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 armed 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 hands, 
 Fair and effeminate, 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 attempt*, 
 That boast of nothing Roman but the name. 
 What ! when the whole world trembles and bows down
 
 238 ON THE JUTERATCRK 
 
 Before the name of Rome, will you alom 
 Betray her claims to empire, and eclipse 
 Her universal glory here in Spain? 
 
 Scipio then directs various reforms. He orders the women 
 to be removed, and that nothing shall be introduced into the 
 army which can be productive of luxury and effeminacy ; and 
 he then expresses his confidence that, as soon as discipline is 
 re-established within 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 
 themselves 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 arrival 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, that, instead of exposing his army in fresh 
 engagements, and moistening the soil of Spain with 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 (arid 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 from which 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 Phoenician 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 
 
 Numantia only, careless of her blood, 
 
 lias dared to draw her shining sword, and strike 
 
 For that old liberty she long has cherish'd. 
 
 But now, oh grief ! her time of doom is neai 
 
 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 ashes. 
 
 The circumvallation being now accomplished, the Numau 
 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 waters, 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 from Proteus, who has re- 
 vealed to him the future glories reserved for the Spaniards, 
 and the humiliations 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 the effect of a sortie through the fosse, and 
 attempt to open a passage through the enemy. Others 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 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 the sentiments and ideas of a whole people, under the various 
 aspects of public affairs. To accomplish this design we an* 
 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 e'er been a truant from my post 
 To visit her I love 1 Have I e'er closed 
 My eyes in slumber when my captain watch'd ? 
 Have I e'er fail'd when duty call'd on me, 
 Because my heart was fill'd with her sweet image ? 
 If, then, these 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 Jupiter. 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," says 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. Marcfaino 
 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 
 congratulates 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 vituperation. They, however, hear him not, and he re- 
 tires. The next scene represents the interior 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, proposes 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 around the council-chamber with their 
 infants in their arms, and each, in eloquent language, le- 
 mands to share the fortunes of her husband : 
 
 What is it that you wish, brave warriors'? 
 
 Have, then, yoar orrowful 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 hare given? 
 
 Would you, then, feed the Roman avarice < 
 
 Would you, then, suffer them in unjust pride
 
 242 OH THE LITERATURE 
 
 To triumph o'er us, while with foreign hands 
 They pillage all our mansions 1 
 * # * 
 
 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 her children to the senntors 
 of Numantia, 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 1 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. 
 
 walls ! if ye can speak, exclaim aloud, 
 
 A thousand times repeat, " Numantians ! 
 
 Numantians ! Liberty ! " 
 
 After several of the women have spoken, Theogenes an- 
 swers their complaints with great tenderness. He swears 
 that they shall not be abandoned by their husbands, but that 
 living or dying they 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 slain, and 
 eaten by the soldiery. The people immediately adopt this 
 frightful resolution, and separate in order to put it into exe- 
 cution. Morandro 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, tliat 
 
 * La Numancia, Tragedia, (con y el Viage al Parnaso,) Madrid, 17S4
 
 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 : 
 
 MOTHER. 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. 
 BOY. Must I then die of hunger 1 mother, mother, 
 
 I ask one morsel only, nothing more. 
 MOTHER. My child, what pain thou giv'st, me ! 
 BOY. 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 I meet, even all these riches 
 
 Ay, for one single morsel of dry bread, 
 
 My hunger pains me so. 
 MOTHER (to lier infant). And thou, poor creature, 
 
 Why cling'st thou to my breast] dost thou not k 
 
 That in my aching breast despair has changed 
 
 The milky stream to blood ? Tear off 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 fierce, 
 
 With what most cruel pangs thou tak'st my life ;
 
 244 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 Oh war, what death dost thou prepare for me ! 
 BOY. My mother ! let us hasten to the place 
 
 We seek, for walking seems to make me worse. 
 MOTHER. My child, the house is near us, where at length 
 
 Upon the burning pile thou may'st lay down 
 
 The burthen that thou bearest. 
 
 I almost repent of having introduced this terrible scene, tc 
 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, that such scenes ought not to be repre- 
 sented. The misfortunes of CEdipus 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 Numantians have broken 
 through 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 upon 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 sword. He, however, refuses 
 to slay Lira, and bears away with him to the funeral pile the 
 two bodies which lay before her. 
 
 War, Famine, and Sickness now appear, and dispute for 
 the 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. He 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 earlier part 
 :>? the life of Cervantes, whilst the nation was still warm with 
 the enthusiasm which the victories of Charles V. had pro- 
 Juced ; and whilst the reverses which they began to expe- 
 rience under Philip II. made them doubly resolute not to 
 nain their ancient glories. We may imagine the effect which
 
 246 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 the Numantia must have produced if it was represented in 
 Saragossa, as it has been asserted, during the siege of that 
 city ; we may conceive how deeply the Spaniards must havrf 
 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 that 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 which 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 fe had wrought in the character 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, Life in Algiers: 
 El Trato de Argel : 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 which is 
 represented in this drama, no relief is afforded either by 
 liveliness of plot, or by 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 cornposi 
 tions were adapted to excite popular feeling on the topics o) 
 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 THU SPANIARDS. L'47 
 
 for five years and a half a captive at Algiers, and his own 
 sufferings and those of his companions had made a deep im- 
 pression upon him. He returned to Spain with feelings of 
 violent hatred against the Moors, and with an ardent desire 
 to contribute towards the redemption of those prisoners whc 
 had fallen into the hands of the Musulmans. His comedy of 
 Life in Algiers; another drama which he published towards 
 the close of his life, entitled, Los Baiios 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 the 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 laws of the unities. 
 He only collected into one point of view the various suffer- 
 ings, pains, and humiliations which were 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 Alyiers 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 exposed 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 with 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 who make various suggestions to the captive, which he 
 
 * El Trato de Argel, Comedia, (pub. con el Viage od Parnaso.) STO. 
 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, who had 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 infidel. 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 their 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 participate 
 in the same crime. The anecdote is founded on fact, and the 
 Inquisitor burnt by the Algerines was the monk Miguel de 
 Aranda. 
 
 One of the most affecting scenes in the drama is the Slave- 
 market. The public crier offers 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 
 Df 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 colonies. The 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 griets 
 than those which he has already experienced, imagines that the 
 merchant is going to extract a decayed tooth, and assuring 
 him 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 : 
 
 MERCHANT. Come hither, child, 'tis time to go to rest. 
 JUAN. 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. 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. father ! mother t whither will they bear mo 
 
 Away from you 1 
 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 say, 
 
 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 combiu'd against me. Thou, my child, 
 
 Know'st not the dark misfortunes into which 
 
 Thou art so early plung'd, but happily 
 VOL. O. Q
 
 25O ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 Lackest the power to comprehend thy rate. 
 
 What I would crave uf 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 Mary ; 
 
 For that bright queen of goodness, grace and virtue, 
 
 Can loosen all thy bond* and give thee freedom. 
 
 AYDAR. Behold the wicked Christian, how she counsels 
 
 Her innocent child. You wish, then, that your child 
 Should, like yourself, continue still in error. 
 
 JUAN. mother, mother, may I not remain ] 
 
 And must these Moors then carry me away ? 
 
 MOTHER. 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, abandon'd 
 At such a tender age, amongst a people 
 Full of deceit and all iniquity 1 
 
 CRIER. 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 mother, however, does not again 
 appear ; her grief must have been too poignant for representation. 
 
 The escape of Pedro Alvarez, one of the captives, who 
 being unable any longer to bear the horrors 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 this 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, the dramatist 
 intended to represent himself. In another, we lind him in 
 the midst of the desert, where he is wandering after having 
 lost his way ; his provisions are exhausted, his clothes are in 
 tatters, his shoes are worn out, and he is tormented with
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 251 
 
 hunger, and reduced to such an extreme of weakness, that he 
 can 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 
 journey, 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 with 
 him a sum of money for 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 youth. 
 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 representa- 
 tions of Greece and Rome. In Spain, indeed, during the 
 reign of Charles V. Perez de Oliva had translated the Xlectra 
 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 
 
 a "
 
 252 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 of such consequence in our eyes, the space of time which is 
 supposed to elapse between each scene, and the power of 
 transferring the actors from place to place. He paid the 
 greatest attention, on the contrary, to that which we have 
 considered as a defect in the ancient drama, the poetical and 
 religious, or lyrical portion, which amongst the Greeks was 
 the province of the chorus, and which Cervantes wished to 
 reproduce by the aid of allegorical personages. 
 
 The ancients, who made religious spectacles 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 from 
 terrestrial to higher objects, 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. He 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 altogether 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 
 the things invisible, as though they were material. He wished 
 to transport his drama from the real world into the realm of 
 poetry ; and he endeavoured to accomplish this 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 employment of the boldest figures. 
 These objects, which are altogether excluded from our drama, 
 but which were much considered by the ancients, have been 
 but imperfectly attained by Cervantes. Perhaps he did not 
 possess in a high degree the lyrical talent. If there are sjiy 
 sublime passages in his plays, they are to be found in the dia- 
 logues, and not in the rhapsodies of his allegorical characters. 
 Moreover, the introduction of allegorical personages upon the 
 stage appears to be directly contrary to the essence of the 
 Irama, which, as it appeals as well to the eye as to the ear
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 253 
 
 ought not to admit of objects which never can have a visible 
 existence. When Famino or Sickness appears in the Numan- 
 tia, and Occasion or Necessity in the Life in Algiers, the 
 action of the drama is arrested. These metaphysical abstrac- 
 tions destroy at once the 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 up 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 traces 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 Spanish 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. The 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 fine 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 THE LITERATURE 
 
 cellent, who in his romances and novels so completely possessed 
 the art of exciting and of sustaining interest, of saying pre- 
 cisely what was proper and stopping exactly where he should, 
 yet knew not how much the public would be willing to 
 hear from the mouth of an actor. Many of the Spanish dra- 
 matists appear to have been equally ignorant upon this 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. Lope de Vega introduced new 
 plays upon the stage, and the public, captivated by the plea- 
 sure of pursuing an intrigue through 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 published in his 
 declining years; and the Castilian .(Eschylus may be said to 
 have left us only one real specimen of his dramatic genius. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 NOVELS AND ROMANCES OF CERVANTES J THE ARAUCANA OF DON ALOXZO 
 DE ERCILLA. 
 
 CEUVANTES was eminently gifted with the narrative talent, 
 a quality which seems to be intimately connected with 
 dramatic powers, since, in order to possess it, an author must 
 be capable of understanding and adhering to the unity of his 
 narrative. That unity is the central point to which all the 
 other portions of the work have reference, and upon whicl 
 they all depend. The episodes are thus connected with the 
 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 requisite, 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 
 has conferred upon Cervantes his immortality. His most
 
 OK THE SPANIARDS. 256 
 
 celebrated works are those 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 then; 
 before the eye of the reader. We have already spoken of 
 Don Quixote, which merited a separate examination, and \ve 
 must content ourselves with bestowing less time on the pas- 
 toral romance of Galatea, on that of Perxiles and Sigismunda, 
 and on the collection of little tales which 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 who 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, which must necessarily be less faithful 
 than the native delineation. 
 
 Cervantes had reached his sixty-fifth year when 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 
 Itaiiiin Novelists as his models, any mor; than Marmontel 
 has done in his Contes Moraux. These tales are, in fact, 
 little romances, in which lore is delicately introduced, and 
 where the adventures serve as a vehicle for passionate 
 sentiments. 
 
 The first novel is entitled, La Gifanilla, or The Gipxy 
 Girl, and contains an interesting picture of that race of 
 people, who were 4 brmerly spread over all Europe, though 
 they nowhere submitted themselves to the laws of society 
 About the 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 on^lish translation of the Exemplary Novels by Shelton, 
 which was republished in 1742. A new translation has lately appeared 
 in two vols. 12mo. London, 1322. The extract from Tfie Oipsy-Gi'-t, 
 sriven in the text, has been transcribed from these volumes. Tr.]
 
 256 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 called indifferently Egyptians and Bohemians. From that 
 period down to the present day they have continued to 
 wander through the various countries of Europe, subsisting 
 by pet y 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 rigorous police of France, 
 Italy, and Germany, does not suffer the existence of a race 
 of vagabonds who pay no regard to the rights of property and 
 who despise the laws. There 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 unconfined 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 afforded 
 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 coffee-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 prompti- 
 tude of repartee which so remarkably distinguished her 
 race. Even in religious festivals she would appear and chnuiK 
 aongs in ho/ our of the saints and the Virgin. In all proba-
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 2.57 
 
 bility, this 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. The 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 whether 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 are 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 the 
 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, the mountains, the rivers, and the fountains, the 
 stars and all the elements of nature. Early accustomed to 
 hardship, 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 
 weather. Insensible to grief, the most cruel 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 inflictions of the rack. The great 
 and undisguised object of our profession is ' furtively to seize 
 the property of others, and appropriate it to our own use;' 
 thereby invariably imitating the. plausible 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 it* 
 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 unhappy 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 Gipsy Girl terminates like every other romance, 
 the heroine of which is of low birth. Preciosa is discovered 
 to be the daughter of a nobl lady, and her real rank being 
 discovered, she is married to her lover. 
 
 The second novel, which is entitled The Liberal Lover, 
 contains the adventures of some Christians who have been
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 25b 
 
 reduced to slavery by the Turks. Cervantes lived in the, 
 time of the famous corsairs Barbarossa and Dragut. The 
 Ottoman and Barbary fleets then claimed the 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 rush sword in hand into the garden* 
 and houses which 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 thi? 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 kingdom of Naples, not being the residence of their 
 sovereign, were more particularly exposed to the cruelties of 
 the 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, tliat the liberal lover and 
 his mistress Leonisa were made captive. They meet each 
 other 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, who had fought in the 
 wars of Cyprus and in the 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, however soon became fatigued with the same
 
 260 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 unvarying fictions. Truth alone possesses the essence of 
 variety ; and the imagination, unnourished by truth, is com- 
 pelled to copy itself. Every picture of captivity which 
 Cervantes has presented to us is an original, for lie painted 
 (rom the 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-yard. 
 
 The third tale, entitled Rinconete and Cortadillo, is of 
 another class, though completely Spanish. Jt is in the 
 Picaresco style, of which the author of Lazarillo de Tonnes 
 was the inventor. The history of two young thieves is 
 related in this novel with the greater humour, inasmuch as 
 the wit of the Spanish writers was peculiarly reserved for the 
 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 the strange union of 
 devotion and licentiousness amongst these vagabonds is 
 described. In the place where the thieves assemble there is 
 an image of the Virgin, with 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 prayer, having kissed the ground thrice, and raised as 
 often her eyes and hands to heaven, rises, places her offering 
 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 acquisitions, to be employed in masses 
 for the souls of their deceased companions, and of their bene- 
 factors. Thus a young robber, who conducts Rinconete to 
 the meeting, to the question ' Perhaps, then, you follow thu
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 2bl 
 
 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, are infidels in their religious 
 opinions ; as it is difficult to believe that those who feel any 
 sentiments of religion, would 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 an 
 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 ofience 
 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 the 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 Spanish- English Lady, it is true, shews that 
 Cervantes was much more imperfectly acquainted with the 
 heretics than with the Moors. The Licentiate of Glass, -nd 
 the Dialogue of the tivo Doys of the Hospital of the Resnr-
 
 262 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 rection, are satirical pieces, displaying much wit and incident. 
 The Beautiful Char-woman resembles a love-romance ; and 
 The Jealous Man of Estremadura is distinguished by the 
 excellence of its characters, by its plot, and by the skill with 
 which the catastrophe is brought about. We have, in this 
 tale, an example of the prodigious power of music over the 
 Moors. An African slave, whose fidelity 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 shortly 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 : The Sufferings of Persiles and Siyismonda, a Northern 
 Story : and to this work more than to any other of his 
 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 
 foreigner will not, I should imagine, concede to it so much 
 merit. It is the offspring of a rich, 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 suffi- 
 ciently founded on reality. Cervantes, who was so correct 
 and elegant a painter of all that fell within the sphere of his 
 observation, has 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 sufficiently 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 tht King of Danca r.""
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 253 
 
 both introduced, though Denmark and Danea are the same 
 country. One half 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 fantastic ; 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 
 which has escaped from the chart, but which is now supposed 
 to have been the Feroe Islands, where the very veracious 
 travellers of the fifteenth century have placed many of their 
 adventures. Sigismonda had been betrothed 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 tlie point 
 of being roasted 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
 
 26\ ON TliS LITERATURE 
 
 their hearts, they run greater risks from the lot r, whirl, tlipy 
 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 
 perish all the inhabitants of the Barbarous Isle, 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 fit 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 which 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-writers, 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 
 contemporaries. Persiles, in the Barbarous Isle, discovers, 
 amongst the pirates of the Baltic, a man who is called Rutilio 
 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 preparatory to 
 his suffering a capital punishment. A witch, however, who 
 had fallen in love with him, opened the doors of his prison. 
 She spread a mantle on the ground before him. " She 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 
 lhat this w "* bad bei'innincr. and I perceived that he*
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 265 
 
 object was to convey me through 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 the 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, where 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 often 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 
 waited 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. IT. 9
 
 26b ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 demanded in Tuscan, in what couvitry I might be. One o? 
 them answered me in Italian : ' This country is Norway ; 
 but who are you who question us in a tongue so littlr 
 known?' 'lam,' said I, 'a wretch who in attempting to 
 escape from death have fallen into his hands ;' and in a few 
 words I related to them my journey, and the death of the 
 enchantress. He who had spoken appeared to pity me, and 
 said : ' You ought, my good friend, to be very thankful to 
 heaven, which has delivered you out of the power of wicked 
 sorcerers, of whom there are many in these northern parts. 
 It is said, indeed, that they transform themselves into he- 
 wolves and she-wolves, for there 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 daylight, 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 prospect of returning 
 home ; but that then vessels would sail with 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 most heartily, and assured me that these 
 occupations, or duties, as I called them, were not in fashion 
 in Norway, or in the neighbouring countries." Rutilio's 
 host, who was the great grandson of an Italian, taught him 
 to work as a goldsmith. He afterwards made a voyage for 
 commercial purposes, and was taken by the pirates, and 
 carried to the Barbarous Isle, where he remained until al)
 
 OK THE SPANIARDS. 267 
 
 the inhabitants were destroyed in a tumult, when he 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 
 Quixete are the valour of the hero and the 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 the 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 u 
 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 country, which we formerly 
 used to hear spoken of." With whatever reserve the esta- 
 blished authorities are alluded to in this story, and in the 
 equally affecting story of his daughter Ricota, it is impossible 
 that it should not excite a deep interest for so many unfortu 
 B2
 
 268 ON THE LITEKATDRE 
 
 nate wretches, who aggrieved in their religion, oppressed by 
 the laws, no less than by individual tyranny, had been drivei; 
 with their wives and their children, to the number of six 
 hundred 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. The 
 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 travellers, in consequence of this intelligence, 
 took refuge in the church, where they fortified themselves ; 
 and in the night 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 with 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 reign, and our 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 the falsehood will be useful or prejudicial to them, 
 they make it an invariable rule to speak directly contrary to 
 the truth. If any one asks them a question, they 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. Poficarpo, who 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 the 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 which 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 
 cations 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 stronger testimony
 
 270 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 even than their literature to the truth of this accusation, 
 which 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 the 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 Galatea, 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. The 
 Italians had already shewn a great 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 shepherds, 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. They 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 
 by these pastoral fancies, 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 by the same taste, they produced 
 many long works, which were, in fact, nothing more than 
 tedious eclogues. 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 length 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 SPANIARD* 271 
 
 Cervantes has been blamed for having mingled too man} 
 ep sodes with the principal tale. It is said, that he has 
 attempted too many complicated histories, and introduced too 
 many characters, and that he has, by the quantity of incidents 
 and namea, 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 he 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 Ercilla was the author of the Araucana ; 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 Araucaim 
 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 ol 
 his Henriade he 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 of the library of Don Quixote, that it
 
 272 ON TRIG LITERATUKB 
 
 was one of the best poems in heroic verse which the Castiliana 
 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 Ercilla, 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 lie 
 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 his ambitious countrymen, and proposes a just 
 and simple mode of choosing a commander 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 upon this oppor- 
 tunity of placing his own, in opposition to a commonly 
 received opinion. If Ercilla 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 the 
 fanaticism of the Spaniards, aiforded. 
 
 Don Alonzo de Ercilla y Zuniga was born at Madrid, in 
 1533 ; or, according to other writers, in 1540. He accom- 
 panied Philip IL, then Infant, as his page, into Italy, the 
 Low Countries, and afterwards into England. From thence 
 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 this war he engaged with great ardour. 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 equal 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 their enemies the art of war ; 
 with a body of horse they opposed the cavalry of the 
 Spaniards ; in a short time they learned the use of fire-arms, 
 and employed with 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 youth, 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 secured his fame, both as a warrior and a poet. He 
 anxiously waited 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. Ercilla, humiliated by the 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 ii 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 he 
 also related the most brilliant events of Philip's reign, and 
 
 * This first part was published at Madrid, 1569, small 8vo, with a 
 dedication to Philip II., which was not republished in the subsequent 
 editions. The second part in 1578, and the Uiird in 1590.
 
 274. OW THE LITERATURE 
 
 again waited with impatience, but in vain, for the honours 
 *nd rewards which he conceived himself to have merited. 
 The Emperor Maximilian II. bestowed upon him, it is true, 
 a chamberlain's key ; but without adding to this honour anj 
 of those pecuniary acknowledgments of which Ercilla 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 Maximilian, those rewards which 
 Castile had refused to him. In his travels, during which 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 the conclusion of his poem shews him 
 struggling with those misfortunes from which so few of the 
 great poets of Spain have 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 : 
 
 Ah ! who shall tell how oft the ocean's roar 
 
 I brav'd in every clime ; now spreading forth 
 
 My 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 bind thy royal brow. 
 
 Where the cold southern zone the blissful day denies.* 
 
 * Quantas tierras corri, quantas naciones 
 
 Hacia el elado none atravesando ; 
 
 Y en sus bajas antarticas regiones 
 
 El antipoda ignoto conquistaudo. 
 
 Climas pase, mude constclaciones, 
 
 Golfos inavcgables navegando, 
 
 Estendiendo, senor, vucstra corona 
 
 Hasta casi la austral frigida zona. 
 
 So many editions exist of this celebrated poem, that it is unneces- 
 sary to give large extracts here. That published by Bnudnj (Paris, 
 1840] in the following volume may be recommended : "Tesoro de los 
 Poeinas Espafk.les Epicos, Sagrados, y Burlescos : que conliene integrn 
 la Araucana de I). Alonzo dc Ercilla, la Mosquta dc Villaviciosa," 
 &c. This volume forms a sequel to the Tf.noro dd Parnnso Kjxi-nol, 
 four vols, and is part of a series which comprises the be-t Spanish 
 s, dramatists, and historians, printed unifjrmly, in larg 1 * svo.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 275 
 
 Ercilla concludes by declaring, that, renouncing .. world 
 which has ever deceived him, 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 him 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 sphere. 
 The Spaniards appear to have always failed in the 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 that 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 which they appear 
 to have been unaware. They never distribute the incidents 
 according to the impression which they wish to produce ; 
 suppressing, enlarging, and adding to them, 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 guzette, 
 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 
 faithful he will prove to her, but at the same time he shews 
 us that to her he has sacrificed all the charm of poetry. 
 
 Xor love, nor love's delights, th' 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 blE;i<; 
 And o'er the unsubdued Araucan laid 
 The iron-burthen'd yoke, his spirit proud to tame.
 
 276 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 Themes worthy of renown I shall rehecrc-3 : 
 A people in the wilds of Nature bred, 
 Who to a king ne'er bow'd the subject head ; 
 Their deeds of bold emprize shall in my verse 
 Be sung ; their native wealth, and fruitful soil, 
 Enrich'd by 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 uncorrupted shall it e'er decline : 
 Despise not thou the offering of the Muse, 
 However poor ; nor gracious, oh refuse 
 To lend thy royal name : her honours all are thine. 
 
 After having devoted two stanzas more to the dedication 
 Ercilla begins his poem with a description of Chili, which he 
 gives, not in the language of the Muses, but with 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 irreconcileable to all 
 elevation of language : 
 
 Eunning 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 poetry 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 the bosom of which lived 
 the Puelches, the most frrmidable tribe in the confederated 
 Republic of Arauco, instead of simply informing us that 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 
 space presents all the extremes of heat and cold ; in short, 
 tiiat all the various embellishments of the scene, to which he
 
 CrF TOR SPANIARDS. 27t 
 
 was about to introduce us, ought to have been presented to 
 our view. At the opening of his epic, Ereilla shews that he 
 knew not how to describe like a poet. He has even forgotten 
 to reject the scientific words of north and south, east and 
 west, which their foreign origin renders unpleasant in the 
 Spanish language. His description of the manners of the 
 Araucans, of their division into sixteen clans, under sixteen 
 chieftains or Caciques, agrees exactly with the present con- 
 dition of that warlike people, who compelled the Spaniards 
 to respect their liberties. That description, however, is very 
 fatiguing, 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. The 
 conquerors, however, soon rendered their yoke insupportable 
 to the vanquished Araucans, who at length revolted, and 
 assembled together 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. de Sismondi informs us that this speech has been translated 
 by Voltaire, who has expressed his admiration of it. This version, 
 which is rather eloquent than faithful, has led Bouttcrwek 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. Mr. 
 iiowring, in his Ancient Poetry and Romances of Spain, has given au 
 elegant metrical version, of which we quote the first two verses. TV.] 
 
 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 where the bulwarks of this towering pride? 
 
 Ye have been vanouish'd, trod on by the foe ; 
 
 Defeat is echo'd round on every side. 
 
 What ! are your conquerors thus to be defied. 
 
 That stand around with laurels on their brow i 
 
 Check this mad fury ! wait the coming fray ! 
 
 Then shall it crush the foe in glory's day. 
 
 " Cacique*,
 
 278 ON TIIK LITERATURE 
 
 expedient worthy of a barbarous nation : that a heavy beam 
 should be brought, and that the man who can bear the weight 
 the longest shall have the honour of commanding. All the 
 Caciques successively make trial of their strength, but Cau- 
 polican, the 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 it down, he shews the 
 Assembly, by the activity of his leap, on ridding himself of 
 his burthen, that his vigour is not yet exhausted. 
 
 It was this Caupolican who animated for such a length 01 
 time the courage of the Araucans, who led them from victory 
 to victory, and who, when subsequently overwhelmed by the 
 fresh succours which arrived from 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 poern, and to the generous people whom he 
 commanded ; our sympathies might easily have been awakened 
 " Caciques, illustres defenseurs de la patrie, ie desir ambitieux de 
 commander n'est point ce qui m'engage a vous parler. Je nc me plains 
 pas que vous disputiez avec tant de chaleur un honneur qui peut-C'tre 
 serait du a ma vieillesse, et qui ornerait mon declin : c'est ma tendresse 
 pour vous, c'est 1'amour que je dois a ma patrie, qui me sollicite si vous 
 demander attention pour ma faible voix. Helas ! comment pouvons- 
 nous avoir assez bonne opinion de nous-memes pour pretendre a quelque 
 grandeur, et pour ambitionner des titres fastueux, nous qui avons etc lea 
 malheureux sujets et les esclaves des Espagnols ! Votre colere, Caciques, 
 votre fureur ne devraient-elles pas s'excrcer plut^t contre nos tyrans ? 
 Pourquoi tournez-vous contre vous-memcs ces armes qui pourraient 
 exte.rminer vos ennemis, et vengcr notre patrie] Ah ! si vous voulez 
 pfirir, cherchez une mort qui vous procure de la gloire ; d'une main, 
 brisez un joug honteux, et de 1'autre, attaquez les Espagnols, et ne 
 rcpandez pas, dans une querelle sterile, les prccieux restes d'un sang que 
 les dieux vous ont laisse pour vous venger. J'applaudis, je 1'avoue, a la 
 fiere emulation de vos courages : ce meme orgueil que je condamne, 
 augmente 1'espoir que je con9ois. Mais que votre valeur avcugle ne 
 combattc pas contre ellc-meme, et ne se serve pas de ses propres forces: 
 pour detruire le pays qu'elle doit defendre. Si vous 6tes resolus de nc 
 point cesser vos querclles, trempez vos glaives dans mon sang glace. 
 J'ai vecu trop long-temps ; heureux qui meurt sans voir ses compatriotea 
 malheureux, et malheureux par leur faute ! Ecoutez done ce que j'ose 
 vous proposer ; votre valeur, 6 Caciques ! est egale ; vous etcs tous 
 egalement illustres par votre naissance, par votre pouvoir, -r vos 
 richesses, par vos exploits ; vos anies sont egalement dignes de com- 
 mander, egalement capables de subjuguer 1'univers : ce sont ces prosens 
 celestes qui causent vos qncrelles. Vous manquez de chef, et chacun de 
 vous meritc dc 1'etre ; amsi, puisqu'il n'y a aucuue difference eutre VOP 
 /xwrages, que la forco du corpa dwide ce qu- IV-gaJlUi (ie vos vertu? 
 a'aurait jamais
 
 O* 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 01 
 Ercilla. His object was to interest the reader for the 
 Castilians and for himself, for we frequently 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 tailed 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 
 ought to have described the individual adventures of the 
 soldiers, or he ought to have excited our attention by intro- 
 ducing some strongly- marked characters, 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 
 historical, the most devoid of all adventitious ornament, and 
 the most fatiguing 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 ol 
 his subject, of which he had probably been made sensible, 
 by the introduction of incidents possessing a greater degree 
 of national interest, and which, at the same time, should Ix- 
 A ore gratifying to the vanity of the monarch to whom tlm 
 Joera was dedicated. In his seventeenth canto he describes
 
 280 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 the battle of St. Quentin, and in his twenty-fourth, that ol 
 Lepanto, without attempting however to connect them with 
 his subject. The third and last part, which concludes with 
 the thirty -seventh canto, exhibits more ornament, though in 
 general foreign to the subject, and misplaced. In this por- 
 tion of the work we meet with the description of the won 
 derful art and the enchanted gardens of the magician Fiton, 
 which could never have belonged to the wild deserts 01 
 America. Magic itself is bound to observe poetical truth. 
 In the twenty-eighth canto, the beautiful savage, Glaura, 
 I'ecounts 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 march, 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 JEneas. 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. With 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. He engages that the Araucans 
 shall with himself embrace Christianity, and submit to the 
 dominion of Philip, and represents that his captivity may 
 thus be the 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 Indian more, but witn an eye 
 
 Intrepid, and a spirit all elate, 
 
 With unblanch'd cheek, the last decree of IfcU; 
 
 Calmly awaited ; or to live or die 
 
 To him was equal ; fortune's tempest dreao
 
 OK TI1K 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 arm'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 pity 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 then was brougl.u. 
 
 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, 
 
 liaised 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 stcod, 
 
 With placid mien, as in his free born state. 
 
 Now rcach'd the summit, with an eye serec; 
 
 From side to side he turns his gazing view, 
 
 n. *
 
 282 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 .Admiring the vast crowJ 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 affright. 
 
 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, 
 
 Nor feel we that dread stroke that comes 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 
 
 Tie 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 rcprov'd. 
 
 " Oh deed unworthy of the Christian race I 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Whatever sorrows on my head descend, 
 
 Whatever griefs my suffering heart may rend 
 
 hot 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 scaffold spurn'd. 
 
 Caupolican, whom the very men who were innVtin<i upon 
 him tlie most atrocious punishment continually exhorted to 
 patience and resignation, repented of this act of impatience
 
 OF THE SPAWIAnDS. 283 
 
 or rather he summoned to his aid the heroism peculiar to the 
 Americans, that imperturbable courage, which enables them 
 to triumph over human, malevolence. No longer offering 
 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 : amd 
 
 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 : 
 
 Xor 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 ROMANTIC DRAMA. LOPE FELIX DE VEGA CARPIO. 
 
 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 them 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 master-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 tht 
 other hand, justly claim the merit of candour and impartiality 
 By fully explaining the feelings with 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 joiu 
 vith indifference the voice of common assent.
 
 2S4 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 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 Europe 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 whom all hostile criticism is pro- 
 hibited. If the French pay their adorations to Racine, 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 witli 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 objection 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 wa* 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. We 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 of other schools, we 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 English critics 
 have rebuked with severity the preference, which, in speaking 
 cf Alfieri, we have given to the classical school, the French
 
 OF THE SPANIARES. 28 i 
 
 have censured with no less asperity the taste for the produc- 
 tions of the romance authors, which we have not attempted to 
 disguise whilst 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 impartiality 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 faculty 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 
 ns 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 which 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 arc 
 of arbitrary dictation, and those which have their foundation 
 in the very nature of tilings. 
 
 Although every nation possesses, with regard to dramatic 
 literature, its own peculiar taste and rules, yet each may b 
 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 classical Rnd romantic 
 have been employed ; terms to which it is perhaps difficult to 
 attach any definite meaning. Those ancient authors, who:o
 
 28(5 CN THE LITERATURE 
 
 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 sufficient closeness to 
 these models, have been honoured with the same appellation ; 
 and a classical taste is descriptive of the greatest purity and 
 perfection ; nor have the critics of Germany, of England, and 
 of Spain, disputed the propriety of this term. They have 
 acquiesced in bestowing the title of classical on every literary 
 production which belongs to the Roman or to the Grecian 
 School. But these nations, deeply imbued with the ideas and 
 the feelings of the middle ages, imagine that they possess a 
 more valuable fund of poetry in their own antiquities than 
 exists in those 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 the Teutonic 
 tribes which subdued it. But whatever may have induced the 
 Germans to adopt this name, a subject upon which 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. 
 
 This distribution into the classical and romantic schools 
 was extended by the German critics to all the 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 romantic, when it was 
 adopted by the French, was exclusively applied by them to 
 that system of dramatic composition, which 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 have availed them- 
 se.ves. They have designedly confounded the universal rules 
 of good taste with their own narrow laws ; and they have
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 287 
 
 Jistinguished the classical system as that which observes :ill 
 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 indifferent 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, ho\vever 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, we 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 ot 
 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 t<> 
 those of the spectator, and to impart instruction with effect, 
 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, when 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 the same principle the drama ought net to cor- 
 respond, in every respect, with the scenes which we daily 
 witness in real life. The rnimic 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 
 Greeks, 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 spectator. In the chorus, 
 the poet placed his principal glory; and, through this medium, 
 the sentiments of the assembled people were expressed. On 
 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 ''he drama 
 admitted of great brevity. The catastrophe alone, with the 
 assistance of the chorus, was sufficient to occupy the theatre. 
 For this reason we find that, of all those subjects which the 
 Greeks selected for the stnge, and which have reached our 
 times, the greater part would not supply sufficient action lor
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 2S9 
 
 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 few 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 Scudenj, 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 dramii 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 difficulty. 
 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
 
 29J OX THE LITERATURE 
 
 often reproached it. For ourselves, so completely are we 
 reconciled to them by the genius and authority of the poet, that 
 we cannot even perceive them. Thus, he has 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 invai-iable 
 custom of uniting heroic verse with rhyme, and of con- 
 veying 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 nature 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. They d velt with 
 delight on the exhibition of deep and energetic characters, 
 struggling 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. Neither the Eastern fictions of the first, nor th 
 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 which 
 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 which it has granted to the dramatist of 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 few 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 bccau.se 
 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 philosophical 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 stranger; 
 and the faith which is yet extended to his oracular judgments, 
 is nothing more than a relic of that usurped dominion, which, 
 three 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 
 Df being absorbed in their own feelings and business, address
 
 292 O> 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 different countries, uniformly speak the same 
 language ; and th-.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 thia 
 point, can the tragedian he 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 hehold, is 
 transacting ? When a particular fact has required, in point 
 of historical 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. We 
 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 fixed 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 drama. On the 
 occurrence of a change of scene, we are restored to our con- 
 sciousness, and we begin to consider into what country we 
 have bei-n carried, what time has passed since the last scene, 
 ami 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 great 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 owe 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 Las Horaces and Cinna, 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 unfortunate that in the very 
 instances in which lie has mo.->t 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, a> topics of 
 tliis nature require neither length of time, nor a wide range 
 of places, for their developemeiit, he felt very little inconve- 
 nience from the observance of the three unities, while, lal>our- 
 ir.y Milder the much more formidable difficulty of exhibiting
 
 294 ON THE LITKRATURE 
 
 only amorous heroes. With the most pathetic eloquence, with 
 the most irresistible truth, and with the most exquisite sensi 
 bility, he pourtrayed all that is affecting and tragical in love. 
 But the rules to which he conformed and which he rendered 
 subservient to the production of 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 himself 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 regarded 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, whose 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 embarrassment from the rules which he 
 found established on our stage. History cannot possibly 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 CEdipus, 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 P/tiloctetes, of Elect ra, and of Iphiyenia 
 in Taurida. This observation might, indeed, be extended to 
 almost all those tragedies of the highest class, in which, with 
 a strict observation of the classical rules, 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 iti recitals which are rather of an epic than of a 
 dramatic nature. In the romantic system, the first act of the 
 fable would properly commence on the day when CEdipus,
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS, 29S 
 
 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 
 throne 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 OEdipus 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 lias, in his CEdipus, fallen into this error; and, 
 for the sake of preserving the unities of time and place, he hag 
 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 beinjr tl'o 
 assassin of Laius. If the action be double, the interest also is 
 divided. The mutual love of Joca--ta and of Philoctetes nn 
 no kind of connexion with the feelings excited in favour of
 
 296 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 CEdipus. If it is intended to interest us, it is a breach of the 
 nnity. If it fails in awaking our sympathy, it is a very 
 unfortunate digression. Considered in any other light, this 
 attachment is still more objectionable. In a drama which i? 
 founded on incidents of so dreadful a nature, the passion ol 
 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 much disposed 
 to listen to the effusion of lovesick sentiments. But, more 
 than this, the unity of manners is in this instance equallv 
 violated. These, in Greece, should have been represented 
 with strict regard to national truth. The 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 which 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 tiagedyof 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 CEdipus. 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 SI-AM AHU8. 297 
 
 action. But it was subsequent to the composition of Zaire, 
 that Voltaire wrote his Adelaide du Guesclin. 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 they may animate themselves by the contemplation of 
 ancestral honours, of glory, and of patriotism, till they have 
 engraved upon their hearts, by beholding 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 affairs, 
 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 ccnsider the actcrs as 
 
 II T
 
 298 ON fill!. J.1TBKATURE 
 
 engaged with the interests of the drama. If he should 
 imagine them employed upon other 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 has but too frequently degenerated into licence. 
 
 These observations are not applicable to the Spanish 
 theatre only; they may be applied to all foreign literature, 
 with 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 their 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 that 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, or 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 with 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 who 
 introduced the riches of foreign lands into the literature of 
 Castile, were not scholars but warriors. The Spanish Uni- 
 versities, numerous, rich, and powerful as they were by their 
 privileges, 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 s^s 
 their most precious patrimonies. Spain took little part i 
 that zealous cultivation of the learning and poetry of the 
 nncieuts, which jjave so much life to the sixteenth century.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 299 
 
 Amongst her poets no one is distinguished 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, 
 borrowed from other nations, more especially from the 
 Italians ; but they were only imperfectly acquainted with 
 what they borrowed, and therefore, when they wished 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 
 themselves boast of a theatre before the time of Charles V. 
 They studied very slightly, 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 Italian 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 they had borne arms. 
 
 The Italian dramas were in verse, though not of the most 
 harmonious kind, and it was soon found that 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 ilu-ii 
 ancient romances were written. The dialogue, whenevei 
 vivacity is demanded, is in redondilhas, sometimes rhymed 
 in quatrains, sometimes in stanzas of ten lines ; occasionally 
 with assonants in the aecond lines ; but always with a 
 
 T
 
 300 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 lyrical movement, the verse being that which forms the most 
 impassioned measure of the French 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 either in octaves or tercets ; and whenever one of 
 the characters 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 other languages it seems to have been 
 the object of the authors to make the verse of their dramas 
 resemble eloquent prose. They attempt to give their lan- 
 guage the tone of nature, and to compel every character to 
 epeak 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 
 situation 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 rirna 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 
 whether 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 easily 
 obtained. They did not regard a long speech, with reference 
 to the circumstances in which the speaker was placed, or to 
 the impatience of the spectators, or of the other characters. 
 They inquired merely whether the lines were intrinsically 
 good and poetical ; and, ii' they were, they were applauded.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 301 
 
 In short, 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, before Alfteri, 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 aLi 
 his own political fears, and his own religious superstition* 
 He painted them as obedient to their kings, submissive tc 
 their priests, and full of a slavish spirit at which 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, ir. 
 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 LITERATURE 
 
 visited the university, he was sent thither by the Inquisitor* 
 General, Don Jeronimo Manriquez, Bishop 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 after his marriage, took him into his 
 employment as secretary ; but being forced into an affair of 
 honour, he wounded his adversary dangerously, 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 patriotic zeal, drove him into the army, and he 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 life to cultivate poetry with so 
 wonderful a facility, that a drama of more than two thousand 
 lines, intermingled with sonnets, terzarima, 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. He tells 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 
 forget what we have before said of the wonderful facility of 
 the Italian improvvisatori ; and it is not more difficult 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 ho 
 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 hundred Autos sacramentales ; in 
 all two thousand two hundred dramas, of which about three 
 hundred alone have been published in twenty-five volumes in 
 
 * Pues mas dc cicnto, en horas veynte y quatro, 
 Pasaron de las musas al tcatro.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 303 
 
 juarto. His other poems were reprinted at Madrid in 1 776, 
 under the title of the Detached Works ( Obras Sueltas) of Lope 
 tie 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 that Castilian pride which is 
 gratified by extravagance and embarrassments, soon dissipated 
 his wealth. After living in splendour, lie 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 prodigy 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 hirn their presi- 
 dent, (Capellan mayor.) 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. For 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. 
 
 The essence of the Spanish theatre is intrigue. In all
 
 30-i ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 their pieces we discover a complication of incidents, love- 
 affairs, 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 difficulty 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 romantic adventure, can trace 
 flie plot with surprising facility. The complicated structure 
 of the plots of the Spanish dramas is so essentially connected 
 with the literature of that country, that it is necessary to con- 
 sider and to explain it. I shall, therefore, 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 them which strike me as the most remarkable 
 for ingenuity, for poetry, or for the representation of manners. 
 
 The Discreet Revenge (La Discreta Ventjaiiga) 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. (1246-1279 ) The hero of the piece 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, accompanied by his friend Don Kamiro, then arrives 
 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 catch 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 two lovers, Donna Anna returns 
 to the stage to justify herself to Meneses, and to satisfy him 
 that she has only preferred his rival in order to prevent a dan- 
 gerous quarrel. This scene, which is a sort of exposition ot 
 the plot, is intended to give us an insight into the happy love 
 of Meneses, his jealous disposition, and the rivalry of Nuao. 
 
 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 youth. Having no children by lier, and having abandoned 
 the hope of a family, he was desirous of divorcing the princess, 
 who had not followed him into Portugal. The 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. Vasco 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 
 tlie 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 mistress. 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 
 Lira for that evening. 
 
 It was not without good grounds that Meneses hadorderei
 
 306 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 Tello to keep guard during the night. Nufio, Ramiro, and 
 their squire Kodrigo, approach the mansion of Donna Anna. 
 It was the hour at which she had appointed to meet Don 
 Juan, whom she imagines she ;-ees in the person of Don Nufio. 
 Tello, who is watching, contrives by an artifice to learn their 
 names, but, as they are three to one, he does not yet dare to 
 attack them. While 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 the same 
 street. Tello, without 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 1 TELLO. Put up your sword! One who demands 
 Nought but a favour, Signer, at ycur hands. 
 
 ALONZO. So late, and in this lonely place addrcss'd, 
 Who, think you, will attend to such request? 
 
 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 we 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 dj 
 
 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 those men 1 You see the difference : 
 "Pis three to one Now, if you'll lend a hand, 
 I'll cudgel them till none of them can stand. 
 
 ALONZO. You've pu/zled 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 sec 
 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 1 
 I only dread our enemies should hear 
 ( >f this adventure, and should say of it 
 That it displays our rashness, not our wit. 
 Tell me his name whose place to-night you fill, 
 I promise I'll stick lw vou. corno what will.
 
 OF THE Sl'ArviAttDS. 307 
 
 TELLO. Exceeding good you promise his name is 
 Don Juan de Menescs. ALOXZO. Wliy then this 
 Most lucky is ; his dearest friend am I . 
 So take your sword, we'll strike them instantly. 
 
 TF.LLO. You gentlemen there ! peeping through the blind, 
 March off ! or I shall break your heads, you'll find. 
 
 NUNO. Pray are you arm'd to carry the thing through ? 
 
 TELLO. Arm'd ! like the devil, lloimioo. Kill the rascal, do. (Theyfiykt.] 
 
 TELLO. Now help, Sir Knight. RODUIGO. The bully fights, I swearl 
 
 XUNO. Forbear, or you'll disgrace this house, forbear ! 
 
 TELLO. A coward's poor excuse ! A LONZO. 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 Ccuta. 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 kuow what I so much desire, 
 Your name ? ALOXZO. I'd really tell you, had I power ; 
 Come to the palace your 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 ! 
 
 ALOXZO. What, empty ! TELLO. Ay, good Signer : squires like me 
 Boast very little silver, as you see. 
 
 We may easily imagine that a very diverting scene occurs 
 in the second act, when the 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 that one hand should be left out of the grave, in 
 order that he might be able to receive what anyone might be 
 disposed to give him. The king then bestows a pension upon 
 him and the dignity of an Alcalde ( f 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. 
 "\Vith 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 toward* 
 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 confirmed. 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. He 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 the infidelity of his mistress. Nuno deceitfully 
 procures a paper by which Donna Anna appears to give her 
 consent. The jealousy of the two lovers is thus reused to the 
 highest pitch : but a meeting and an explanation take place, 
 and they mutually forgive one. another. 
 
 In the third act Nuno attempts to awaken the jealousy of 
 Donna Anna, by persuading her that 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 the 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 ttie king a forged letter, as 
 from the Countess to Juan, in order 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 
 betrayed by his friend. He orders him to be arrested, and 
 without examination or hearing he condemns him to death. 
 The office of arresting him is given to his enemies, and Don 
 Juan is taken into custody by the hands of Ramiro. The
 
 OP THE SPANIARDS. 
 
 309 
 
 scene in which Don Juan is arrested, is exceedingly fine. 
 The speech of Don Juan is full of noble poetry. 
 
 JI'A v. I yield me to the king'* commands, 
 
 nor fear 
 
 To lose the royal favour, on his truth 
 Securely resting. From these prison walls, 
 Like Joseph, shall I step victoriously 
 In glory. Yet I grie-'e, noble Kainiro, 
 My tongue may utter not what my heart 
 
 would 
 You understand me. 
 
 KAM. All things have their end, 
 
 And so shall thy capti7ity, and then 
 Fair answer will I grant theeif thou seek'st it. 
 
 JCAN. So be it, and these words of thine 
 My consolation. [shall be 
 
 VASCO. It is li :tle 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 Hamiro. 
 
 JCAN. Vasco de Acufia, 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 this sword, which 
 
 now 
 
 I render up, has served the king at Coimbra, 
 And at Algarves, too, if not in Afric. 
 But wherefore do I weakly 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. My good friend Nuno, be not so hard 
 
 with me. 
 
 HAMIRO. Advance! March forward, guard. 
 JUAN. Tello! TELLO. My lord! 
 JUAN. Tello, remember you relate this scene. 
 
 JUAN. Obedezco del rey c! mand*. 
 mien to; 
 
 No triste de perder del rey la gracia, 
 Porque de mi verdad estoy seguro, 
 Que saldre de esta carcel con vitoria, 
 Y si'ni de Joseph corona y gloria. 
 Pero de no poder, Kamiro noble, 
 Dezirte las palabras que pensaba, 
 Quc tu me entiendes ya. 
 
 KAMIRO. Todo se acabm, 
 
 Y esta prizion se acabard muy presto; 
 Y a responderte me liallaras dispnesto, 
 Sempre que tu quisieres. 
 
 JUAN. Puts, yo tomo 
 
 Essa palabra por consuelo mio. 
 
 VASCO. No es tiempo de tratar de 
 desafio, [pad*. 
 
 Quando por f uerca has de dexar la e- 
 Ni pienso que en Africa banada 
 Se vio de tanta sangre, que amenace 
 Cavalleros que son como Kamiro. 
 
 JUAN. Vasco de Acufia, nunca yo 
 
 me admiro 
 
 De las adversidades de fortuna : 
 
 Admirome de ver que eiteyshaziendn 
 
 Lances los tres en mi, porque os pa- 
 
 rezca [se puede. 
 
 Que el rey es hombre, y que engaitar 
 
 La embidia queteneys de que me e- 
 
 t in ic; [todos 
 
 Esta espada que os doy, bien sabeys 
 
 Que en Coymbra servio, y en los Al- 
 
 garbes, 
 
 Si en el Africa no, mas que me canso 
 En dar satisfaction a vuestra furia ! 
 Tomad la, y estad ciertos que esta in- 
 A. e pagareys muy presto. [juria 
 
 Nuso. A no cstar preso 
 
 No hablaras tan sobervio. 
 
 JUAN. Nufio amigo 
 
 Mcnos rigor. 
 
 KAMIHO. Camina, alcrta guarda. 
 
 JUAN. Tello. TKLI.U. Senor! 
 
 JUAN. Diras lo sucedido. 
 
 The biting taunt of Nuno, 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. 
 
 The energetic 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 for- 
 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 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 selves of these deceitful practices, and as socn as the latter it 
 at liberty, instead of attempting to justify himself, he turna 
 upon his enemies their own arms. By his procurement, cer- 
 tain forged letters are conveyed to the king, from which it 
 would appear that the enemies of Don Juan have been guilty 
 of the very treasons with which 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 has been bestowed upon a 
 work which probably did not cost its author more than four 
 and twenty hours. It appeared to me, however, that this was 
 the only mode in which I could give an idea of the peculiar 
 invention and effect of Lope's comedies, and of the new cha- 
 racter which he gave to the Spanish drama. His plays are 
 no less removed from the perfection of the romantic writers 
 than from that of the authors of antiquity. Nothing 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 the idea of a grand and 
 severe style of tragedy ; but after the appearance of Lope, 
 neither tragedy nor comedy, properly speaking, were to be 
 found. Novels and romances usurped 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 the 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 either to the 
 Spanish drama or to the novel. The burlesque and the 
 tender, the vulgar and the pathetic, may be milled together
 
 Or THE SPANIARDS. 311 
 
 without destroying the spirit of the piew. for the object of the 
 poet is not to keep alive any one certain emotion. He doea 
 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 the cloak and the sirord, 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 were 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, entremcses, 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 with 
 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 
 with 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 tho 
 slightest regard is paid to its decorum ; and if it is partially 
 regulated by the principles ot honour, it is never influenced
 
 312 ON THK LTTRRATtRK 
 
 by those of morality. "When the 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, and of jeux d'esprit, quite 
 inexhaustible. " Love excuses every thiny" was 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 the 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 Yega 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 tlie 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 Comedia fatnosa, 
 whether the event is fortunate or unfortunate, comic or 
 tragic. Yet in the edition of his dramatic works which 
 Lope himself published, we find several pieces distinguished 
 by the name of tragedies. Of these, the fable was in general 
 borrowed from antiquity. Lope seemed to imagine, that no 
 modern action was sufficiently dignified to deserve the title 
 of tragic. Hut 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. He has en- 
 riched it with the most brilliant images, and has adoir-ed \\
 
 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 The 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 that 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 j ust analysed, the quarrel between 
 Don Juan de Meneses and Nufio 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 tiiat which we have 
 just mentioned, partake of the same ''imsh and chilvalrio 
 
 VOL. IL
 
 314 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 Character, and possess the same merit. The poet always 
 attracts the eyes, and commands the attention, of his audience, 
 from the commencement of the piece. In Lo Cierto por lo 
 Dudoso ; Tlie Certain for the Doubtful, a drama founded 
 on the jealous rivalry of Don Pedro 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 the 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 from each other. 
 
 In the following play, Pobreza no es vifaza ; Poverty is 
 no Crime, in which the scene is laid in Flanders during the 
 wars of Philip 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 short 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 for 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 which 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 others 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 interest than is possessed by those which 
 are more distinguished by poetical beauties. 
 
 In the faithful picture of Spanish manners which 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 ol 
 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 tht- 
 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 the 
 first person whom she chances to meet, without knowing liirn 
 or disclosing herself to h : ra. She requests him to protect her 
 from her impertinent pur.-uers, and the stranger thus called 
 u2
 
 316 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 upon cannot, without dishonouring himself, refuse to draw hit* 
 sword to procure for this unknown female a liberty perhaps 
 criminal. He, however, who thus hazards his life to secure 
 the flight of a coquette, who has himself made many assigna- 
 tions and written billets, would be seized with unappeasable 
 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 contrast 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 happens, 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 extraordinary. A judge is speaking of a husband who 
 has put his wife to death : 
 
 Our worldly laws he has obey'd, 
 
 But not those laws which 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. "Pis 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 Sevilla, de un 
 ingenio de la corte. 
 
 Complio con duelos del mundo Par la mucrte, claro csti 
 
 Mas no con leyes del cielo; Que a clla tampoco. Ya veo 
 
 i muger es otro yo : Que raro es cl que cs seftor 
 
 Y puci yo a mi no me dcbo De su primer movimiento. 
 
 t [This Drama has been lately revived and acted at Madiid.--jTr.]
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 317 
 
 To him she remains constant in spite of the passion of the 
 monarch, who was neither less amiable, less young, nor less 
 captivating. 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. 
 
 J UANA 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 with a grave and modest carriage. 
 Never from him heard I unfitting words ; 
 Never from him did I receive a line 
 Trenching upon mine honour ; 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 speak, nor longer torture me ; I know 
 The hazards wherewith lovers are environ'd. 
 
 JUANA. I seek choice words, 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. Xo, tarry not, my patience is exhausted. 
 
 JUANA. 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. TIIE KINO. Oh, end the talc ! 
 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 theol 
 
 JUANA. His mouth ('twas by some fatal accident) 
 Met mine. Perchance he only sought to speak ; 
 But in the obscurity of night he did 
 Unwittingly do this discourtesy. 
 Now then you know the hidden fatal reason 
 Why I can never bo your wife. THE KINO. I kno 
 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 ;
 
 3v8 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 That wise men, and that fools will all 
 
 In telling me I have forgot my honour. 
 
 But I am wounded. Jealousy and love 
 
 Have blinded me ; I equally despise 
 
 The wise man and the fool, and only seek 
 
 To satisfy the injury I feel. 
 
 Vengeance exists not undebascd 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 usurp'd the place reserved for me ; 
 
 But while I thus avenge this crime, I feel 
 
 That it hath no reality, and yet 
 
 Though thine adventure be all false, invented 
 
 To make 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 ; 
 
 Then 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 who speaks. Don 
 Pedro resolves to commit fratricide, not like a monster, but 
 like a Spaniard, delicate upon the point of honour. He 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 the two lovers. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 CONTINUATION OF LOPE DE VEGA. 
 
 IT is not merely on his own account 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 exhibited and displayed the spirit 
 of his own age, and as having powerfully influenced 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 tc 
 them with delight. In every quarter the drama now revived
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 319 
 
 the eyes as well as the mind sought a gratification in the 
 charms of poetry, and genius was required to give, to its 
 creations action and life. In Italy, tragedy had been already 
 cultivated by Trissino, Rucellai, and their 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 which 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. The Amyntas of Tasso 
 was published in 1572 ; the Pastor Fido in 1585 ; and the 
 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 glory, 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 
 genius raised the English theatre, which had its birth a few 
 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 
 the Cid until a year after the death of the great Spanish 
 dramatist. In the midst of this universal devotion to dramatic 
 poetry, we may well imagine the astonishment and surprise 
 produced by one who seemed desirous of satisfying himself 
 the theatrical wants of all Europe ; one whose genius was 
 never exhausted in touching and ingenious invention; who 
 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 lie could not win from hid 
 age by the polish of his works, lie obtained by their nrvKfr.
 
 320 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 He exhibited the dramatic art as he had conceived it, in so 
 many clitterent manners, and under so many forms, to so 
 many thousands of spectators, that he naturalized and esta- 
 blished a preference for his style, irrevocably decided the 
 direction of Spanish genius in the dramatic art, and obtained 
 over the foreign stage a considerable influence. It is felt in 
 the plays 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- 
 npiiTfr~Tliom{is~Corneilie, and Scarron, gave to the stage 
 scarcely any other than pieces borrowed from Spain ; and 
 where the Castilian names and titles and manners were 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 
 original 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 were 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 be indifferent to the character of a nation, 
 which was at that time armed for the conquest of the world, 
 
 * There is a copy in the BiMiothequc lloyale at Paris, but the fifth 
 and sixth volumes are wanting.
 
 9* THE SPANIARDS. 321 
 
 and which, after having long held 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 indiiference 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 the vengeance of relations and to the 
 pursuit of justice, but they are under the protection of 
 religion and public opinion ; they 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. The 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 people 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 f&te 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 by their 
 confessors, they believe themselves absolved from all crime. 
 These expiations have been rendered so much the more easy
 
 322 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 as they are a source of riches to the clergy. A foundation of 
 masses for the soul of the deceased, or alms to the church, or 
 a sacrifice of money, in short, however 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 before a murderer was permitted to enter again into 
 their temples ; but their expiations, far from enfeebling the 
 civil authority, were designed to strengthen it ; they were 
 long and severe ; the murderer was compelled to make public 
 penance, and felt himself stained by the blood he had shed. 
 Thus among a fierce and half-savage people the authority of 
 religion, in accordance with humanity, checked the effusion 
 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 life 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 for 
 many homicides. I shall choose for a corroboration of these 
 opinions a comedy of Lope de Vega, entitled The 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 German 
 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 ot 
 Toledo, was a soldier of fortune under Charles V., renowned 
 for his valour and prodigious strength. The sister of this 
 Samson of Spain, l)onna Maria de Cespedes, was not less 
 athletic than himself. Before entering into the service, he had 
 invited all the carmen and porters to wrestle with him, and 
 decide who could raise the heaviest weights ; 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 
 between this young damsel and two 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 forty crowns, for she never
 
 OP THE SPANIARDS. 323 
 
 makes these trials of strength gratis; however, she generously 
 ivstores her antagonists the mules, and keeps only their 
 money. A gentleman in love with her, named Don Diego, 
 disguises himself as a peasant, and desires to wrestle 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 the following strain of gallantry : " Is there on earth, 
 lady, a glory equal to this, of finding myself in your arms ? 
 Where is the 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] 
 
 DIEGO. 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 
 which 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 Bertram!, 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 criminal. Donna Maria considering this visit as an 
 offence, calls Don Diego to her aid, kills two of the alguazilg 
 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 depart from thence for Germany, in the habit of 
 a soldier with Don Diego. 
 
 In the mean while we follow Cespedes on his journey. We 
 see him arrive at Seville with Bertrand, his esquire, 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. The 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 a heretic 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 the 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 hamstring him, and leave him no choice 
 in the matter. 
 
 This captain Hugo, the host and protector of Cespedes, has 
 in his house 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 affections, but 
 he is determined to quit her, since Pero Trillo, whom Ces- 
 pedes had killed at the commencement of the piece, was hia 
 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 any one 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 with 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 the 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, Mendo relates to Don Diego the failure of 
 the design, and informs him 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 Guadiana. In the meantime Cespedes 
 learns that it was Don Diego, the seducer of his sister, who 
 had attempted to assassinate him ; but public affairs prevent
 
 326 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 him seeking revenge. The elector of Saxony had fortified 
 himself in Muhlberg, (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 preparations 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 part Bertrand, the squire of Cespedes, carries off a 
 peasant girl. The 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 which, 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 conferred on Cespedes, who learns that his sister is in 
 the camp, that she has received into her tent the 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 Maria and Theodora 
 attempt to restrain them. The Duke of Alva commands them 
 to suspend the combat. He asks the cause of the quarrel. 
 Don Diego relates it, and states that he has offered to
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 
 
 espouse Donna Maria, but that Cespedes has arrogantly re- 
 fused his consent. The Duke of Alva by his 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. How 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 magistrates, 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 bamds of banditti in our 
 melodrames, 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 The 
 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, when 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 hand* 
 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.
 
 o28 ON THE LITERATTJBE 
 
 This was a glory and heroism appropriate to their own sphere 
 of life, though attached to passions which it was highly im- 
 portant to suppress. In viewing the literature of the South, 
 we are often struck with the subversion of morals, with the 
 corruption of all just principles, and with the disorganization 
 of society which 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 rather to allow them credit for the 
 virtues which they have retained, for that rectitude of senti- 
 ment and thought which is innate to the heart of man, and 
 which is not entirely destroyed, notwithstanding exterior 
 circumstances have so strongly conspired to corrupt the mind, 
 and to pervert its sentiments. 
 
 We meet with principles of as evil a tendency, precepts aa 
 cruel, and a fanaticism not less deplorable, in the play of 
 Arauco domado : The Conquest 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 interest. 
 Nor is it sufficient, in inquiring into the conquest of America, 
 one of the greatest events of the 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 the effect 
 produced upon them by the prodigies of valour and the excess 
 of ferocity which were displayed. The subject of this piece 
 is taken from the Araucana of Don Alonzo de Ercilla. It 
 commences after the election of Caupolican, and his defeat of 
 Valdivia, the Spanish general who commanded 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 opposition forms one ot 
 the greatest beauties in the play of Alzire. 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 
 had they been more impartial; but the Araucans were enemies 
 of the Spaniards, and the author thought himself obliged by 
 his patriotism to aive them a boasting character, and ta
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 
 
 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. 
 
 CAUPOLICAX. Here, beauteous Fresia, Where'er the golden orb his glorious jour- 
 
 Thy feather'd darts resign, [rest; 
 
 While the bright planet pours a farewell 
 Gilding the glorious West, [ray, 
 
 And, as his beams decline. 
 
 ney bends. 
 FRESIA. Lord of my soul, my bosom's 
 To thee yon mountains bend [dream, 
 Their proud aspiring heads ; 
 
 Tinges with crimson light the expiring day. xhe nymphs that haunt this stream, 
 
 Lo ! where the streamlet on its way, 
 Soft swelling from its source, 
 Through flower-bespangled meads 
 Its murmuring waters leads, 
 And in the dfcean ends its gentle course. 
 Here, Fresia, may'st thou lave 
 
 With roses crown'd, their arms extend, 
 And yield thee offerings from their flowery 
 lint ah! no verdant tree that spreads [beds. 
 Its blissful shade, no fountain pure, 
 Nor feather'd choir, whose song 
 Echoes the woods among, 
 
 Thy limbs, whose whiteness shames the Karth, sea, nor empire, gold, nor silver ore, 
 
 foaming wave. Could ever to me prove 
 
 Unfold, in this retreat, So rich a treasure as my chieftain's love. 
 
 Thy beauties, envied by the queen of night; I ask no brighter fame 
 
 The gentb stream shall clasp thee in its Than conquest o'er a heart 
 
 Here bathe thy wearied feet ! [arms; To whom proud Spain submits her laurell'd 
 
 The flowers with delight Before whose honour'd name, [head. 
 
 Shall stoop to dry them, wondering at thy Her glories all depart and victories are fled! 
 
 To screen thee from alarms, [charms. Her terrors all are sped ! 
 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 
 I ts course, and the enamour'd sands [hands. 
 
 Shall yield thee diamonds for thy beauteous Affright our land no more ! 
 
 All that thou see'st around, Thy spear hath rent the chain 
 
 My Fresia, is thine own ! That bound our Indian soil ; [hand, 
 
 This realm of Chili is thy noble dower ! Her yoke so burthen'd by th' oppressor s 
 
 Chased from our sacred ground, Thou hast spurn'd with fierce disdain: 
 
 The Spaniard shall for all his crimes atone. Hast robb'd the spoiler of his spoil, 
 
 And Charles and Philip's iron reign is o'er. Who sought by craft and force to subjugate 
 
 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 
 
 \ fearful spectre on our startled shore, 
 
 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 bright fame mounting, with the sun 
 extendi, 
 
 Now brighter days expand ! [thy land : 
 The joys of peace are ours ! 
 Heneath the lofty trees, [the breeze, 
 
 Our light-swung hammocks answtring to 
 Sw.'et is our sleep among the leafy bowers ; 
 And, as in ancient days, a calm repose 
 Attends our bless'd life to its latest close.* 
 
 But when the Indians arc aware that the Spaniards arc 
 advancing to attack them, and that their god has revealed 
 
 CAUPOHCAN. Dexa el arco y las Cnmina cl agua mansa 
 
 Hermosa Fresia mia, [flechas, De aquesta hermosa fuente, 
 
 Mientras el sol con cintas de oro borJa Ha>tu que tu corriente 
 
 Torres de nubes hechas; Kn sus saladas margenvs ilescania; 
 
 Y declinando el dia, Acjui baflarte puedes 
 
 Con los umbrales de la ncchc aborda, Tu, que a sus vidros en blam-ura txoedn. 
 A la mar siempre sorda. 
 
 VOL II. X
 
 330 
 
 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 their approaching defeat, the warriors and their chiefs arii 
 mate themselves for the combat, by a warlike hymn of great 
 beauty, and of a truly original 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 
 grandeur of the scene and the music. At the extremity of 
 the stage, the Spaniards are seen on the ramparts of a fort, 
 where they have sheltered themselves. The Indian tribes 
 surround their chiefs : 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 burthen 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 savage bands. 
 
 Ay INDIAN SOLDIER. Hail, Chief! CHORUS. See laurels on his brow, 
 
 twice crown'd by Victory's hands, The threatening chief of Araucan. 
 
 Victor o'er all Valdivia's bands. 
 
 Conqueror of Villagran. 
 THE ARMY. All hail, Caupolican ! 
 CHORUS OF CHIEFS. Mendoza's fall will 
 add fresh wreaths again. 
 
 Fall, tyrant, fall, 
 Th' avenger comes, alike of gods and men. 
 
 THE ARMY. Caupolican!! 
 CHORUS. Mendoza, cast your laurels at 
 With tyrant-homage greet, [his feet ; 
 
 The chief of all his clan. 
 TUCAPEL. Bandits, whom treason and 
 the cruel thirst [shores, 
 
 Of yellow dust bore to our hapless 
 
 THE SOLDIER. The God of Ind, Apo, Who boast of honour while your hands are 
 the thunderer comes, [domains ; curs'd [deplores, 
 
 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 theej 
 
 tyrant, fly! 
 
 No, thou art in his toils, and thou must 
 Thou canst not fly, [die, 
 
 Thou and thine impious 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 But who your flying squadrons saves 
 
 cannot shield From the great chief of Araucan i 
 
 Your heads from vengeance now, When lu-rcturnswithall hiscaptiveswon 
 
 Your souls from wild alarms. CHORUS. To the glad bosom of Andalican.' 1 
 
 UNA voz. Pues tantas victorias goza Deste valientc Araucano, 
 
 With chains and tortures Nature's self 
 
 Behold, we burst your iron yoke; 
 Your terrors fled, your savage bondage 
 broke. [gran. 
 
 CHORUS. Behold the victorof your Villa- 
 TIIE WHOLE ARMY. Caupolican Cau- 
 poliean ! ! [waves, 
 
 CHORUS. Spurn, spurn him o'er the 
 The new, last foe, Mendoza spurn ! 
 To those far lands, swift, swift, return. 
 RENGO. Or let them with us find theii 
 Madmen who hoped to find [graves. 
 The race of Chili blind 
 And weak, and vile as the Peruvian slaves. 
 
 I)e Valdivia y Villagran, 
 
 ToDog. Caupolican ! 
 
 SOLO. Tambien vencera al Mendoza, 
 Y a los quu con el estan. 
 
 TODOS. Caupolicdn ! 
 
 Bom. Si sabias el valor 
 
 fide- Teatro escogido de Lope dc Vega. Svo. Paris: Baudry. 1840. 
 
 Aquien Apo soberano 
 Hizo de Arauco seflor, 
 Como no tienes temor j 
 Quo si vcncio a Villagran, 
 Touos. Caupolican I
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 
 
 RENGO. Soon shall you share the fate of To the great victor of the. war 
 
 VUlagran. That he will spare I 
 
 Kneel, and pour forth your prayer THE ARMY. Caupolicanl 
 
 A number of battles succeed each other, in which the 
 Indians, though they yield to the superior arms of the 
 Europeans, yet never lose their courage. Their wives and 
 children exc-lte them to battle, and force them to combat when 
 they seem willing 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 otf, and directs him 
 to be sent back in that state to his countrymen. Galvarino, 
 on hearing this 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 the point of concluding a peace. The sight of his muti- 
 lated arms kindles their 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 Jayo and Cierra Espaua,* The 
 Indians are almost all slain. Caupolican is left among the 
 
 * [Cierra Esparto was the war-cry of the ancient Spaniards. Tr.]
 
 332 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 Spaniards, and, overpowered by numbers, is at length made 
 prisoner, and brought before Don Garcia de Mendcza : 
 
 MENDOZA. What power hath thus reduced Caupolicanl 
 
 CAPPOLICAN. Misfortune, and the fickle chance of war. 
 
 MENDOZA. Misfortune is the just reward of all 
 That war with heaven. Thou wast a vassal to 
 The crown of Spain, and dar'dst defy its power. 
 
 CAUPOLICAN. Free-born, I 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 falls, and fetters bind 
 Their hands. MENDOZA. Through thee Valdivia perish'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 the 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 
 .limself, must be nearer to the true faith. Mendoza, after 
 appearing as his godfather at the baptism, abandons him tc 
 the executioner. He is seen on the scaffold, bound to a stake, 
 and ready to be delivered to the flames, and Philip 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 
 character 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 which attempts to repel an unjust invasion, were 
 designedly placed before the eyes of the Castilians by Lope de 
 Vega, to inspire them with a horror of their cruelties. But 
 this conjecture would betray a great ignorance both of the 
 poet and his audience. Thoroughly 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 as rebels deserving of punishment ; and equally 
 convinced that Christianity ought to be established by fire 
 and sword, he shared with his whole heart in the zeal of the
 
 OP THE SPANIARDS. 333 
 
 conquerors of America, whom he 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. That 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 the Indians, and the virtues of thes-i 
 infidels which could not contribute to their salvation, bore in 
 the eyes of Lope de Vega a tragic character, in proportion 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 speciet 
 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 aa
 
 334 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 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 with the most disadvan- 
 tageous idea of his genius. I have, therefore, deferred 
 giving an analysis of any of these pieces, until I had noticed 
 his historical plays, and shewn that, allowing him his choice 
 of subject, Lope knew how to excite interest, 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 would be difficult to imagine any thing more eccentric 
 than the Life of St. Nicholas of Tolentino, of which Bout- 
 tervvek 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. The 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 the 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 Virgin and 
 St. Augustine descend to meet him. In the third act the 
 holy winding-sheet is shewn at Rome by two cardinals ; 
 Nicholas assumes the habit of his order. During the cere- 
 mony the angels form an invisible choir ; the 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 sufficiently tried,
 
 P 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 chasm, 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 Devil, 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 peasant, 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 adorn 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 pleasure 
 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 mother, 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 of those singular traits which paint at 
 the same time the taste and the religious poetry of the Spaniards. 
 
 DIEGO. I am ignorant, more 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 OF 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. 
 CHKISTUS is the Alpha and Omega, 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 // to aspirate and respire in him ; an / to 
 indicate how (indignc) unworthy you are ; an 8, to induce you to be 
 come a saint; a T, because it h&s in it something divine, for this T 
 includes (In tout) every thing ; thus God is called Theos, as the end ot 
 bll our desires.* The T is, further, the symbol of the cross which you 
 
 * Tlieos (God) is here confounded with Tclos (end)
 
 336 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 should bear, and it extends its arms to invite you to embrace it, aud 
 never quit it. The V shews that you are (venu) come into this house 
 to devote yourself to Christ, and the S final, that you are changed 
 into another substance, a substance divine. This is the explanation of 
 CHRISTUS. 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 Franciscans so powerfully, that they choose him 
 for the keeper of their convent, and afterwards send him as 
 a missionary to convert the inhabitants of the Fortunate 
 Islands. We 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, b} 
 the massacre of their infidel inhabitants. The moment he 
 beholds men, whom from their clothing 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 which he had stolen is miraculously 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 eccenti'ic these compositions may be, we may 
 readily imagine that the people were delighted with them. 
 Supernatural beings, transformations and prodigies, were 
 constantly presented to their 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 by faith, which always came to the 
 aid of the poet, with an injunction to believe what could not 
 be explained. But the Autos sacramentales of Lope seem less 
 calculated to please the crowd. They nr'j infinitely more simple 
 in their construction, and are mingled with a theology which 
 ihe people would find it difficult to comprehend. In the one
 
 OP THE SPANIARDS. 337 
 
 which represents original sin, we first see Man, Sin, and the 
 Devil disputing together. The Earth and Time join the 
 conversation. We next behold heavenly Justice and Mercy 
 seated under a canopy before a table, with every thing 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, 
 crowned with thorns, 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- 
 nity 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 Sayncte, 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 Autos, or fiestas del Santissimo Sacra- 
 mento, by Lope de Vega, not included in his Theatre, in a 4to edition 
 published 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 first makes his proclama- 
 tion in the square of the Most Blessed Virgin : " Mary," 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- 
 rcaca, the celestial wine, the Saviour's blood, the best antidote." 
 
 En la ]>ln<,-a de Santa Maria 1-V, caridad y esperan(a : 
 
 Virgen bendita, A la rica triaca 
 
 Ay vino nuevo, Vino del cielo, 
 
 Del Heredero Que es la sangre de Christo 
 
 Del reyno del cielo ; Contra veneno. 
 
 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-fingered gentry take advantage of the 
 Holy Sacrament to introduce themselves into the house of a doctor; 
 while on* occupies bis attention by rch'.'ng a comic law-suit, the other
 
 338 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 All the pieces of Lope which we have reviewed are con- 
 nected with public or domestic history, and sacred or profane 
 eubjects ; but are always founded on real incidents, which 
 require a certain study and a certain attention to tradition. 
 Where the incidents happen to be drawn from the history of 
 Spain, they are treated with great truth of manners and 
 fidelity of facts. 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 familiarity 
 of the circumstances. The Spaniards, therefore, gave them- 
 selves full licence to create imaginary kingdoms and countries, 
 and to a great portion of Europe they 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 such 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, who could not 
 be king, from which Rotrou has formed his Venceslas. . 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 buscalla : The Unlooked-for Good- 
 fortune, 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 throne of Macedon. This piece is entitled 
 El Hombre por su palabra : The Man of his Word. 
 
 If these pieces do not unite instruction with entertain- 
 ment they are still deserving of preservation as containing 
 a rich fund of invention and incident. Lope, though inex- 
 
 plunders the house. The alarm is given, but when the police reaches 
 them they are both found upon their knees, reciting the Litany ; again 
 they are caught, but they take refuge amongst the penitents. Th< 
 religious ceremonies protect them from all pursuit ; and the doctor, 
 whom they had robbed, is invited to console himself by joining in tha 
 holy festival.
 
 OP THE SPANIARDS. 339 
 
 haustible in intrigues and interesting situations, can uevw 
 be esteemed a perfect dramatist ; but no poet whatever haj> 
 brought together richer materials, for the use of those why 
 may be capable of employing them. In his comedies or 
 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 the action, and also in 
 the time and place ; for, drawing all from himself, he ha? 
 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 
 largely 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 Araf/on, from a piece of Lope deVega, 
 intitled El Palacio Confuso : and this single piece might 
 still furnish another theatrical subject entirely different, that 
 of the Twins upon tlie 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 suffi- 
 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 priest, 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 the 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 abo 
 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 
 i>eyon.d a brief notice. They consist of the Jerusalem Con-
 
 340 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 quistada, in octave verse, and in twenty cantos; a continua- 
 tion of the Orlando Furioso under the name of La Hermosura 
 de Angelica : The Beauty of Angelica, 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 Tragica, of 
 which Mary of Scotland is the heroine; another epic poem on 
 Circe, and another on Admiral Drake, entitled Dragontca. 
 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. 
 
 The example of this extraordinary man gave birth to a 
 number of pieces of the same character as his own, as his 
 success gave encouragement to the dramatic poets who sprang 
 up in all parts of Spain, and who composed with the same 
 unbridled imagination, the same carelessness, and the samf 
 rapidity, as their master. We shall review them when we 
 notice the works of Calderon, the greatest and the most cele- 
 brated of his scholars and rivals. There is one, indeed, whc 
 cannot well be separated from Lope. This is Juan Perez dt 
 Montalvan, his favourite scholar, his friend, biographer and 
 imitator. This young man, full of talent and fire, whose 
 admiration of Lope had no bounds, took him for his exclu- 
 sive model, and his dramatic pieces are of the same character 
 as those of his master. Some of his sacred plays I have 
 perused, and amongst others, the Life of St. Anthony of 
 Padua ; and these eccentric drama.*, 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 
 
 in his short life (16031639) 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. 
 
 LVRIC POETRY OP SPAIN, AT TOE CLOSE OF THE SIXTEENTH AND COMMENCE- 
 MENT OP 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 world 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 rather 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 suchy 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 f 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 "ihe intellect, the subjugation ot
 
 342 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 will, and the 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 Ximenes, than to 
 the Spanish nation, which had revolted against this imperious 
 and cruel monk, but which had eventually succumbed to 
 his violence and his artifices. To an unbounded ambition 
 and a shameful perfidy, to a savage disregard of the miseries 
 of war and famine, and the scourges of all kinds which he 
 brought upon his dominions, Philip 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 piety. The two reigns of Philip 
 III. and Philip IV. were still more degrading to the Spanish 
 nation. That vast monarchy, exhausted by gigantic efforts, 
 continued her unceasing wars to experience only a constant 
 reverse of fortune. The king, sunk in vices and effeminacy, 
 did not, however, in the impenetrable 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 Moors had perished by fire and distress, or had been 
 driven into exile by Philip III. ; Holland, 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 raised 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 Spain the Monks sought to proscribe 
 Liberal sentiments even in the asylum of conscience. 
 
 Such are the effects which these reigns, to degrading to
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 343 
 
 humanity, had on the literature which we are about to ex- 
 amine in this chapter. They are evident and indisputable ; 
 although this epoch is by no mea the most barren in letters. 
 The human mind retains for a long 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 rather than perish ; and it sometimes sheds a radiance 
 on a period when it has lost its just direction and its truth. 
 
 We have already noticed two celebrated men who lived 
 principally under Philip II. and Philip III. We shall 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 chapter, 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 inherited from the Moors a forced, pompous, 
 and inflated manner. They devoted themselves with ardour, 
 from their first cultivation of letters, to the seductive style of 
 the East, and their own character seemed in this respect to be 
 confounded with that 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 their 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. His 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 alfectation and false taste which was 
 already observable in the early poetry of Juan de Mena. The 
 school of the Seicentixti (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 than in Italy 
 that pretension, affectation of style, and pedantic expression, 
 which destroyed all taste ; but in both countries the cause of 
 this change is attributable to a higher source, and was the 
 same in both. The poets had, in fact, preserved their genius, 
 though 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 
 support 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. lie had 
 too to struggle with misfortune and poverty. Born at Cor- 
 dova in 1561, his brilliant course of study 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. 
 
 Circean cup, and Epicurus' sty ; 
 
 Vast broods of harpies fattening on our purse ; 
 
 Empty pretensions that can only nurse 
 Vexation ; spies who swear the air will lie ; 
 Processions, lackeys, footmen mounted high, 
 
 Coaching the way ; new fashions always worse, 
 
 A thousand modes, with unflesh'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 affinity to the affected school 
 which he afterwards adopted. It was by cool reflection, and 
 not in the warmth of an imagination still young, that he
 
 OP THE SPANIARDS. 345 
 
 Invented for poetry a more elevated style, which he denomi- 
 nated the cultivated style. 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 his 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 Polyphemus, and some other 
 poems. These are all fictions without any poetic charm, full 
 of mythological images, and loaded with 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 than 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, who would be charged 
 by the reader with want of perspicuity. I have, however, 
 attempted the commencement of the first of his Sokdades, 
 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 : 
 
 'Twas in that flowery season of the year, Era del afio la cstaci.m florida. 
 
 When fair Europa's spoiler in disguise, En quo el mentido rubador de Europa 
 
 (On his fierce front, his glittering arms, (Media luna las armas de su frente, 
 
 arise [appear Y el sol todos los rayos de su pclo) 
 
 A half-moon's horns, while the sun's rays Luciente honor del cielo, 
 
 Brightening his speckled coat,) the pride En campus de xafiro pace eatrellas ; 
 
 of heaven, [fields ; Quando el, que ministrar podia la copa 
 
 Pastured on stars amidst the sapphire A Jupiter, mejor que el garcon de Ida, 
 
 When he, most worthy of the office given Naufragu, y desdertado sobre ausente 
 
 Tolda'sboy to hold Jove's cup that yields Lagrimosas de amor, dulzes querellas 
 
 Immortal juice was wreck'd in savage sea, D;i al mar, rjue condolido, 
 
 Confiding to the waves his amorous pains ; Fue a las hondas, que al viento 
 
 The sea relenting sends the strains El m.'.seru gemido 
 
 To the far leafy groves, glad to repeat Segundo de Arion, dulze instrurnento. 
 Echoes than old Orion's shell more sweet. Iiru..;c.t editit.:.. >tu, 16B9, p. 487 
 
 VOL. II,
 
 346 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 The Polyphemus of Gongora is one of his 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 with the riches 
 of ancient mythology, sought for subjects which might fur- 
 nish them with gigantic pictures, with a strong contrast of 
 images, and with 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 quarto volume. In the literature of 
 Spain and Portugal, we find at least a dozen or fifteen poems 
 on this subject. 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 ! Era un rnonte de miembros eminente 
 
 Like a vast mountain rose his living Este, que de Neptuno hijo fiero 
 
 frame; De un ojo ilustra el orbe de su frente, 
 
 His single eye cast like a flame abroad Emulo casi del mayor Luzero, 
 
 Its glances, glittering as the morning Ciclope, a quien el pino mas valiente 
 
 beam : Baston le obedecia tan ligero, 
 
 A mighty pine supported where he trod Y al grave peso jungo tan delgado, 
 
 His giant steps, atrembling twigforhim, Que un dia era baston y otro cayado. 
 Which sometimes served to walk with, or 
 to drive [live. 
 His sheepto pasture, wherethe sea-nymphs 
 His jet-black hair in wavy darkness hung, Negro el cabello, imitador fiudoso, 
 
 Dark as the tides of the Lethean deep, De las escuras aguas del Leteo, 
 
 Loose to the winds, and shaggy masses Al viento que lo peina proceloso 
 
 clung [sweep, Buela sin orden, pende sin aseo. 
 
 To his dread face ; like a wild torrent's Un torrente es su barba impetuoso, 
 
 His beard far down his rugged bosom flung Que adusto hijo deste Pireneo, 
 
 A savage veil ; while scarce the massy Su pecho inunda, otarde, o mal, o en van: 
 
 heap Sulcada aun de los dedos de su mano. 
 Of ropy ringlets his vast hands divide, 
 That floated like the briny waters wide. 
 
 Not mountainous Trinacria ever gave No la Trinacria, en sus montafias, fiers 
 
 Such fierce and unform'd savage to the Armo de crueldad, calco de viento, 
 
 day; [brave Que redima feroz, salve ligera. 
 
 gwift as the winds his feet, to chase or Su piel manchadade colores ciento ; 
 
 The forest hordes, whose battle is his Pellico es ya, la que en los monies era 
 
 play, [shoulders wave Mortal horror, al que con passo lento 
 
 Whose spoils he bears ; o'er his vast Los bueyes a su albergue reducia, 
 
 Their variegated skins, wont to dismay Pisando la dudosa luz del dia. 
 The shepherds 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 Cera y cafiamo unio (que no devieial 
 
 bound [shrill, Cien caDas, cuyo barbaro ruydo 
 
 A hundred reeds, whose music wild and De mas eccs, que unio cafiamo y cera 
 
 Repeated by the mountain echoes round, Albogue es duramentc repetido. 
 
 Shook everytremblinggrove.andstream, La selva se confonie, el mar se altera, 
 
 and hill. Kompe Triton su taracol torcido,
 
 OK THE SPANIARDS. 347 
 
 The ocean heaves, the Triton's shells re- Sordo huye el baxel a vela y remo. 
 
 sound [fill Tal la musica es de PC lifrro. 
 
 No more; the frighted vessel's streamers 
 With the shook air, and bear in haste away ; 
 Such wa the giant's sweetest harmony. 
 
 Those who understand the Spanish language, will perceive 
 that the translation has rather softened than overcharged the 
 metaphors. It was these, however, which were admired as 
 the true sublime of poetry and the highest productions of 
 genius. Polyphemus, after having expressed his passion and 
 vainly solicited Galatea, furiously assails with fragments of 
 rock the grotto whither 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 within the bounds ot 
 authority, of the laws and the church, presents a remarkable 
 phenomenon in literature. Restricted on every side by the 
 naiTOwest 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, had the talent of Gongora, 
 and their style in consequence became still more false and 
 exaggerated. They soon divided themselves into two schools, 
 the one retaining only his pedantry, 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 
 whole stock of erudition. These persons have been sur- 
 named in derision cultoristos, from the estilo culto, or culti- 
 vated style, which they so highly extolled. Others were 
 named conceptistos, from the concept os (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
 
 348 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 celebrity of Gongora. Thus Alonzo de Lodesma, who died 
 some years before his master, employed this 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 theologian than as a poet. He has left us, under the 
 name of the Mystic Monarchy 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 redondilhas 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 different 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, 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 reigns over heaven and earth ; but on earth 
 you were obeyed by the Lord himself. How happy you will 
 be in heaven, when you find 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 following curious stanzas ' quote from Boutterwek . 
 
 Los milagros de Amarilis, Una tardc, que e mafiana 
 Aquel angel superior, Puts cl alvase rio, 
 
 A quien dan nombrc de Fsnix Y entre carmin encendido 
 
 La verdad y la passion, Candidas perlas mostro, 
 
 Mirava a su puerta un dia Divirtioso en abrasar 
 En la corte un labrador, A los misino.i q.;e alumbfj, 
 
 Que a adorar no merece Y del ci<>lo de si mismo 
 
 P-.lecer si merecio. El angel hello cayo.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 
 
 349 
 
 leg* 1 was reserved for you : you invited your God to sit at 
 your table ; your dignity was such, that after having invited 
 the Lord to sit down, you yourself took the first place. It 
 was the 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, we 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 Lorenzo de Zamora, chap. xiii. page 523. It is a curious monu- 
 ment, not indeed of poetry, but rather of the spirit of the age. 
 Redondilhas a San Joseph. 
 
 Que lengua podra alcancar 
 Aquel que tanto subio, 
 Quo a la palabra ensefio 
 Del prupiu padre a hablar. 
 
 Segun su sabio aranzel, 
 Aunque por diversos modos, 
 Es Dios maestro de todos, 
 Pero de Uios lo Cue el. 
 
 De lo que su ciencia fue 
 Yo no se dar otra sena, 
 Sino que al Christus enseita 
 Las letras del A, 11, 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 mudre f 
 
 A esta cuenta pudo Dios 
 Joseph, hazeros mas santo, 
 Mas eomo padre soys tanto. 
 Que otro no es mvjor que vos. 
 
 Pero si vos en quanto honibre 
 Soys tanto menos que Dios, 
 Por lo menos llegays vos 
 A ser ygual en el nombre. 
 
 Si 70 llamo mi eriado 
 
 Al que con mi pan se cria, 
 
 Vuestra criada et> Maria, 
 
 Y auu Dios es vuestro eriado. 
 
 Puei cria A Dios cl sudcr 
 De vucstra mano, y vcntura, 
 N : - ' si os diga criatura 
 O si os llamo criador. 
 
 Joseph dichoso aveys sido, 
 Pues que scrvido de Dios, 
 Nadie lue mejor quo vos 
 Ni aun Dios fue mejor servido. 
 
 Manila Dios, y mandays vos, 
 Miiida Dios en suelo y cielo, 
 
 Pero vos, acd en el suelo 
 itlandastes al mismo Dios. 
 
 Que dire de vos que importe, 
 Dichoso quando alld yreys, 
 Pues en llegando hallareys 
 Tales parientes en corte. 
 
 Pues pudo Dio* escoger 
 Para su madre marido, 
 El mejor que avia nacido 
 Vos lo devistes de ser. 
 
 Si os llamaremos mayor 
 Joseph que el seflor del cielo, 
 Pues viviendo aca en el suelo, 
 Fue el mismo vuestro menor. 
 
 Bien es que en sueilo y tendido 
 Os liable el angel ;\ vos, 
 Que 4 quien duspierto habla Dios 
 Hablele 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 
 Keaica vuestro valor, 
 Que al propio Dios y sefior 
 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 vucstras prendas tales 
 Que at mismo Dios distes nombre 
 
 Soys quien soys, y tal soya vos, 
 Y vuestro valor de modo, 
 Que a Dios obedcce todo, 
 Y a vos obedece Dios. 
 
 Joseph, quion soys aquel sabe 
 Que tnyta llamaros supo, 
 Y pues tal nombre en vos cupOi 
 1-Yir os calebru y aiab*.
 
 350 ON THr LITERATURE 
 
 Whilst Gongora introduced into the higher -walks of poetry 
 an affected and almost unintelligible style, and his followers, 
 m 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 contemporaries of Cervantes and Lope de Vega, 
 two brothers, whom the Spaniards compare to Horace, occupy 
 a distinguished place. Lupercio Leonardo de Argensola was 
 born in 1 565, 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 .Nicolo 
 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. 35! 
 
 Notwithstanding the suffrage of Cervantes, the reputation 
 f Argensola does not rest on nis 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 
 sonnet?,! 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.,|j was published 
 
 * Imagen espantosa de la muerte, El uno vea el popular tumulto 
 
 Sueflo cruel, no turbos mas mi pecho, Romper con furia las herradas 
 
 Mostrandomecortadoel fiudoestrecho, puertas, 
 
 Consuelo solo de mi advrrsa suerte. O al sobornado siervo el hicrro oc- 
 
 Busca de algun tirano el muro fuerte, culto ; 
 
 De jaspe paredes, de oro il techo; El otro sus riquezas descubiertas, 
 
 ) el rico avaro el en angosto lecho, Con Have lalsa, o con violento in- 
 
 II az que ternblando 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 rus cabellos con legiae, Pero tii acude por socorro all' arte, 
 
 De vencrablcs, si no rubios, rojos, Que aun con sus fraudes quiero qua 
 
 Que el tiempo vengador busca despojos, denenda 
 
 Y no para voiver huyen los dias. Al descngaflo descorte* la cntrada. 
 
 T las mexillas, que avultar porfias, Con pacto, y por tu bien, que no pre 
 
 Cierra en porfiles languidos. y flojos, tendas 
 
 Su hermosa atrocidail nobo o los ojos, Reducida a ruinas, ser a-nada 
 
 Y apriesa te desarma las-ancias. Sine e de li, si puecles cnxailarte. 
 
 Madrid, fol. 1609. I Saragossa, fol. 1630.
 
 352 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 early in the reign of Philip IV., and dedicated to the Count 
 Duke d'Olivarez. The King, who imagined the spirit of the 
 Aragonese 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 
 and the Italians, of Boscan, and Garcilaso. Like the Italians 
 of the fifteenth century, they 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 Espinel, 
 Christoval de Mesa, Juan de Morales, Augustino de Texada, 
 Gregorio Morillo, a happy imitator of Juvenal, Luis Barahona 
 de Soto, a rival of Garcilaso ; Gonzales de Argote y Molina, 
 whose poems breathe an uncommon 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 Quevedo, 
 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 the shafts of ridicule, and the art of compelling 
 the abuses of society to appear before the bar of public 
 opinion. Some extracts from his voluminous works will 
 show within what narrow barriers Voltaire must have confined 
 himself under such a suspicious government as that of 
 Philip II. and beneath 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 neld several honourable appointrnentSL He lost both his 
 parents when young, but his guardian, Don Jerome de 
 Villanueva, placed him in the university of Alcala, where he
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS, 353 
 
 jearned the languages. He made himself master of the 
 Iiatin, 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 the world at large the 
 reputation of an accomplished cavalier. He was frequently 
 chosen as arbiter in disputed points of honour, and while with 
 the greatest delicacy he preserved the parties from any com- 
 promise of character, he had at the 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, although 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. He 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'Ossuna, who 
 had been appointed Viceroy of that Island, and afterwards 
 accompanied him to Naples. Charged with the general 
 inspection of the finances of both countries, he established 
 >rder by his integrity and severity. 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 hig 
 service. During the time he was so accredited, he was 
 frequently pursued by assassins, whowistedto 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 search of the govern- 
 ment, while many of his most intimate friends perished on 
 the scaffold. After a brilliant career, he was involved in the 
 disgrace of the Duke d'Ossuna. lie 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 acknowledged, his im-
 
 854 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 prisonment changed into banishment, and his freedom soon 
 after restored him ; but on demanding indemnification 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 published 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. The 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 eight hundred ducats, placed 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 arrested 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 his 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 restored to 
 liberty, but his health was so entirely ruined that he could 
 not remain at Madrid to demand satisfaction for his kng
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 35? 
 
 confinement. Sick and broken in spirit, he returned 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. He endeavoured to 
 attract admiration and to dazzle ; he did not aim at a just 
 expression of sentiment, but regarded only the effect 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 serious subjects, it is needless to enquire 
 whether or not he be sincere, while truth, propriety, and 
 rectitude 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 
 wit 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, The Kingdom of God and the 
 Government of Christ, and dedicated to Philip 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 bo heard. Jf he had
 
 356 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 developed the policy by which the terrible Spanish triumvi- 
 rate, Toledo, Ossuna, and Bedmar, attempted to govern Italy, 
 he would, without doubt, have manifested not less depth of 
 thought, 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 
 the minds of his readers on objects which had been 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 the other 
 hand with as complete an absence of practical instruction, as 
 if the work had been composed in a convent. All his ex- 
 amples are drawn from the sacred writings, and not from 
 that 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 thought, 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 requires 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 appear 
 easy to find in the conduct of Jesus Christ, a model for all 
 the duties of royalty, and to draw from his life alone ex- 
 amples applicable 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 
 reasoning. His most remarkable qualities 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 j but he illustrates his subject in a 
 natural manner by the conduct of the apostle Peter. who t
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 357 
 
 under the eyes of his master, attacks the whole body of the 
 guard of the high-priest, but who, when he is separated from 
 Jesus, shamefully denies him before a servant. "The 
 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 king who enters into the field himself and shares the 
 dangers of his soldiers, obliges 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, differ 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 are 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 Philip 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 they 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 
 his 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 affords 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 fortane. The
 
 3o8 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 Roman author enumerated the calamities of human nature, 
 and applied to each the consolations of philosophy. Quevedo, 
 after his translation of the Latin, adds a second chapter to 
 each calamity, in which he estimates the same misfortune in 
 a Christian point of view, generally with the design of 
 proving that what the 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 shortest chapters, 
 on Exile. 
 
 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 
 longer in thy country: Our country is the place where we enjoy happi- 
 ness ; but real happiness is in the mind, not in place, and depends on 
 a man's self; if he be wise, his exile is no more than a journey ; if he 
 is unwise, he suffers banishment. Thou art banished : That is to say, 
 I am made a citizen of a new state. 
 
 D. FRANCISCO DE QUEVEDO. 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 my 
 country for another part. Thou shalt see tJvy wife, thy children, thy 
 relations, no more : That might happen to me when living with them. 
 Thou shalt be deprived of thy friends : I shall find others in the place 
 to which I go. Thou shalt be forgotten : I am so already where I am 
 thus rejected. Thou shalt be regretted by none : That will not be 
 strange to me, leaving the place I leave. Thou shalt be treated as a 
 stranger : That is a consolation to me, when I see how you treat your 
 own citizens. Christ has said, no man is a prophet iu 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 surprises and amuses us, and is presented 
 to us in an attractive manner, but it carries with it little per- 
 suasion and less consolation. We feel that after all that has 
 been said, it would not be difficult 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. " JV 
 
 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 de las 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 former 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, amid.st 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 t fie Chevalier de la Tena:a, who teaches 
 all the various modes 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 Language, where Gongora and Lope de
 
 360 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 Vega are very pleasantly ridiculed ; in the Treatise on all 
 Subjects in the World and many besides; in the Happy Hour, 
 where Fortune, for once only, rewards every one according 
 to his merit ; and lastly, in the Life of the great Tacano, 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 the domestic life 
 of the Castilians, is the difficulty of reconciling their excessive 
 poverty with their pride and slothfulness. Among the poorer 
 classes of other countries, we observe privations of different 
 kinds, want, sickness, and sufferings; but absolute starving is 
 a calamity which the most wretched seldom experience ; and 
 if they are reduced to this state, it generally throws them into 
 despair. If we are to believe the Castilian writers, a con- 
 siderable portion of their population are in constant appre- 
 hension of famine, yet never think of relieving themselves by 
 labour. A crowd of poor gentlemen, and all the knights of 
 industry, trouble themselves little about luxuries, as food 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 y 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 Muses, 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 burlesque pieces. Under the name of each Muse 
 he arranges a great number of sonnets. He has written more 
 than a thousand, and some of them possess great beauty. 
 Such, in my eyes, is that On the Ruins of Rome, of which 
 the following is a translation :
 
 OV THK SPANIARDS. 
 
 361 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Stranger, 'tis vain ! Midst Rome, thou seek'st for lloma 
 
 lu vain ; thy foot is on her throne her grave ; 
 
 Her walls at ) dust : Time's conquering banners wavi 
 O'er all her hills ; hills which themselves entomb. 
 Yea ! the proud Aventine 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. 
 O 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, the romances of Q.uevedo 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 
 comprehend. 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 the 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 riot be very refined, bear a value in our eyes from 
 the moral courage which they exhibit : 
 
 Since then, my planet has look'd on 
 With such a dark and scowling eye, 
 My fortune, if my ink were gone, 
 Might lend my pen as black a dye. 
 No lucky or unlucky turn 
 Did Fortune ever seem to play ; 
 But ere I'd time to laugh or mourn, 
 Twiu sure to turn the other way. 
 Ye childless great, who want a heir, 
 Leave all your vast domains to me, 
 
 And Heaven will bless you with a fair, 
 
 Alas I and numerous progeny. 
 
 They bear my effigy about 
 
 The village, as a charm of power, 
 
 If clothed, to bring the sunshine- out, 
 
 If naked, to call down the shower. 
 
 When friends request my company, 
 
 No feasts and banquets meet my ey ; 
 
 To holy mass they carry me, 
 
 And ask me alms, and bid good-bye. 
 
 Buscas en Roma a Roma, 6 peregrino! 
 Yen Roma misma a Roma no la hallas: 
 Cadaver son, las que ostento murallas, 
 Y tumba de si propio el Aventino. 
 
 Yace donde reynaba el Palatine, 
 Y limadas del tiempo las rm-iiall v=, 
 Mas se muestran destrozo & las batallas 
 De las edades, que blazon latino. 
 VOL. 21 
 
 * A Roma sepultada en sus ruinas. 
 
 Solo el Tibre qucdo, cuya corriente 
 Si ciudad la rego, ya sepultura 
 La Uora con funcsto son doliente. 
 
 O Roma ! en tu grandeia, en tu hermosun 
 Huy6 lo que era firme, y soUmento 
 L; fugitive pcrmanece y dura. 
 
 Cltv, J.
 
 362 ON THE LITKRATURE 
 
 Should foravos chance to lie perdu, Mine is each fool's loquacity, 
 
 To break some happy lover's head, Each ancient dame will be my queen 
 
 I am their man, while he in view The poor man ' s eye amidst &e crowd 
 
 His beauty serenades in bed. Stiji turns its asking looks on nune . 
 
 A loosen'd tile is sure to fall Jostl d by all the rich and proud, 
 
 In contact with my head below, No path is clear, whate'er my line. 
 
 lust as I doff my hat. 'Mong all Where'er I go I miss my way, 
 
 The crowd, a stone still lays me low. x ] osej still lose at every 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 Se3) 
 
 They wish the poet's soul in heaven ; Nothing but water at my inn ; 
 
 So far from granting aught, 'tis I My pleasures, like my wine, must oe 
 
 Who lend my patience to their spleen; Still mix'd with what should SOT be in.* 
 
 We also find amongst the poems of Quevedo, pastorala, 
 allegories under the name of Sylvas, epistles, odes, songs, 
 and the commencement of two epic poems, one burlesque, 
 the other religious. But it is to his works themselves that 
 we must refer those who 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 Madrid 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 his 
 various poems, which he printed at his own expense, and 
 dedicated to Phillip III., under the title Amatorias, or Ero- 
 ticas. He obtained with difficulty a small employ in his 
 native city ; for, although noble, he was without fortune. 
 Devoting the remainder of his life to philological Latin 
 works, he contributed nothing, after his twenty-third year, to 
 Spanish poetry. He died in 1669, aged seventy-four. He 
 is considered the Anacreon of Spain. His grace and soft- 
 ness, and his union of the 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 tho 
 thirty-fifth Cantilena given below, and which I have the rather selected, 
 j- it is not found in Boutterwck. 
 
 Dicen me las muohachas Quc siempre de amor cantai 
 
 y ue sera don Estvban, Y n um-a <le la guerre f 
 
 POT
 
 OP THE SPANIARDS. 
 
 363 
 
 submitting himself to the rules of the ancients in the correction 
 of his thoughts, and he often indulged himself in the conceit 
 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 nil', alas ! 
 By a labourer; I heard, 
 For this outrage, the poor bird 
 Say a thousand mournful things 
 To the wind, which, on its wings, 
 From her to the guardian sky, 
 Bore her melancholy cry, 
 Bora her tender tears. She spake 
 As if her fond heart would break; 
 One while, in a sad sweet note, 
 Gurgled from her straining throat, 
 She cnforc'U her piteous tale, 
 Mournful prayer, and plaintive wail; 
 One while, with the shrill dispute 
 Quite outwearied, she was mute; 
 Then afresh for her 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 1 never will!" * 
 
 Among the distinguished poets of this age we may enumerate 
 Juan de Xaim-gui, 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 Kebolledo, 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 
 
 Yo vi sobre un tomillo 
 Quexarse un paraxillo, 
 Viendo su nido amado 
 De quien era caudillo 
 De un labrador robado. 
 Vi le tan congoxado 
 Por tal atrevimiento, 
 Dar mil quexas al viento, 
 Para que al ciel santo 
 Lleve su tierno llanto, 
 Lleve su triste acento. 
 Ya con triste harmouia 
 Esforcando al intento 
 Mil quexas repetia; 
 Ya cansado callava,,; 
 Y al nuevo sentimiento 
 Ya sonoro volvia. 
 Ya circular volaba, 
 Ya rastrero corria: 
 Ya pues de rama en rama 
 Al rustico seguia, 
 Y saltando en la graraa, 
 Parece que decia; 
 Dame rustico fiero 
 Mi dulce compania! 
 Yo vi que respondia 
 El rustico, no quiero. 
 
 Pero yo las respondo : 
 Muchachas bachilleras, 
 El ser los hombrcs feos 
 Y el ser vos otras bellas. 
 
 De que sirve que cante 
 Al son de la tromputa, 
 Del otro embarazado 
 Con el paves a cucstas ? 
 
 Que placeres me guiza 
 Un arbol pica seca 
 
 Cargado de mil hojos 
 Sin una fruta en ellas ? 
 
 Quien gusta de los parches, 
 Que muchos parches tenga; 
 Y quien de los escudos 
 Que nunca los posca. 
 
 Que yo de los guerreroi 
 No trato los peleag, 
 Sino lag de las nin.LS 
 Porque estas son mis guerras 
 
 * [For the kind communication of the above translation, the Editor 
 has to repeat his acknowledgments to Mr. Wiffen. 2V.] 
 
 L 2
 
 364 ON rms LITERATURE 
 
 of inspiration from the reasoning faculty; and the Selras 
 Danicas of Rebolledo, which comprehend in rhimed prose 
 the history and geography of Denmark, and his Selvas Mili- 
 tares y Politicas, where he 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 here reached 
 its termination, if Calderon, whom we shall notice in the 
 following chapters, had not appeared at the same epoch, and 
 stamped this as the most brilliant period of the Spanish 
 romantic drama. 
 
 During the reigns of Philip II., Philip III., and Philip IV., 
 several prose writers obtained applause. A romance in the 
 modern taste, of Vincent Espinel, intitled The Life of the 
 Squire Marco de Obregon, led the 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 
 Gasman d'Alfarache 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 Matteo Aleman, who had retired 
 from the court of Philip III. to live in solitude ; and the 
 applause with 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 who died only in 
 1623, in his ninetieth year, has obtained a well-deserved 
 reputation from the elegance of his style. His language is 
 pure, his descriptions are picturesque, without poetic affec- 
 tation, and for the time in which he lived he has exhibited 
 much impartiality and freedom of opinion. We must not, 
 however, confide either in his criticisms, or in his facts, 
 whenever the authority of the church 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. Livy makes us ac- 
 quainted with the manners and opinions of the inhabitants 
 of Italy at different epochs, and his harangues are always 
 formed on real sentiments and incidents, although the in-
 
 OF THE SPANIARrg. 3b5 
 
 vention of the author. The speeches of Mariana, on the 
 contrary, though of a late 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 them. 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 him 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 
 correct taste. The adventures of Fernando Cortes, and of 
 the handful of warriors, who in a new hemisphere overthrew 
 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 Europe, 
 formed altogether an assemblage of novel and att:ctive cir-
 
 .36(3 ON THE 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. Descriptions 
 of places and of manners, and philosophical and political re- 
 flections, are all called for by the subject, 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 one 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 mixtnre of so many pretensions, 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 
 fatiguing, 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 prose 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, theology, poetical criticism, and 
 rhetoric. The most diffuse of all bears the title of el Criticon, 
 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 tak-nt, 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 succeeded as a 
 good writer if he 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 translated and panegyrized in France and 
 Jtaly, and out of Spain contributed to corrupt that taste 
 which in his own country was in its last decline. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 DON PEDRO CALDERON DE LA BARCA. 
 
 OUR attention is now called to a Spanish poet whom his 
 fellow-countrymen have designated as the 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 forms, 
 often in opposition 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 eventful. 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 purported to be written, liy a Wit of this 
 Court: Un inyenio de esfa Corle; having seen some pieces of 
 Calderon, gave the author of them an appointment near hi.s 
 own person, presented him with the order of St. James, and 
 attached him permanently to his court. From that time th; 
 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 OJT THE 
 
 the stage. Thenceforth, however, his compositions were 
 generally religious pieces and autos sacramentales ; and the 
 more he advanced in years, the more he regarded all his 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, he 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. He died two years after, in his eighty-seventh year. 
 
 Augustus "William Schlegel, who more than any per- 
 son has contributed to the diffusion 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 sacramentalcs), a hundred humorous interludes or 
 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 log space of time, 
 and there is no reason to suppose that he wrote with such 
 wonderful celerity as Lope de Vega. He had sufficient time 
 to mature his plans, which he did without doubt, but he must 
 have acquired from practice great facility of execution. 
 
 " In the almost countless number of his works, we find 
 nothing left to chance ; all is finished with the most perfect 
 talent, agreeable to fixed principles, 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 poetry 
 which rise to the extreme bounds of imagination. CalderoD 
 has converted into his own what served only as a model to 
 bis 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 ou national events. Calderon has painted with 
 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 Europe. When 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 
 illumined the 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 LITERATURE 
 
 added to his eloquence. The passage I am about to translate 
 has been highly extolled in Germany. I shall, in my turn, 
 present Calderon 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 Flanders and in 
 Italy ; and, as a knight of St. James, performed the military 
 duties of that order until he entered into the church ; by 
 which he manifested 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 arid nourished under such 
 auspicious circumstances, have attained its highest flight. 
 The imagination of the Spaniards was as daring as their 
 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 the 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 
 arid odours, there resulted an irresistible charm of contrast 
 between the subject and its composition. The 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 poetry, 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 ot 
 fancy which prevents us from regarding them as comedies, 
 '_n the ordinary sense of the word. The comedies of Shak- 
 speare are composed of two parts, strangers to each other : the 
 comic part, which is always conformable to English manners,
 
 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 soil 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 narrow and vulgar limits. 
 His comedies conclude, like those of the ancients, with 
 marriage, but differ 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 
 persons, 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 which ennobles all that it surrounds, because it 
 attaches to all circumstances an affection of the mind. Cal- 
 deron presents to us, it is true, his 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 
 others, 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 prejudices 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 which Calderon 
 represents the sentiment of honour, than 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 
 leva demands an inviolable secrecy, until a legal union per-
 
 372 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 mits a pjblic declaration. This condition alone defends it 
 against the poisonous mixture of that vanity, wLich might 
 boast of pretensions advanced, or of advantages obtained. 
 Love thus appears as a secret and holy vow. It is true that 
 under this doctrine, in order to satisfy love, trick and dissi- 
 mulation, which honour elsewhere forbids, are permitted. 
 But the most delicate regard is observed in the collision of 
 love with other duties, and particularly those of friendship. 
 The force of jealousy, always awake, always terrible in its 
 explosion, is not, as in the East, excited by possession only, 
 but by the slightest preference of the heart, and by its most 
 imperceptible manifestations. Love is thus ennobled ; for 
 this passion falls beneath itself, if it is not .wholly exclusive. 
 It often happens that the plot which these contending 
 passions form, 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 the lofty 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 : Comcdias de capa y 
 espada. In general they possess nothing burlesque, further 
 than the part of the humorous valet, who 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 this is usually effected by acci- 
 dental and well contrived incidents. Other pieces are named 
 Comcdias de jiyuron ; 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 character exhibited 
 by the poets of a nation, whose powerful passions and 
 fervent imaginations are irreconcileable with a talent for ac- 
 curate observation. 
 
 " Calderon bestowed on another class of his dramas the 
 name of festival pieces. These were intended to be repre- 
 sented in court on occasions of solemnity. From their
 
 OF THE SPAMAKDO. 3V3 
 
 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, 
 eince by their poetry alone an effect is produced which in the 
 simple opera is obtained only by scenery, music, and dancing. 
 Here the poet abandons himself to the highest flights of 
 fancy, and his representations seem almost too ethereal for 
 earth. 
 
 " But the true genius of Calderon is 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 bis metaphor always 
 expresses the relation of his creatures to their common 
 Creator ; and this delightful harmony and concert of the 
 universe, 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 LITERATURE 
 
 In a display of fireworks the brightest colours and the most 
 striking lights are reserved for the last explosion." 
 
 I have here given a faithful translation of this spirited and 
 eloquent passage, which is, indeed, in opposition to my own 
 opinion. It contains every thing splendid that can be said of 
 Calderon ; and I could 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 rank which Calderon occupies in the world of 
 letters. I shall 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 said 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 the Castilians. Calderon had in his youth seen 
 Philip III. ; he had shared the patronage of Phili.p 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 arid 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 has 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 forms to himself offends us from its want of propriety. 
 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 atfrontS|
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 376 
 
 and assured to every one the respect of his equals ; but vhen 
 public and private honour became continually compromised 
 by a corrupt and base court, the stage represented honour as 
 a point of punctilious delicacy, which, 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 exaggeration. 
 
 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 comparison to comparison, and, overcharging his 
 subject with the most brilliant colours, he does not allow its 
 form to be perceived under the multiplied touches which 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 affectation and antithesis with which 
 the Italians have been reproached, under the name of 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 affected with that malady of genius which 
 forms an epoch in every literature on the extinction of good 
 taflte, an epoch \vhich commenced in Rome with Lucan, in 
 Italy with the seicentisti, or poets of the sixteenth century ,
 
 376 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 which distinguished in France the Hotel d-5 Rambouillet - % 
 which prevailed in England under the reign of Charles II.; 
 and which all persons have agreed to condemn as a perversion 
 of taste. Examples of this style will crowd on us in 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 single passage as a specimen. It is taken from a 
 play in which Alexander, Duke of Parma, relates how he ia 
 become the rival of Don Caesar, his secretary and friend. 
 
 In gallant 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 bright 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 fill'd with that one glorious day. 
 
 But when she spoke, then was my soul entranc'd : 
 
 Eyes, ears, and every sense in rapture danc'd ; 
 
 The miracle 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, 
 
 With courteous steps I watch'd my love's return. 
 
 We parted ! Let 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, Hablando estuve, en ella divertidos 
 
 Y con ella j sus damas vi a dona Ana: Los ojos, quanto atentos los oidos; 
 
 Vi, en un jardin de amores, Porque mostraba, en todo milagrosa 
 
 Que presidia entre communes flores Cuerda belleza en discrecion hermosa, 
 
 La rosa hermosa y bella; Despidio se en efecto; si fue breve 
 
 Mai digo, que si bien lo considero, La tarde, amor lo diga, que quisiera 
 
 Yo vi entre muchas rosas una estrella, Quo un si^lo interocada instantc fuera; 
 
 O entre muchas estrellas un Lucero ; Y aim no fucra bastante, 
 
 Y si mejor en su Deidad reparo, Pues aunque fuera siglo, fuera instants. 
 
 Prestando a los demas sus arreb.'iles, La sali acompaftondo cortesmente, 
 
 Entre muchos Luceros vi un sol claro, Y aqui basta decirte 
 
 Y al fin vi un cielo para muc-hos soles. Que muero amante y que patiesc* 
 Y tanto su beldad los "xccdia. nuscnte. 
 
 Que en muchos cielos huvo solo un dia. Nadiefltauiecrtto, Jorn. i, 1. 1. p.27J
 
 Of THE SPANIARDS 37? 
 
 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 Amar despues de la Muerte ; 
 Love after Death, or rather the revolt of the Moors in the 
 Alpuxarra, Don Alvaro Tuzani, one of the revolted Mof<rs, 
 running to the 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 ALVARO. 
 
 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 wild ! 
 That echo it ; winds I which my torments hear ; 
 Flames ! that behold my sufferings ; 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, 
 tn these my sorrows, in this last distress, 
 What hope more is there for the wretched lover 
 Who, on the night that should have crown'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 o 
 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. 
 ye invincible hills of Alpuxarra, 
 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 cliffs, or depths profound, 
 More hapless beauty never breathed its last ! 
 But why complain ! if my complaints when poar'd 
 To the wild winds are but the wild winds' sport i 
 
 VOI.. IJ. JL Jk
 
 378 ON THE L1TERATTJKF 
 
 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 dreadful in- 
 cident is calculated to produce ; a fault continually repeated 
 by Calderon. His decided predilection for investing with the 
 beautitj s of poetry the language of all his personages, deprives 
 him of -ill heartfelt and natural expression. We 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 tiuth. 
 
 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 
 history, 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 Comudia de las Armas de la Hermosura, t. 1. p. 11$,
 
 OK THE SPANIARDS. 3<3 
 
 lauus, nnd 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. Metastasio, 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 
 which 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 lam 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 was 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 ia 
 AA2
 
 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 apprehended, and of becoming at length the 
 victim of her monstrous iniquities, embraces a cross, which 
 she finds at her side, and vows to return to ber 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 Calde^on 
 before the reader, and made him acquainted with both sides 
 of tbe question. Let it not, however, be imagined that the 
 faults which I have brought forward are sufficient to obliterate 
 the beauties which have been so highly extolled by Schlegel. 
 There are, doubtless, sufficient left to place Calderon amongst 
 the poets of the richest and most original fancy, 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 the 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 ana 
 engaging of his comedies of intrigue. It is called Kl Secreto 
 a Vozes, or The Secret in Words. The scene is laid in 
 Parma, which is described in so particular a manner that we 
 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 supposed 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 
 stsige, and are followed by the whole court. The chorus 
 celebrates the empire of Love over Reason; and Flora, one of
 
 OP THE SPANIAH1>3. 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 more 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 ; 
 ghe 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 duku 
 of Mantua. He bears a letter of recommendation to the 
 duchess, of hisown writing, in which he requests an asylum until 
 his reconciliation witli a family, irritated against him by the 
 consequences of a duel in which a love affair had engaged him. 
 Whilst the duchess reads the letter and the courtiers converse 
 together, Frederick approaches Laura, the first lady of the 
 court and the secret object of his passion. They have :i 
 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. That of the day 
 is to decide what is the greatest pain in love. Every one
 
 382 ON THE LITEUATURE 
 
 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 him 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 witli 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. 
 
 Xight 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
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 383 
 
 which she wished to prevent. Shortly after, some one i:< 
 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 Frederick 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 Herwy. 
 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 thu- 
 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 his 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 the 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 in 
 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 
 highly 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 
 cuse 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 
 s 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 
 his master, and these tales are in the most vulgar taste. The
 
 OF THB SPANIARDS. 385 
 
 French stage has, in regard to decorum, an infinite advan- 
 tage over those of other countries. Fabio, however, uneasy 
 under his -master's displeasure, hides 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 fly 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 which 
 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, 
 but Ernest repels them with a well-managed obstinacy,
 
 386 OX THE LITERATURE 
 
 which agrees admirably with 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 Laura 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 charm and their defect, cannot 
 possibly be translated, in consequence of its brilliant 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 coni'used 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 Coincdia, 
 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 Secret u 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 
 ner 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 ; she speaks of her grief; and she attributes it to a
 
 383 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 Tangitrs. His speech, 
 which 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 
 harangue. Muley receives orders to oppose the landing ol 
 the Portuguese with the cavalry of the coast. 
 
 The landing is the subject of the next scene. It is effected 
 near Tangiers amidst the sound of clarions and trumpets. Ir. 
 the midst of this military pomp each of the Christian heroes 
 as he reaches the shore, manifests his character, his hopes anc 
 fears, and the manner in which he is affected by the evL 
 omens which befel them on their voyage. Whilst Fernando 
 is endeavouring to dispel this superstitious fear from the 
 hearts of his 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. 
 
 Iri 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 their resolution to uie 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 T11E SPANIARDS. 389 
 
 himself known to him. His brother Henry also delivers 
 himself up with the flower of the Portuguese army. The 
 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 Christian, 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 countrymen, your hands ! Heaven only knows 
 How gladly I would rend your galling chains, 
 And freely yield my freedom up for yours ! 
 Yet, 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 ; but Fernando thus repels his 
 endeavours: 
 
 Henry, forbear ! 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. My brother, well I deem, 
 
 Inserted this condition in his will, 
 
 Not that it should be acted to the letter, 
 
 But to express how much his noble heart 
 
 DesirM a brother's freedom. That must bo 
 
 Obtaiu'd b* other mean;)'' by peace or war.
 
 390 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 How ever may a Christian prince restore 
 
 A city to the Moors, bought with the prico 
 
 Of his own blood ] for he it was, who first, 
 
 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 
 
 Re-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 yoatf 
 
 To their own barbarous rites ; and is it meet 
 
 So many perish to redeem one man 
 
 From slavery 1 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, 
 
 Redeem his life ? Look down upon me, king, 
 
 Behold thy slave, who asks 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 countrymen ! 
 
 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 kindneu ? 
 Deniest my sole request 1 Thou haply here 
 Thinkest thyself sole ruler, and would'st sway 
 My kingdom 1 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 warm altercation, and vain solicitations, the king 
 calls one of his officers :
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 391 
 
 Hence with this captive ! rank him with the rest : 
 Bind oa 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 
 belbre 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 of Miralva, 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 instru- 
 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 
 bis 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 his freedom through the gene- 
 rosity of the Moorish king. At the commencement of the
 
 392 ON TUE LITERATURE 
 
 third act we see him imploring his compassion on behalf of 
 his prisoner. He gives a moving picture of the state to 
 which this 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, that 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 
 sufficient 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." Phenieia comes, in her turn, to intercede with her 
 father 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 Fez 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 lie is about 
 to take the field with the army of Morocco, and that lie will 
 shortly be in a state to repel the aggressions of the Portu- 
 guese. The king, meanwhile, refuses to liberate Fernando 
 on any other terms than the restitution of Ceuta. lie 
 bestows his daughter on Tarudant, and orders Muley 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 lie 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 staae, where physical evils should be introduced onty
 
 OP THE SPANIARDS. 39? 
 
 with great reserve. In order, indeed, to diminish this pain- 
 ful impression, Calderon bestows on him the language of a 
 paint under martyrdom. He looks upon his sufferings as sc 
 taany 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 afflic- 
 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 
 game. 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 feathered 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. Ho 
 only asks to be invested in holy garments, as lie is the grand 
 master of the religious and military order of Advice ; and he 
 
 vol. u. B B
 
 394 OX TIIE 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 
 his 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 Fernando. 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 this 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 requires that Phenicia be given in mar- 
 riage to Muley, 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 his 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 
 in idea of his self-devotion. 1 have examined the criginal Chronicles, of the fifteenth
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 395 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 CONCLUSION OP CALDERON. 
 
 AFTEH 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 H 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. Inflexible 
 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 from 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. Mor 
 frequently called upon to criticise, than to offer models fo 
 imitation, we ^hall 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^cad de lirroi 
 ineJitot de Hiitnria Portugueza, dot reinadot dot tenhorei reyt D. Joaa 1 . D. Danrte, 
 D. Affamo V. e D. Joau 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 10 the jealousy of the reigning princes; 
 that, though a prisoner in 1438, he did not die until 1443; an 1 that his death was not 
 accelerated by ill-treatment : Chron. do rey Affamo V. par Rmf de fina, t. i. c. 54. 
 Hie ranuun* were not redeemed until 1473. 
 
 B B 2
 
 396 ON THE LITERATUnK 
 
 as a picture of manners or of character, and sometimes as s 
 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 which 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 the 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 the 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, 
 xmceals 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 otho- 
 desire or thought than to form an image of the Virgin similai 
 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 
 H8. Not to mention the interest which might have been 
 excited in us for the flourishing empire of the Incas, which
 
 398 ON THE L.rERATTJRE 
 
 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 these 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 affecting ; 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 in titled, The Origin, 
 Loss, and Restoration of the Virgin of the Sanctuary,* and 
 
 * Origen, perdida, y restauradon de la Virgcn del Saprario, t. vi. p. P9.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 399 
 
 <fras eo nposed 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 
 Kecesuindo, king of the Visigoths (A. D. 648); the second 
 ij 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. 
 Jldefonso, 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 
 Autos da, fe. His heresy, which, according to ecclesiastical 
 history, consists in obscure opinions on grace a<nd 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. Ildefonso, and 
 she announces to the miraculous image that it must be long 
 concealed, and must be doomed to pass several ages indarkne?-:. 
 
 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. 
 Ildefonso 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, anil 
 America, are the three first, of which I have not occasion at
 
 400 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 present 1o speak, but which the learned Herodotus has 
 described ; the fourth is our Europe," &c. Calderon must 
 surely have known that 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 with 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 Xers, 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 Sagrario 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 Musulmans, the 
 largest mosque in the city. We also see the origin of the 
 dispute, which was ultimately decided by a duel, as to the pre- 
 ference of the Mocarabian 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 the 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 who had broken their oaths. 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. We 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, God. Louis. The devil aid me I 
 
 LESBIA. These shipwreck 'd men move my compassion, king ! 
 
 THE KINO. 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 prey, 
 Whence arc 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, 
 1 am the King Egerio, sovereign
 
 402 ON THE LITEBATURK 
 
 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 which 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 Patrici us 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 my 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 
 which 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 
 
 Repay 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 as difference lies 
 'Twixt good and evil. But whatever be 
 My conduct, I would here a thousand times 
 Lay down my life to aid that holy faith 
 Which I adore. By that same God I 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. H<?
 
 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 
 thetiands 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, 
 Itejoicing 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 :
 
 104 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 Love is with me a passing appetite, 
 Varying with 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. 
 Polonia 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 ; oh then spare 
 My life. Thy fury terrifies my soul. 
 
 Louis. Luckless Polonia, misery was always 
 
 The lot of boasted beauty, for ne'er yet 
 
 Were happiness and beauty join'd together. 
 
 In me thou seest a more unpitying wretch 
 
 Than 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 her 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 haste 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 gracAoso, 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. Kut whilst he is waiting for him at
 
 OP THE SPANIARDS. 405 
 
 night in the public street, a knight, completely armed at all 
 points, challenges him. Louis attacks him, but finds his 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 hi? 
 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 sufficient atten- 
 tion has been bestowed on these pretended Christian dramas, 
 which compose so large a portion of the Spanish theatre, 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 a i < 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. Those which are founded on intrigue, 
 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 Geolier de soi-meme : IS Alcaide de si mismo ; 
 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 Dama 
 Duende, has furnished Hauteroche with his Dame Invisible, 
 or IJ Esprit Follet, which is still preserved on the stage. 
 Quinault has translated under the title of Coups de V Amour et 
 de la Fortune, the piece entitled Lances de Amor ;/ Fortuna ; 
 and it is to Calderon that we owe the Paysan Magistral 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, which 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 Honra. Don Guttierre 
 Alfonso, who is fondly attached to his wife, Donna Mencia de 
 Acufia, 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 he finds his sword, which he had 
 forgotten, in his house; he has heard his wife call on the 
 oame of Henry; and whilst she observes all the laws oi
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 407 
 
 honour and virtue, she has manifested a predilection which 
 had eTisted before her marriage, and which she c.ould 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 
 i> roofs, 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 tt ee : 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 ! God, 
 what is this i Xo one replies ; my terror increases ; my sen-ants 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 ] 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, ii 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 burn 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 SUKGEON. 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 LITERATURE 
 
 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 ? KINO. You know my wish ! Obey ! 
 
 GUT. Scarce 'scap'd the tempest's wrath, would you again 
 Force me upon the deep 1 What shall I have 
 Henceforth for my excuse ? KING. Your king's commands 
 
 GUT. Deign then to hear my reasons, which alone 
 To you 1 dare divulge. KINO. "Pis all in vain ; 
 
 Yet speak. GUT. Shall I again expose myself 
 To such unheard-of insult as to find 
 Your royal brother 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 baea 
 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 
 
 KING. Appeal to me. GUT. But if, in my appeal, 
 A greater grief attend me] 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 1 KINO. For every wrong 
 There is a remedy. GUT. What ! for this last ? 
 
 KING. There is. GUT. What is it 1 
 
 KINO. In yourself. GUT. You mean ! 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. 
 
 KINO. 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. GUT. '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 aiford us the best example of the nicety of that honour, 
 and that almost religious revenge, which have such a power 
 ml 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 despues 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 written 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, where 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, UKA TOI. Aunque en tristc cautiverio 
 
 Lone Afric weeps, in sable shroud, De A hi por juito mistetiu 
 
 Her empire lost, her glory gone, Llorc el Africano imperio 
 
 And set in night her ruling sun I Su milera sueite csquiva. 
 
 "Twas Allah's hand that bent the bow. 
 That laid our nation's honours low , 
 VOL. II. CO
 
 410 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 Dark and mysterious is his will, TODOS. Su ley Tiva 
 
 But Allah'* name be worshipp'd still! LA voz. Viva la memoria estrafla 
 
 Yet will we boast the golden time, De aquella gloriosa hasana 
 
 When tierce from Afric's swarthy clime, Que en !a libertad de EspaJIa 
 
 Fair Spain was vanquish'd by our sword, A Espafia tuvo cautiva. 
 
 And Allah's name was all-adorM! TODOS. Su ley viva! 
 
 But 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! 
 
 Their songs are suddenly interrupted by some one knock- 
 ing violently against the door. This is Don Juan de Malec, 
 a descendant of the Kings of Grenada, and entitled 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 are ancient, but renew'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 the counsellors, had been the 
 first to evince his chagrin and anxiety at these precipitate 
 measures. Don Juan de Mendoza answered him with 
 warmth, reproaching him with being a Moor, and with 
 wishing to screen the vile and abject race of the Moors from 
 the punishment which was due to them. Juan de Maleo 
 then proceeds : 
 
 luckless we, to enter into council 
 
 Without 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 vengeance burns my breast ! 
 Snatch'd from my hands my staff, and then 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, 
 
 Ye noble relic of the Afric race ! 
 
 The Christians have decreed your infamy, 
 
 Declar'd you slaves. But the Alpuxarra still 
 
 Is left ur mountain home, peopled with towns,
 
 UP THE SPANIARDS. 411 
 
 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 youra 
 
 To choose a chief of the illustrious blood 
 
 Of Aben Humeya, for that race is still 
 
 Pound in Castile. From slaves ye shall be lords ; 
 
 I will proclaim my wrongs, 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, hia 
 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 Tuzani, 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 this generous struggle the Corre- 
 gidor Zuniga, and Don Fernando de Valor, another descendant 
 of the kings of Grenada, who had also embraced Christianity, 
 arrive at the residence of Malec, and place him 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 which 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. 
 
 OC2
 
 412 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 VALOR. Yet Juan de Malec is a man MENDOZA. Like yet 
 
 VALOR. lie is ; for from Grenada's kings he boasts 
 His lineage : his ancestors and mine 
 
 Alike were kings. MEND. Perchance ! But mine were more 
 Than Moorish kings, lords of the mountain land. 
 
 By this was understood the Christian Goths, who had hel 1 
 possession of the mountains. Zuuiga throws down his staflf 
 of corregidor, and unites with Mendoza in treating the 
 Moors w r ith extreme contempt. Tuzani, as well as Valor 
 and Malec, feels himself injured by this reflection on his 
 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 John 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 hope from them to 
 reconquer Spain. During three years they have preserved 
 their secret with such fidelity that thirty thousand men who 
 were informed of it, and who were employed during this 
 long space of time in collecting in the Alpuxarra arms and 
 ammunition, have concealed it from the detection of the most 
 suspicious of governments. The chiefs of the blood of Aben 
 Humeya, who had renounced their Christian appellations, 
 and the language, the customs, and the manners of Castilians, 
 had divided themselves among the three principal fortresses 
 of the Alpuxarra. Fernando Valor had been recognized as 
 king ; had assumed the government of Berja, and had 
 married the beautiful Isabella Tuzani, who, in the first ;u:t, 
 was represented as attached to Mendoza. Tuzani commands 
 at Gavia, and he has not yet married Clara, who is in the 
 third city, Galera, where her father commands. When, in 
 this manner, the unity of time is renounced, the author ia 
 obliged to enter into explanations, and to suspend the action,
 
 OP 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 the Christian army. 
 Valor despatches Malec and Tuzani to their posts : 
 
 Love must forego his joys 
 Till victory be won. 
 
 On separating, Tuzani assures Clara that he will come 
 every night from Galera to Gavia, to see her, 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 the 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 received 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 lift 
 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 THE LITERATURE 
 
 TUZANI. Thou start'st in fear, Mendozal Dost not kno* me . 
 Behold Tuzani, the fierce thunderbolt 
 Of the Alpuxarra. From my mountain height 
 I have descended to avenge the death 
 Of her whom I ador'd. Sweet is revenge ! 
 He loves not, who with blood would not avenge 
 The wrongs of his belov'd. What wouldst thou with me ? 
 Erewhile thou know'st I sought thee, challeng'd thee 
 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. MENDOZA. 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 ! Free passage then my sword shall yield. 
 
 FIRST SOLD. I'm slain ! 
 
 SEC. SOLD. What fiend is here broke loose from hell 1 
 
 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 Fijjueroa come to ask the cause of the tumult, 
 while Tuzani still resists. 
 
 MENDOZA. A strange event ? A Moor 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 ] 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 cf 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 hand, the Moors accept the pardon offered to them 
 in the name of Philip II. They surrender their arms, and 
 quiet is restored in the Alpuxarra. 
 
 The large edition of the 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 thirty. I know not how far I may have 
 made the reader acquainted with those from which I have
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 413 
 
 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 the 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 inspire a wish for a more inti- 
 mate acquaintance with this poet. Taking leave, then, 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 Sacramentales, 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 1 should never 
 have read through, if I had not done so through a sense of 
 dutv. 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 Diospor 
 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, who live now, and 
 who shall live, from the day the sun first commenced his course to the 
 day when he shall be no more, that holy Theology, the science of Faith, 
 to whom has been given imperfect sight, but important 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 
 Fo/our. 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 1 
 
 Theology then appears with Faith, her sponsor, and sets 
 forth the three propositions which she intends to defend ; the
 
 416 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 presence of God in the eucharist, the new life receivtd in 
 communicating, and the necessity of a frequent communion. 
 Philosophy presents herself to combat the first of these pro- 
 positions, and Nature is called in as a witness. They dispute 
 in a scholastic manner, and also engage in battle as in a tour 
 namerit, 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 throw themselves at 
 her feet, and confess the truth of the proposition which they 
 had opposed. Medicine having Speech for sponsor, then 
 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 the laws of the world 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 por razon de Estado. The per- 
 sonages of this eccentric drama are: 
 
 THE SPIRIT, first lover. PENITENCE. 
 
 THOUGHT, the fool. EXTREME UNCTION. 
 
 PAGANISM. HOLY ORDERS. 
 
 THE SYNAGOGUE. MARRIAGE. 
 
 AFRICA. THE LAW OF NATURE. 
 
 ATHEISM. THE WRITTEN LAW. 
 
 ST. PAUL. THE LAW OF GRACE. 
 
 BAPTISM. Three singing Women. 
 
 CONFIRMATION. A Choir of Music. 
 
 El Pensamiento being masculine, the part of Thought ia 
 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 supplications addressed to the unknown Deity are re- 
 newed. Paganism implores him to descend and occupy the 
 temple which mankind have erected to him ; but Mind 
 interrupts those who are paying their adorations, inquiring 
 how an unknown God can be a God, and thereupon com- 
 mences a scholastic dispute, not less tedious than the answei
 
 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 Mind 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, Mind, and Thought, who remain to dispute on the 
 cause of the 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 always coincides with the person who 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 this is the one he is anxious to adore. 
 They then take their departure to America, in pursuit ot 
 Atheism, whom they question on the formation of the 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 religion 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 then disputes with the Synagogue and Mind in 
 support of revelation. St. Paul introduces the Law of 
 Nature, the Written 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 &nd Atheism 
 are converted ; the Synagogue and Africa 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 OP THE SPANISH DRAMA. STATE OP LETTERS DURING THE REIGH 
 OP THE HOUSE OF BOURBON. CONCLUSION OF THE HISTORY OF SPANISH 
 LITERATURE. 
 
 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, personages 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 
 'ountries borrowed from them without scruple. They en- 
 deavoured, it is true, t^. 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 tilings is reversed, and the Spanish drama is entirely 
 unknown in France and Italy. In those countries it is desig- 
 nated only by the 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 
 had 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 a 
 dramatic author iu 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 attached ; 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 Cornmedle dell 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 delF Arte. The 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 were composed in verse, but in the 
 running and easy form of the Redondilhas, which naturally 
 flowed from the pen. In other respects, the writer did not 
 give himself more trouble to observe probability, historical 
 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 morality. 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 histor}' 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 the sole proprietorship of th^m ; whilst
 
 420 ON THE UTEBATURK 
 
 the booksellers, from time to time, printed on speculation 
 pieces which were obtained from the manager oftener than 
 from the author. In this manner were formed those collec- 
 tions of Comedias varias, 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 thf 
 taste of the public has saved some from 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 Ingenio 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 very 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, nevertheless, 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 officers of state, 
 or his friends, might, on that account, attract our notice ; 
 but nothing can be more vague than the title of these pieces, 
 os an unknown individual may easily arrogate to himself a
 
 OF THK SPANIARDS. 421 
 
 rank which we have no means of ascertaining ; and the 
 Spaniards often extend the name of the Court to every thing 
 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 The Devil turned P readier: 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 preach 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 .is 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 
 
 Among the rivals of Calderon, one of the most celebrated 
 and the most deserving of notice, was Augustin Moreto, who 
 enjoyed, like him, the favour of Philip IV. ; was, like him, a 
 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 accurate 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 long time past acted on Shrove 
 Tuesday, is the Don Japhet of Armenia, of Scarron, almost 
 literally translated from El Marques del Cigarral ; 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 puedft ser : It cannot be ; 
 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 sufficient probability, and much originality, 
 and gives rise to many entertaining scenes, of which Moliere 
 has availed himself in his 2cole dex Moris. 
 
 There is a piece in much the same style by Don Fernando 
 de Zarate, called, la Premmida y la Hermosa. We find in 
 it some strong traits of character joined to a very entertaining 
 plot. There were still to be found in Spain some men of 
 taste, who treated with ridicule the affected style introduced
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 423 
 
 by Gongora. Zarate gives to Leonora the most conceited 
 language, 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 Violante, have in this piece 
 nearly the same characters as Armande and Henriette in the 
 Femmes savantes ; 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 may be 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 Venccslas of 
 Rotrou, and Don Bertran de Ciyarral of Thomas Corneille. 
 This last piece is translated from the one entitled, Entre 
 bobos artda cl juego : 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 
 Doth love, and she wishes him to decide between them. 
 
 LEO. Distinguid sefior don Juan Cede la nautica braza 
 
 De ciu retorica intacta, Al zodiaco austral, 
 
 Quien es el Alva y el sol ; Palustre serA la parca, 
 
 Porque quando se levanta Avassallando las dos 
 
 De la cuna dc la aurora A las rafagas del Alva. 
 La Delfica luz, es clara CHOC. Viva Christo ; somos Indios, 
 
 Consecuencia visual Pues de esta suerte se habla 
 
 Que el Alva, nevado mapa, Entre Christianos ? For vida 
 
 Cadaver de cristal, muera De la lengua castellana 
 
 En monumentos de plata: Que si mi hermana habla culto 
 
 Y assi en crepusculos rizos Que me oculte de mi hermana, 
 
 Donde se angelan las claras Al inculto barbarismn, 
 
 Paveias del sol, es fuerza O a las lagunas dc Parla, 
 
 ftue el sol brille, y fine el Alva O a la Nefritica idea; 
 
 . Sefiora, vos sois el astro Y li algun critico trata 
 
 Que da el fulgor a Diana; Morir en pecado ocultn, 
 
 Y violante eg el candor Dioi le conceda su habla 
 
 Que se deriva del aura. Para que confiesse a vocel 
 
 Y si el candor matutino Que ei castellana su aim*.
 
 424 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 of Madrid, our Lady of Atocha, 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 aeen exhibited in the religious 
 pieces of Calderon. 
 
 The critics of Germany and Spain have selected The 
 Punishment of Avarice: El Casliyo de la Miser ia, by Don 
 Juan de Hoz, as one of the best in his class of plays. This 
 piece, though highly humorous, is an instance of that radical 
 defect of the Spanish drama, which by the intricacy of the 
 plot entirely destroys the effect of character. Don Juan de 
 Hoz has painted the character of the 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 Cafiizarez, who flourished 
 in the reign of Charles II. He left behind him a number of 
 plays, in almost every class. Some of these are historical as 
 Picarillo en Espana, founded on the adventures of a Frederic 
 de Braquemont, a son of him who, with John de Bethencourt, 
 in 1402, discovered and conquered the Canaries ; but they 
 are little less romantic than those entirely of his own inven- 
 tion. To conclude, neither the comedies of Canizarez, which 
 are the most modern, nor those of Guillen de Castro and Don 
 Juan Ruys de Alarcon, which are the most ancient, nor those 
 of Don Alvaro Cubillo 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 sufficiently 
 marked to enable us to discover in them the manner and 
 Btyle of the author. Their works, like their names, are con- 
 founded with each other, and after having gone through the 
 Spanish drama, whose richness at first view astonished and 
 dazzled us, we quit it fatgued with its monotony 
 
 The poetry of Spain continued to flourish during the reigns 
 of thfj three Philips (1556 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 continue defeats, 
 the revolt of conquered countries, 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 the 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 
 v f merit in every other class diminished. But with the reigu 
 of Philip IV. the spirit which had till then animated tha 
 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 
 
 bi'oke out shortly afterwards, though it devastated the pro- 
 vinces of Spain, yet restored to their inhabitants some small 
 portion of that energy which 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 themselves, 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 Dictionary. In other respects, he left his sub- 
 jects to their natural bias in the cultivation of letters Mean- 
 while tLe 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, nny imitation or translation 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 the eighteenth century, on the 
 same footing as in the time of Calderon ; except that few new 
 pieces appeared but such as were of a religious tendency, as 
 in these, it was imagined, fnith might supply the want of 
 talent. In the early part of the eighteenth century were pub-
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 427 
 
 lished or 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 the permission, 
 but the approbation and applause of the Inquisition. Such, 
 amongst others, are two plays by Don Bernard Joseph de 
 Reynoso y Quinones ; the one entitled, The Sun of Faith at 
 Marseilles, and the Conversion of France by Saint Mary 
 Magdalen ; and the other, The Sun of the Magdalen shining 
 brighter in its setting. 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 final!)- 
 commands the broken columns and fallen capitals to return o 
 themselves to their places. The grossest pleasantries of the 
 buffoons who 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 Armesto, 
 secretary of the Inquisition, who published them in 173G. 
 They consist of the Life of the Sister Mary of Jesus de Agreda, 
 whom he designates as the greatest historian of sacred history ; 
 la Coronista masgrande de la mas sngrada historia, parte pri- 
 mera y segunda,. Of the many qualities with which Calderon 
 clothed his eccentric compositions, extravagance was the only 
 one that remained to the modern authors. But whilst the 
 taste of the 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 sarra- 
 mentales; and the house of Bourbon had already deprived the 
 people of another recreation not less dear to them, the Autog~ 
 da-fe. The last of these human sacrifices was celebrated in 
 1680, in conformity to the wishes of Charles II. and as a 
 D D 2
 
 428 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 festival at the same time religious and national, which wouU 
 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 longer 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 the 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, lie 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 the noblest faculties of our being, are 
 such as have been repeated in all treatises of this kind, 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 the imagination. 
 
 Some Spanish authors, about the middle of the last century,
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 429 
 
 commenced writing for the theatre, on the principles of Luzan, 
 and in the French style. He himself translated a piece of La 
 Chaus&ee, 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 same party. His work, entitled 
 Origenes de la Poesia Espanola, printed in 1754, shews how 
 much the ancient national poetry was then forgotten, since we 
 find a man of his genius and learning, 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 the 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 LITERATURE 
 
 The preachers endeavoured to compose long and sounding 
 periods, each member of which wao 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 quotation. 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 Scripture, 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 the Bible ; 
 they placed in requisition all their knowledge of antiquity, and 
 more especially treatises on ancient mythology; for, agreeably 
 to the system of Gongora, and the opinion which was formed 
 of the cultivated style, it was an acquaintance with fabulous 
 history, and a frequent display of it, which distinguished a 
 refined from a vulgar style. Witticisms, a play on words, and 
 equivoques, appeared to them oratorical strokes not unworthy 
 of the pulpit ; and popular preachers would not have been 
 tatisfied, if violent and repeated bursts of laughter had not 
 borne testimomy to their success. To attract and command 
 the attention from the outset, appeared to them the essence of 
 art ; and to attain this, they considered it no impropriety to 
 excite the attention of their audience by a jest, or to scanda- 
 lize them by a beginning which 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 reformers 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.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 431 
 
 ts 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 1'Isla, 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 while they have excluded philosophy from the 
 world of fashion, it has 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, 
 a 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 1'Isla 
 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 everything ridiculous in his way. At the same time the 
 reverend father, in his imitation of llabelais, has nevwr, like him, offended against 
 propriety of manners. We here give the ci'iimeuceine it of this epistle, and the 
 Costilian translation atterhed to it : 
 
 Hutawv
 
 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 orthography. The 
 scene becomes still more amusing, when Gerund appears 
 before the domine or governor, who enquires into his attain- 
 ments. It is impossible to describe in a more entertaining 
 Banner, 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 he endeavours to 
 instil into his pupil, for every thnig that is most bombastic 
 and ridiculous in the titles and dedications of books. Father 
 de 1'Isla 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 three 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 which 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 Church, Archbishop of Souls, 
 Elector of the Truth, Archduke of Glory, Duke of Life, 
 
 Hactcnus me intra vuigam animi lite- " Hasta aqui la excelsa ingratitud de tu 
 
 Bccntis inipitum, tua here tudoinstar mini sobcrania ha obscurecido en el animo, & 
 
 iuminis extimandea de normam redubiare manera dc clarissimo esplendor las apaga- 
 
 c'lmpellet sed antistar gerras meas anitas das antorchas del mas sonoro clarin, con 
 
 diributa, et posartitum nasonem quasi ecos luminosos, a impulses balbucientes 
 
 agredula : quibusdam lacunis. Barbur- de la furibumla fama. Pero quando exa- 
 
 rum stridorem averrucandus oblatero. mino el rosicler de los despojos al terso 
 
 Vos etiam viri optimi, ne mihi in anginam brufiirdel emisferio en e) blando oroscopo 
 
 vestrae hispiditatis arnauticutaclum car- del argentado catre, que elevado a la re* 
 
 men irreptet. Ad rabem meam magico- giun de la techumbre inspira oraculos al 
 
 pertit : cicure* quse conspiciteut alimones aoierto en bobedai de cristal ; niloayroso 
 
 nieu carnaboriU, quam ceniiones extetis, admite mas competencias. ni en !o htroyc* 
 
 tc. caben mas clocjuentes dkcnancias."
 
 OF 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 
 renting 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 prevailing. 
 
 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 the offerings of pious souls. 
 
 The young monk takes for his model the senior preacher 
 of his convent, Friar Bias, whose portrait 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." All 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 excitetl 
 the wonder of the people, and particularly of the cobbler of 
 the village an acknowledged judge in the oratorical art,
 
 434 ON THK LITERATURE 
 
 Antonio Zotes, who was at that time mojor-domo of the 
 brotherhood of the town of Campazas, sends for his son to 
 deliver his first public sermon there on the day of the feast 
 of the Holy Sacrament. The triumph of his relations, the 
 admiration of the villagers, the 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 forward, 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 him with their hats ; nor 
 did he forget to take out from time to time his white, cambric 
 handkerchief, with four knots of silk at tire 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, who 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 from the text. The 
 satirical Jesuit has in no degree overcharged them, and the 
 preposterous discourse which lie gives us, is by no means 
 more extraodinary than those which are often heard in the 
 churches of Spain and Italy. It is thus that he commences : 
 
 If the Holy Ghost has spoken to us the truth l>y the mouth of 
 Jeug Christ, how unhappy a wretch am I ! I shall be lost and utterly
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 436 
 
 confounded, for this oracle has declared that no man can be a preacher 
 or a prophet in his own country : Nemo Propheta in patrid sud. 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 omnea obediunt 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 terrorem. 
 
 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 fed, 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 this, 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 
 Spiritual Dei descendentem sicut columbam. 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 ] 
 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 desertum 
 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 in 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 : Ductua est a spiritu in desertum, ut tentaretur 
 a Di(tl)olo. And what else can a man do in the desert, than watch, 
 pray, fast, and endure temptation 1 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 cvmpus ubi Trojafu.it. 
 
 I never had the good fortune to hear a sermon from 
 Spanish monk ; but I once, when travelling, met by chancfl 
 with an Italian barber, who made a trade of selling sermon* 
 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. Ha
 
 436 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 understood a little French, and had the curiosity to turn over 
 many old books. In order to compose these marketable 
 sermons, 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 plagiar- 
 isms, 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, and I was 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 be had composed 
 them, I endeavoured, in the best way I 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 hero 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 with 
 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 that 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 those preachers who disfigure their composi- 
 tions by profane applications ; and, in short, he shews 
 himself through his whole book very warmly and sin- 
 cerely attached to his church. But all his zeal could not save 
 him from the animosity of a portion of the clergy, and 
 particularly of the mendicant order, who considered themselves 
 as more immediately the subject of his attack. They dis- 
 covered him under the assumed name by which he had en- 
 deavoured to conceal himself j they loaded him with invec*
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 43" 
 
 tivea, and engaged him in a literary warfare, whfch 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 History of Friar Gerund is 
 regarded 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 who ventured to attack the 
 French style, was Vincent Garcias de la Huerta, 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 Hut-rta 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 THE LITERATURE 
 
 America. Yet this piece is by no means perfect ; it is merely 
 an honourable proof of the 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 1195, 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 for a long time betwixt duty and 
 love, when a rebellion, which he had with difficulty 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- 
 rhirned 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 dignified 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 feeble. 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 Agamemnon vanyado, he attempted 
 to apply the romantic style to a classicnl subject ; he mingled 
 iambics with octaves and lyric verses, and he thus advanced a 
 step further in his approach to Calderon. It was after he had 
 acquired this title to the respect of the public, that Huerta, 
 in order to re-establish the reputation of the ancient drama- 
 tists, published, in 178o, his Teatro J^xpanol, 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 
 few pieces except comedies of the cloak and the sword, and he
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 43S 
 
 has not admitted a single play of Lope de Vega, the historical 
 pieces of Calderon, or any of his Autos Sarramentales. 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 Espaiiol, 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 author 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 saynetex. 
 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 Vaqiieros de Arunjuc:, which served as a prologue to a 
 translation of The Karbcr of Scrillc, the Tagus, the Escurial, 
 Madrid, and Loyalty, appeared at the same time with Shep- 
 herds and Shepherdesses. It is true, indeed, that the allegory 
 ia uot, throughout, treated with the ancient gravity, and that
 
 440 ON THE L1TERATUKE 
 
 the shepherds occasionally indulge in a jest on these eccentric 
 interlocutors assuming the human form. The pieces of Don 
 Ramon are like those of the early times, composed in redon- 
 dilhas assonantes, and lyric verses are occasionally mingled with 
 them to express passion or sensibility ; but this similarity of 
 exterior form only renders the contrast of manners more 
 striking ; we think ourselves 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 fathers 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 reverse del Sarao; prove to us that 
 Spain has exactly adopted the manners of Italy. Another 
 piece, taken from fashionable life, El Divorzio fcliz, 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 Fabulas 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 than when he borrowed the redondilhas of the ancient 
 Castilian romances. 
 
 Two of the fables of this author I shall here translate. Tin 
 first, Tlie ass and the flute, is adapted to a favourite populai
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 
 
 441 
 
 THH ASS AND THE FLUTK. 
 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 hepherd'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 t " 
 And asses in plenty 
 
 1 see at a glance, 
 Who, one time in twenty, 
 
 Succeed by mere chance. 
 
 EL BORBICO T LA FIAIJTA. 
 Esta fabulilla, 
 
 Saiga bien o ma], 
 
 Me ha ocurrido aliova 
 
 Por casualidad. 
 Cerca de unos prados 
 
 Que hai en mi lunar, 
 
 Passaba un borrico 
 
 Por casualidad. 
 Una flauta en ellos 
 
 Hallo, que un zagal 
 
 Se dexo olvidada 
 
 Por casualidad. 
 Acercose a olerla, 
 
 El dicho animal, 
 
 Y dio uu resoplido 
 
 Por casualidad. 
 En la ilauta el aire 
 
 Se hubo de colar, 
 
 Y sono la flauta 
 
 Por casualidad. 
 Oh ! dixo el borrico 
 
 Que 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 
 fimple redundiUtas, rhymed like the ancient romances : 
 
 THE BEAR AND THE MONKEY. 
 
 A bear with whom a Pietlmontese 
 
 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, my friend," 
 
 Bruin rejoin'd ; " you arc not civil ! 
 Were these legs given for you to mend 
 
 LOSO Y LA MONA. 
 
 Un oso, con que la vida 
 Ganaba un I'iamontes, 
 La no muy bien aprendida 
 Danza ensayaba ed dos pies. 
 
 Queriendo hacer de persona, 
 Dixo a una mona : Que tal ? 
 Era perita l;i mona, 
 Y rispondiole : muy mal. 
 
 Yo creo, replico e4 oso, 
 Que me haces poco favor, 
 Pues quo ? mi aire no es garbcsi ] 
 
 The ease and grace with which they swivel?" No hago el paso con primorf 
 
 It chanced a pig was standing by : 
 
 "Bravo! astonishing! Encore!" 
 Exclaim'd the critic of the sty, 
 
 " Such dancing we .shall sec no more!' 
 Poor Bruin, when he heard the sentence, 
 
 Began an inward calculation; 
 Theu. with a face that spoke repentance, 
 
 Express' d aloud his meditation. 
 M When the sly monkey cail'd me dunce, 
 
 I 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 
 
 Estaba el cerdo presente, 
 Y dixo bravo ! bien va ! 
 Baylarin mas excelcnte 
 No se ha visto ni vera. 
 
 Echo el oso, al vir esto, 
 Sus qucntas alia entre si, 
 Y con ademan modcsto 
 Hubo de cxclamar asi. 
 
 Quando me desaprobaba 
 La Mona, liegui- a dudar, 
 Mas ya que el ccrdo me alabi 
 Muy mal debo de baylar. 
 
 Guarde para su regalo 
 Esta sentencia un autor 
 Si el sabio no aprueba, maio ; 
 Si el uecio aplaudc, 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 with 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 Spanish 
 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 the 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 
 lis amongst the Spanish works, as the Cid himself amongst 
 
 The following is an idyl of Melendez: 
 
 Siendo yo nifio tierno, 
 Con la nifta Dorila, 
 Me andaba por la selva 
 Cogiendo florecillas, 
 De que alegres guirnaldas 
 Con graeia pcregrina 
 Para ambos coronarnos 
 Su niano disponia. 
 Asi en niifcces tales 
 Be juegos y delicias 
 Pasabamoa felices 
 Las lioras y los dias. 
 Con olios poco d poco 
 La edad corri6 de prisa, 
 Y fu de la inocencia 
 S.ikando la malicia. 
 Yo no se; mas al verme 
 Dorila s-2 reia, 
 
 Y A mi, de solo liablarla 
 Tambien me daba risa. 
 Luego al darle las flutes 
 Kl pecho me latia, 
 Y al ella coronarme 
 Quedabase cmbebida 
 Una tarde tras esto 
 Vimos dos tortolillas 
 (3ue con tremulos picoa 
 Se halagaban amigag. 
 Alentdnos su exemplo, 
 Y entre honestas caricias, 
 Nos contamos turbados 
 Nuestras dulces fatigas. 
 Y en un punto, qual s-inl u 
 Volo de nuestra vista 
 La nifles; mas en tornj 
 Nos diu el amor siu di:ba*.
 
 ^F I HE SPANIARDS. 44 J 
 
 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 tn 
 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 Melendez, 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 bJ 
 found in this original treasure. Boscan and Garcilaso, indeed, 
 gave it a new form, but not a new substance and a new life. 
 The same thoughts, the same romantic sentiments are found 
 a K?
 
 444 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 in these two poets and in their school, with the addition only 
 of a new dress 1 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 from this dull routine, and 
 would 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 sentiments, the opinions, the virtues, and 
 the prejudices of the middle ages ; the picture of 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 (Edipus 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 w* re not masters.
 
 Or TIIE 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 offend our taste, and that profusion 
 of images by which the poet seems desirous 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 different 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 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 STATE OP PORTUGUESE LITERATURE UNTIL THE MIDDLE OP THE KXT3XH\4I 
 CENTURY. 
 
 THESE now remains to be considered only one other 
 language of those which are denominated the Romance, or 
 such as are compounded of the Latin and Teutonic tongues ; 
 and we here approach the Portuguese. We have already ob- 
 served the rise and progress of the Provensal, the Romance- 
 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. The former ot 
 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 forward 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 different 
 countries of Europe. 
 
 The kingdom of Portugal forms, in fact, only an integral 
 portion of Spain, and was formerly 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 
 m the literary character of their 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 from the Castilian. It is true, indeed, 
 that their literature will be found much more complete than 
 abundant ; with examples of almost every kind of excellence, 
 'A 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 
 BO 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 
 lest 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 work 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 liffature of this 
 country. 
 
 Although the greater number of the PortugUoiin 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 Romagna. * 
 
 The Teutonic conquerors of Portugal very probably spoke a 
 different language from those of the rest of Spain ; and if any 
 monuments of the familiar language of the 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 we 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.! 
 
 * The contraction of the Portuguese language from the Spanish is eife3ted 
 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 dor, 
 grief; celos, ceos, heaven; mayor, 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 Affnnso; Alboquerque, 
 Aboquerque; or it is sometimes changed into an r; blando becomes brando ; and 
 plai/a, praja. The double / is changed into ch; for llegar we have cheyar ; for lleno, 
 c/ieo. 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 being fidaljo. 
 M is invariably substituted for nat the end of words ; and the nasal syllables of ion, are 
 changed into the nasal ones of a6. Thus nacion becomes nat; ao ; navigation, naciga<;a6. 
 
 t In his Europa Portuauesa, Manuel de Faria y Sousa presents us -with fragments 
 of an historical poem, in verses of arte mayor, 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, ho 
 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 monument of the Romance languages is, however, sufficiently 
 curious to merit attention ; and three stanzas are therefore here subjoined : 
 A Juliam 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' it ;.crco 
 
 Huma acimarom prasmada fazanha, Islam's brood" [band 
 
 Ca Muza, et Zariph com basta com- 'Neath the Miramnlin's sway ; a numerous 
 panha, Of shameless priests and nobles. Musa stood, 
 
 De juso da sina do Miramolino, And Zariph there, upon the Iberian strap'I. 
 
 Com falsa infancom et Prestes ma- Hail'd by the false count, who betray'd tj 
 linho, [panha. power 
 
 De Cepta aduxeron ao soUr d' lv. Of Bcetica, and yielded shrine and tower. 
 
 rt
 
 OP 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 consts of Spain, while the 
 eastern parts were occupied by the Arabs, ambitious of com- 
 manding the commerce of the 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 conquests 
 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 chiefly by Moc,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 Montes, or the 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 among 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 tinder the dominion of Morrocco, gave both the Portu- 
 
 Et porque era forca, adarve ct fofado He led them safely to that rocky pile, 
 
 Da lictica almina, et o seu Casteval Gibraltar's strength. Though stored with 
 
 O Conde por encha, et pro coiruinal, rich resource [while 
 
 Em terra os encreos poyaron a saa- Of full supplies, though men and arms the 
 
 grado. Bristled its walls, its keys without remors* 
 
 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 (It-lies 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 hostcs sedentos do sangue de on- clung [ing ill ; 
 
 judos To their dear faith, midst every threatcn- 
 
 Metero a cutelo aprcs de rendudos, Nor pity for the aged or the young 
 
 Sem que esguardassem nem srixoou Stay'd their fierce swords, till the\ had drunk 
 
 idade; their fill; Ihung 
 
 E tendo atimada a tal crueldade, No sex found mercy, though, unann'a, they 
 
 O templo e oiada 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 faUe vitli rites ab> 
 
 Ba besta Mafoma a medcs maldade. horrd.
 
 450 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 guese and the Castilians time to recover themselves, and tc 
 arrange plans of future aggrandizement. 
 
 About the 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 1090 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 tho 
 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 numbrr 
 of Mocarabian 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 otherwise changing the people. 
 Under the reign of the same Alfonso was achieved the 
 memorable victory of Ourique, 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, assembled 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 capital, with an immense population and an ex- 
 tensive commerce. 
 
 The great wealth and power enjoyed by this vast capital of 
 s 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 
 jwnsequence of the greater number of Mocarabians incorpo- 
 
 * Between 11 12 and 1185.
 
 OF 1UE PORTUGUESE. 451 
 
 "mted with tbe nation, the influence of Eastern manners waa 
 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 
 of 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 whose hills the most exquisite vines 
 seem to invite the hand of the inhabitant, we are surprised 
 to observe that 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. The 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 glory 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 nevel 
 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 chivalric 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 Avas 
 equally unknown to them. It was then that they first doubled 
 the appalling Cape of storms, called by King John II. with 
 happy foresight, 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. 
 
 The 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 Mo^arabians, 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 oC
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESV, 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 legislator, who reigned between 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 u 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 which 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 dc Faria, who cites them in his Europa Portugufia, confesses that ha 
 himself can comprehend only a few of the words, without, however, being able U 
 tolled their meaning. Europa Portugueta; vol. iii. p. iv. c. ix. pMte 379- *<
 
 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 reigna 
 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 Marias, j ustly 
 entitled ISEnamorado. 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
 
 CF T11E PORTUGUESE. 455 
 
 and Aragon and the domineering favourite and minister of hia 
 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 which 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 pivserverance, and, not mifrequently, totheircruelty. 
 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 pitying heart with fear; The wretch who dares thus madly soar, 
 
 All ask what more than mortal pains (Long shall I rue the 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, Aud warn'd me still, with Ixxiings vair., 
 
 Or say she heeds the tears I pour. Ol love despis'd and cold disdain. 
 
 Sackei, t. i. p. 13B, i 212 to 221
 
 456 ON THF LITERATURE 
 
 We ar? assured on the authority of Portuguese antiquaries 
 that the poetical followers of Macias were extremely nu 
 uierous, 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 melancholy 
 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 Cancioneri, 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 brilliant 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 
 J' 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 1790, to examine the Portuguese books 
 preserved in the Spanish libraries at Madrid. He there discovered a Portuguese 
 Cancioneiro, written in the fifteenth century, and containing the verses of one hundred 
 and fifty-five poets, whose names he records. All these poems are in the burlesque 
 tyle, but no specimens of them are given. Memoriat de Letteratura Potugueza, iii.CO. 
 
 This Cancioneiro, the first of its kind, is of extreme rarity. A copy is preserved in 
 the College of the Nobles at Lisbon. Another is in the possession of Sir Charles 
 Stuart, the English ambassador at the Court of France. No other copy is known. 
 The Cancioneiro of Kejrtendc, which was published at a subsequent period, is mow 
 frequently met v. iii.
 
 OF THE POUTUGUE8E. -15? 
 
 and in 1510, of Goa ; thus within a few years, adding an im- 
 mense empire to the crown of Portugal. 
 
 About t^e same period, under the reign of the great 
 Emmanuel, between the years 1495 and 1521, appeared 
 Bernardin Ribeyro, ona 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. 
 Here 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 extremely 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 ove* 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 
 Jimidst 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 
 tho events belonging to this pastoral world, and that ;D which 
 
 VOL. II. F f
 
 4/)8 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 (jwn 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 redondilhas, in a verse consisting of four 
 trochees, and a stanza of nine or ten lines. The eclogue is 
 nlways 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 very 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, wretched lover! whither flee? Triste de mi, que sera? 
 
 What refuge from the ills I bear? O eoitado que farei, 
 
 None to console me, or to free, Que nam sei onde me va 
 
 And none with whom my griefs to share! Com quern me consolarieT 
 
 Sad, to the wild waves of the sea Ou quern me consolara? 
 
 I tell the tale of my despair Ao longo das Kibeiras, 
 
 In broken accents, passion fraught, Ao som das sun.- agoas, 
 
 As wandering by some rocky steep, Chorarei muitas oanceiras, 
 
 I teach the echoes how to weep [taught. M in lias magoas derradeiras, 
 
 In dying strains, strains dying love hath Minhas derradeiras magoas. 
 
 There is not one of all I loved Todos fogem j,i de mini, 
 
 But fail'd me in my suffering hour, Todos me desempararem, 
 
 And raw ray silent tears unmoved. Meus males sos me ficarem, 
 
 Soon may these throbbing griefs o'erpower Pera me darem a fim 
 
 Both life and love, so Heaven approved ! Com que nunca *e acabaram 
 
 Fur she bath bade me hope no more. De todo bem desetjjftre.
 
 OIT TlIK PORTUGUESE. 459 
 
 I wou 1 Dot ish her such a doom: Pois me desesjiera quern 
 
 No! though she break this bruised heart. Me quermal quelhe namqueio; 
 
 1 co ild not wish her so to part [tomb. Nam Ihe quero se nam bem. 
 
 From all she loved, to Melt, like me, the Bein que nunca delha espero 
 How long these wretched days appear, O NIL-US desditosos dias 
 
 Consumed in vain and weak desiies; U meus dias desditosos: 
 
 Imagined joys that end in fear, C'oino vos his saudosos ( 
 
 And baffled hopes and wild love's fires. Saudosos de alegrias, 
 
 At last then, let me cease to bear D'alegrias desejosos; 
 
 The lot my sorrowing spirit tires! Deixame ja descansar, 
 
 For length of days fresh sorrow brings: Poisque eu vos faco triste* 
 
 I meet the coming hours with grief Tristes, porque meu pesar 
 
 Hours that can bring me no relief, Me den os males que vistes, 
 
 But deeper anguish on their silent wings. K 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 cantigns, however, 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 ;i 
 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 T ,, ey saVi Love s union) to be blest 
 
 On either part, should meet with free, 
 
 Ere yet I gazed upon your face, Unfettered 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 maj 
 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 Moya : 
 Tlie 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 may be considered in the light of a mixed pastoral and chi 
 valric story, which served as a model for the other poet? of 
 Portugal, and, in particular for Montemayor. Here, there- 
 fore, we find the source of the Diana, and of the prolific 
 
 v? 2
 
 46C ON THE LITERATTTRE 
 
 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 Falgam, a Knight of the Cross, 
 an Admiral, and Governor of Madeira. He was contem- 
 porary with Ribeyro, and, like him, composed eclogues, 
 equally full of romantic mysticism and the dreams and sor- 
 rows of love. The genius of Portuguese 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, Falgam 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 
 Mo$a; 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 
 roltas, 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 
 1.557 ; 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 passad'. 
 
 Amor, nam as posso dormir. E passado em mal present* , 
 
 Desque meus olhos olharom sentido desvelado 
 
 Em vos seu mal e scu bem, coracao descontente 
 
 Se algum tempo repousarom, J ulzo 1 ue esto se . nte , 
 
 Ja nenhum repouso tern. Como s , e . deve s f ntir - ' 
 
 Dias vam e noutes vem * " uco lelxara dormlr - 
 Bern vos ver nam vos ouvir ; Como nam vi o que vejo 
 
 Como as poderei dormir f Cos olhos do corafam, 
 
 Meu pensamento ocupad ) Nam me deito sem desseju 
 
 Na causa de seu pesar, Nem me erguo sem paixam. 
 
 Acorda sempre o cuidado 9 s dia ? sem vos ver ' vam - 
 
 Para nunca dcscuidar. As noltes sem s ouv.r 
 
 As noites do repousar Eu nwr P OIio do ' m ' r 
 Dias sain ao meu sentir, 
 cloutei de meu nam dormi'
 
 OP THE PORTUGUESE. 481 
 
 1540, he introduced into his states the Spanish Inquisition 
 in order to enslave 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 
 grandson, 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 Monternayor, 
 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 mest pleasing 
 
 
 
 A long letter from this king to Joa6 de Castro, on the method of introducing 
 Christianity into the Indies, is cited by L. F. de Andrada, in the life of the governor 
 f the Indies, at a monumentof the king's piety: booki. pp. 74 86. It displays only 
 the excel* of his intolerance, his despotism, and the narrow-new of his mind.
 
 62 ON THE L1TKRATURE 
 
 characters, although not unfrequently suffering under the 
 dominion of a deep and settled melancholy. So liable, indeed, 
 was he to its sudden influence, 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 fastened upon him 
 by one of the favourite 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. 
 
 SONNKT. 
 
 I know not, lady, by what nameless charm 
 
 Those looks, that voice, that smile, have each the power 
 Of kindling loftier thoughts, and feelings more 
 
 Resolved 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. 4fi3 
 
 Whence arc those mild and mournful sounds 1 hear, 
 Through every land, and on the pathless wa ' 
 Is it pome 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 1* 
 
 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 
 l>een 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 owr. 
 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 bowera, 
 
 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 recurred 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 vo* mas vejo, nao sey que Em verdade na6 sey que he isto que anda 
 
 Mais 01190 et sinto ao vir vosso, ft fallar; Entre nos, ou so he .ir, conio parece, 
 
 Nad ey que entemlo mais, te n\ cailar, Ou fogo d'outra sorte, et d'oulra ley, 
 Nem.quando vos nam vejo, alma que vee. 
 
 Q'.ie Ihe aparcce em qual ; .irtc que i-.tr. Km que ando, de que vivo, el nunca 
 
 <) in 1 o Ceo, olhe a terra, ou olhe oir.ar, abranda 
 
 h irUte aquelle vosso susurrar, Por ventura que .1 vista resplandece. 
 
 Km que t.uito mais vai, que dircy quce? Ora o que eu sey tau mat coino < irey >
 
 464 ON .THE LITERATURE 
 
 we 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 
 liis 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 Epistolce 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, hua so te, 
 
 Who cannot stoop, though he may fall, D'antes quebrar que torcer, 
 
 Will fearless go wherever Fate may call, Elle 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- 
 vencal is cited in the fifth chapter; vol. i. p. 197. We now rarely meet with the 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, era - vista as sanceadas 
 
 Nam andes nesses antejos *;Ssas, <I ue tlnha mal . s P erto - 
 
 Nam sejas tarn vindo a banda, l\ armar as trovoadas - 
 
 Temte a volta cos dest-jos. Alongou rnais as passadas, 
 
 Anda por onde o carro anda; * ovse acolhendo ao cuberto. 
 
 Vez como os mundos saci feitos; 33 
 
 Somos muitos, tu s6 es : Ao outro dia, hum Ihe dava 
 
 Poucos sa6 os satisfeitos, Paparotes no nariz, 
 
 Hum esquerdo entre os direitos Vinha outro que o etcornava, 
 
 Parece que anda ao revez. Ei tambem era o juiz 
 
 Que de riso se finava. 
 Bradava die, homens olhay 1 
 
 Dia de Mayo cboreo; Hiam Die co dedo ao olho ; 
 
 A quantos agoa alcancou Dissc entam, pois assi vay 
 
 A tantos endoudeceo; Nam creo logo em meu pay. 
 
 OUT* bum so que se salvou, Se me desia agoa nam n olho.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 46 
 
 Portugal, imbibed during its commerce with the East. It 
 will be found to run as follows : 
 
 So rude were our forefathers in the lore Dizem dos missns passado*, 
 
 Of letters, that they scarce knew how to read; Que os mais nao sabiam ler, 
 
 Though valiant all and virtuous: not the i.cre Erani boas, erain ousados ; 
 
 I praise their ignorance; but I would plead Eu nam ;,'abo o nam saber, 
 
 For the grave manners by our sires of yore Coino algus as gracas iladog. 
 
 Obscned, 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 thouownest; like that conqueror blind Vencedor de tantos annos. 
 
 And madly weak, who triumph'd but to die ; A tempestade espantosa 
 
 He whom Rome's proudestgenerals could not bind, De Trebia, de Trasimeno, 
 
 Nor Trebia, Thrasimene, nor Canna tame, De Canas, Capua vicosa 
 
 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 more 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 Ales^ar, 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 ot 
 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 Machiavc'., of Plautus 
 and of Terence ; and he prpduced, among others, two come- 
 dies which may be referred to the class of erudite cotnedies 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 
 Estranyeiros : The Strangers; the other, Os VillulpandioSy 
 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 which 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 for the knowledge of two 
 extracts from them, one of which is an evident imitation of 
 the Adelphi 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 eclogues. 
 
 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 highest 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 the 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
 
 Or THE PORTUGUESE. 4G7 
 
 his time to the composition of redondilhas, or of any other 
 species of verse in the 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, 
 botli of thought and language, was requisite to the poetical 
 beauty of every finished performance. It was one of his ob- 
 jects to banish every species of orientalism from the literature 
 of his country; and lie 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 
 what may be termed the poetry of language. By an union ot 
 these, he 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 ^re, 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 are unable to detect many defects in the poe- 
 try of Ferreira, we are, on the 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 the 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 ar.d i>j- 
 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 o:ir
 
 468 ON THE LITEUATL'RR 
 
 selves with him for a moment. The power which such a poet 
 exercise over us, is still further lost in a translation. The 
 sonnets of Ferreira remind us of Petrarch, and liis odes, of 
 Horace ; but in neither of these departments does the imita- 
 tor rival the excellence of his models. Of his elegies, the 
 greater part are filled with expressions of regret, which do not 
 appear to have proceeded from the heart of the writer, being 
 chiefly written on the 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 the 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 Jar the 
 most voluminous portion of his works, are, likewise, in the 
 opinion of Boutterwek, the most excellent.* They 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. Tome they appear to 
 be of a far higher order than his lyric poems ; but their au- 
 thor must, after all, be referred to the school of modern 
 imitators of the ancients ; a school which 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 example of the miscellaneous pieces of Ferreira, we adduce a sonnet 
 which appears to have been addressed to his mistress, Marilia : 
 Quando entoar comeco, com voz bramla, Tudo se ri, se alegra e reverdece. 
 
 Vosso nome d'amor doce e soave, [ave, Todo inundo parece que renova, 
 
 A terra, o mar, vcnto, agna, flor, folha, Nem ha triste planeta ou dura sorte. 
 
 Aobrandosoms'alegra.moveeabranda. A mim y alma go chorB) e se en tristece. 
 Mem nuvem cobre o ceo, nem na gente Maravilha d'amor cruel e nova ! 
 
 anda O que a todus traz vida, a mini trai 
 
 Traballioso cuidado, ou peso grave. : rit. 
 
 Nova c6r toma o sol, ou se erga. ou lave 
 
 Kc ciaro Tejo, e nova luz nos manda
 
 Of THE PORTUGUESE. 469 
 
 had as yet no existence, and that of Italy had only just risen 
 into notice. The death of Trissino occurred only nine years 
 before that of Ferreira ; so that his Saphonuba 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 
 aiinded 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
 
 470 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 (Howbeit his name be never bruited forth) 
 Passes his days. blissful days, how gladly 
 Whole years of weary life, thus worn with toilB, 
 Would I exchange for you ! I fear mankind : 
 Some men there are with whom I must dissemble ; 
 Others, whom 1 would strike, 1 dare not reach at. 
 What ! be a king and dare not 1 Ay ! the monarch 
 Is awed by his own people ; doom'd to suffer, 
 And smile and simulate. So, 1 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 quits admissible, but which goes to the very heart 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 ! Night ! 
 
 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 the chorus in the succeeding 
 cene : 
 
 CHORUS. Too piteous tidings, 
 Tidings of death and woe, alaa ! we bring ; 
 Too cruel to be heard, unhappy Inez. 
 Thou hast not merited the dreadful fate 
 Which surely waits thee now. NURSE. What say you ? Spc-ak ! 
 
 CHORUS. Tears choke my words. 
 
 INEZ. Why I wherefore should you weep ? 
 
 CHORUS. To gaze upon that face those eyes 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. She is soon, however, undeceived j 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 succoui. haste, ye pitying virgins ! 
 All noble-hearted eaen who aid the innocent ! 
 Weep, weep no more, my boys ! "Pis I should grieve 
 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 m 
 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 
 affords 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 the 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, whom she presents to him. tl e 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 suffering, 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 wordb, 
 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 I no friend 1 where are my friends 1 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 bluntec 
 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 a':. 
 
 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 condeum'd thee 
 
 Unjustly, as it seems ; yet we shall follow
 
 OP THE PORTUGUESE. 473 
 
 Thy steps ere long, and at the judgment-seat 
 
 Bender 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 anjd 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 Camiuha, 
 one of the most celebrated of these, was a zealous friend and 
 imitator of Ferreira. 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 
 ecretary to the embassy from the court of Lisbon to Philip IL 
 
 TOL. II G G
 
 i74 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 of Spain. He afterwards 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, he returned and resided in his own 
 country, 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 Lyma, 
 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 Ihe 
 poems of Camoens ; but the spirit of the compositions is by 
 no means the same. We are no where affected by powerful 
 touches 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, bright Adonis ! brightest of our train ! 
 
 For thee our mountain pastures greenest sprung, 
 Transparent fountains water' d every plain, 
 
 And lavish nature pour'd, as once when young, 
 Spontaneous fruits, that ask'd no fostering care ; 
 
 With thee our flocks from dangers wander'd free 
 Along the hills, nor did the fierce wolf dare 
 
 To snatch by stealth thy timorous charge from thee I 
 BTLVIO. Come pour with me 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. 
 SxRaAHO. Let every living thing that walks the earth, 
 
 Or wings the heavens, or sails the oozy deep, 
 Unite their sighs to ours. Adieu to mirth, 
 
 Pleasures, and joys, adieu, for we must weep. 
 SILVIO. 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 th/ fair cheek, pluck forth the blooming rose.
 
 Or THE PORTUGUESE. 474 
 
 Faint and more fain*, 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 with the brilliant flights ot 
 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. 
 
 fc0IS DE CAMOEK9 : LUSIADA8. 
 
 WE next proceed to consider the merits of the illustrious 
 can who has long been considered the clwef and almost the 
 only boast of his country. Camoens, indeed, is the sole poet 
 of Portugal, whose celebrity has extended beyond the Penin- 
 tula, and whose name appears in the list of those who have 
 o o 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 Camoens was descended from a noble, though by 
 o means a wealthy, family. He was the son of Simon Va 
 de Camoens. One, of his ancestors, of the name of Vasco 
 Perez, who had acquired some reputation as a Galician poet, 
 quitted the 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. While 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 
 nt 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 she 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 
 i certain that his 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 affection at last led him 
 to the resolution of embracing a military life, and he volun*
 
 OF THE PORTUGUFSF1. 477 
 
 teered his services into the Portuguese fleet, then employed 
 against the African powers. It was not without a feeling ot' 
 pride that he thus united the character of a hero and a poet ; 
 continuing, 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, 
 Inyrnta patria nee ossa quidetn habeMs! 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 companion! 
 in arms fell victims, during this campaign, to the fatal insalu- 
 brity of the clim;ite. 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 witl fresh force, while he trod those eastern scenes, 
 rendered famous by the exploits of his countrymen. But the 
 abuses of the government excited his strongest feelings 
 of indignation, and instead of attempting to conciliate an ad- 
 ministration which had yet shown him no favour, he wrote 9 
 bitter satire on its conduct. The Dijf)>arntes na India, or 
 Follies in India, was a severe mortification, on its appear
 
 478 ON TH2 LITERATURE 
 
 ance, to the feelings of the viceroy. He immediately banished 
 the unfortunate poet to the Isle of Macao, situated on tha 
 coast of China ; and while there, Camoens made an excur- 
 sion into the Moluccas. But here, as he himself relates, 
 while in one hand he bore his books, and in the other 
 his sword : 
 
 N'huma mao livros, n'outra ferro et 390, 
 N'huma mao sempre a espada, n'outra a pena 
 
 in neither career did he meet with the success which he 
 deserved. His necessities at last compelled him to accept the 
 situation of commissary for the effects of the deceased, jrro- 
 vedormor dos defuntos, at Macao. 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 the most elevated point of the isthmus 
 which 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 lofty chain of mountains 
 which rise above their shores. Here he is said to have 
 invoked the genius of the 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 ; but he was shipwrecked 
 on his passage at the mouth of the river Gambia. He saved 
 himself by clinging to a plank, 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 his 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 treasure?. 
 
 At the moment when Camoens set his loot on his native 
 shore, a dreadful plague was prosecuting its ravages in the
 
 OF THE rOUTFGCJESE. 479 
 
 kingdom of Portugal. In the midst of universal sorrow 
 and alarm, no attention was 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- 
 "ected 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 tor 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 Alca9ar 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. TV.] 
 
 t Quern ouvio diter que era ta6 pequeno tcatro, como o de hum pobre leito, quues 
 a fortuna representar tao grandes desventuraii t K eu, como te el^s n<i baitauen:.
 
 480 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 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 his memory until sixteen 
 years after his decease. The 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 Lmiados, 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 performed by his com- 
 patriots in other quarters of the world, together with whatever 
 of splendid and heroic achievement, historical narration or 
 popular fables could supply. 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 Lisbon's shore, As armas e os Baroes assinalador 
 
 Through seas where sail was never spread before, Que da occidental praja Lusitana 
 
 Beyond where Ceylon lifts her spicy breast, For mares nuncad'antesnavegados. 
 
 And waves her woods above the wat'ry waste, Passaram aindaalem daTaprobana 
 
 With prowess more than human forc'd their way Que em perigos e guerras esforcadoe 
 
 To the fair kingdoms of the rising day : Mais do que promettia a forca hu- 
 
 What wars they wag'd, what seas, what dangers mana, 
 
 past, Entre gente remota edificAram 
 
 What glorious empire crown'd their toils at last, Novo reino que tanto sublimaram. 
 Vent'rous I sins, " soaring pinions borne, 
 
 And all my country's wars the song adorn ; E tamhem as memorias gloriosai 
 
 What kind's, what heroes of my native land D'aquelles reis que forani dilatando 
 
 Thunder'd on Asia's and on Afric's strand : A fe, o imperio, e as terras viciosat 
 
 me ponho ainda da sua parte. Porque procnrar resistir a tantos males, pareceria 
 especie de desavergonhamento. 
 
 * The negligence and indifference shewn towards Camoens have been recently 
 atoned for by the patriotic zeal of 1). Jose Maria de Souza Botellm It was his wisti 
 to raise the noblest and most splendid monument to the first of the Portuguese poets; 
 and to this he devoted a grout share of his fortune and of his time. He produced his 
 splendid edition of the Lusiad, at Paris, 1817, in folio, after having reviseil the text 
 with the most scrupulous care, and embellished it with all that the arts of typography, 
 design, and i-ngraving could lavish on a book, intended to be presented as an orna- 
 tctnt to the most celebrated libraries of Europe, Asia, and America. He would not 
 ven permit a single copy to be gold, in order that not the remotest suspicion of 
 emolument might attach to so disinterested and patriotic an undertaking.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE, 431 
 
 Illustrious shade* bo leteU'd in the dust De Africa e de Asia amlaram, de- 
 
 The idol-temples and the shrines of lust ; vastando : 
 
 And where, erewhile, foul demons were rever"d, E aquellas que porobras valerosa* 
 
 To holy faith unnumber'd altars rpar'd: Se va6 da lei da moite libertando, 
 
 Illustrious names, with deathless laurels crown'd, Cantandoespalharei por todaparte, 
 
 While time rolls on in every clime renown'dl* Se a tar.to 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. Trissino had, indeed, attempted the subject 
 of the liberation of Italy from the Goths, but had not suc- 
 ceeded. Several of the Castilians had, likewise, dignified with 
 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 thrown 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 lie 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 1563, 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 thu 
 poetical works of Carnoens and those of the Italian school, 
 resemblances much more remarkable and striking than any 
 we meet with between the Spanish poets and the Italians. 
 For his verse he made choice of the heroic iambic, in rhymed 
 octave stanzas, the metre of Ariosto, in preference to the verso 
 sciolto of Trissino, or unrhymed iambic, lie 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 the poet, like'the actuating motives of his heroes, ought 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 haa 
 
 * [The passages quoted from the Lu'd are extracted from Mr. Mickle's 
 tiou." TV.]
 
 482 ON THE J.ITEBATURE 
 
 invested his subject with a decree 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 pictures 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 through the whole 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, 
 when 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 tne 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 hear the muse's lay 
 
 While thy green years to manhood speed a^ray : 
 
 The youthful terrors of thy brow suspend, 
 
 And, oh ! propitious, to the song attend, 
 
 The numerous song, by patriot-passion fir'd, 
 
 And by the glories of thy race inspir'd : 
 
 To be the herald of my country's fame, 
 
 My first ambition and my dearest aim : 
 
 Nor conquests fabulous, nor actions vain, 
 
 The muse's pastime, here adorn the strain : 
 
 Orlando's fury, and Rugero's rage, 
 
 And all the heroes of the Aonian page, 
 
 The dreams of bards surpass'd the world shall view 
 
 And own their boldest fiction! may be true ;
 
 OP THE PORTUGUESE. 483 
 
 Snrpass'd, and dimm'd by the superior blaze 
 
 Of Qama's mighty deeda. wnictt 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 his 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 
 game 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. itr. 10.
 
 484 ON THK LITERATURE 
 
 work, embracing the past, the present, and the future, were 
 all intimately blended with the 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 shade the nominal hero of the 
 poem, and while they weakened the impression which a more 
 enlarged account of Lybia and of India might have produced, 
 they involved the 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 charm attached to the sacred wars 
 which he sung ; while Camoens, on the other hand, conferred 
 on his subject a degree of interest which it did not originally 
 possess. Jt called for 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 the poet, that he was enabled to celebrate the memory 
 of his heroes. But he accomplished the difficult task of 
 reconciling an historical view of Portugal with poetical fiction ; 
 and he has every where thrown light upon it, with a masterly 
 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 the attempt. In the epic, perhaps, 
 more than in any other class of composition, the poet has less 
 power of commanding the attention, and has 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 
 with his subject, that they recall only the noblest recollections ; 
 and he leads us to regret that the author should not have 
 bestowed those powers on a theme which might have been in- 
 trinsically endowed with all that interest which his superior 
 genius alone enabled him to give to the subject of his choice. 
 Camoens was fully aware that, in thus treating an historical 
 subject, he must assume a loftier tone thar 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 ana
 
 Or THE PORTUGUESE. 481 
 
 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 requisite in all epic pro- 
 ductions, leaving to the poet only the choice of the different 
 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 now 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 approaching to something like that of faith. 
 Love, whenever introduced into verse, necessarily assumed 
 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 i'rom the lyric 
 muse. We find the odes of Lebrun as full :*' invocations
 
 486 ON THE 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 exhibits 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, the 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 affairs. 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 the 
 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 
 Numantia of Cervantes, and in the Diana of Montemayor. 
 
 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 published this work. 
 Both careful editions and translations of this national poem have multiplied. That oi 
 M . Briccolani, just published in Italian, is better adapted than any other to convey j 
 correct impression of the work to readers unacquainted with the Portugese. White 
 file translator scrupulously adheres to the sense, to the allegory, and to the origind 
 f'rm, even so far as to render Terse for verse in the same metre, he has preserved the 
 inspiration of brilliant poetry. See I Lusiadi del Camoeus recati in ottava rima di 
 A. Uriccolui." Parigi, F. D dot, 1826.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 487 
 
 to give, will at once throw light upon the argument of th 
 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 controlb 
 
 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, 
 
 Th' 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 Phoabus 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 dread 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- 
 rins, 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 regions 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. 16.
 
 48* ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 frankly declares against them. Venus, on the other hand, 
 so much honoured and cherished by the Portuguese, imagines 
 she has again found her ancient Romans ; their language 
 appears to her to be the same, with a few slight variations ; 
 and she 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.* Mars, equally favourable to the 
 Portuguese, at last prevails upon the Thunderer to support 
 them and to send Mercury to direct them in their course ; 
 and the deities then severally depart to their accustomed seats. 
 After thus introducing us to the councils of the gods, 
 Camoens recalls our attention to the heroic personages of his 
 poem. They were navigating the straits which separate the 
 isle of Madagascar 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 surrounded 
 him 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 
 no\v cast anchor at one of these islands, named Mozambique, 
 a sort of emporium for the trade of the kingdoms of Quiloa, 
 Momba9a, and Sofala. The Moors who had interrogated 
 Gama were themselves foreign merchants trading in the 
 country. When 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 Christian and Portuguese fleet, they attempted to 
 dissuade him from his enterprise. Bacchus, appearing under 
 the figure of an old man before the Cheik of Mozambique. 
 exasperates him against the Portuguese, and induces him to 
 prepare an ambuscade near some fresh springs, whither they 
 are just repairing to supply themselves with water. With 
 
 dual austro fcro ou Boreas, naespessura Brama loda a montanha, o s<an munmira, 
 De sylvestrc arvorcdo abastecida, Itompcmse as follias. fcrvea surra erguida, 
 
 Mompendo os ramos vao clamata csrura, Tal andava o tumult" levanlado 
 Com impetc t trareza deatnedida, Kntrc os Ucoses no Olympo consagrado. 
 
 Canto i. str. 31
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 489 
 
 this design, Garaa 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 their 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 inhabited 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, 
 counteracts the intended treachery, and directs the vessel 
 towards Mombaca, where the pilot likewise informed Gama 
 that he would meet with Christians. It is hardly likely that 
 by this assertion the Moors intended todeceive 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 
 je 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 Mombasa, where the king had been already apprised of 
 *heir 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 
 <ame 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 Moml f ?a. affects to 
 receive them with hospitality, and himself prcsi.l f over the 
 
 VOL. II. 11 -i
 
 490 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 feast in an edifice ornamented like a temple. The Virgin 
 Mary and the Holy Ghost are represented on the altar ; tho 
 statues of the Apostles embellish the portico of the temple ; 
 while Bacchus himself, assuming the character of a priest, 
 worships the 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 fiend*?, invested with actual power and 
 existence, and that 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 marvellous inci- 
 dent thus introduced by Camoens, was on historical record 
 amongst the Portuguese. These hardy navigators were, in 
 fact, received at Mombaga, 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 sufficient in 
 the eyes of theologians to justify the denunciations of the 
 church against their religion, as an illusion of the 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 might 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 fable ; nor has 
 he sufficiently availed himself of the advantages afforded 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 Momba9a, 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 
 
 Itruet'jon ; 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 
 tliey bear h<?r, to fly to the assistance of her favoured people, 
 and avert the impending doom. The Nereids throng affec- 
 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 desirous 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 t 
 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 
 
 * Cuto ii. ttr. 22. t Canto U. rtr. JJ to U. 
 
 BBS
 
 492 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 avails himself to give a long recital from the mouth of his 
 hero, not only of his past adventures, but of the general 
 history of his country. This narrative 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 JEneas to Dido, both of 
 which 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 the 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 Thracianssubjected to the Ottoman yoke ; and of 
 the inhabitants of 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 Christ, 
 The Gauls, whose fame is coeval with the triumphs of Caesar ; 
 are next noticed ? and, at last, the poet arrives at the hills ol 
 the Pyrenees, and thus continues : 
 
 And now, as head of all the lordlj 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 foea, 
 
 And still with fairer bloom her honours rose. 
 
 Where, lock'd with land, the struggling currents boil, 
 
 Famed for the god-like Theban's latest toil.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 493 
 
 Aga ist 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 1 er standard rear d 
 
 In conqucr'd Naples ; and for art revered, 
 
 Galicia's prudent sons : th fierce Kavar; 
 
 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 Beds water'd ; here, th pride of Spain, 
 
 The brave Castilian pause* 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 w stern bound, 
 
 Whose verdant breast the rolling waves surn.und, 
 
 Where gentle evening pours her lambent ray, 
 
 The last pale gleaming of departing day : 
 
 This, this, O mighty king, the sacred earth, 
 
 This the loved parent-soil that gave me birth. 
 
 And oh, would bounteous Heaven my prayer regmd, 
 
 And fair success my perilous toils reward, 
 
 May that dear land my latest breath receive, 
 
 And give my weary bones a peaceful grave. 
 
 Gama then 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 tiling calculated to inspire 
 ua with the loftiest virtues, or the most touching grief's 
 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 10 them as 
 national records only. The account given by Gama will 
 supply us with the following short abridgment of the history 
 of Portugal.
 
 494 Off THE LITKRATUHE 
 
 At the time when King Alfonso VI. by the cc.lquest 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, thougli 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- 
 treases 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 otier complete submission ; and pledged for it3 
 performance the word of Egaz Moniz, a Portuguese noble- 
 man, his former tutor, and the same individual who is cele- 
 brated as the earliest poet of Portugal. But the immediate 
 danger being once removed, Alfonso felt his relu<:;.jnce to 
 submit to foreign authority, and to pay a foreign tribute, 
 again revive. Egaz Moniz was as unwilling to remain 
 pledged for the word of a perjured prince, as to contribute, 
 in order to save his own life, to the ruin of his country.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 
 
 When Egas to redeem his filth's disgrace 
 Devotes himself, his spouse, and infant race : 
 In gowns of white, 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, king, the kneeling Egas cries, 
 Behold my perjured 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 dsath 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. 
 80 great a leader thus in humbled state, 
 tv> firm his loyalty, and zeal so great, 
 The brave Alonzo's kindled ire subdued, 
 And lost in silent joy the monarch sto^d ; 
 Then gave the hand, and sheath'd the hostile sword, 
 And to such honour honour'd peace restored.* 
 
 After the civil wars of Alfonso I. Vasco de Gama proceeds 
 to recount the exploits of that prince against the Moors, and. 
 in particular, the victory of Ourique, gained on the twenty- 
 sixth of July, 1139, which 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 escutcheons 
 ranged in the form of a cross, on which were represented the 
 thirty pieces, the price lor which Jesus was betrayed. The 
 strongest places in Portugal, still occupied by the Moors, 
 were reduced to submission after this victory. The city ot 
 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. sir. 38.
 
 196 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 his career of success, defeated the Moors in repeated engage- 
 ments, and possessed himself of their 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 kin^rs, 
 and the Emin el Murnenim, 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 1185. 
 
 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 
 tlie conquest of Alcazar do Sal, by Alfonso II., and by the 
 weakness and cowardice of Don Sancho II., who, sunk in 
 sloth and pleasure, was deposed, in order to make way for 
 his brother Alfonso III. 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 The lirave, 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 Almoades Moors, conducted 
 by the Emperor of Morocco, Alfonso brought an army of 
 uxili.i.*ies to the assistance of the King of Castile, to whom
 
 OF THE POUTUGUESE. 497 
 
 he had married his daughter, and bore a share in the brilliant 
 victory of Tarif'a, 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 Camoens so much indulged. 
 
 'Twas thou, love, whose dreaded shafts control 
 The hind's rude heart, and tear the hero's soul ; 
 Thou ruthless power, with bloodshed never cloy'd, 
 'Twos thou thy lovely votary destroy 'd. 
 Thy thirst still burning for a deeper woe, 
 In vain to thee the tears rf beauty flow : 
 The breast that feels thy purest flames divine, 
 With spouting gore must bathe thy cruel shrine. 
 Such thy dire triumphs ! Thou, 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 bowers 
 Languish'd away the slow and lonely hours . 
 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 sigh'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 o'er 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, 
 For thee the profier'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 ii, 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 
 Beaolves to quench his Pedro's faithful fire. 
 " Camu in. sfir. 12u, 121.
 
 498 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 Oh, thou dread sword, oft stain'd with heroes' gore, 
 Thou awful terror of the prostrate Moor, 
 What rage could aim thee at a female breast, 
 Vnarm'd, by softness and by love possess'd ' 
 
 Dragg'd from her bower by murderous ruffian 
 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 confess'd : 
 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 beauteous eyes in trembling tear-drops drown'd, 
 To heaven she lifted, but her hands were bound ; 
 Then on her infants turn'd the piteous glance, 
 The look of bleeding woe ; the babes advance, 
 Smiling in innocence of infant age, 
 Unawed, 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 :* 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, 
 Nor 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 heaveu, 
 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 offence in fond affection 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 rago 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 vanquisli'd Afric tell,f 
 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. f :i. 128.
 
 Or THE PORTUGUESE. 199 
 
 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 bowlings 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 womb, 
 
 Amid the horrors of sepulchral gloom, 
 
 For 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, 
 
 Amidst 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 M shiafc 
 Oh, foul disgrace, of knighthood lasting stain, 
 By men of arms an helpless lady slain ! 
 
 Thus Pyrrhus, burning with unmanly ire,* 
 Fulfill'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 bedew'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 aw.vy, 
 
 * Canto Ui sti .2. u>
 
 fiOO ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 Lies faded on. the plain, the living red, 
 
 The snowy white, and all its fragrance f.ed ; 
 
 So from her cheeks the roses died away, 
 
 And pale in death the beauteous Inez lay : 
 
 With dreadful smiles, and crimson'd with her tiic."^, 
 
 Round the wan victim the stern murderers stood, 
 
 Unmindful of the sure, though future hour, 
 
 Sacred to vengeance and her lover's power. 
 
 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 valea ! 
 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 murmurr 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, i 
 
 And stern-brow'd justice in their doom conspire : > 
 
 In hissing flames they die, and yield their souls in fire. 3 
 
 Don Pedro, after the loss of his mistress, giving way to liia 
 ferocious feelings, signalized his reign only by acts of cruelty ; 
 while 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. He left behind him 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 this, 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 they should adopt ; but 
 Don Nuno Alvarez Pereira, by his eloquence in the national 
 touncil, prevailed upon the nobles of the land to rally round
 
 Or THE PORTUGCESfc. 501 
 
 ttioir 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 was 
 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 
 liaughty 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 i*. tt*. 14
 
 502 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 for this purpose, of Vasco de G-ama, who, in the fifth book, 
 commences the recital of his own voyage and discoveries. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 SEQUEL OF THE LUSIAI). 
 
 ARRIVED, as we now are, 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 the 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. Fur a long period Cape 
 Non, situated at the extremity of the empire of Morocco, had 
 been considered as the 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 
 Grood Hope. Each 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, however, 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 from their country, to 
 supply their exhausted magazines, to recruit their strength, 
 and tc repair the various disasters of the sea and climate.
 
 or rn& IVRTUGUESE. 503 
 
 But at length, in 1486, the vessel of Bartclcrr.eo 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 ba 
 discovered before am ring 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 were 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, 
 " ! mighty God ! be thou our watchful guide."
 
 04 ON THE LITERATUnS 
 
 \Vhile kneeling thus before the sacred shrine 
 
 In holy faith's most solemn rite we join, 
 
 Our peace with heaven the bread of peace confirm^ 
 
 And meek contrition every bosom warms : 
 
 Sudden the lights extinguish'd, 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 steps 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 3 
 
 Forgive, king, if as a man I feel, 
 
 I bear no bosom of obdurate steel 
 
 (The godlike hero here suppressed 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-offer'd victims to destruction sold, 
 
 On us they fixed the eager look of woe, 
 
 While tears o'er every cheek began to flow ; 
 
 When thus aloud, Alas ! my son, niy 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 J 
 
 Was it for this 1 watch'd thy tender years, 
 
 And bore each fever of a father's fears 1 
 
 Alas ! my boy ! his voice is heard no more. 
 
 The female shriek resounds along the shoie : 
 
 With hair dishevell'd, through the yielding crowd 
 
 A lovely bride springs on, and screams aloud : 
 
 Oh ! where, my husband, where to seas unknowt, 
 
 Where wouldst thou fly me, and my love disown 1 
 
 And wilt thou, cruel, to the deep consign 
 
 That valued life, the joy, the soul of mine : 
 
 Canto U. tr. &
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 505 
 
 And must our loves, and all the kindred train 
 Of rapt endearments, all expire in vain \ 
 All the dear transports of the warm embrace ; 
 When mutual love inspired each raptured face ; 
 Must all, alas ! be scatter'd in the wind, 
 Nor thou bestow one lingering look behind I 
 
 Such the lorn parents' and the spouses' woes, 
 Such o'er the strand the voice of wailing rose ; 
 From breast to >reast the soft contagion orept, 
 Moved by the w:>eful 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 silver'd 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. 
 Though glory fired 'our hearts, too well we knew 
 What soft aflection 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 stracd, 
 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 rear'd, 
 And through the fleet these awful words were heard : 
 
 frantic thirst of honour and of fame, 
 The crowd's blind tribute, a fallacious name ; 
 What stings, what plagues, what secret scourges curst, 
 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 woes are pour'd on human kind ; 
 Kingdoms and empires in confusion hurl'd, 
 What streams of gore have drench'd the hapless world . 
 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, sn dazzling charms?* 
 Must brutal fierceness and the tracie of arms, 
 
 Caulo iv. tr. 99. 100, 101. 
 VOL. II. i 1
 
 506 OW THE LITERATURE 
 
 Conquest, and laurels iipp'd in blood, bo 
 While life is scoru'd, and all its joys despised ; 
 And say, does zeal for holy faith inspire 
 To spread its mandates, thy avow'd desire 1 
 Behold the Hagarene in armour stands, 
 Treads on thy borders, and the foe demands : 
 A thousand cities own his lordly 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 wat'ry 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 adored ! 
 
 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 tyes explore, 
 
 Till one dim speck of land appears no more. 
 
 Our native soil now far 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, the passage of the Tropic, and the cold 
 waters of the dark Senegal. They toucli for refreshments at 
 San Jago, where they renew their provisions pass the rocky 
 precipices of Sierra Leone, the island on whidi they bestowed 
 the name of St. Thomas, and the kingdom of Congo, watered 
 by the great river Zahir, and already converted to the Chris- 
 tian faith ; till at length, having crossed the line, they behold 
 a new pole rising above the horizon, but less richly studded 
 with the constellations of heaven. Gama enumerates the 
 
 Cnto v. str. 3,
 
 OP THE PORTUGUESE. 50? 
 
 phenomena which they witnessed in these hitherto untraversed 
 seas, and presents us with a very striking and poetical descrip- 
 tion of the water-spout seen at sea. To whatever shores, how- 
 ever, they direct their course, they in vain seek to obtain infor- 
 mation 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'd 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 thrill'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 : 
 
 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, wh 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 perish on my coast : 
 
 * Canto v. tr. 39, ftc.
 
 508 ON THE LITEKATURE 
 
 Then He who first my secret reign descried, 
 
 A naked corse wide floating o'er the tide 
 
 Shall drive.* Unless my heart's full raptures failiy 
 
 Lusus ! oft shalt thou thy children wail ; 
 
 Each year thy shipwreck'd sons shalt thou deplore, 
 
 Each year thy sheeted masts shall strew my shore. 
 
 With trophies plumed behold a hero come ; 
 Ye dreary wilds, prepare his yawning tomb ! 
 Though smiling fortune bless'd his youthful morn, 
 Though glory's rays his laurell'd brows adorn, 
 Full oft though he beheld with sparkling eye 
 The Turkish moons in wild confusion fly, 
 While he, proud victor, thunder'd in the rear, 
 All, all his mighty fame shall vanish here. 
 Quiloa's sons and thine, Mombaze, shall see 
 Their conqueror bend his laurell'd head to me ; 
 While proudly mingling with the tempest's sound, 
 Their shouts of joy from every cliff rebound.f 
 
 The howling blast, ye slumbering storms, prepare ! 
 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, 
 The shatter'd wrecks shall blacken all my shore. 
 Themselves escaped, despoil'd by savage hands, 
 Shall naked wander o'er the burning sands, 
 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 ; 
 By cruel want, beneath the parent's eye, 
 In these wide wastes their infant race shall die. 
 Through dreary wilds where never pilgrim trod, 
 Where caverns yawn and rocky fragments nod, 
 The hapless lover and his bride shall stray, 
 By night unshelter'd, and forlorn by day. 
 In vain the lover o'er the trackless plain 
 Shall dart his eyes, and cheer his spouse in vain. 
 Her tender limbs, and breast of mountain snow, 
 Where ne'er before intruding blast might blow, 
 Parch 'd by the sun, and shrivell'd by the cold 
 Of dewy night, shall he, fond man I behold. 
 Thus wandering wide, a thousand ills o'erpast, 
 In fond embraces they shall sink at last ; 
 While pitying tears their dying eyes o'erflow, " 
 And the last sigh shall wail each other's woe. 
 
 Bartolomeo Dial, who discovered the Cape of Good Hope before the time of 
 (Jama, and who perished there with three vessels in the expedition of Alvarei Cabral, 
 in the year 1500. 
 
 t Francesco d' Almeida, first viceroy of the Indies, who was killed by the Cafiret at 
 -he Cape in the year 1509. 
 
 2 Manuel de Souza and his wife. Canto T. iti. 46 to 48.
 
 OP THE POnTUGTTESE. 509 
 
 Some few, the sad companions of their fate, 
 Shall yet survive, protected by my hat< 
 Ou Tagus' hanks the dismal tale to tell, 
 How blasted by my frown your heroes fell. 
 
 He paused, in act still farther to disclose 
 A long, a dreary prophecy of woes : 
 When springing onward, loud my voice resounds, 
 And midst his rage the threatening shade confounds : 
 What art thou, horrid form, that rid'st the air] 
 By 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, 
 That rock by you the Cape of Tempests named, 
 By Neptune's rage in horrid earthquakes framed, 
 When Jove's red bolts o'er Titan's offspring flamed. 
 With wide-stretch'd piles I guard the pathless strand, 
 And Afric's southern mound unmoved I stand : 
 Nor Roman 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. 
 
 He spoke, and deep a lengthen'd sigh he drew, 
 A doleful sound, and vanish'd from the view ; 
 The frighten'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 I rear, 
 And heaven's dread King implore. As o'er our head 
 The fiend dissolved, an empty shadow, fled ; 
 So 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 word : 
 Oh wondrous faith of ancient days, he cries, 
 Conceal'd 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 moan. 
 While o'er the wave the clouded moon appear* 
 To hide her weeping face, his voice he rears 
 
 [The itory of Adamastor's metamorphosis, which Mickle lien a*si<;r<s to the 
 of Melinda, is related in Uie original by the spectre himself. Tr.]
 
 510 ON THE LITERATURP 
 
 O'er the wild storm. Deep in the days of yore 
 A holy pilgrim trod the nightly shore ; 
 Stem groans he heard ; by ghostly spells contrail , 
 His fate, mysterious, thus the spectre told : 
 
 By forceful Titan's warm embrace compress'd. 
 The rock-ribb'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 flame : 
 Great Adamastor then my dreaded name. 
 In my bold brother's glorious toils engaged, 
 Tremendous war against the gods I waged : 
 Yet not to reach the 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/ 
 Nor 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 Nereids on the sandy bay 
 With loTely 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 straggling bosom glow'd ; 
 Yet, yet I feel them burning in my heart, 
 And hopeless languish with the raging smart. 
 For her, each goddess 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 band 
 I tell my purpose, and her aid command : 
 By fear impcll'd, old Doris tries to move, 
 And win the spouse of Pelcus to my love. 
 The silver goddess with a smile replies : 
 What nymph can yield her charms a giant's prizj? 
 Yet from the 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 hope his wish shall 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 sight ! 
 The war resign'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 cluy^:
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 511 
 
 In a. i the transports of the warm embrace, 
 
 A hundred kisses on her tngel 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 eager arms, 
 
 Whose rocky top o'erhung with matted brier, 
 
 Received 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 :* 
 
 fairest goddess of the ocean train, 
 Behold the triumph of thy proud disdain ! 
 Yet why, I cried, with all I wish'd decoy, 
 And when exulting in the dream of joy, 
 
 A horrid mountain to mine arms convey ? 
 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 stiffening flesh to earthy ridges grew, 
 
 And my huge bones, no more by marrow wann'J, 
 To horrid piles and ribs of rock transform'd, 
 Yon dark-brow'd cape of monstrous 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 the 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 quc nao sei de noja como o conte : t Convcrtcse me a came em terra dura, 
 
 Que crendo ter DOS bra^oa quern amava, Em penedos os ossos se fizeram ; 
 
 Abracado me achei co hum duro monte Estes membros que vos, e csta figura, 
 
 De aspero mato e de espessura brava, Por estas longas agoas sc estenderam : 
 
 Estando co hum penedo fronte a fronte Em fim, minha grandissima estatura 
 
 Que eu pelo rosto angelico apert^va, Neste remoto cabo convertcram 
 
 N*6 fiquei houiein nao, mas muuoequedo, Os Deoses, e por mais dobradas roagoas, 
 
 E junto de hum penedo outro penedo. Me anda Thetis cercando dcstas agoas. 
 
 Canto v. tir. 36. Canto v. itr. Itf
 
 512 ON TEE LITERATITOB 
 
 purity of expression, and a thousand beauties of the verse, 
 admit of no imitation ; and a slight acquaintance with the 
 native tongue of Camoens will afford the reader more true 
 pleasure in perusing the original, than he could derive from 
 the most perfect translation. 
 
 Gama continues the account of his 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 by the name of the port of 
 Good Promise, 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 
 hopes 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 receives 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 fatal 
 resolution, the Portuguese adventurers, steering their course 
 in full security, had stationed their watches for the night. 
 The second had already commenced its office ; and the men 
 were striving to chase slumber from their eyes by recounting
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE 513 
 
 to each other amusing stories ; when Leonardo, himself a 
 lover, begged his companions to relate their love-adventures: 
 
 III timed, alas, the brave Veloso cries, 
 The tales of love, that melt the heart and eyes. 
 The dear enchantments of the fair I know, 
 The fearful transport and the rapturous woe : 
 But with our state ill suits the grief or joy ; 
 Let war, let gallant war our thoughts employ : 
 With dangers threatcn'd, let the tale inspire 
 The scorn of danger, aad the hero's fire.* 
 
 He is then requested to narrate some proud feat of war, 
 and he recites the history of the Knights of Portugal called 
 the Twelve of England. During the reign of John I. in 
 Portugal, and of Richard II. in England, 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 
 champions of 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 Magrico, wished to go by land as far 
 
 * Thi gtansa it more vigorously rendered by Lord Strangford : 
 
 " Perish that thoughtl" the bold Veloso " No rather some tremendous tale dcvis4 
 
 cries; [treraesf " Of war's alarms, for such our slate be- 
 
 " Who talk* of Love m danger's dire ex- seems [learn 
 
 " Shall we, while giant perils round us rise, " So shall we scorn our present ills, and 
 
 " Shall w* attend to those enerriog " To cope tkose coming toils my prophet 
 
 themes t eye ducern." 
 
 Stanta xli. p. '11.
 
 514 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 as the frontiers of La Mancha, but entreated his companions, 
 that in the event of his not joining them on the appointed 
 day, they would boldly maintain his 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 knights. Each of them 
 bore the colours of the lady whose champion he professed to 
 be, and the King presided at the combat. At this moment 
 Magri9o rode forward, embraced his companions, and ranged 
 himself by their side. Accustomed to such engagements, and 
 doubtless as weary as his readers of the frequent poetical 
 encounters of the sword and the lance, the author spares us 
 the recital of the particulars of this scene, contenting himself 
 with proclaiming the 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, the champions repair to their own country. On 
 their route, they 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 the 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 filling with water. That of 
 Paul Gama has her main-mast carried away, and Coelho's 
 ship is in little less danger, although the 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 the 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 horizon, summons her nymphs to 
 attend her, and to adorn themselves with garlands of the
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 515 
 
 freshest Uowers, the better to seduce the 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 voyage. 
 
 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 achievements 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 ! far 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 Gcrinania 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 1 
 Alas, delighted with an airy name, 
 The thin dim shadow of departed fame, 
 England's stern monarch, sunk in soft repocr, 
 Luxurious riots mid his northern snows : 
 Or if the starting burst of ragr> succeed, 
 His brethren arc his foes, and Christiana bleed 
 
 Canto vii. str. 2, 3, 4.
 
 516 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 While Hagar's brutal race his titles stain, j 
 
 In weeping Salem unmolested reign, > 
 
 And with their rites impure her holy shrines profane. } 
 
 Camoens then describes the English, the French, and the 
 Italians, in a similar way, reproaching them for their profane 
 wars and luxury, while they ought to have been engaged in 
 opposing the enemies of the faith : 
 
 Yet sleep, ye powers of Europe, careless sleep ! 
 To you in vain your eastern brethren weep ; 
 Yet not in vain their woe-wrung tears shall sue ; 
 Though small the Lusian realms, her legions few, 
 The guardian oft by heaven ordain'd before, 
 The Lusian race shall guard Messiah's lore. 
 When heaven decreed to crush the Moorish foe, 
 Heaven gave the Lusian spear to strike the blow. 
 When heaven's own laws o'er Afric's shores were heard, 
 The sacred shrines the Lusian heroes rcar'd : 
 Nor shall their zeal in Asia's bounds expire, 
 Asia subdued shall fume with hallow'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 geographical cor- 
 rectness, perhaps, than poetic colouring, the western peninsula 
 of India, the shores of Malabar, and Calicut, the capital of the 
 Zarnorim, 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 Castiliun 
 tongue, and gave them a hospitable reception. He seemed to 
 remember only his former proximity to them, forgetting the 
 numerous injuries which his persecuted race had sustained at 
 their hands. After receiving Gama's messenger in his house, 
 he went himself on board 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. The 
 emperor, before he returns an an.swer, wishes to have the 
 opinion of his council ; inquires of Moncaide some particulars 
 respecting Portugal, and orders the ships arrived in his port
 
 Or THE PORTUGUESE. 317 
 
 to be visited by his officers. The arrival of the Catual, or 
 minister of the Zamorim, on board the ships, and his exami- 
 nation of the historical portraits which meet his eye, afford 
 occasion for another digression, in which 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 suffered in the service of the Muses : 
 
 *Where would I speed, as madd'ning in a dream, 
 Without your aid, ye Nymphs of Tago's stream ! 
 Or yours, ye Dryads of Mondego's bowers ! 
 Without your aid how vain my wearied powers ! 
 Long yet and various lies my arduous way 
 Through louring tempests and a boundless sea. 
 Oh then, propitious hear your son implore, 
 And guide my vessel to the happy shore. 
 Ah ! see how long what per'lous days, 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 
 For ever lost ; myself escaped alone, 
 On the wild shore all friendless, hopeless, thrown ; 
 My life, like Judah's heavcn-doom'd king of yore, 
 By miracle prolong'd ; yet not the more 
 To end my sorrows : woes succeeding woea 
 Belied my earnest hopes of sweet repose : 
 Tn 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, i 
 
 Betow'd by those for whom my numbers glow*d, > 
 By those who to my toils their laurel honours owed. S 
 
 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. 
 
 f The daughter of JEolut, whose illegitimate children vtr* condemned to death 
 Ovid attributes to her one of hit Htroidt.
 
 518 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 No fostering care their barbarous hands bestoif, 
 
 Though 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 Mondego'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 crafty 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 Proteus, 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 other's merit, and withholds the prize : 
 
 Who 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' immortal 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 book, which follows this very affecting appeal, 
 will scarcely, we fear, suit our purpose, in the form of 
 extracts. The heroes of Portugal, from the time 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 Zamorim has recourse to the ora- 
 cles of his false gods, who, according to the strange mythology 
 sanctioned by Camoens, 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. Through 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 empire. All the Mahometans throughout 
 his dominions, actuated by either religious or commercial mo- 
 tives, conspire against the Portuguese ; and endeavour ta
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 519 
 
 irritate the Zamorim, and to corrupt his ministers. In the 
 next audience with Vasco de Gama, the emperor questions 
 the truth of their embassy from the Portuguese king, and 
 cannot be brought to believe that a monarch 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 while at 
 Coimbra, served to revive the delightful impressions of his 
 childhood and his youth. Had he deferred the compositioE 
 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 for ever. He 
 would then have conferred upon his poem a more oriental 
 character, and greater local charms and colouring ; he would
 
 OX THE LITERATURE 
 
 have opposed the wild fictions of India to the miracles ot 
 Christianity, and his genius would have been enriched by hia 
 voyages, from which his poetry now appears to have derived 
 but little advantage. 
 
 The two factors who had been sent with the Portuguese 
 "merchandize to Calicut, remained there a considerable period, 
 without being able to dispose of any ; for the 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 Monc,aide, 
 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. He 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 order to 
 obtain their freedom, seized several merchants of Calicut, 
 engaged in selling precious stones on board the fleet, whom 
 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, by heaven's eternal grace, 
 The guardian goddess of the Lusian 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 oiler to their homeward prows, 
 The place of glad repast and sweet repose ; 
 And there before their raptured view to raise 
 The heaven-topp'd column of their deathless praise.f 
 
 [In the version of Mickle, this portion of the original is omitted, and the libera- 
 tion of the factors is effected by a victory obtained by Gama over the Indians. M icH 
 mserts for th : .s ]>urpoe, about three hundred lines of his own. jTr.j 
 
 f Canto a. tr. 18.
 
 OF 7IIE 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 are 
 forged; a busy scene of little winged boys and nymphs work- 
 ing under his orders : 
 
 Nor these alone, each rank, debased and rude, 
 Mean objects, worthless of their love, pursued : 
 Their passions thus rebellious to his lore, 
 The god decrees to punish and restore. 
 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 resistless to enflame the heart . 
 Their arrow heads they tip with soft desires, 
 And all the warmth of love's celestial fires ; 
 Some sprinkle o'er the shafts the tears of woe, 
 Some store the quiver, some steel-spring the bow ; 
 Each chanting as he works the tuneful strain 
 Of love's dear joys, of love's luxurious pain: 
 Charm'd was the lay to conquer and refine, 
 Divine the melody, the song divine.f 
 
 Venus intercedes with her son in favour of the Portuguese, 
 and explains lo 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, 
 
 A nd strew the pink and rose beneath their feet : 
 
 In crystal halls the feast divine prolong, 
 
 With wine nectarcous and immortal song: 
 
 Let every nymph the snow-white bed prepare, 
 
 And, fairer far, resign her bosom there ; 
 
 It is not improbable that the annual ceremony of the Ajeension at Venice, during 
 which the Doge, in the naini: of the Republic, weds the sea, furnished Camoens wit* 
 this allegory. Thetis it espoused by the Portuguese commander in the ocean iile, al 
 the moment when the dominion of the seas is transferred from the Republic of Venice 
 to the King of Portugal. f Canto Lx. tr. 30 
 
 VOL. II. K K
 
 522 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 There to the greedy riotous embrace 
 
 Resign each hidden charm with dearest graco. 
 
 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.* 
 
 Such is the project of Venus ; and it is executed by Lovfi 
 himself. With them is associated Fame, who, every where 
 bruiting forth the glory of the Portuguese, has inspired the 
 sea-nymphs with a passion for her heroes before they have 
 yet beheld them. The island to which they repair, floats, 
 like Delos of old, upon the bosom of the waves, 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 bough, and the pure transparent waters 
 in which the love-nymphs bathe their limbs, indulging in 
 voluptuous anticipations of the expected arrival of the heroes. 
 With seductive coquetry they seem to fly at the sight of 
 them for the sole pleasure of being 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 words : 
 
 The nymphs of ocean, and the ocean's queen, 
 
 The isle angelic, every raptured scene, 
 
 The charms of honour and its meed confess, 
 
 These arc the raptures, these the wedded bliss ; 
 
 The glorious triumph and the laurel crown, 
 
 The ever-blossom'd palms of fair renown, 
 
 By time unwither'd and untaught to cloy ; 
 
 These are the transports of the Isle of Joy. 
 
 He 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. sir. 41.
 
 THE PORTUGUESE. 523 
 
 Th rilver roofs resound the living song, 
 The harp and orgau's lofty mood prolong 
 The hallowed warblings ; listening silence ridea 
 The sky, and o'er the bridled winds presides ; 
 In softest murmurs flows the glassy deep, 
 And each lull'd in his shade, the bestials sleep. 
 
 Before Caraoens describes to us the song of this prophetic 
 ciren, he for the last 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 this great poet was at last reduced : 
 
 And thou, my muse, 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 course Yet thou, 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 historical 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 CocHn, 
 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 tc protect him against his country's ingratitude- 
 
 Canto x. sir. 8. 
 KK 2
 
 524 ON THE LITERAL UKK 
 
 Neglected by his king, and forgotten by his fellow citizens, 
 he is doomed to terminate his wretched days in a hospital. 
 Next appears the celebrated Alfonso d'Albuquerque, 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, Mascarenhas, Hector de Silveiras, 
 and others who obtained great names by their exploits in the 
 Indies, all pass in succession, with their characteristic traits 
 and their respective titles to fame. Unhappily for the 
 honour of Portugal, these exhibit little more than a catalogue 
 of slaughter, 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 the 
 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 the 
 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 vulgar, 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 the world, full of mystic 
 and spiritual beauty, were found deserving of nothing, in the 
 eyes of the Portuguese, but death, because they had never 
 heard the doctrines of Christianity. It was invariably held 
 a good work to shed their blood ; and though worldly policy 
 sometimes induced the Portuguese commanders to enter into, 
 treaties with them for a time, the commands of heaven were 
 Cur more severe, and permitted no sort of indulgence to U*
 
 OP THE PORTCGUESE. 525 
 
 ghewn to this most impious sect. Every one that did not 
 receive immediate baptism was delivered up to the stake or 
 the sword. The Turks, who had already established them- 
 selves, either with commercial or warlike views, in the Indies, 
 so far from being permitted to unite with 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 drawn 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 
 indifference ; and Vasco de Gama himself, in his second 
 voyage, set the example 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 Lusiad, 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 
 them, 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 ships or in the temples, without the least distinction of 
 
 I feel some compunction in thus bringing forward the name of Albuquerque only 
 for the purpose of accusation. The crime, however, i* not his : it wholly rests with 
 the ape, the religion, and that ferocious spirit which, I cannot observe without shud- 
 dering, some men are now attempting to revive. But the elevation of his mind 
 remains his own, and we recognize the dignity of his character in the letter which ho 
 addressed to the king at his death. The founder of the Portuguese empire in India 
 was recalled; his personal enemy was substituted in bis place; and the wretches 
 whom he had punished fur their crimes, were advanced to the government of othet 
 places. Instead, however, of complaining or justifying himself, he thus writes: 
 
 " Senhor, esta he a derradr tra que com solucos de morte screvo a Vossa Alteza, <!e 
 qnantos com espirito de vida Hie tenho escrito, pela tcr livre da confuiao desta derra- 
 deira hora, e muito contcnto na occupacau de seu servico. Nette reino deixei hum 
 fillio por nome Braz d'Abuquerque ao qual peco a Vossa Alteza que faca grande, 
 como Ihe meus services mereccm. Uuanto as coiua* da India, ella fallara por si 
 por mi." JOAO DE BARROS, Decad. ii. lib. viii.
 
 525 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 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 compas- 
 sion in the minds of the soldiery, the more ferocious priests 
 rushed forward to renew, with fanatical 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 them, 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, arid 
 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 observation 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 which 
 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 (lama burning an Egyptiai 
 vessel, with two hundred and fifty soldiers on board, and fifty-one women and children, 
 after they had surrendered themselves to him, and without the '.east provocation from 
 the Egyptians, with whom he had never been at war. JOAU DE BARHOS, Decad. i. 
 I. vi. cap. 3.
 
 OF TUB PORTUGUESE. 527 
 
 atrocious crime, imagines that he 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 which 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 VASCO waved his hand, 
 
 And soon the joyful heroes crowd the strand. 
 
 The lofty shins with deepen 'd 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 1 '*. ; 
 
 Fair as immortal fame in smiles array 'd, 
 
 In bridal smiles, attends each lovely maid. 
 
 O'er India's sea, wing'd on bj balmy gules 
 
 That whisper 'd peace, soft swell'd the s toady
 
 528 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 Smooth as on wing unmoved the eagle 
 
 When to his eyrie cliff he sails the skies, 
 
 Swift o'er the gentle billows of the tide, 
 
 So smooth, so soft, the prows of Gama glidfl ; 
 
 And now their native fields, for ever dear, 
 
 In all their wild transporting charms appear -, 
 
 And Tago's bosom, while his banks repeat 
 
 The sounding peals of joy, receives the fleet. 
 
 With orient titles and immortal fame 
 
 The hero band adorn their monarch's name, 
 
 Sceptres and crowns beneath his feet they lay, 
 
 And the wide East is doom'd to Lusiaii sway. 
 
 *Enough, my muse, thy wearied wing no more 
 
 Must to the seat of Jove triumphant soar. 
 
 Chill'd by my nation's cold neglect, thy fires 
 
 Glow bold no more, and all thy rage expires. 
 
 Yet thou, Sebastian, thou, my king, attend ; 
 
 Behold what glories oa thy throne descend ! 
 
 Shall haughty Gaul or sterner Albion boast 
 
 That all the Lusian fame in thee is lost ! 
 
 Oh, be it thine these glories to renew, 
 
 And John's bold path and Pedro's course pursue : 
 
 Snatch from the 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 heart heaven pours its fire% 
 
 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 Muse unjust 
 
 Sinks as the nameless slave, extinct in dust. 
 
 But such the deeds thy radiant morn portends, 
 
 Awed by thy frown ev'n now old Atlas bends 
 
 His hoary head, and Ampeluza's fields 
 
 Expect thy sounding steeds and rattling shields. 
 
 And shall these deeds unsung, unknown, expire ? 
 
 Oh, would thy smiles relume my fainting ire ! 
 
 I then inspired, the wondering world should see 
 
 Great Ammon's warlike son rerived in thee j 
 
 Revived, unenvied of the Muse's flame 
 
 That o'er the world resounds Pelides' name. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 KJSCELLANEOUS PCEMS OF CAMOENS ! GIL VICENTE J RODRIGUEZ LOBO J 
 OORTEREAL; PORTUGUESE HISTORIANS OF THE SIXTEENTH CKHTURY. 
 
 WE have now completed our long examination of the 
 ijreat master-piece of Portuguese poetry. The Lusiad is a 
 
 * Canto x. itr. 145, 150.
 
 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. Thi3 
 is Gil Vicente, of whom we shall have occasion to say more 
 hereafter. 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, than 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 ta
 
 530 ON THE LITEKATUKE 
 
 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 spirit 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 familiar 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 abundant in 
 vowels and nasal syllables, it was yet equally smooth and 
 sweet as the Italian, and had even something more affecting 
 in its tone, and more suited to exhibit the passion of love. Its 
 richness and suppleness supplied it with the most brilliant 
 ornaments and with the boldest figures, while 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 o^ 
 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 for 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, and
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 531 
 
 the encouragement of his prince ; 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. The 
 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 were united in a 
 regular work. In many of these sonnets he dwells upon his 
 passion for a lady, whose name he no where mentions ; not 
 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 few, however, are inspired with a bolder and richer feeling, 
 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 disappointed 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 LITERATURE 
 
 nological information, insomuch that the obscurity of events 
 united to the obscurity which must occasionally perplex the 
 reader 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 wailings 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 ; 
 
 My fifth short lustre saw my youth 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 my painful breath 
 
 I drew, 'midst pJeasant 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.* 
 
 This 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 March 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 epitaph on one of his com- 
 panions, in whose name the poet is supposed 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 nonet 
 
 Which I have journey'd on this earthly For that fell star which o'er my cradle 
 
 stage; hung [charms, 
 
 For, scarcelyenteringonmyprimeofage, Forc'd me from dear ALAMaura's rustic 
 
 Grief mark'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 (lavs begun : waters roar 
 
 And liuce, compulsive Fate and Fortune's llude Abyssinia's cavern'd cliffs among, 
 
 rage [mage Far from green Portugal's parental 
 
 Have led my steps a lng, long pilgri- shorn I Sunnet iv. p. 88
 
 OP THE PORTUGUESE. 533 
 
 SONSBT a. 
 ah ! vain desires, weak wishes, hopes that fade ! 
 
 Why with your shadowy forms still mock my view 
 
 The hours return not ; nor could Time renew, 
 Though he should n"w returnmy youth dccay'd : 
 But lengthen'd yean, 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 me, 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 xcn. 
 
 What is there left in this vain world to crave, 
 To love, to see, more than I yet have seen 1 
 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 ; 
 And 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 1 
 
 These are followed in the order of Camoens's works, by 
 the Cangaos, or canzoni, composed chiefly on the model ot 
 those of Petrarch. The first of these canzoni consist of love- 
 Eongs, 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 the 
 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 witli 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 ON THE UrERATURK, 
 
 interesting. It appears as if the unfortunate passion which 
 first led Camoens to encounter his many perilous adventures, 
 continued afterwards to embitter them : 
 
 Ah ! might I dream that iu somo softer hour, 
 
 Those sweet bright eyes, oa which I madly gazed, 
 
 O'qr all my toils pour'd 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 
 
 When your bright image thus bursts on the hour 
 
 Of anguish, like the rainbow through the shower, 
 
 Promise of brighter days I decm'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 1 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 breast 
 
 Resume 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 what flowery ground 
 
 She walk'd ; with whom conversed, what day, what hour 1 
 
 Now with new hope I nerve my wearied mind ; 
 
 No more I mourn ; with soul rcfresh'd I rise 
 
 To wrestle 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 the tenth of these canzoni is by far the most beautiful 
 and affecting of the whole. It is, indeed, an eloquent out- 
 pouring of poetic feeling ; a gush of living grief on the mis- 
 fortunes of his life, pursuing him from th cradle to the tomtv
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 
 
 533 
 
 Impelled by undefined wishes, and by distant hopes, in- 
 cessantly agitated by ardent passions, engaged \n restlesa 
 pursuits, and destitute of the means by which to attain hia 
 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 the 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 my wrongs; o'er friends fast sworn, 
 Whose friendship but betray'd, 
 But whose firm hatred not so soon decay'd. 
 The land that witness'd 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 air 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. 
 
 strange unhappy sport of mortal things t 
 To live, yet live in vain, 
 
 Bereft of all that Nature's bounty brings, 
 That life to sweeten or sustain ; 
 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, 
 Speeds midst strange horrors to its fatal bourne. 
 
 Yet shall not 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 with a voice divine 
 Hush the fierce tempest of my soul to rest 
 The last dear hope of the distress'd, 
 And the lost voyagir's last unerring sign. 
 But man, weak man! will ever fondly cast 
 A forward glance on beckoning forms of bliss; 
 And when 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 pleasure short and vain 
 
 1 chase the conscious pangs of present woe. 
 
 A piedade humana me faltava,. 
 A gente amiga, ja contraria via, 
 No primeiro perigo, e no segundo 
 Terra em que poros pcs me fallecia, 
 Ar para respirar se me negava, 
 E faltavame em flm o tempo e O 
 
 mundo. 
 Que segredo tao arduo e tao pro- 
 
 fundo 
 
 Nacer para vivir, e para a vida 
 Faltarme quantoo mundo tern para 
 K non poter perdella, [ella. 
 
 Estando tantas vczes ja perdida ! . . 
 
 Nao conto tantos males, como 
 
 aquelle 
 
 Que despois da tormenta procellosa, 
 Os casos della conta emportoledo 
 Qu'ind'agora a fortuna nuctuosa 
 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 falleca ja pre- 
 
 tendo, [inana, 
 
 Que para mi nao val astucia hu- 
 l)e forca soberana 
 Da providoncia emflm divlna 
 
 pendo. 
 Isto que cuido e vejo, as vezcs 
 
 tomo, 
 
 Para consolaca6 de tantos clannos ; 
 Mas a traqueza humana, qu<indo 
 
 lanca 
 
 Os olhos na que corre, e nao alcanca 
 Senaii memoria dospassados annos. 
 As agoas que entao bebo, e o pad 
 
 que como, 
 Lagrimas tristes sao, qu'eu nuncn 
 
 domo, 
 
 Senao com fabricar na fantasia 
 Fantastical pinturas d'alegria 
 
 After the canzoni, a sort of lyric song in the romantic form, 
 follow the odes of Camoens, to the number of ten or twelve, 
 which may be considered as lyric songs in a classical drest,
 
 636 .ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 -The 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 allianpe between chivalry and letters, 
 and to solicit his aid in behalf of one of his friends, the 
 naturalist Orta, who produced a work on the plants of the 
 Indies. Camoens was himself but too frequently exposed tc 
 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. They 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 de Noronha, on the abuses of the world ; and some 
 verses written in June, 1555, 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, afforded 
 Barrito a pretext for banishing him to the Moluccas, 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 difh'cult to be un- 
 derstood, than the ridicule attaching to subjects of a satirical 
 nature. Both the persons and their actions are here unknown 
 to us ; belonging to a country whose manners and customs
 
 OF THE 1ORTIIOCEBE. 587 
 
 we 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 Camoens 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 c 
 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 waves. 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 : By 
 the rivers of Babylon, there rve sat down. This is rendered 
 in the Portuguese in the form of redondilhas, which enjcy 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 'ncath her high-arch'd golden domes he slept. 
 
 Near 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 nighta, 
 
 Warm as ere yet they turn'd to pain, 
 And all their music fled, and all their love was rain ! 
 
 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 ; |nd 
 many general ideas are required to fill up the intervals 'be 
 tween thuse 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 : 
 
 vm II. I, L
 
 638 OK THL 
 
 All sing ; the joyous traveller, 
 
 Along hi morning way, 
 Through painful paths and forests, sings Canta o caminhanw K.<U. 
 
 A merry roundelay. No carmn ho trabalhoso. 
 
 And when at night beneath the star p or entre es p e9so arvored-j; 
 
 His lonely way he wends, 
 i'o banish fear and care, he sings 
 
 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 ; 
 
 I o drown the sounds of bars and chains, 
 
 In hymns of liberty. Canta segador contente, 
 
 And when the mellow seasons call E trabalhador contando 
 
 The reaper to the field, O trabalho menos sente. 
 
 With happy 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 the 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 exhibit more ease and smoothness of 
 versification. His shepherds are always those of the river 
 Tagus, and not of Arcady ; and they often express sentiments 
 of a patriotic description, as far at least as truth of feeling can 
 be admitted in a composition altogether of a conyentional 
 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 'hat of RedondiUuu or En~ 
 irchat. The Spanish word redondilta is the rrannuilha of the Portuguese; the * 
 always addecl after the I or the , ia ord'* lo ie the language a softer tone.
 
 OF TKS PORTaaUESL 539 
 
 nature every where taking place around them, from whic/ 
 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 tliis 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 with 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 deata of her lord ; and her lament, 
 forming a part of a Portuguese eclogue, is expressed in Cas- 
 tili in 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 lovc<! avail, these tears to thee belong. 
 These eyes that dwelt too fondly on thee here, 
 
 Now offer up their bitter sacrifice ; 
 Receive 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 weeda 
 
 On earth you wore, my highest boast and care 
 To cherish in my thoughts through after years, 
 
 Unchang'd a when those mortal spoils were Iripbt 
 With the full soul : and pour unceasing tears 
 
 While life endures, o'er Love's long faded light 
 For thee Heaven's azuie fields are opcn'd wide. 
 
 Blest spirit ranging other scenes ! where spring 
 
 * Aonia U the Anagram fur Joan* 
 Li. 2
 
 540 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 Plowers for thy x feet, of other fragrant pride 
 
 Than these on earth ; where other minstrels aing : 
 There shalt thou see that virgin Queen supreme, 
 
 Who reigns on earth, in the dear might of Him 
 Who bade the great sun ehed his glowing stream 
 
 Round every sphere, down to this earth-spot dim : 
 Where, should such wondrous works not quite efface 
 
 A mortal's memory, weeping vainly long 
 By thy cold urn, come with saint-like 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, Camoens, who seems to have essayed hia 
 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 Ampkitryons, 
 a piece in imitation of Plautus, is executed with considerable 
 wit and spirit. The Seleucus 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. The only dramatic poet of his nation, having 
 had neither instructors nor imitators, Gil Vicente may be 
 allowed to stand alone, removed from his rank, withoat cauo 
 ing any confusion. 
 
 We are not acquainted with the exact period of the birth ol 
 Gil Vicente, who is considered the Plautus of the Portu-
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 641 
 
 ;uese ; but it must have occurred previous to the last ten 
 years of the fifteenth century. In accordance with the views 
 of his family, he at first devoted himself to the law, which hf 
 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 
 .he great Emmanuel ; but he enjoyed a still higher degree of 
 reputation in the reign of John III., who 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 
 iiave educated for the theatre his own daughter Paula, who 
 was one of the ladies of honour to the Princess Maria, and 
 who obtained equal celebrity as an actress, a poetess, and a 
 musician. But though Gil Vicente preceded the 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 
 high 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 the 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 religious piece, 
 written by him in 1504 to celebrate the birth-day of Prince 
 John, afterwards King John III. 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 Castilians, though 
 it is rarely that the formeris redeemed by those beauties which 
 abound in the latter. The Portuguese author did not possess the 
 same fertility of invention. He could not purse; the thread of
 
 542 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 his romantic adventures into its minutest windings, exciting in 
 terest and awakening curiosity by a crowd of incidents; nordid 
 his muse revel in the light of those brilliant images and spar- 
 kling fancies, which, though charged with exuberance, never fail 
 to rivet the attention of readers of Lope and Calderon. His re- 
 ligion was neither more wise nor more moral ; his mythology 
 was not more exempt from absurdity than theirs ; yet there 
 was a certain exuberance of invention manifested in his rude 
 attempts, which had not, up to that period, been equalled 
 among the moderns. Add to this, that he displayed great 
 probability in the dialogue, much animation, and a poetical 
 smoothness of language which justified the high character en- 
 joyed by him both in his own country and abroad. 
 
 The productions of Gil Vicente were arranged by his son 
 in four separate classes, divided into aucos, 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 those of Spain celebrated 
 the feast of the Holy Sacrament. The shepherds had always an 
 important part assigned to them, inasmuch as it was 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 the 
 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 ia 
 the representative of the planet of the same name, is intro- 
 duced ; and he explains, agreeably to the authority of 
 Johannes llegiomontanus, the theory of the system of the. 
 planets, and the circles of the sphere, in a long discourse, 
 written in radondilkus. Next appears a senph sent by the 
 Deity, at the request of Time, down to earth; who announces.
 
 0? 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 churches 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, 
 From 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 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 he 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, mosteyr<is, O~> principcs altos, imperio facundo, 
 
 Pastores das almas, papas .idormidos Guardayvos da vra do Svnhor dos ceo*, 
 
 Compray aqui panos, muday os vestidos Compray prande som.i do temcr dc Deoi 
 
 Buscay as camarras dos outros primeyroi Vi ,Vyr.i n Virgera enhora do tnuiulu, 
 
 Os anteeessores, "Cxemplo da paz, 
 
 Peiray o carani que trazeis dourado. t'astora dos anjos, e luz das estrelas 
 
 ()o prcsidentes do crucificado, Vi feyra da Virgem. donas et < on*>>ilas, 
 
 Lembray vos da vida dos sanctos pMi.).- Porque este mercado tabuy q-.< aqui tr.u 
 
 Do tempo u4iJi>. '.. cousas mai* be...
 
 544 ON THE MTERATURK 
 
 appear ; and one 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 sleep till he 
 sets out again. These are, in fact, the 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 oi 
 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 offers 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 the 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 tew of them are not destitute ot 
 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 farces, but which, in fact, approach 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 whole 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 imperfect were these first attempts tc 
 form the national drama, no nation ever set out with greater
 
 OF THE i*ORTCGUESE. 545 
 
 advantages than the Portuguese. At the period when 
 Gil Vicente wrote, and even at that in which Camoens 
 flourished, there existed no dramatic productions in any other 
 language, received by the public and in possession of any 
 theatre, which had exhibited more striking powers of inven- 
 tion, a greater degree of nature, or more splendour of colour- 
 ing. The loss of the independence 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, which, owing to its long continuance, seems to 
 form a permanent feature in the character of the people. 
 The Portuguese were desirous of cultivating only two species 
 of poetical composition, the epic and the pastoral ; and 
 they attached themselves to the last of these with remark- 
 able pertinacity. In order to give a poetical colouring to 
 human life, they conceived it necessary to apply themselves to 
 the composition of idyls, and to transfer the thoughts and 
 actions of the existing world to that of nymphs and shepherds. 
 But nothing could be more contrary to dramatic life and 
 action, than the affected 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, the 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, but passed the subsequent part of his life 
 chiefly in the country, where he courted the smiles of the 
 rural muse, in all his poetical effusions. 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
 
 54f> ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 fugitive poems. The first of these, entitled Cffi .?. no Aldf,a t 
 e Noites de Inverno: the Court in the Village, cr Winter 
 Nights ; had a marked influence on the prose compositions 
 of the Portuguese, by introducing the 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 attention 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. He 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 Niyhts are philo- 
 sophical conversations, much 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 historical preface ; 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 harmony of 
 the periods. We must not at the present day, however, 
 expect to meet with much novelty in the precepts and obser- 
 vations ; though 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-fburtV part of the mass ; more 
 particularly when we add, that tne only variety of action 
 they afford consists in the arrival of one shepherd, who
 
 OF THE POHrOGUESE. 54" 
 
 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 Diana of Montemayor. The first of these romances, enti 
 tied Primavera, 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 Pastor Peregrino, is distributed into jor- 
 ?iadaSy 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 Disenchanted 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 where dis- 
 plays that intimate acquaintance with nature, which is one of 
 the characteristics of Portuguese poetry.* Several of the 
 canzoni are 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 
 pot-try, 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 steep o'erhanging height 
 Plunge in wild falls to seek the cliffs below, 
 
 * Ja n.iMv (> bollo ih.i, .l;i o sol mais fermoso 
 
 Principio do vcrao fermoso e braiulo, Kst.i ferindo as agoas prateada*. 
 
 Quc com nova nlegria E Zefiro queyxoso, 
 
 Estai'i denunciando Hora as mostra encrespada* 
 
 Ai aves namoradas, A vista dos penedos, 
 
 Do* floiidos r.imiahoi penduradas. Hora sobre cllas more oa arroredot. 
 
 Ja abre a bolla Aurora, De reluzcnte area 
 
 Com nova luz, as port as do Oriente ; So mostra mais furmosa a rica praya, 
 
 K mostra a linda Flora Cuja nha se arrea, 
 
 O prado inais contente, De alonco e da faya, 
 
 Vestido <ie boninas l)o freyxo, et do salfnieyro, 
 
 Aljofr.vlas do potas cristalinai Do ulmo, do areleyra, et do lourcyro
 
 548 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 Dashing in wailing 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 bright 
 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-nyinph's cavea 1 
 But, ah, your wanderings, like mine own, betray 
 
 Love's mysteries sad. Our hapless fate is one ; 
 Unchang'd flow on my thoughts, and headlong rush your waves. 
 
 Many romantic effusions, indeed, are interspersed through- 
 out this production, a few specimens of which may be found 
 subjoined.* They will serve to shew that the incomplete 
 rhymes, or the verses termed assonancias, 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 in 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 : Primavera, Flor. 3, p. 279. Edit, dt 
 Litboa, 12mo, 1651. 
 
 De cima de este penedo, 
 Aonde combatendo, as oudas 
 Mostrao sempre mais segura, 
 A firmeza desta rocha, 
 Cou os olhos tras de hum barco, 
 Que o vento leva por forca, 
 Vendo que tern forca o vento 
 Pera atulhur muitas obras, 
 Me representa a ventura 
 Quao pouco contra ella monta, 
 Firmeza, vontade e fe, 
 Desejo esperenca e forcas. 
 Por hum mar ta6 sem caminho, 
 Morada tarn perigosa, 
 Pera as mudancas do tempo, 
 Dan do sempre a vella toda 
 O leme na mao dc hum cego. 
 tiue quando vai vento a popa 
 Da sempre em baixos d'area, 
 Aonde em vivas pedras toca. 
 Que farei pera valerme ? 
 Pois a terra ventures* 
 Aonde aspira meu desejo 
 He cabo que na6 se dobra. 
 8e quero voltar ao porto, 
 Ko ha vento pera a volt*- 
 
 Em fim, que o fim da jorna da 
 He dar no 1'undo ou na costa. 
 t'ensamentns e esperanfas, 
 Julgay quanto melhor fora 
 Nao vos tor para perdervos, 
 Que sustentarvos agora. 
 Pois nao custa tanto a pena, 
 Como doe pcrder a gloria; 
 K he mais sustentar cuidados, 
 Do que he conquistar vitorias. 
 So males sao verda de iros, 
 Porque os bes touos sao sombrcfi 
 Representadas na terra, 
 Que*abarcadas nao se tomao. 
 Mar empccado e revolto, 
 Navegacao perigosa, 
 Porto que nunca se alcanca, 
 Agoa que sempre cocobra; 
 Estreitos nao navegados, 
 Hayxos, ilhas, syrtes, rocas, 
 Serea* que em meus ouvidos 
 Sempre achastes livres portas. 
 A Deos que aqui larco ferro ; 
 K por mais que o vento corra, 
 Para saber da ventura, 
 
 queio faser mais pro vat.
 
 OP TBK 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 sufferings and of its proudest ex- 
 ploits ; while in the same form of verse and imperfect 
 rhymes, and with the same ease and simplicity of language, 
 that of Portugal has been simply devoted to soothing plea- 
 sures, and to dreams of amorous delight, such as we may 
 feej in dwelling on the invariable motion of the billows 
 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 be 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 Costilians 
 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 the author so completely failed 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 source of 
 tho>e poetic images and ornaments which the imagination 
 delights to employ. He produced a variety of eclogues solely
 
 550 ON THE LTTiSKATURE 
 
 with this view, in which he treated uf morality, of phi.osophy. 
 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 Carnoens, 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, lie 
 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 not 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, which 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 upon the 
 shores of Africa, near the Cape of Good Hope, this unhappy 
 couple perished in their attempt to cross the deserts in order 
 to reaah some other of the PortGjnese establishments along
 
 OF THE POBfJji'.UESK. 551 
 
 the coast. This occurrence, though destitute of the import- 
 ance and heroic grandeur required in a national epic, afforded 
 room for interest, of a very touching and romantic kind. Then: 
 is something in the efforts of this 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 the mistaken opinion that 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 more 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 whicli 
 Sousa was himself guilty. The father of Leonora 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 marriage, and the rejoicings of the Portu-
 
 652 OW T!flE LITERATURE 
 
 guese and tho Malabars on the occasion, occupy the space ol 
 nearly two cantos. * After a period of four years, embellished 
 by all the charms 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 
 of 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, he 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 flocks, a thousand monstrous forms, 
 
 To pasture forth, when suddenly shone out 
 
 The glorious vessel, sailing in her pomp ; 
 
 And starting back, he view'd with glad surprise 
 
 The chiefs of Portugal : from out the wave 
 
 He raised his rude and hoary head deform, 
 
 Crowu'd with green limes. He shook his flowing beara 
 
 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 swoln sails, tar overlook'd the waves, 
 
 Surprised and pleased at the fair form he saw. 
 
 She would have spoken, but mute 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 rima, sometimes 
 in the octave measure. The strophes, which Cortereal puts 
 into the mouth of the sea-god, have the languishing tone and 
 
 These are the fourth and fifth canton of the pcem. 
 
 * NufVngio de SrjuiU ,d.., caiiu. ti.
 
 OF THE rOUTUGCMR. 553 
 
 character so very prevalent in descriptions of the passion of 
 iove, in the sixteenth century. Indeed they have a much 
 stronger 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 thce from my longing arms, 
 
 Sole hope and solace of my anxious breast ] 
 
 Is there a wretch one touch of pity feels, 
 
 Would snatch thee from my love 1 Canst thou forget, 
 
 And canst thou see thy Proteus' wild alarms ] 
 
 Bright Leonora, hasten to my arms ! 
 
 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 shall 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 1 
 
 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 hoping but at thy fair feet to die. 
 
 There in one form thou wondering shalt descry 
 
 Strange accidents ; shalt see new sufferings eeiz 
 
 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 fills the air with his lamentations, 
 Amphitrite, accompanied by all the nymphs of the ocean, 
 iealous 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 
 ore unfortunately enabled to save only a very small portion 
 
 VOL. 11. MM
 
 5-54 ON TriE LITERATURE 
 
 of provisions, and they find themselves cast away upon a 
 shore with no appearance of produce or cultivation. Some 
 Caffres are observed at a distance, who refuse, however, to 
 engage in any kind of traffic with them ; and hasten, on the 
 contrary, from their huts to despatch the arrow, their symbol 
 of war, from tribe to tribe, calling the hordes of the desert to 
 their assistance. 
 
 Reduced to this extremity, M n ""<>1 de Sousa hastily sum- 
 mons his companions in arms to cu.iusel, and addresses them 
 in a confident tone in the following language : 
 
 Dear friends 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 what the all-powerful Will on high permits. 
 
 Yet, thou Omniscient Ruler 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 ! Lo, I yield him up 
 
 With one still feebler, to your guardian care. 
 
 let them expiate let them plead for us 
 
 And our offences ! 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 appear'd 
 
 In every fearful shape. 
 
 After this, Sousa informs the soldiers that he no longer 
 considers himself as their chief, but as their companion, 
 requiring of them only to pledge their mutual promise, that 
 they will continue united together ; and that they will accom- 
 modate their progress to the strength 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 for 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 the winding course of rivers, obstruct 
 their path. They had already, to the best of their calculation, 
 travelled about eighty leagues, though they had proceeded 
 scarcely thirty in a direct line parallel with the shore. Their
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 555 
 
 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 their 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 farewell : 
 " 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 prey, 
 And rend their recking 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 Calfres, whom 
 they repulse with their accustomed valour, though not with- 
 out the loss of several of their brave companions. They 
 afterwards resume their unfortunate march, 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 
 i*an, sporting in one of his consecrated valleys, through which 
 the Portuguese are to pass. VV r e hear him sighing for the 
 beautiful Leonora ; and, dazzled by her charms, hs pours 
 forth plaintive strains of love. Again, he introduces us, in 
 one of his 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 following cantos, the thirteenth and fourteenth 
 the poet conducts one of the companions of Sousa, Pantaleon 
 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 
 his 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 field of battle, 
 after the defeat of the Portuguese, is so much the 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,) 
 
 Behold 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 murky waves ! 
 
 O'er yon precipitous banks driven on from far 
 
 By the fierce foe, all find their watery graves. 
 
 And see the plains, ere yet the evening star 
 
 Hath shone, are darkcn'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 an interest 
 wholly new. But the subject here was the funereal pomp 01 
 the Portuguese power ; and the fall of a great nation, that 
 had eo rapidly advanced to such a height of poetical and 
 military glory, was surely deserving of record in the annals 
 of poetic art. 
 
 Manuel de Sousa had halted his little troop in the territo- 
 ries of one of the Negro king?, 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 
 ereountered, the weary travellers longed for nothing so muck
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 557 
 
 M to return to tLeir 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 
 Marquez. They were already on the banks of that 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 three large mouths 
 into the adjacent sea of Mozambique. The fortitude of Sousa 
 at length yields at the sight of his wife's and children'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 Caffre 
 king, into whose dominions they have just entered, though he 
 offers them an asylum and provisions, refuses to permit a 
 foreign army to traverse the country, insisting that 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 reach 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 infants, together with seven- 
 teen of his own slaves, until, having consumed the whole ol 
 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 OW THE LITERATURE 
 
 her naked charms. He immediately approaches her in the 
 disguise of a shepherd, and addresses her in some very tender 
 and flattering verses, which, contrasted with the surrounding 
 images of desolation and death, leave by no means an agree- 
 able impression on the 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 pur- 
 sued by the most gloomy presentiments, and the 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 thinks 
 He finds them tnie ; and then the cruel thought 
 Seems to deprive him of the little strength 
 Now left him. Scarce he draws his painful breath ; 
 His sad sunk eyes 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 stern Death 
 Would hide the truth her speaking eyes betray : 
 With long and rapturous gaze still fix'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 throbbing 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. 
 With shriller cries surrounding then the dead, 
 With 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 othces to tho 
 unhappy partner of his toil*, seizing his second son in his
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 559 
 
 rras, he plunged into the thickest forest that surrounded 
 him. A holy resignation still supported him, sufficient to 
 prevent an attempt upon his own life ; but the wild beasts ot 
 Africa in a short time delivered him from the torments lie 
 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 Dili, 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 glory, 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 their 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 ; his 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 Libcrata. We 
 feel that !us 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 pages, consisting of descriptions of battle scenes, in the midst 
 nf 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 Ancote, upon the gulf of Cambay, he depict.s 
 in a very striking manner the disturbed slumbers of the vic- 
 tori )us 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, 
 
 The soldiers stretch themselves upon the decka, 
 
 With welcome sleep renewing their worn frames. 
 
 Some, as they slumber, raise their brawny arms, 
 
 Striking the empty air with idle blows ; 
 
 Others are heard murmuring wild words and threats : 
 
 " Forward ! no quarter ! let not one escape ! 
 
 " The Moors, 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 off slumbers nursed in blood ; 
 
 Their souls being steep'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 stretch'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 !* 
 
 Among those specimens of the Portuguese epic which still 
 retain a degree of celebrity, it would be unfair not to mention 
 the Ulysses of Castro, and the Malacca Conquistada of 
 Francisco de Sa y Menesez. In the opinion of the natives, 
 these are the 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. Thss Lobo, Cortereal, and a 
 variety of other distinguished names, availed themselves of 
 the most poetical portions of Portuguese history; though by his 
 romances, Rodriguez Lobo contributed still more essentially 
 to the formation of the historians of Portugal. He was the 
 first to shew to what a degree of elegance, of harmony, arid 
 of refinement, the 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 ! sanguc ! sangue ! e ruina!". . . 
 
 Trabalho, emque o passado dia andaram. !', murmuvando assim, levam pczadas 
 
 Estendemse pos pancos, pos convezes; As cabefas, era sonho sepultadas; 
 
 Pam repouso aos canfados lassos membros, Mostrando com sinaes de furor grande, 
 
 Kntregan lo os ahum brandoedoce sonho. Quedeimagens e espectros eram envoi'ot. 
 
 Dormindo movem hums os fortes brafos, Mas o profondo sonho torna logo, 
 
 Dando com muita forfa mil va6s golpes. Jlender os corpos da carnagem fera: 
 
 Outroscom vozesmaldistintasmurmuram: Liga os sentidos, e enfim representa 
 
 ' Aqui ; matcmos estes que nos foqem ! Kin todoa liuma imagem niudu e '.UsU 
 
 8us ! sus a estes abopiinqveU H ouros ! Da uusma inor
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 561 
 
 from him the best method of adapting it to their purpose. 
 The age of heroic enterprise had 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 Ferreira, of Carnoens, 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 fellow- 
 countrymen in the Indies the subject of history. 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 in 
 the year 1496. While yet of very tender years, he was 
 placed among the king's pages at the court of Don Emmanuel; 
 or rather in the school for the young nobility, which the 
 Portuguese princes were desirous of forming in their own 
 palace. He early distinguished himself there by his tuste 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 Tlie 
 Emperor Clarimond; which, though it discovers little in- 
 terest or invention, is at the s:ime 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 
 autlwr 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 HI. advanced Barros to the governorship of 
 the Portuguese establishments situated en the coast of 
 Guinea. On his return thence, he was made treasurer- 
 general of the colonies, and subsequently acent-general of 
 the same countries ; an important post, nearly equivalent to 
 that of minister f state, which Barros preserved for a period
 
 562 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 of eight-and-thirty years. While these public employments 
 engaged the time and attention of the historian, they provided 
 him, at the same time, with the most effectual means ot 
 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 design, in the outset, appears to have been to 
 preserve and to commemorate, for the glory of his country- 
 men, all the heroic exploits achieved by them in different 
 parts of the world. With 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 period ; under that 
 of Africa, to describe the wars of the Portuguese in the king- 
 doms of Fez and Morocco ; 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 
 1539, the province of Marenham, 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 tc 
 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 forty 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, who seems to have made 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 A.sia 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 cniet' 
 authority and foundation for subsequent writers, not only in
 
 Or THE PORTUGUESE. 563 
 
 their history of all Portuguese discoveries and of the earliest 
 communications of Europe with the East, but in all geogra- 
 phical and statistical knowledge relative to the Indies. Long 
 and indefatigable labours, united to earnest inquiries to ascer- 
 tain the truth, and extensive credit and authority continued 
 during forty years, in the countries which were the object o 
 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 the warmth 
 of their feelings ; while the latter, deprived of the very 
 source whence they spring, are incapable of appreciating any 
 events with 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 delights 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 courajro, their ardour for heroic enterprise, 
 for novelty, and even for perils, are no less strikingly dis- 
 played, than are their insatiable cupidity, their ferocity, and
 
 564 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 their blind fanaticism. If any individual, or any commander, 
 commits a base or perfidious action, he is condemned without 
 hesitation ; but it 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 thousands in the 
 seas of Calicut and Cochin ; what were these but infidels, 
 Musulmans, 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 faith, was not his redemption an ample recompense for 
 the innumerable souls 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 :* 
 
 " Throughout the four thousand eight hundred 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 his 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 othe- 
 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 Ceotd. I. Boole iv. Chap. 9.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 565 
 
 It was by this traffic that the kingdoms which accepted his 
 friendship became civilized instead of barbarous ; the weak 
 powerful, and the poor rich ; and all owing to the exertions 
 and industry 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 service of God 
 and the 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 appeared, they not only de- 
 famed the name of the Portuguese, but, by their intrigues, 
 they 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 of this might be seen in 
 whut had taken place at Mozambique and at Mombasa, 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 this kingdom of Calicut. In 
 their religion, likewise, they resembled the Bramins, who 
 worshipped a Trinity of three persons in one God ; a circum- 
 stance which among Christians is the foundation of their 
 whole faith, however differently understood. But the Moors 
 refused to admit this dogma ; and as they were well aware of 
 the uniformity existing between the Gentiles and the 
 Christians, they wished to render the Portuguese odious and 
 suspected in the 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. He 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 affectation of employing long periods, which he attempts 
 to render harmonious; and of connecting them with each
 
 566 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 othe/, to a degree of which the translation conveys no idea, 
 most of them having been there separated. This defect 
 renders his style heavy, more particularly in the speeches, if 
 not frequently difficult and obscure. The respective relations 
 of the person who speaks, of him to whom the speech is ad- 
 dressed, and of him of whom it makes mention, are repeatedly 
 confounded together. Barros is, nevertheless, highly esteemed 
 by the Portuguese, who consider him as one of the chief 
 founders of their 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 
 vivid 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 Portuyneza, 
 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 Commentaries, 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, Damiao 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 history of Portugal. Re- 
 ceiving his education at Rome, where he acquired many of 
 the modern languages, he entered early into a monastery ; and 
 it was there that he composed, as chronicler of his own 
 religious body, the Monarchic JJusitana, 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 which his country 
 was elevated to the rank of an independent state ; but he wa? 
 ambitious, on the contrary, of comprehending in his account 
 the history of Portugal from the creation of the world. The 
 first folio volume brings him down only to the Christian era 5
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 567 
 
 the second concludes with the rise of the Portuguese 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 where he ought to have 
 commenced his 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 respects, 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 he 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 king 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 the 
 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 by 
 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, there is here something more than the merit of an editor which 
 Boutterwek wcribes to Brito; 1 mean the merit of invention, if *nch B quality ran be 
 meritorious in a historian. None of the ancient monuments of Spain lur.iish linto 
 ith the particulars here cited. His fault is not ]>cculiar to himself. All the Portu- 
 guese historians seem to be much more attached to that which it oriiliant, than to that 
 vhich is true.
 
 668 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 his name. Worn down with hunger of many days' continuance, exhausted 
 with want of rest, and harassed with long and toilsome marches on 
 foot, his strength 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 
 de Brito, and Jerome Osorio, of whom we shall make mention 
 in the following chapter, produced their several histories, was 
 one, indeed, which we might naturally expect would give 
 birth to the 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 of 
 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 suffering ; as 
 their fortunes, their hopes, and their domestic relations, are 
 alternately torn asunder, either by treaties, 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-established government, grown old, 
 and rooted in its customs, has rarely produced good his- 
 torians. To give birth to such, it is requisite either that 
 a country should be in possession of liberty sufficient ta
 
 OF Tw PORTUGESE. 569 
 
 lead men to occupy themselves with its interests, or that some 
 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 sanguinary 
 monsters, compelled people at that period to reflect upon the 
 Xrange 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 country, dating 
 its origin from the invasion of Charles VIII. Those of 
 Portugal ought to be 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 
 had been followed by the most profligate and boundless 
 corruption ; 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 OP THK LITERATURE OP PORTUGAL. 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 literature of all other countries, it has 
 not escaped the effect of political changes, and the influence 
 of the government ; insomuch, that to appreciate truly its 
 
 VOL. II N \
 
 570 ON TIIE UTKKATL'IIE 
 
 elevation am. 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 manners ; 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 monarchy 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 
 uf 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 the 
 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 children 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 Moors and
 
 OF TttH 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, 
 widely 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 dominion--, 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 lite, 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 them 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 sojnc; 
 more friendly asylum, had the misfortune to rind Europe 
 closed against them, and saw themselves reduced, in order t<f 
 avoid the persecutions of the priests, to submit to the mildei 
 N N2
 
 572 OK THE LITERATURE 
 
 oppression and spoliations of the Pachas of Turkey. Tl.ey 
 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 religion 
 under 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 they 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 carried 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 
 was 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 fact, they continued there during the rest of the ten years 
 which had been granted to them. During this period, 
 however, John II. died, in the year 1495 ; 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 himself 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 the 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, 
 ihe king, if we ars to believe the P irtugwese historian
 
 OF THE POKTLGL'KSE. 573 
 
 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, fixed upon an expedient, which, however 
 harsh and unjust it might appear in the execution, was 
 directed by 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 effected 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 
 unhappy 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, three 
 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 boon 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 hi>- 
 torian of the reign of Emmanuel, Jerome Osorio, did not par- 
 take the prejudices of his countrymen, and that lie 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 
 his work became, after his death, nearly extinct in Portugal 
 
 _ Sec Jerome Osorio's H Jtory of King Kmmanuul, Book I. chap. rhi.
 
 i74 OX THE LITERATURE 
 
 It is nevertheless to this very violence and persecution that 
 the Portuguese trace the singular mixture of the Jewish 
 blood with that of their chief nobility. The greater numbej 
 of the captives recovered their liberty by a simulated con- 
 version to the faith of their persecutors. To these their 
 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 faith, 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 their fathers 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 them towards 
 the blood from which they sprang is to sacrifice 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. Should 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 
 the worship of the patriarchs, the pristine fathers of the 
 human race ; and we are informed, there has not been a sin- 
 gle example, in tin's 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 the occasion of 
 a newly converted Jew, in the year 1506, who had appeared 
 to disbelieve in some miracle, the 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 ^vith so -sliijiit
 
 OF THK POUTL'GLESE. 57o 
 
 a vengeance, in return for such an insult offered to Our 
 Lord. Two other monks then raising 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 ot' 
 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, 
 Spain*, treated with a still greater degree of harshness and 
 negligence their Portuguese subjects, whom they were led to 
 consider as their former rivals. The latter were afflicted 
 with all the calamities which overtook the Spanish monarchy. 
 The Dutch gradually deprived them of the largest portion of 
 their East Indian possessions, and the sources of their richra 
 Ixxiame thus dried up. The same nation erased the monument.-
 
 576 ON THF LITERATURE 
 
 of their glory, and made them doubly feel their own weak 
 ness and degeneracy, and that of their monarch. The revo- 
 lution of 1640, which advanced John IV. of the house oi 
 Braganza to the throne, was less a proof of the energies of 
 the Portuguese, than of the extreme feebleness of the Spa- 
 niards. The former sustained, during twenty -eight years, a 
 war in support of their 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 the peace con- 
 cluded with the Spanish in 1668, 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 theii 
 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- 
 pregnable, 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 offices. 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 th*m, vied
 
 fK IflE PORTUGUESE. 5.7 
 
 with, without excelling each other : and the most tedious 
 monotony prevailed through every branch of their poetical 
 compositions. 
 
 The most remarkable character belonging to this last epoch 
 is a voluminous author, whose writings are often consulted 
 with regard to the ancient '.jterature, 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 production 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 
 office 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 
 frtyle, and the talent which it displays for narrative and orate-
 
 578 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 rical composition, than for its historical merits, the exactness 
 of its researches, or the soundness of its criticism. In com- 
 hininf the entire history of Portugal, from the origin of the 
 world, in three volumes folio, published at Lisbon in 1675, it 
 appears to have been the design of Faria to preserve the in- 
 terest of his subject by brilliancy of idea and 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 force 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 shall 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, which fatigue the historian by their 
 monotony, and escape the most tenacious memory. Faria, 
 however, constantly relieves their tediousness, no less by the 
 striking turn which he gives to his narrative, than by the 
 choice 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 the superior pleasure of 
 having inflicted them upon its rival. To produce evil, though 
 
 See vol. ii part i. cap. iii. p. 39, of the Europo i'urtuffueti.
 
 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 three 
 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 Camoens, 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 Camoens, 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 Catnoen*, 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 tt 
 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 Alarini, of Lopo de Vega, and of Gongora, exemplified by
 
 turns ; a singular degree of aitectatton and research, forced 
 and inflated images, besides considerable hyperbole and pe- 
 dantry of style. There are, however, a few exceptions ; nnd 
 these are by no means deficient in real feeling and grace. The 
 idea** 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. He him- 
 self arranged his bucolics in the following order : viz. amatory 
 eclogues, those on the chase, piscatory, 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 Sonsa, the first rank among 
 the Portuguese poets of this age must be awarded to Antonio 
 Barbosa Bacellar, who lived between the y ars 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 twentj'-fifth year; 
 but the reputation which he acquired by his defence of the 
 rights of the house of Braganr.a 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 of 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, tarn fermosae, Sempre que torno a ver o bello prado 
 
 Que nelle cada qual mil florets gera, Onde, primeira vcz, a soberana 
 
 De que se tece a humana primavera, Divindade encontrey, con forma I'amana, 
 
 Com core*, como bcllas, deluitosas ; Ou humano esplendor Ueific.ulo : 
 
 Bcllczas, o bellezas luminosas, E me acordo do talhe delicadc 
 
 Que *ou abono da constant e esfera; Do riso donde ambrosia a nectar inana, 
 
 Wue todas me acudisseys, bem quisera. Da t'.ila, que da vida quando cngana, 
 
 Com vossas luy.es, e com vossas rosas. Da brancu muo, e do cristal rosado. 
 
 De todas me trazey macs abundantcs, I >" meneo soave, que fazia 
 
 Poique me importa, neste bello din Crer, >,.ie de brando zcfiro tocada, 
 
 A porta ornar da miuha Albania bella, A primarcra loua se rnovia, 
 
 Mas vo, de vosso culto vigilantes. Do novo torno a ver a alma abri 
 
 O adorno me negays, que cu pretendia, K cm aescjar somente aquelle ilia, 
 
 Porque bello* nam soys iliaiut- della. Veic a gloria real l<id.& citrada.
 
 Or THE POKTUGUK3E. J81 
 
 lamentations, eternally repeated with scarcely any variation of 
 sentiments, notwithstanding their 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 Gcngora ; 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 - 
 ji/teinux and Galatea, which may be considered in tin: light of 
 u parody on that of Gongora. But the ridicule which it was 
 his object to throw on this composition did not discourage his 
 countrymen ; lor at no distant period, several more poems of 
 Polyphemus, no less absurd than that which he had tfeis ex- 
 posed, made their appearance. 
 
 But Andrade acquired still more reputation by \\isLife of 
 Dun 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 thii life of Joa6 
 de Castro, that 1 think 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 : 
 
 " Triunfame Carlos, como outro Scipia6 da guerra de Africa, se veyo descansar entre 
 applausos e acclatnacoens de Europa, podendose chamar antes fundador que herdeiro 
 de seu imperio. Voltou tambem e nossa* armada ao porto de Lisboa, onde Dom Joao 
 achou, nog braco-i do Key, e sandacoens do povo, mayor premio, do que engritara do 
 Cesar; e como varao que tao bcm sabia despresar sua mesma fama, se retirou a sua 
 quiuta de Cintra, desejando viver para si mesmo, havendose no service da patria de 
 maneira, que nem o descmparuva como inutil, nem o buscava como ambicioso. Aqui 
 se recreava com hua cstranha e nova agriculture, cortanda as arvores que produziao 
 fruto e plantando em seu lugar anroredos sylvestres e estereis; quifa mostrando que 
 servia tad desinteressado, que nem da terra que agricultava, esperava pay* do bene- 
 ftcio : mas que inuito, liicsse pouco CRSO do que podiao produsir os penedos de Cintra, 
 quern soube pisar con despreso os ruins e diamantes de Oriente." (L. I. p. 13. 
 EdiU79.) 
 
 U 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 grandtu.'; the former might, indeed, root up the olive* and replace them 
 with barren trees, without making a display of the sentiments which his biographer 
 ascribes to him. But if he wished to shew himself impartial, even toward* nature, far 
 from exciting in our minds any admiration of his generosity, it only leads one to doubt 
 ni* judgment, or hi* g</od faith.
 
 582 ON THE LITEUATL'KE 
 
 Castro flourished at the epoch so glorious for the Portuguese 
 arms, when they founded that extensive empire which soon 
 traced its ruin to the 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 the viceroy of the Indies. De Castro, 
 after having sustained the memorable siege of Diu against the 
 arms of the King of Cambaya, and triumphed over forces 
 which appeared irresistible, resolved to rebuild that fortress 
 from its foundations, in order to prepare himself for another 
 siege. Unfortunately, the royal finances were 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- 
 merlyfmade, were no longer willing to give credit to De 
 Castro. His son Ferdinand had been killed during the siege. 
 He 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 the 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 tin- 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 Ribeirode 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 bonnet from the pen of the last of these writers, were it
 
 IP THE PORTUGUESE. o83 
 
 only to afford a single specimen from the Portuguese, of that 
 allectation 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 
 poetry. 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 'raid Apollo's gardens straying, 
 
 With your sweet voices catch the euamour'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 charms 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 puie 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 a.s 
 the garden of harmony, or had really written a poem 
 Strange infatuation of the human mind, which could be led 
 
 Musas que no jar din do rry do dia, E porque n6 cuideit que Ul ventura 
 
 Soltando a doce voz, prendeis o vento.- P6de pagar tributo a variedade, 
 
 Deidades que admirando o pensamento, Pelo que tern de Lua a lux mais purs, 
 
 As ilores augmentais que Apollo cria ; g a bey, que por merce da Divindade, 
 
 Deixai deixai do sol a companhia, Kste ja'din canoro se a**egura 
 
 Que fazendo inveioso o tirmamcnto. Com o muro immortal da cteruicUdr 
 Huma Lua que he sol, e que he pnrtcnto, 
 Hum jardin vos fabrica de harmoma.
 
 4 ON 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 Baliia, who once enjoyed a considerable degree of 
 reputation, which now no longer exists. 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, 
 
 Where 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 
 eonsolidate 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 
 jrith the Spanish and Portuguese poets. Andrea Nunez de 
 
 Duixai mais listas, pois )a Quo como suo pay livrou 
 
 Stole Antonio se alistou. Sua patria livrara.
 
 Of Tf? PORTUGUESE. 5S5 
 
 Sylva was a poet of the Brazils, where he was born and edu- 
 cated, though he died in Portugal, in the order of the Theatine 
 monks. His devotional pieces may be reckoned among th* 
 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 European 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 Phoenix 
 Revived; another The Postilion of Apollo; both of which 
 titles prepare us for the degree of critical discretion exer- 
 cised in the selection of the contents.* 
 
 The political 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 Spanish 
 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 Europe, 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 ;if the fantastic titles of the originals. 
 The first and the least despicable is perhaps tlic work of Maihias Pereira da Silva. 
 entitled, A Fenix renascida, or Obras Poetirms dot Melkortt fncenkoi Portugueses, 
 Iiisboa, 1746. 5 vols. 8vo: and the other, ici ".v que o clarim da Fa ma dti. Puitt'.km 
 is Apollo, Arc. 2 vols. Lisboa, 1761. 
 
 VOL. II. O O
 
 SJJtJ ON THE LITER.A.1JRE 
 
 wmch were equally destroyed. The national industi-y and 
 finances declined together; while a weak and imbecile govern- 
 ment was ignorant alike of the means which conduced to its own 
 interests and to those of the people. 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 French and sometimes the English party, as 
 circumstances seemed to direct. Portugal thenceforward, in 
 its literary no less than in its political relations, was swayed 
 alternately by the influence of these two rival nations. 
 
 During the protracted reign of John V. between the years 
 1705 and 1750, 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 
 European sovereigns of the time were ambitious. The 
 Portuguese Academy of Languages was thus formed in 1714; 
 that of History in 1720; but neither of these establishments 
 have fulfilled 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 progress of knowledge were fortunately combined 
 with the other views of this formidable tyrant. He loosened 
 the yoke of superstition ; he expelled 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 
 oppression, but those which he had himself imposed, were 
 alike 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 rest ore 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 liojal Academy of Sciences was founded by tha
 
 OF THE I'OHTUOUKSE. 587 
 
 Prince Regent ; 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 Xuvier 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 twenty 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. He died in 
 1744, two years after having published his Ilenriqueidc, 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 witli a richness 
 of colouring in their poetry, beyond the sphere of Boileau'r 
 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 tc retrench what is superfluous. In fact it was French 
 
 o o 2
 
 588 ON THE. LITERATURE 
 
 criticism, introduced among the people of the South, which 
 first led them to perceive the 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'Ericeyra in Portugal, are to be esteemed far 
 more correct, and of a far higher character, than any of those 
 which had before appeared on the 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 compo?i- 
 iion derived from France, but to the exhaustion of the nation, 
 which, after the destruction of its hopes and the loss of its 
 ffl<>ry, was divested of all originality. 
 
 The promoters of French taste in Italy, in Spain, and in 
 Portugal, were far however from confining themselves, in a 
 strict sense, to the exactness, the sobriety of ornament, and 
 the somewhat prosaic good sense, which are 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 then 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 the vivacity of their 
 imagination, or the impetuosity of their passions, would with- 
 out its assistance have carried them beyond the proper bounds. 
 
 The 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 ron-rcGUESK. 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 hero, Henry of 
 Burgundy, was the founder of the Portuguese monarchy, 
 3on-in-LiW 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 
 csirefully 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 series 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 chief ; 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 captnre of Lisbon, which completes the work. 
 
 We are informed by Ericeyra himself, in his preface, that 
 hu sought to avail himself of the beauties of all the epic poets, 
 of Homer, Virgil, Ariosto, Tasso, Lucan, and Silius Italicus.
 
 590 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 And, in truth, we very frequently meet with classical 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 sufficient 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 vaudevilles, accompanied at the same time with 
 all the attractions and display of the Italian opera. The 
 pieces were 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 vara6 famoso, Europa foy da espada fulminante 
 
 due deo a Portugal principio regio ; Teatro illustre, victima gloriosa, 
 
 Conseguindo por forte e generoso Asia vio no seu braco a cruz brilhante, 
 
 Em guerra e paz, o nome mais egregio; E ficou do seu Dome temerosa, 
 E animado de espirko glorioso, De Africa a gente barbara, e triumfante, 
 
 Castigou dos infieis o sacrilegio, Se Ihe pestrou rendida e receosa, 
 
 Deixando por prudente, e por ousado Para serfundadorde hum quinto imperio 
 
 Nas virtudcs, o imperio eternizado. due do mundo domine outro Emisfurio. 
 
 The arrival of Henry at the grot of the Sibyl : 
 
 Da horrenda grata a entrada defendia6 O mare a terra em horrida disputa 
 
 Agudas folhas da arvore do Averno, Gritaya6, com clamores desmedidos: 
 
 E enlacadas raizes, que se uniao Que nao entrassem na funesta gruta 
 
 MaisquedeGordiono embaracoeterno: Os que assim o intentavad, presumidosj 
 
 Penhascos desde a terra ao ceo sobia6, A constancia mais forte, e resoluta, 
 
 Lubricos os fez tanto o frio inverno, De ondas et rochas tragicos bramidos, 
 
 Que Henrique vio, subindo resolutos Temia vcndo unirse em dura guerra 
 
 Precipitarse os mais velozcs brutos. Contra hum s6 coracad o mar e a terra. 
 
 And lastly, the combat between Hcnr *nd Ali. 
 
 Torrente de cristal que arrebatada Ainda quo com seus rapidos effeitos 
 
 Inunda os valles, e supera os monies, Causem no mundo estragos e terrores, 
 
 Kxhalacao sulfurca, que inflamada A tanto impulse de cair desfeitos 
 
 Fulmina a* torres, rasga os ori/.ontes, Toda a izeucao dos glohos superiores, 
 
 Vetito sctentrional, que em furia irada Na6 scy se ex>dem dos valentes peitox 
 Agit.i os mares, e congela as fontes, As nobres irui, e indites ardorus, 
 
 De Deucalion o rapido diluvio, Com que e vio *o >mjM>to iracundo 
 
 Chamas do Ethna, ardores d( Vesuvio, Parar o ceo. aireiuuccr&e o mum:. . 
 
 Canii xii
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 591 
 
 <tyle and imagination betrayed the vulgar rank tc 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. Tho 
 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 Ganjao, 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 
 this victim of the Inquisition, in a style of extreme boldness and severity. After 
 passing in review several other human sacrifices, no less disgraceful and atrocioui 
 than those which bathed the altars of Mexico in blood, he exclaims: 
 
 O' Antonio Jose doc e facjto, Hoi no Theatre aos teu? joco^os ditos 
 
 Tu que foste.i o primeiro quc pizaste Que no Rocio a voz de humanidade. 
 
 Com ni.iis regular sono a scena luza! >ue infarae horrenda,pomp.i, 4110 fogucir-) 
 
 O povo da Lisboa mail sensive 1 . Te vejo preparada ! 
 
 The Rocio is the public place in Lisbon provided for the exhibition of tb< 
 tiutoi da-fe.
 
 592 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 is rather a sketch of his principles on the dramatic art, iJid a 
 critical account of such works as had till then appeared, thau 
 a comedy intended to rest upon its own merits. Another 
 specimen of his pen, under the title of Assembled, or Partida, 
 is a satire upon the fashionable world, nearly of the same kind 
 as the Cercle of Poinsinet. 
 
 The Academy of Sciences, having proposed a prize for the 
 best Portuguese tragedy, on the thirteenth of May, 1788, 
 conferred the laurel crown on Osmia, a tragedy which proved 
 to be the production of a lady, the Countess de Vimieiro. On 
 opening the sealed envelope accompanying the piece, which 
 usually conveys the name of the author, there was found only 
 a direction, in case Onmia 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 distinguish her sex. The 
 scene is laid in Portugal, at a distant period, before the ex- 
 istence of the monarchy, about the time of the Turditairi ; 
 when that people, then inhabiting the country, revolted 
 against the Romans. Rindacus, their prince, had espoused 
 the heroine, Osmia, who had never been really attached to 
 him. The Turditani, however, are beaten, Rindacus is 
 wounded, and the fair Osmia made a prisoner. Laslius, 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 enduing 
 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 while she strives to hate him,
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 593 
 
 his roble generosity makes a powerful impressio.i on her 
 mind. Her character assumes a tinge of soi'tness 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. 
 In 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 Gonjrora was still in 
 repute; and it was Da Costa's own taste which led him tc 
 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 sennets, 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 unrhymed 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 ear. 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 for 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 few 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, my lyre ! 
 
 My day, my night-dream, loved thee long ! 
 
 AVhen thou wouldst pour thy soul of song, 
 
 When did I turn away ] 
 
 'Tis thine, with thy bewitching wire 
 
 To charm my sorrow's wildest mood, 
 
 The following are the two sonnets of Da Costa mentioned by Boutterwek : 
 
 Ondeestou? este sitio desconhefo: Nize, Nize? onde estas ? Aonde espera 
 
 Quern fuz tao dift'erente aquulle prado ! Achar-te huroa alma, quepor tisuspirat 
 
 Tudo outra naturefa tern tornado, Se quanto a vista se dilata e gira, 
 
 E em contemplallo timido escuorefo. Tanto nuns de encontrar-te dezespera t 
 
 Ilunia fonte aqui houve; eu nao me es- All se ao menos teu nomc ouvir pedera, 
 
 quefo Kntre esta aura suave que rtspira! 
 
 De estar a ella hum dia reclinado ; Nize, cuido que diz; mas he mentira ; 
 
 Alii em valle hum monte e.st;'i mudado, Nize, cuidei que ouvia; e tal nao era. 
 
 Quanto pode dos annos o progresso 1 Grutas, troncos, penhascos da espesurm, 
 
 Arvores aqui vi tad florescentes Se o men bem, se a mintia alma e:n x til 
 
 Que fazia6 perpetua a primavera: se eseonde, 
 
 Nem troncos vejo agora decadentcs. Mosiray, mostray-me a su.i fermoiur*. 
 
 Eu me engano; a regiao esta nu6 era. Nem ao menos o ecco me responde ! 
 
 Mas que venho a estranhar, se esta6 Ah coiuo he certa a minha divsventural 
 
 presentes N.rn, Nize? onde estas? Aonde? aonda 
 
 Meus males, com que tudo degenera.
 
 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 midnigat 
 And chasing slumbers with delight, 
 Would vigils bold with thee ; 
 
 Would 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 more 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 there 
 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-
 
 5VK> QT* 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 wercs 
 published at Lisbon in the year 1807. One volume consists 
 of imitations of English poetry, which would 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 tJie Lock, a poem which has met 
 with equal success in Italy. In his light satires upon the 
 polite 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, we add some stanzas from his ode to 
 the Knights of Christ. Don Juan de Silva is supposed to speak to a candidate for the 
 hi.nours of the order : 
 
 For feitos de valor, duras fadigas, Pela fe, pelo rey. e patria. A vida 
 
 Se ganha a fama honrada, Se assim se r.erde A vida e hem perdida. 
 Nao por branduras vis, do ocio amigas. 
 
 Zonas fria e queimada JA com esta, (e arrancou a espada inteira) 
 
 Virao do Cancio, a ursa de Calixto, Ao reino vindiquei 
 
 Cavalleros da roxa cn.z de Christo. A croa, que usurpou mao cstrangeira. 
 
 Eu ia a F6, e os teus reis, e a patria amada, Fiz ser roi o meu rei, 
 
 Na guerra te ensinei Com accoes de valor, t'eitos prcclaros. 
 
 A defender, com a tingida espada. Nas linhas d'Klvas, e nos Montes-Claros.* 
 
 Co a morte me aft'rontei 
 
 t These are the places where De Silva twice tr: .implied over the Spaniard?, and bj 
 that means insured the independence of Portugal and the (accession of the bouse o 
 Braganzu to the throne.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 5.7 
 
 f.hroughont all the South, from the days of Petrarch to out 
 own, I shall venture to extract one of his sonnets, which ap- 
 pears to me to be one of the most striking, inasmuch as it 
 contains a pleasing fiction, in the manner of Anacreon, 
 clothed in a romantic dress : 
 
 SONNET 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 Venus is 1 Those arrows, once his pride, 
 Fall from his golden quiver, that remains 
 Unheeded, while with bribes he tempts the swains 
 
 To guide 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 addressed by Antonio Diniz to the grandees o 
 Portugal are esteemed above the rest. I have likewise in my 
 possession a little poem, entitled OHi/ssope: 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, the 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 his 
 
 Da bella mii, perdido amor errava, Qaanio Ionia quo alii sou gado passe 
 
 Pelos campus quc eorta o Tejo brando, Enxugando-lhe as lagrm.o. que chora, 
 
 )', a totios quantos via, suspirando, A Venus Ihe moslrar leda so olferece, 
 
 Sem descanvo por elia procurava. Mas amor dando hum rdo a linda face, 
 
 Os farpoes Ihe cahiao de aurea aljava ; Bcijando a Ihetornou : " Gen til pastor*, 
 
 Mas file He arco e Betas nau curando, Uuem os teu olho* re Venus esqueco.' 
 Mil glorias promettia, solucando, 
 A quern a Deosa o leve quc buscava.
 
 598 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 audacity : yet this satire appeared for tta 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 
 night be supposed to result from a long application to the 
 Jtact 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 prrief. 
 
 Com'st thou the messenger of death ! Pe dd alfange, golpe fero, 
 
 Then come ! I court thy wish'd relief, s da doe "? a - ou " lla morte ' 
 
 And pour with joy this painful breath. *<u me resigno, e firme espero 
 
 O derradeiro fatal corte. 
 But thou, my soul, what art thou? \Vhere 
 
 Wing'st thou thy flight, immortal flame J Tu leve sopro _ entendimento, 
 
 Or fadest thou into empty air, Alma immorta i por onde andavas r 
 
 A lamp burnt out, a sigh, a name? Qual luz de vela exposta ao ve nto, 
 
 I reck not life, nor that with life Me pareceu que te apagavas. 
 
 The world and the world's toys are o'er : 
 
 But, ah ! 'tis more than mortal strife g e a v ;d a 5,5 v i ra extinguir- ! 
 
 To leave the loved, and love no more. Ah, que he a vida e o rnundo f nada 
 
 To leave her thus 1 my fond soul torn Mas verse huma alma dividir. 
 
 From hers, without e'en time to tell Mais que de si, da sua amada ! 
 
 * For the benefit of those who read Portuguese, I shall he-re extract a few passages 
 in order to give an idea of the author's manner in this little work : 
 Tu, jocosa Th:ilia, agora diza Um tempo immovel fica; mas a raiva 
 
 Qual seu espanto foi, sue surpresa Succedendo ao desmaio, entra escumando 
 
 Quando a porta chegando costumada, Na grinde sacrestta, e d'alli passa 
 
 Nellao Dead no viu, nao viu o hyssope. Para o Altar mor, aonde se revest*, 
 Tanto foi da discordia o fero influxo I Onde como costuma, em contrabaixo, 
 
 Caminhante que ve subito rayo, Sem saber o que diz, a missa canta. 
 
 Ante seus pes cahir, ferindo a terra. To da aquella nianhaa, uma so bencao 
 
 Tao suspense na6 fica, tao confuso, Sobre o Povo nao lanfa, antes confuso 
 
 Como o grave Prelado : a cor mudando, Km prof undo silencio a casa torna. 
 
 Can: a iii. c. 12. 
 
 We have a very amusing account in the seventh canto, of the reiuscitation of an old 
 cock, after it had been roasted for the Dean's table, to make him predict the future u 
 the Chapter assembled at dinner : 
 
 O velho Gallo que n'um prato estava Tres vezes sacudindo, estas palavras 
 
 Entre frangaos e pcinbo** lardeado, Ein vu2 articulou triste uias elara. 
 
 E- yc e Icviintou, e is ua<k> aiu
 
 Of- THE PORTUGUESE. 
 
 599 
 
 Hers are these tears and sighs that burn, 
 
 And hen this last and wild farewell. 
 Yes ! while upon the awful brink 
 
 Of fate, I look to worlds above, 
 How happy, did I dre to think [love 1 
 
 These last faint words might greet my 
 " Oh ! erer 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 my 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 trutn 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 misery and ill. 
 \nd 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 thet once was dear. 
 5f et weep not bitterly, but say, 
 
 " lie loved me not as others love; 
 Mine, only mine, ere call'd away, 
 
 Mine, only mine in heaven above." 
 
 Morrer, e sem ao meu encanto 
 Poder mostrar o affecto meu ! 
 Ah sem poder mostrarlhc, o quanta 
 Son todo inteiramente seu! 
 
 Ah Ceos!...porem, eu me reslgno; 
 Mas se aqui findo os dias meus, 
 Oh ! algum Zufiro benigno 
 Ao meu amor leve este adeus ! 
 
 Adeus objecto idolatrado 
 
 Uo mais int r nso e puro amor. 
 De amor tao docc, acerbo fado 
 A gentil planta sega em flor. 
 
 Adeus, adeus ! sabe que em quanto 
 O esprito ou corpo existe, he teu ; 
 Vive feliz, tao 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 mini vejo affastar. 
 
 E tu essencia incomprehensivel, 
 Tu do universe ou alma ou rey, 
 Patente em tudo e invisivel, 
 E em quern hum pai, creio, achareL 
 
 Levo a teus pes, qual me entregaste, 
 Simples e humano o coracao. 
 Amor ao bem, qudl me inspiraste; 
 Fraquezas e erros, crimes na6. 
 
 Pia a amizade acaha em Unto 
 O triste offlcio derradeiro ; 
 K as liliac.jes me faz de pranto 
 Na pedrarasa e scm letreiro. 
 
 Torna a amizade (se sentido 
 O na6 tiver no pcito amor) 
 Te hira dizer manso ao ouvido: 
 la n.io he vivo o teu pastor 
 
 E quando a prai e a uspessura 
 Que absorto ao pi- de ti me via, 
 Minh.i affuicno tao terna e pur a, 
 Tc dibuxar na fantesia. 
 
 Brandos suspiros na6 engeito 
 Ncm gentil lagrima, que amor 
 Yerter do main que amado pcito, 
 Com taudade, mas sem dor. 
 
 E dize entao maviosamente: 
 " Raro c leal foi o amor seu, 
 " Meu foi, meu todo, inteiramente: 
 " K. se inda exist-, a inda he meu. 
 
 Among the other poets of Portugal of the snine 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 
 Knglish poets, and who was one of the first of those who broke
 
 600 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 through 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 
 have 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, ot'Quiloa, and of Mozambique, in 
 the East, where they had introduced their religion, their 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 the 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 different 
 languages and poetry, springing from the union of the Latins 
 
 *I have looked over the two volumes of poems, published at Lisbon ISfll, by Nicolan 
 Tolentino de Almeida, professor of rhetoric. I know the reputation which he enjoys 
 amongst the Portuguese, but I am unable to discover in him any true poetical feeling. 
 He appears to me the hired flatterer of great lords, who are unknown to ma: his 
 verses have scarcely any other object than to beg for offices and money ; at the same 
 time that he execrates gambling, by which he lost all he possessed. In his sonnets, 
 odes, epistles, and satires, he is always low, feeble, nd 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 
 friend upon his marriage, vol. ii. p. 03; another, in which h refuses to write, in his 
 old age, verses in honour of Crescentini, vol. ii. p. 1.'; arc the two pieces io which I 
 kave found the most elevated sentimont nn<i ooetick. inspiration.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 601 
 
 With the Goths, of the nations of the North with those of the 
 South. The Italian, the Provencal, 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- 
 ng qualities of romantic poetry ; and it has been my lot to 
 resent 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 
 Btruction of such verses as were brought under my view, 
 much with the same result as if, in order to give a deaf man 
 
 VOL. U PP
 
 602 ON TQt LITERATURE 
 
 in idea ol music, I were to exhibit a piano-forte to his view, 
 and point out the ingenious construction by which each touch 
 draws from the strings tones of which he can form no con- 
 ception. Then I might address him in the words which I 
 now address to the French 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 from 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 ita 
 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 tiny 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 first 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 
 strike the reader unexpectedly, nor throw the least obscurity 
 over tne 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 tc penetrate ; and it henceforward remains with 
 bimself 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 u 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 
 cf them will be attended only with pleasure. Should I be
 
 <504 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 ths worship which strangers have offered up 
 at tbeii shrine
 
 INDEX. 
 
 AKPAI.'. ASMAV, a patron of letters, i. 81. 
 
 Aboul-Fetla, Aboul-Monder, their histori- 
 cal works, i. 64. 
 
 Accolti, Bernardo, an Italian poet, i. 428. 
 
 Achillini, Claudio, imitated Marini, i.457. 
 
 Acuna, Fernando d', his translation of 
 Ovid, ii. 212. 
 
 Adelgizo, imprisons Louis II., i. 38. 
 
 Alamanni, Luigi, his romance of Girone il 
 Cortese, i. 349; his history, i. 350; his 
 poem of La Coltivazione, i. 350. 
 
 Alarcon, Don Juan Ruys dc, 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. 566. 
 
 Alcuin. i. 37. 
 
 Aleman, Mntteo, author of Gusman d' 
 Alfarache, ii. 364. 
 
 Alexander, poem of, the origin of the 
 Alexandrian verse, i. 191. 
 
 Alfieri. Vittorio, his confessions, i. 568; 
 his character and genius, i. 569 ; analysis 
 of his Philip II., i. 581 ; the publication 
 of his first four tragedies, ii. 25 ; analysis 
 of the Agamemnon, ii. 27 ; the Orestes, 
 ii. 35 ; analysis of Saul, ii. 36 ; 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 the 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. 
 
 Ali, 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-Monotabbi, the prince of Arabian 
 poeU, 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. 
 
 Andiade Caminha Pedro de, his works, 
 ii. 473. 
 
 Andrade, Jacin'.o Freire de, his burlesque 
 poems, ii. 581 ; his life of Dor. 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. 48 ; 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, bis 
 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 other 
 poems, i. 344. 
 
 Aristotle studied by the Arabians, i. 65 ; 
 Lay of, i. 222. 
 
 Armesto, Don Manuel Francisco de, his 
 two religious plays, ii. 427. 
 
 Arnaud de Marveil, the most celebrated 
 Troubadour, i. 130; song by, 1. 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. 
 
 Avello-;, F. H. (11 Poetino), his dramas, 
 i. 543. 
 
 Averrhoes,a commentator of Aristotle,i.G5. 
 
 Avicenna, the Arabian, i. 67. 
 
 Ayala, Pedro Lopez de, his poems, ii. H9. 
 
 Azavedo, Araujo de, his translations from 
 English poetry, ii. 599. 
 
 Azzo VII. invites the Troubadours to 
 Kste, i. 1(53. 
 
 Bacellar, Antonio Barbosa, his Portuguese 
 poems, ii. 58(1. 
 
 Backtisehwah, George, his Arabian trans- 
 lations of Greek medical works, i. 5). 
 
 Halii.-i, Jeronymn, hi* poems, ii. 584; 
 translation t'rum, ii. ">i4. 
 
 liarhazan, his colVction of Fabliaux, i, 
 211).
 
 006 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Harherino, Francesco di, i. 274. the Inquisition, ii. 379; his fanaticism) 
 
 Barros, John de, the Livy of Portugal, ii. play of The Devotion of the Cross, ii. 
 
 561 ; his romance The Emperor Clari- 379 ; analysis of El secreto a vozen, ii 
 
 inond, ii. 561 ; his Portuguese Asia, ii. 30 ; of Tlu Indexible Prince, ii. 387 ; 
 
 562. 1'lay of La Aurora en Copacavana, ii 
 
 Beccari, Agostino, his poem of II Sacri- 390; of The Origin, Loss, and Restora 
 
 fizio, i. 398. tion of the Virgin of the Sanctuary, ii, 
 
 Beccaria, Marquis, his treatise on Crimes, 398; Purgatory of Saint Patricius, ii. 401 , 
 
 ii. 61. L'Alcaide de simismo; La Dama Du- 
 
 Bembo, Pietro, his life and works, i. 426. ende; Lances de Amor y Fortuna, ii. 
 
 Bentivoglio, G., his History of the Wars 406; Alcaide de Zamalea; Kl Medico 
 
 of Flanders, ii. 60. de su Honra, ii. 406; editions of his 
 
 Berceo, Gonzales de, his poems, ii. 122; works, by Villaroel, ii. 368; byApontes, 
 
 his Life of St. Dominick, ii. 122; Life ii. 414; his Autos Sacramentales; A 
 
 of St. Millan, ii. 126. l)ios por razon de Estado, ii. 415. 
 
 Bernardes, Diego, his life, ii. 473; his Caliphs, their patronage of literature, i 50. 
 
 Eclogues, ii. 474. Camoens, Luis de, ii. 475; his Lusiad, ii. 
 
 Berni, Francesco, character of his genius, 480; episode of Inez de Castro, ii. 497 
 
 i. 423; his Orlando Innamorato, i. 424. episode of Adamastor, ii. 513; episode 
 
 Bertola, Abhate, his fables, ii. 72. and allegory of the Island of Joy, ii.521; 
 
 Hertrand de Born, song by, i. 109; his conclusion of the Lusiad, ii. 528; his 
 
 Sirventes, i. 118; his history, i. 119; miscellaneous poems, ii. 52S; his son 
 
 song by, i. 121 ; mentioned in Dante's nets, ii. 531 ; translations of, ii. 532, 533, 
 
 Inferno,i. 123. translations from his eemcaos or canzoni, 
 
 Bettinelli, Xavier, his works, ii. 61. ii. 534, 535; his odes, ii. 535 ; his elegies 
 
 Beziers, the massacre of, i. 157. and satirical pieces, ii.5'!6; his paraphrase 
 
 Beziers, Viscount of, tolerated the Albi- of the 137th Psalm, ii. 537 ; his eclogues, 
 
 genses, i. 155; encourages them to de- ii. 538; Strangford's translations from, 
 
 fend themselves, i. 156; poisoned in ii 539,540; his dramatic works, ii. .'>!') 
 
 prison, i. 157. Campanella, Tomaso, his conspiracy, . 
 
 Bocarro, Antonio, his History of the 443. 
 
 Portuguese Conquests in India, ii. 566. Cancer, Don Hieronymo, ii. 424. 
 Boccaccio, i. 294 ; his hi-tory, i. 294 ; the Canjionero General, a collection of Spa- 
 Decameron, i. 296; origin of his tales, nish songs, ii. 164. 
 
 i. 297; the Fiammetta, i. 298; Filacopo, Cancionero, Portuguese, written in the 
 
 i. 299; La Theseide and 1'ilostrato, i. fifteenth century, ii. 45fi ; of lleysencle, 
 
 300; his Latin works, i. 302; his en- more frequently met with, ii. '.jK. 
 
 couragement of classical learning, i. 303. Cafiizarez, Don Joseph, his plays, ii. 424; 
 
 Boccage, Manuel de Barbosa du, a Por- his Picarillo en Espaiia, ii 421. 
 
 tuguese poet, ii. 600. Cardinal, Pierre, a Troubadour, i. 141 
 
 Boiardo, Maria, i. 322; his Orlando In- his fable ot the Shower, i. 142; his poem 
 
 namorato, i. 325. on the Albigenses, i. 161. 
 
 Bondi, C., his poems, ii. 73. Cardozo, Francisco, ii. 600. 
 
 Borja, Francisco de, Prince of Esquillace, Carmentiere, his lives of the Troubadours, 
 
 ii. 363. i. 73. 
 
 Boscan, produced a revolution in C'astilian Carpio, Bernard del, ii. 141; his history, 
 
 poetry, ii. 180; his poems, ii. 181. ii. 154. 
 
 Boutterwek, his History of Literature, Carthagena, Alonzo de. ii. 165. 
 
 i. 32. Castaiieda, Fernando Lopez de, his His- 
 
 Bracciolini, Francesco, his comic-heroic tory of the Portuguese Conquests in 
 
 poem, i. 463. India, ii. 566. 
 
 Bracciolini, Poggio, his history, i. 311; Casti, his Gli Animali Parlanti andNovelli, 
 
 his patronage of letters, i. 3ii; his ii. 78 ; specimen of a translation by lord 
 
 Facetite, i. 312; his literary quarrels, Byron, ii. 79. 
 
 i. 312. Castiglione, Baldassare, i. 436. 
 
 Brito, Bernardo de, his History of Portu- Castillejo, D. C. de, his poetry ii. 212. 
 
 gal, ji. 562. Castro, Guillen de, ii. 424. 
 
 Byron, Lord, specimen of liis unpublished Castro, Estevan Rodriguez de, ii. 475. 
 
 translation from Casti. ii. 79. Ceceo d'Ascoli, his poem of L'Acerba, i. 
 
 Ca;sarotti, Melchior, his translation of 274. 
 
 Homer, ii. 62, ofOssian, ii. 03. Ceo, Violante de, ii. 582; translation of 
 
 Halanson, Giraud de, a Troubadour, or sonnet from, ii. 583. 
 
 rather Jongleur; his advice to a Jong- Ccrda, Fernam Correa de la, ii. 582. 
 
 leur, i. 128. Cervantes, ii. 214; his Galatea, ii. 214; 
 
 Calderon de la Barca, Don Pedro de, ii. his Don Quixote, ii. 215, 218; his novels, 
 
 507; estimate of his genius, ii. 374; his ii. 215: Persiles and Sigismonda, ii. 215, 
 
 plays, Nadie fie su seireto, ii. 376; 262; his Journey to Parnassus, ii. 227; 
 
 Ainar despucs dc la Muerte, ii. 377, his drama? ii. 229; analysis of the Nu 
 
 409; Coriolanus ii. 378; Thu Port of mantia, ii. 236: Life in AlKiem. il. 24<i
 
 INDEX. 
 
 607 
 
 exemplary novels, ii. 255; Galatea, ii. 
 270. 
 
 Certina, Gutiere tie, 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., reign 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. 11)3; romances of, i. 194; their 
 division into three classes, i. 196; cha- 
 racter of the first class, i. 190; character 
 of the Amadises, 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'g 
 translation, ii. 133. 
 
 Cino da Pistoia, a friend of Dante, i. 274. 
 
 Clergy, excessive corruption of, i. 152. 
 
 Coelho, Simao Toriezao, ii. 582. 
 
 Cornelia, Don Luciano Francisco, ii. 439. 
 
 Commedie dell' arte, their first appearance, 
 i. 439. 
 
 Compass, invention of, i. 68. 
 
 Conrad, Earl, a Minnesinger, song by, i. 
 125. 
 
 Cornell!*, 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 Dili, 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. 1U6; abolished under Charles of 
 Anjou, i. 164. 
 
 Couto, continues the work of De Barros, 
 ii. 566. 
 
 Crusades, inspired the Troubadours, i. 112. 
 
 Crux 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 
 Divorzic felix, II. 440. 
 
 Cubillo, Don Alvaro, ii. 424. 
 
 Cunha, J. A. da, his poems, ii. 598 ; trans- 
 lation from, 11. 558. 
 
 D'Andusa, Clara, song by, i. 107. 
 
 Daniel, Arnaud, praied by Petrarch, L 
 130. 
 
 Dante, his great poem, i. 246 ; analysis or, 
 i. 246 ; his entry into Hell, i. 248; into 
 Purgatory, i. 255; into Paradise, i.260; 
 his terza rima, i. 264 ; episode of Count 
 Ugolino, i. 265 ; his influence over hii 
 age, i. 264; his history, i. 270; his con- 
 temporaries, i. 273; their genius, i. 275. 
 
 D'Audeley, H., his fabliaux, i. 222. 
 
 Davila, E. C., his history of the civil war* 
 of France, ii. 59. 
 
 Denina, Abbate, his Revolutions of Italy 
 and (jermany, ii. 61. 
 
 Depping, his collection of Spanish Ballads, 
 ii. 133. 
 
 D.alects, theirnumberin thelOth century, 
 i. 45. 
 
 Dionysius, King of Portugal, his pcems, 
 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. 5-16 ; the domestic tragedy, i. 
 551 ; modern pantomime, i. 566 ; effect 
 cf 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. 
 
 K'.'inhanl, an early Latin writer, i. 37 
 
 Ercilla y /uni:-a, Alonzo de, his genius, 
 ii. 271; his life, ii. 272; his Aram-ana, 
 ii. 275. 
 
 Ericeyra, Francisco Xavier de Meneses, 
 Count of, ii. 587; his Hennqueide, an 
 epic poem, ii. 587, 589; extracts from, 
 ii. 590. 
 
 Escas. Amanieu des, his poetical advice to 
 young ladies and gentlemen, i. 138. 
 
 Espinel, Vincenzio, ii. 352 ; his life of the 
 Squire Marco de Obrcgod, 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. 
 
 Falvam, Chriftoval, his eclogues, extract 
 from, ii. 4CO. 
 
 Fantor.i, Labindo, character of his poems, 
 ii. 68. 
 
 Faria y Sousa, Manuel de, ii. 577 ; hit 
 Portuguese Europe, ii. 577; his com- 
 mentary on Camoens, ii. 579 ; his son- 
 nets, ii. ;-"y , his Bucolics, ii. 580.
 
 608 
 
 INDKX. 
 
 Federici, Camillo, his farces, i. 548. 
 
 ?erduzi, an extractfrom his Schah Namah, 
 .. 58. 
 
 Ferradis, Vicent, anagram by, on the name 
 of Jesus, i. 178. 
 
 Ferreira, Antonio, ii. 466 ; his sonnets, ii. 
 4ti7 ; his tragedy of Inez de Castro, ii. 
 468. 
 
 Feudal system, not to be confounded with 
 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, Giov. di, his tragedies, i. 552. 
 
 Gamez, Gutierre Diez de, his Life of 
 Count Pedro Nifla de Buelna, ii. 169. 
 
 Garcao, 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, Damiao, 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. 
 
 Srozzi, Count, rival* Goldoni, i. 516, 532; 
 his dramatic sketch of The Three 
 Oranges, i. 533 ; his other fairy dramas, 
 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, 
 t 437. 
 
 Gravina, ..ne master of Metastasio, i. 477. 
 Greppi, Giov., his dramas, :. 547. 
 Greswell, Rev. W. P., his memc'rs 
 
 Politiano, i. 345. 
 Gualzetti, his dramas, i. 546. 
 Guarini, Battista, i. 445; his Pastor Fido 
 
 i. 445. 
 Guarino Veronese, hi? 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 
 Espafiol, ii. 438. 
 Hussites, i. 154. 
 Ibn-al-Beithar, his study of botany, i. 
 
 66. 
 
 Improvvisatori, their genius, ii. 83 ; the 
 measure most used by them, ii. 84; 
 Gianni, ii. 85 ; Gorilla, 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 de 1', 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 Provengal poetry, 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'Jl. 
 Koran, style and eloquence of, i. 55. 
 La-tus, Pomponius, in the chair of Roman 
 
 eloquence, i. 405. 
 
 Language, Spanish, its origin, ii. 89. 
 Languages of modern Europe, origin of, 
 
 i. 33. 
 Latin, corruption of, i. 35; barbaroui 
 
 songs in, i. 38 ; its rhyme*, i. 84 
 I.eyra, Don Francisco de, ii. 424. 
 Lionardo Aretino. a scholar of Chrysolo- 
 ras, i. SJO.
 
 DfDEX. 
 
 609 
 
 tippi, Lorenzo, his Malmantlle raquts.it. >, 
 i. 406. 
 
 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 and epic and lyric 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. 83 ; decline 
 of, in the seventeenth century, 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. 
 
 Lobeira, Vasco, author of Amadis de Gaul, 
 i. 203. 
 
 Lobeira, 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 theCid, 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. 
 
 Lutan, Ignazio do, 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. 
 
 Maffer, 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. 1!.. his life and genius, ii. 452 : 
 the Adonis, ii. 453. 
 
 Man, -Hi. 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. 
 
 Marvel], Arnaud de, the great master erf 
 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 ; hit 
 patronage of letters, i. 308. 
 
 Medici, Lorenzo de', the restorer of Ita- 
 lian poetry, i. 314; his poetry, i. 315. 
 
 Mena, Juan de, his life and works, ii. 162. 
 
 Mendoza, Marquis de Santilla, 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 History of the War 
 of Grenada, ii. 195. 
 
 Menzoni, O., his poems, ii. 76. 
 
 Merlino Coccajo, inventor of Maccaronio 
 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 cautate and canzonette, 
 i. 505. 
 
 Metuahel-al- Allah, his magnificent li- 
 brary, i. 54. 
 
 Millot, i. 32; lives of the Provencal 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.46l ; 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, favourably 
 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. 
 
 Monte-mayor, his life and genius, ii. 198; 
 his romance of Diana, ii. 198; analysis 
 of, ii. 199; continuation of, ii. 212; his 
 Portuguese poetry in the Diana, ii. 466 
 
 Montferrat, Marquis, invites the Trouba- 
 dours into Greece, i. 163. 
 
 Montford, Simon de, created Viscount of 
 Bezicrs, i. 159; besieged Toulouse, i. 
 160. 
 
 Monti, V., his Aristodemo, ii. 44; hr 
 Galeotto Manfredi, ii. 45 ; character of, 
 ii. 79 : La Basvigliana, ii. 80. 
 
 Montiano y Luyando. Augnstin de, hit 
 two tragedies of Virgin'a and Ataujpho 
 ii. 429.
 
 610 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Morales, Juan d, ii. 352. 
 
 Moralities, their origin, i. 238. 
 
 Moratin, Leandro Fernandez de, a com'c 
 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 
 puede ser, imitated by Moliere, ii. 422. 
 
 Morillo, Gregorio, ii. 352. 
 
 Mossen, Jaume 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. 226. 
 
 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 chivalry, 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. 67; intro- 
 duced at Sarmacand and Mecca, i. 67. 
 
 Panni, Giuseppe, his poems, ii. 74. 
 
 Paul II., his persecution of literary men, 
 i. 406. 
 
 Paulicians, their simple faith 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 ; th* friend of Kienzi, i. 
 292 ; crowned in the Capitol at Rome, 
 i. 293. 
 
 Peyrols, 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 predlcator, y 
 mayor contrario amigo, ii. 42 1 . 
 
 Philip V., his influence on the literature 
 of Spain, ii. 426. 
 
 Pignotti, L., hig ftbles, ii. 64 ; the Shada 
 of Pope, ii. 66. 
 
 Pilatus, Leontiug, Greek professor at 
 Florence, i. 304. 
 
 Pindemonti, Giov., i. 557 ; his Ginevra of 
 Scotland, i. 558 ; other tragedies, i. 5C5. 
 
 Pindemonti, Ippolito, ii. 68; his style 
 similar to Gray's, ii. 70. 
 
 Poetry, Spanish, 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; undei 
 Charles II., ii. 425; under Philip V. 
 ii. 426. 
 
 , Italian, restoration of, i. 3H; 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, Angelo, his studies, i. 316; his 
 poem on the tournament of Julian de' 
 Medici, i. 317; revives the ancient 
 tragedy, i. 320. 
 
 Polo, Caspar 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. 447; 
 language of. a sort of contracted 
 Spanish, ii. 447 ; inquiry into tlie early- 
 origin of, ii. 418; 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. 196. 
 
 Printing, invention of, i. 308. 
 
 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 diflicult ol 
 access, i. 72; lives of the Troubadours, 
 i. 73 ; rise of the Provencal language, in 
 the countries conquered by the Visi- 
 goths and Durgundians, i. 7f ; formed 
 into an independent state, i. 75; pro- 
 sody of the Provencal poetry, i. 'JO . the 
 Provencal spoken throughout France, 
 i. 96 ; causes which contributed to en- 
 courage it 'he conquest of New Cas- 
 tile, i. 97 ; the crusade of 1095, i. 'JS; 
 succession of the kings of England to 
 part of the territories, i. 99; its lan- 
 guage adopted by half the European 
 sovereign i. 99; general character of
 
 INDEX. 
 
 6U 
 
 Prorenc* poetry, i. 146; preserved in 
 Aragon, i. 170 ; gradual decay of its 
 language and literature, i. 182; see also 
 Troubadours. 
 
 Pulci, Luigi, hit Morgante Maggiore, i. 
 323. 
 
 Quevedo y Villega*, 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- 
 vencals, i. 144. 
 
 Reynoso y Quiflonos, 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. b9. 
 
 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; 
 hi? 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. 1 52. 
 
 Romances, Spanish, ii. 130; collections 
 of, ii. 131 ; of the Cid, ii 132 ; character 
 of the Spanish romances, ii. 152; their 
 origin, ii. 159. 
 
 Romance languages, 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. 218. 
 
 Rossi, Gherardo di, his comedies, i. 552; 
 his Lagrime del la 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 Cata'.onian poet, 
 i. ISO. 
 
 RnnelU'. Giovanni i. 415; his description 
 
 of the civil wars of the bees, i. 415; hit 
 tragedies, i. 417. 
 
 Rudel. Geoffrey, 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 1'lsla), 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 Espafto], 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 Provencals, i. 244. 
 
 Sirventes, the second class of Provencal 
 poems, i. 109. 
 
 Sografi, Anton. Simone, i. 546. 
 
 Soiis, Antonio de, his History of the Con- 
 quest of Mexico, ii. 365. 
 
 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 bv, 
 i. 109. 
 
 St Palaye, his collections of the works of 
 the Troubadours, i. 72. 
 
 Strada, Zenobi di, crowned at Pisa, i. 305. 
 
 Sylva, Andrea Nufiez de, a Brazilian poet, 
 ii. 585. 
 
 Sylvius, jEneas (Pius II.), i. 307. 
 
 Tarsia, Paul Antonio de, his Life of Que- 
 vedo, ii. 3C6. 
 
 Tasso, Torquato, i. 356; his merit iu 
 selecting his subject, i. 356; the Jeru- 
 salem Delivered, i. 359 ; analysis of the 
 poem, with extracts, i. 360; rivalship 
 between Ariosto and Tasso, comparison 
 between the romantic and classical 
 poetry-, i. 3S9 ; his history, i. 392 ; hu 
 Rinaldo, i. 392; lui captivity in j mad-
 
 612 INDEX. 
 
 house, i. 394 ; publication of his Jeru- 
 salem Delivered, i. 395, his Gerusa- 
 lemme Conquistata, i. 39C ; his Amyn- 
 tas, i. 397, 399 ; his other poems, i. 402. 
 
 Tasso, Bernardo, his Amadis, i. 351. 
 
 Tassoni, La Secchia Kapita, i. 46C. 
 
 Tensons, nature of, i. 106. 
 
 Tcxada, Augustine 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 226. 
 
 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 written in 
 prose, i. 198. 
 
 Troubadours, works of, i. 72 ; their lives, 
 i. 73, 74 ; their language, i. 75 ; rise of 
 their poetry, i. 76; 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. 
 14C ; satires against the clergy, i. 152 ; 
 encouraged in the north of Italy, i. 163 ; 
 ignorance of the Troubadours, and 
 causes of their decay, i. 148. See also 
 Provencals. 
 
 Trouveres, their poetry romantic, distinc- 
 tion between them and the Troubadours, 
 i. 151; their dialect, the Romance- 
 Wallon, i. 186; 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, Benjamin, 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. 
 
 Uberti, Fazio de', his Dettamondo, i. 305. 
 
 Valdez, Juan Melendes, his poems, ii. 
 442 ; Idyl, by him, ii. 442. 
 
 Valla, Lorenzo, notice of, i. 313. 
 
 Valladarez, ii. 600. 
 
 Vaqueiras, Hambaud de, a valiant Trou- 
 badour, i. 132; sirvente by, i. 133; his 
 poem to the Marquis Boniface, i. 134. 
 
 Vasconcellos, Jorge Ferreira de, ii. 475. 
 
 , Miguel de Cabedo de, ii. 475. 
 
 , Francisco de, his sonnets, 
 
 Ii. 534. 
 
 Vaga, Lope de, ii. 301 ; his life, ii. 301 ; 
 
 his works, ii. 302 ; his Discreet Re engi> 
 ii. 304 ; his Cierto por lo Dudoso, ii. 314 
 316 ; his Probeza no es Vilrza, ii. SI4 
 his play of the Life of the valiant Ces 
 pedes, ii. 322 ; his Arauco domado, fi 
 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 Calderon's works, ii. 368. 
 
 Vicente, Gil, ii. 540 ; the founder of th 
 Spanish theatre, ii. 541 ; division of hi- 
 works, ii. 542 ; translations from, ii. 54: 
 
 Vidal, Pierre, a Troubadour who followe* 
 Richard 1., i. 135; his extravagant ad 
 ventures, i. 136 ; his allegorical poem, 
 i. 137 ; his treatise on the Art of holding 
 one's Tongue, i. 138. 
 
 Villani, the three, their historical writings, 
 i. 304. 
 
 Villegas, Estevan Manuel de, the Ana 
 creon of Spain, ii. 362 ; his poem of the 
 Nightingale, ii. 363. 
 
 Villena, Marquis of, his encouragement 
 of the Provencal poetry, i. 171 ; comedy 
 by, i. 172 ; his poems, ii. 160. 
 
 Vimiero, Countess de, her tragedy of Os- 
 mia, ii. 592. 
 
 Voltaire, ii. 294; his CEdipus, ii. 294. 
 
 Von Aste, Dietmar, one of the German 
 Minnesingers, song by, i. 124. 
 
 Way, his translations of the Fabliaux, i. 
 225. 
 
 Wiffen, Mr. J. H., his translation of a 
 serrana by the Marquis de Santillano, 
 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 
 Pharsalin of Lucan, ii. 363. 
 
 Yriarte, Tomas de, his Fabulas Littera- 
 rias, ii. 440 ; Fable of El Borrico y la 
 Flauto, ii. 44; L'oso y la Mona, ii. 441 ; 
 his didactic poem on music, ii. 442. 
 
 Zalazar y Torres, Don Augustino de, ii. 
 424. 
 
 Zamora, Lorenzo de, his Mystic Monarchy 
 of the Church, ii. 348 ; Redondilias in 
 honour of St. Joseph, ii. 349. 
 
 Zarate, Don Fernando de, his piece of L 
 Presumida y la Hermosa, ii. 442. 
 
 Zeno, Apostolo, his operas, i. 471; hi* 
 Iphigenia, i. 4*1. 
 
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