il!|!!i:
 
 HISTORICAL VIEW 
 
 OF THE 
 
 LITERATURE 
 
 OF THE 
 
 SOUTH OF EUROPE; 
 
 BY 
 
 J. C. L. SIMONDE DE SISMONDI: 
 
 OFTHE ACADEMY AND SOCIETY OF AKTS OF GENEVA, lIONORAnv MEMBER 
 OF TllK UNIVERSITY OF WII.NA, OF THE ITALIAH ACADEMY, &C. &C. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL, 
 WITH NOTES, 
 
 BY THOMAS ROSCOE, ESQ. 
 VOL. IV. 
 
 « - < 
 
 LONDON: 
 PRINTED FOR HENRY COLBURN AND CO. 
 
 1823. 
 
 If 6 •^ ^^ 
 
 G412
 
 J. ON DON : 
 lIMNTin \\\ S. AND It. r.KNTI.lY, IH)KSK1 STKKKT. 
 
 • a • 

 
 V.4- 
 
 c o IS r E N r s 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FOURTH VOLUME. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 Continuation of Lope de Vega .... Page 1 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIL 
 
 Lyric Poetry of Spain, at tlie close of tlic Sixteenth and coiii- 
 mencement of the Seventeenth Century. — Gongora and his 
 followers, Quevedo, Villegas, &c. ... 47 
 
 CHxVPTER XXXin. 
 
 Don Pedro Calderon de la Barca . . . lU'J 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI V. 
 
 Conclusion of Calderon . . . . . . 153 
 
 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 . . . . . li)o
 
 iv CO NT t. NTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 State of rortnj,'uesc Literature until the midiUe of the Sixteenth 
 Century ~ 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 Luis lie Camocns : Lusiatlas 316 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 Sequel of the Lusiad 369 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 Miscellaneous Poems of Camoens : Gil Vicente; Rodriguez 
 Loho; Cortcreal ; Portuguese Historians of the Sixteenth 
 Century *'''' 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 Continuation of the Literature of Portugal.— Conclusion 50 1
 
 VIEW 
 
 OF 
 
 THE L I T E li A T U 11 i: 
 
 OF THE 
 
 SOUTH OF EUROPE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 Continuation of Lope de Vega. 
 
 It is not merely on his own account that our 
 farther attention is directed to the poet whom 
 Spain has designated as the phoenix of men of 
 genius. Lope de Vega merits our attention 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 sur- 
 prised with the renewal of theatrical representa- 
 tions, and turned to them with delight. In every 
 quarter the drama now revived ; the eyes as well 
 
 VOL. IV. li
 
 2 UN I II I. i.rri.KATiiiF 
 
 as the mind sought a gratification in tiic cliarms 
 of poetry, and genius was required to give to its 
 creations action and life. In Italy, tragedy had 
 been already cultivated by Trissino, Kucellai, 
 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 pe- 
 riod which corresponds to the life of Lope de 
 Vega, (loG2-lG35) that the only dramatic at- 
 tempts of which Italy has reason to boast be- 
 fore those of Altieri, 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 representation 
 adai)ted to the national taste of a peoi)le 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 luigiand, Shakspeare 
 was born two years alter l.ope de Vega, and died 
 nineteen years before him, (15(54-1010;. His 
 j)owerful genius raised the English theatre, which 
 had its birth a few years before, from a stale of 
 extreme barbarism, and bestowed on it all the 
 renown which it possesses. In France, .lotlelle, 
 who is now regarded as a rude author, had given 
 to French tragedy those rules and that sjjirit 
 which she has preserved in her maturity, even 
 before the birth of I.ope deVega(l5:i2 to 1573).
 
 OF THE SPANIAIIDS. 3 
 
 Garnier, who was the first to polish it, was a con- 
 temporary of Lope. The great Corneille, born 
 in 1C06, and llotrou, 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 Spa- 
 nish dramatist. In the midst of this universal 
 devotion to dramatic poetry, we may well ima- 
 gine 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 variet}^ all the 
 theatres of the Spanish dominions, and those of 
 Milan, Naples, Vienna, Munich, and Brussels. 
 The influence which he could not win from his 
 age by the polish of his works, he obtained by 
 their number. He exhibited the dramatic art as 
 he had conceived it, in so many different man- 
 ners, and under so many forms, to so many 
 thousands of spectators, that he naturalized and 
 established a preference for his style, irrevo- 
 cably decided the direction of Spanish genius 
 in the dramatic art, and obtained over the foreign 
 stage a considerable inriuonoe. It is foil in the 
 
 ij 2
 
 4 ON THE LITEUATUHK 
 
 plays of Shakspeare and of his iinmecliate suc- 
 cessors; and is to be traced in Italy during the 
 seventeenth century, but more particularly in 
 France, where the great Corneille formed him- 
 self on tlie Spanish school ; where Rotrou, (^ui- 
 nault, Tiiomas Corneille, and Scarron, gave to 
 the stage scarcely any other than ])icces borrowed 
 from Spain; and where the Castilian names and 
 titles and manners were for a long time in exclu- 
 sive possession of the theatre. 
 
 The pieces uf Lope dc Vega are seldom read ; 
 they have not, to my knowledge, been translat- 
 ed, and they are rarely met with in detached 
 collections of Spanish plays. The original edi- 
 tion 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 ex- 
 ercised so ])owerful and durable an influence not 
 only over his native country, but over all Europe, 
 and over ourselves ; and with w horn 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 feci, too, that the prodigious 
 
 •There is a copy in llic Bibli<)tl)r(|uo Ilovali'.nl I'.uis, Imt tl.c 
 iifth and sixth vohimes arc wanting.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 5 
 
 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 interesting 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 sen- 
 timents, 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, 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 indifference has been 
 manifested for human life, where duels, armed 
 rencounters, and assassinations, have been more 
 common, arising from slighter causes, and ac- 
 companied 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
 
 ON TH L 1.1 I J. KA I I li h 
 
 is true, to the veiijiieancc of rehitious uiul to tlic 
 l)ursuit oi' justice, but they are under the pro- 
 tection of religion and public opinion ; they pass 
 from one convent and church to another, until 
 they reach a place of safety ; and they arc not 
 only favoured by a l)lind conijiassion, but the 
 whole body of the clergy make it a point of con- 
 science, in their judpits and confessionals, to ex- 
 tend their forgiveness to an unfortunate, who has 
 given way to a sudden movement of anger, and 
 by abandoning the dead to snatcli a victim from 
 the hands of justice. The same religious pre- 
 judice exists in Italy ; an assassin is always sure 
 of protection under the name of Christian cha- 
 -rity from all belonging to the church, and by all 
 that class of people immediately under the in- 
 fluence of the priests. Thus in no country in the 
 woiid have assassinations been more fretjuent 
 than in Italy and iu Spain. In the latter coun- 
 try a village Jclc 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 im|)enitencc, there can 
 be no doubt of his condemnation to eternal pu- 
 nishment. But neither the Spaniards iku the
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. / 
 
 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 con- 
 fessors, they believe themselves absolved from 
 all crime. These expiations have been rendered 
 so much the more easy, 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 
 expiations before a murderer was permitted to 
 enter again into their temples ; but their expi- 
 ations, 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 eftu- 
 sion 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 re- 
 marks, and which does not discover in the na- 
 tional character a disregard for the life of others, 
 a criminal indifference for evil, since it can be
 
 8 ox THi: LllEUATUUE 
 
 expiated by the cliurch, an alliance of religion 
 and ferocity, and the admiration of the people 
 towards men celebrated for many homicides. 1 
 shall choose for a corroboration of these opinions 
 a comedy of Lope de Vega, entitled The Life of 
 the valUnit Cespcdes. It will transport us to the 
 camj) of Charles V., and will shew us how those 
 armies were composed which destroyed the pro- 
 testants, 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 of Toledo, was a soldier of fortune 
 under Charles V., renowned for his valour and 
 prodigious strength. The sister of this Samson 
 of Spain, Donna Maria de Cespedes, was not less 
 athletic than himself. 15ef(jre 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 
 j)lacc, and wrestled with the first comer. The 
 piece opens witii a scene between this young 
 damsel and two carnuii of La Mancha, who con- 
 tend with her who could farthest throw a heavy 
 bar of iron. She ])r()ves herself stronger than 
 cilher of liicm, and wins all their cattle and
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 
 
 forty crowns, for she never makes these trials of 
 strength gratis ; however, she generously restores 
 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 expec- 
 tation of being victorious, but in the hope of 
 having an opportunity of declaring his passion 
 in her arms. He deposits as the reward of vic- 
 tory 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 sur- 
 vive who have grasped the sun in my embrace ? 
 
 Makia. You a peasant? 
 
 Diego. I know not. 
 
 Maria. Your language, and the j)erfLime 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 tlic flowers on 
 which I reposed, in the meadow, in meditating 
 on mv love.
 
 i^J ON Till". MTKKATUKK 
 
 Mauia. (^uit my anus. 
 Dit(U). I caniuU. 
 
 Maria is confirmed in her susj)icions ot Ins 
 rank ; slic refuses any farther contest with liim ; 
 at tlie 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 liis sis- 
 ter that his mistress had given him a j)ink, 
 which he had placed in his hat ; that Pcro Trillo 
 being enamoured of tlie same l)eauty and jealous 
 of his attachment, they had fought; that Cespedes 
 had slain him, and had now come home to pro- 
 cure money, and to engage Bertrand, one of his 
 peasants, to follow him as his es(juire in his de- 
 parture for Flanders to serve the I'^mperor. He 
 then flies, under the conviction that he shall be 
 immediately pursued by justice. Scarcely is he 
 gone when the corregidor arrives with the algua- 
 zils 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 al- 
 guazils and wounds the corregidor, and then 
 takes refuge m a church to escai)e the sudiUn 
 anger of the populace. We shall next observe 
 her (U'})art from thence forCiermany, in the habit 
 of a soldier with Don Diego. 
 
 In the mean whih- we follow Cespedes on his 
 journey. Wc see him arrive at Seville with I5er- 
 Irand, his csciuiri', (juani'llijig with sharpers in
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 1 1 
 
 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 fero- 
 city are highly disgusting ; but they are api)a- 
 rently all historical, and tradition has carefully 
 preserved them for the glory of the S})anish 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 cam- 
 paigns 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, how- 
 ever, 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 disapprobation of his 
 conduct, yet it was of all the actions of Ci3s- 
 pedes that which had given them the greatest 
 satisfaction. Cespedes, encouraged by this mark 
 of a|)probation, declares that wlicnexci hf meets
 
 12 OS THE LITl'.UATl Kt: 
 
 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 jirotector of 
 Cespedes, has in his house a sister, named Theo- 
 dora, 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 cjuit her, since Pero Triilo, 
 whom Cespedes had killed at the commence- 
 ment of the piece, was his uncle, and he thinks 
 himself bound to avenge his death. They then 
 separate. In the farewell of Donna Maria we 
 remark traces of the poetic talent of Lope, and 
 a sensibility which only occasionally presents 
 itself. Maria overwhelms her luithless lover 
 with reproaches, though always mingled with a 
 return to tenderness; and in the midst of her im- 
 ])recations, 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." \\ lule she is yet 
 on the stage, she hears two soldiers calumniate 
 Cespedes. They are jealous of the favour shewn 
 to his bodily prowess, and to exploits more titting
 
 OF THE SPAXIAItnS. 13 
 
 a porter than a soldier ; and she, assuming lo her- 
 self 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, pursues 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 assas- 
 sinate him. He charges Mendo with this com- 
 mission, 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, notwithstand- 
 ing, is not disconcerted, but presents his w^eapon 
 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, with- 
 out 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
 
 11 ()\ TIM in III A Til riK 
 
 subterfuge l)y w hicli lie escaped the venj^eance «>t 
 Cespedes. At this moment, shouts of triumph 
 and exclamations announce the victorious return 
 of Cespedes from a tournament, where he had 
 challeng-ed all the bravest of the army. He ap- 
 jiears on the stage crowned with laurels, and 
 the Emperor presents him with the lordship of 
 Villalar on the Guadiana. In the mean time 
 Cespedes learns that it was Don Diego, the 
 seducer of his sister, who had attempted to as- 
 sassinate hiin ; but public atl'airs ])revent 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 signa- 
 lizing himself against the heretics. In the midst 
 of j)reparations for battle, some tumultuous 
 scenes paint the licentiousness of the camj). 
 In one part we see Donna Maria and Theodora 
 following the army disguised as soldiers; in 
 another part liertrand, the squire of Cespedes, 
 carries ofi' a peasant girl. The peasants of the 
 village collect together to release her, but Ces- 
 pedes opposes himself singly to all these villagers, 
 kills a number of them, ;ind forces the remainder 
 to fly. He then offers himself to the Emperor to 
 be the first to swim over the Elbe, liertrand, 
 Don Hugo, and Don Diego, propose to aceom- 
 ])any him ; and the last, though just coming from 
 a meditated assassination, proves himself one of
 
 OF TIIF. SPAMAIvDS. 15 
 
 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 bat- 
 tle 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 with- 
 out 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 knighthood 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 sacriticed 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
 
 IG ON' TFIF. LITF.UATURF. 
 
 AIciulo 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 espouse Donna Maria, but that Ces- 
 pcdes has arrogantly refused his consent. The 
 Duke of Alva by his authority terminates the 
 dispute. He concludes the marriage between 
 Cesj)edes and Theodora, and between Don 
 Diego and Donna Maria, assigns a recompense to 
 Bertrand, and grants a ])ardon to Mondo. 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 difHcult, 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 exhil)iting to a peo- 
 ple 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 resistance to ma- 
 gistrates, corregidors, and officers of justice, 
 have been too often displayed as the favourite 
 heroism of the Spanish stage, l^ong before the 
 robbers of Schiller appeared, and long previouij
 
 OF Tlll£ SPANIARDS. 17 
 
 to our chiefs of the bands of banditti in our me- 
 lodrames, 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 Amlalu.siau of Christo- 
 val de Monroy y Silva, The Redoubtable Andalu- 
 sian of a writer of Valencia, and The Robber Bal- 
 thasar of another anonymous author, excited the 
 interest of the spectators for a professed assassin, 
 who executed the bloody commands of his rela- 
 tions and friends ; who, pursued by justice, re- 
 sisted 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, obtained the divine pardon through 
 the miraculous interposition of Providence ; a pro- 
 digy wdiich snatched him from the hands of his ene- 
 mies, 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 de- 
 manded, while the seducing valour of the robber- 
 chief, and his wonderful successes, enchanted the 
 populace. This was a glory and heroism appro- 
 priate to their own sphere of life, though attached 
 
 VOL. IV. c
 
 18 ON THF. LITF.RATUUE 
 
 to passions which it wns highly important to sup- 
 press. In viewin*^ 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 re- 
 ligion, their education, their games, and their 
 public amusements, we ought rather to allow 
 them credit for the virtues which they have re- 
 tained, for that rectitude of sentiment and thought 
 which is innate to the heart of man, and which is 
 not entirely destroyed, notwithstanding exterior 
 circumstances have so strongly conspired to cor- 
 rupt the mind, and to pervert its sentiments. 
 
 We meet with principles of as evil a tendency, 
 precepts as cruel, and a fanaticism not less de- 
 plorable, in the play oi Arauco domado: The Con- 
 quest of Arauco, of Lope de Vega; though in 
 this instance the i)iece is raised by a high 
 strain of poetry, and supported by a more lively 
 interest. Nor is it sufHcient, 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 
 accomj)lished it, and tlu- etlect j)ro(luced uj)on 
 them by the prodigies of valour and the excess 
 of ferocity which were displayed. The subject 
 of this piece is taken from the Arau( ana of Don
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 19 
 
 Alonzo de Ercilla. It commences after the elec- 
 tion of Caiipolican, 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 op- 
 position forms one of the greatest beauties in the 
 play of A Iz ire. The Ai^auco 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 patri- 
 otism to give them a boasting character, and to 
 represent them as defeated in every action. Ne- 
 vertheless, 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 de- 
 lighted at finding in her lover the liberator of his 
 country. The first stroj)hes which the poet puts 
 
 c 2
 
 20 Oy TMK MTKKATL UK. 
 
 into their moutlis lnoatlie at tlic same time love 
 and imagination. 
 
 Cal'polican. 
 
 • Here, beauteous Fresia, rest ; 
 Thy featlier'd darts resign, 
 While the bright planet pours a farewell ray, 
 Gilding tlic glorious West, 
 And, as his beams decline, 
 Tinges with crimson liglit the expiring «lay- 
 Lo ! where the streamlet on its way, 
 Soft swelling from its source, 
 Through flower-bespangled meads 
 Its murmuring waters leads, 
 And in the ocean ends its gentle course. 
 Here, Fresia, may'st thou lave 
 Thy limbs, whose whiteness shames the foaming wave. 
 
 Caupolican. 
 
 • Dexa el arco y las flechas, 
 Hermosa Fresia mia, 
 Micntras cl sol con cintas de oro borda 
 Torres de nubes hcchas; 
 Y declinando el dia, 
 Con los umbrales de la nocho abordn, 
 A la mar siempre sorda. 
 Camina el agua niansa 
 De aquesta hermosa fuentc, 
 Hasta que su corricnte 
 Kn PUS 8ala<1aH margencs dcscansa ; 
 A qui baiiarte puedes 
 Tu, (jue a sus vidros en blancura excedes. 
 
 Desnuda el cucrpo hermoso, 
 Dando a la luna embidia.
 
 OF THE SPANIAUDS. 21 
 
 Unfold, in this retreat, 
 
 Thy beauties, envied by the queen of niglit ; 
 
 The gentle stream shall clasp thee in its arms ; 
 
 Here bathe thy wearied feet ! 
 
 The flowers with delight 
 
 Shall stoop to dry them, wondering at thy charms. 
 
 To screen thee from alarms, 
 
 The trees a verdant shade shall lend ; 
 
 From many a songster's throat 
 
 Shall swell the harmonious note ; 
 
 The cool stream to thy form shall bend 
 
 Its course, and the enamour 'd sands 
 
 Shall yield thee diamonds for thy beauteous hands. 
 
 All that thou see'st around, 
 
 My Fresia, is thine own ! 
 
 This realm of Chili is thy noble dower ! 
 
 Chased from our sacred ground, 
 
 The Spaniard shall for all his crimes atone, 
 
 Y quexarase el agua, por tenerte : 
 Bana el pie caluroso. 
 
 Si el tiempo te fastidia, 
 
 Vendran las flores a enxurgarte y vertc ; 
 
 Los arboles a hacerte 
 
 Sombra con vcrdes hojas ; 
 
 Las aves harmonia, 
 
 Y de la fuente fria 
 
 La agradecida arena, si el pie mojas 
 A hazer con mil enredos, 
 Sortijas de diamantes a tus dedos. 
 
 De todo lo que miras 
 Eres, Fresia, senora ; 
 Ya no es de Carlo ni Felipe, Chile: 
 Ya vcncimos las iras 
 Del Espailol, que llora 
 Por mas (juc contra Arauco rl hicrro afilr.
 
 22 ox MIL Lril.KAlLKK 
 
 Alul Cliarlos and IMjiliji's iron reign is o'er. 
 
 Hidt'oiis antl stain'd with gore, 
 
 They Hy Arauca's sword ; 
 
 Hcforc their ghastly eyes 
 
 In dust Valdivia lies ; 
 
 NVhile as a god ador'd, 
 
 My bright fame mounting, with the sun extends. 
 
 Where'er the golden orb his glorious journey bends. 
 
 P'resia. 
 Lurd of my soul, my bosom's dream, 
 To thee yon mountains bend 
 Their proud aspiring heads ; 
 'Ihe nympiis that haunt this stream. 
 With roses crown'd, their arms extend. 
 And yield thee offerings from their flowery betls. 
 But ah ! no verdant tree that spreads 
 
 El vcr (jue aun oy distile 
 
 Sangre esta roxa arena 
 
 En que Valdivia yaze. 
 
 Del Polo onde el sol nace 
 
 A donde sus cavallos desenfrena. 
 
 No ay poder que mc assombre, 
 
 Yo soy el Dios de Arauco, no soy honibre. 
 
 Fresia. 
 
 (iuerido csposo uiio, 
 
 A quien estas moniahas 
 
 Ilinuillan las cabeyas pressurosas ; 
 
 Por <|uien do a(}ueste rio 
 
 Que en vcrdes esp.idanas 
 
 Se acuesta, roronandosc de rosas, 
 
 Las ninfos anioroi>a.t
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 23 
 
 Its blissful shade, no fountain pure, 
 
 Nor feather'd choir, whose song 
 
 Echoes the woods among, 
 
 Earth, sea, nor empire, gold, nor silver ore, 
 
 Could ever to me prove 
 
 So rich a treasure as my chieftain's love. 
 
 I ask no brighter fame 
 
 Than conquest o'er a heart 
 
 To whom proud Spain submits her laurell'd head, 
 
 Before whose honour'd name. 
 
 Her glories all depart and victories are fled I 
 
 Her terrors all are sped ! 
 
 The keenness of her sword, 
 
 Her arquebuse, whose breath 
 
 Flash'd with the fires of death, 
 
 And the fierce steed, bearing his steel-clad lord, 
 
 Embidian mi ventura ; 
 
 Que fuente, que suaves 
 
 Sombras, que vozes de aves, 
 
 Que mar, q«e imperio, que ore o plata pura, 
 
 Como ver que me quieras 
 
 Tu que eres el senor de hombres y fieras. 
 
 No quiero mayor gloria 
 Que aver rendido un pecho 
 A quien se rinde Espaiia, coronada 
 De la mayor vitoria. 
 Pues cupo en ella el hecho 
 Por quien la India yase conquistada. 
 Ya la Espanola espada, 
 El arcabus tcmido. 
 Que trucna como el cielo, 
 Y rayos lira al suelo,
 
 24 UN JUL LIIL UAirUK 
 
 A fcart\il spectre on our startled shore, 
 Aflright our laiul no more ! 
 
 Thy spear hath rent the chain 
 
 That bound our Indian soil ; 
 
 Her yoke so burthcn'd by th' oppressor's hiiiid, 
 
 Thou hast spurn'd wiih tierce disdain : 
 
 Hast robh'd the spoiler of his spoil, 
 
 Who sought by craft and force to subjugate thy land! 
 
 Now brighter days expand ! 
 
 The joys of peace are ours I 
 
 Beneath the lofty trees, 
 
 Our light-swung hannuocks answering to the breeze. 
 
 Sweet is our sleep among the leafy bowers ; 
 
 And, as in ancient days, a calm repose 
 
 Attends our bless'd life to its latest close. 
 
 Hut when the Indians are aware that the 
 Spaniards arc advancing to attack tlieni, and 
 
 Y el cavallo anoganle, en que subido 
 
 El Ijombre parecia 
 
 Monstruosa fiera que scis pies tenia ; 
 
 No causaran espanto 
 Al Indio que rebelas, 
 C'uya libre ccrviz del yugo saeas 
 Des Espaiiol, que tanto 
 Le oprimio con cautelas, 
 Cuya ambicion de plata y oro aplacus. 
 Ya en texidas aniacas, 
 De ironco a tronco asidas 
 Destos arijolcs altos, 
 De inquieta guerra faltos, 
 Dormiremos en pa/, y nueslras vidus 
 lilcgaran prolongadas 
 A <|Uil dii'hoso iln ipii l.is passadas.
 
 OF THE SrANlAKDS. 25 
 
 that their god has revealed their approaching- de- 
 feat, the warriors and their chiefs animate them- 
 selves for the combat, by a warlike hymn of 
 great beauty, and of a truly original character. 
 1 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 vengeance the enemies of his country: the 
 chiefs reply in chorus, and the army interrupts 
 the warlike music by its acclamations, repeat- 
 ing with ardour the name of its leader. This 
 barbarous name, which recurs as a burthen in 
 the midst of the verse, seems almost ludicrous, 
 though one cannot help remarking the truth of 
 costume and military action, which, at least in 
 the Spanish original, transports the reader into 
 tlie midst of the savage bands. 
 
 * An Indian Soldier. 
 Hail, Chief! twice crown'd by Victory's hands, 
 Victor o'er all Valdivia's bands. 
 Conqueror of Villagran. 
 
 * Una voz. Pues tantas victorias gozu 
 Do Valdivia y Villagran,
 
 20 
 
 ().\ III K i.n 1 u Ai rut: 
 
 The Army. 
 All liail, Caupolican ! 
 
 Chorus of Chiefs. 
 Mtiuloza's fall will add fresh wreaths again. 
 
 Fall, tyrant, fall, 
 Th' avenger comes, alike of gods and men. 
 
 The SoLDiEii. 
 The God of Ind, Apo, the thundercr comes. 
 Who gave his valiant tribes these vast domains ; 
 Spoil'd by the robbers from the ocean-plains, 
 Soon, soon, to fill ignoble tombs, 
 Slain by the conqueror of N'illagran. 
 
 The Aumy. 
 Shout, shout, Caupolican ! 
 
 The Chorus. 
 The hero's eye is on thee ; tyrant, fly ! 
 No, thou art in his toils, and thou nuist die, 
 Thou canst not fly, 
 Thou and thine impious clan. 
 
 ToDos. 
 Solo. 
 
 ToDOS. 
 
 Solo. 
 
 I ouos. 
 Solo. 
 
 Caupolican ! 
 
 Tanibien vcncera al Mendoza, 
 
 Y a los que con el cstan. 
 
 Caupolican ! 
 
 Si sabias el valor 
 
 Deste valicnte Araucano, 
 
 Aquien Apo soberano 
 
 Hizo de Arauco seiTor, 
 
 Como no tiencs tcmor ? 
 
 Que si vcncio a Villagran, 
 
 Caupolican! 
 
 Tanibien vcnccrCi al Mendoza 
 
 N' a los (jiu con el eslan.
 
 OV THE SPANIARDS. 27 
 
 The Army. 
 Hear, hear, Caupolican ! 
 
 Caupolican. 
 Wretched Castilians, yield, — our victims, yield! 
 
 Fate sits upon our arms ; 
 Trust not these walls and towers, — they cannot shield 
 Your heads from vengeance now, 
 Your souls from wild alarms. 
 
 Chorus. 
 See laurels on his brow. 
 The threatening chief of Araucan. 
 
 The Army. 
 Caupolican ! ! 
 
 Chorus. 
 Mendoza, cast your laurels at his feet ; 
 With tyrant-homage greet, 
 
 The chief of all his clan. 
 
 TUCAPEI,. 
 
 Bandits, whom treason and the cruel thirst 
 Of yellow dust bore to our hapless shores, 
 
 ToDos. Caupolican ! 
 
 Caupol. Espanoles desdichados 
 
 En esse corral metidos, 
 Que es confessaros vencidos, 
 
 Y que estays juntos atados ; 
 Adonde vays engaiiados ? 
 
 La voz. a qui los dc muerte iran. 
 
 'I'oDos. Caupolican ! 
 
 La voz. Tambien vencera al Mendoza, 
 
 Y a los que con el estan ; 
 ToDos. Caupolican ! 
 
 TucAPEL. Ladrones ([uc a hurtar venis 
 
 El oro de nuestra tierra,
 
 28 OS TIIK I.I I KU.A I L'KL 
 
 Who boast of honour while your hands are curs'd 
 With chains and tortures Nature's self deplores. 
 
 Behold, we burst your iron yoke ; 
 Your terrors fled, your savage bondage broke. 
 
 Chorus. 
 Behold the victor of your Villagrau. 
 
 The whole Army. 
 Caupolican — Caupolican I ! 
 
 Chorus. 
 Spurn, spurn him o'er the waves, — 
 The new, last foe, Mendoza spurn ! 
 To those far lands, swift, swifi, return. 
 
 Rengo. 
 Or let them with us find their graves. 
 
 Madmen who hoped to find 
 
 The race of Chili blind 
 And weak, and vile as the Peruvian slaves. 
 But who your flying squadrons saves 
 
 From the great chief of .\raucan ? 
 When he returns with all his captives won — 
 
 Y disfrav'ando la gucrra 
 Dezis que a Carlos servis, 
 Que sugecion nos pedis ? 
 
 La voz. Tcir.blando de verte cstan. 
 
 Toi>os. Caupolican ! 
 
 La voz. 'i'ambien vencera al .Mendoza 
 
 Y a los que con el estan, 
 'I'onos. Caupolican ! 
 
 lUsf.o. Infamcb, puesto que altivos 
 
 Y tu Garcia, si tu 
 
 Piensas (jue es Chile el I'eru, 
 Por adonde saldreys vivos { 
 ()y o.s llevara cautivo.<i,
 
 OK THE SPAXIARDS. 29 
 
 Chorvs. 
 To the glad bosom of Andalican. 
 
 Rengo. 
 Soon shall you share the fate of Villagran. 
 Kneel, and pour forth your prayer 
 To the great victor of the war 
 That he will spare I 
 
 The Army. 
 Caupolican I 
 
 A number of battles succeed each other, in 
 which the Indians, though they yield to the su- 
 perior arms of the Europeans, yet never lose 
 their couraoe. Their wives and children excite 
 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 Arau- 
 cans, is made prisoner, and Mendoza orders his 
 hands to be cut off, and directs him to be sent 
 back in that state to his countrymen. Galvarino, 
 on hearing 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 
 
 La voz, A1 cerro de Andalican. 
 
 ToDos. Caupolican I 
 
 La voz. Tambien vcncerd al Mendoza 
 
 Y a los que con el estan, 
 Tonos. Caupolican !
 
 'JO ON TllF TITER ATURF, 
 
 Meads the fast-biuliliug 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 wIrmi 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, wlio acts an important part in this 
 drama, biinu^s tlie rejiort 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. 
 
 (ialvarino ultimately arrives at a council of war 
 of the Araucans, at the moment when the Ca- 
 ciques, disj)irited, are on the point of concluding 
 a peace. The sight of his mutilated arms kindles 
 their rage afresh. Galvarino himself incites them 
 by an elorpient harangue, to avenge themselves, 
 or to die in defence of their freedom; and ano- 
 ther war is commenced, but with still less suc- 
 cess than the former one. The Araucans, re-as- 
 sembled in the wood of Purcn, celebrate a 
 festival in h(Hiour of their deity. A female in 
 tiie midst of them chants a beautiful ode to llie 
 Mother of Love, when they are on a sudden sur- 
 prised by the Spaniards, who attack tliem with 
 shouts of S(in Jd^o and Curru KsjxifK/.* 'I'he 
 
 • [Cicrra Espnna was the w.ir-cry of tin- :inri<Mif Sp.nninrds. VV.")
 
 OF THE SPANTARDS. 
 
 31 
 
 Indians are almost all slain. Caupolican is left 
 among- the Spaniards, and, overpowered by num- 
 bers, is at length made prisoner, and brought 
 before Don Garcia de Mendoza: 
 
 Mendoza. What power hath thus reduced Caupolican ? 
 
 Caupolican. 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. 
 Youra have I ne'er attempted. 
 
 Mendoza. To our arms 
 
 Ciiili had soon submitted, hadst not thou 
 Uesisted. 
 
 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 Viilagran, 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 tliat tliat 
 conqueror, more experienced and enlightened 
 than himself, must be nearer to the true faith. 
 Mendoza, after appearing as his godfather at 
 the baptism, abandons liim to the executioner.
 
 n-2 Oy THE IJTntATUKF. 
 
 He is seen on ihc scaffold, hound to a stake, and 
 ivady to be delivered to the Hanies, and Philij) 
 de Mendoza, addressing- himself to the portrait ol 
 Philip II. the coronation of which is announced 
 to the army, I'xclaims : 
 
 Thus do \vc serve thee, Sire, and these rich plains, 
 Satiate with Indian blood, wc add to thy domains. 
 
 One should imagine that this terrific conclu- 
 sion, the nolde character given to Galvarino and 
 Cau])()lican, 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 inva- 
 sion, were designedly placed before the eyes of 
 the Castilians by l.ojie de Vega, to insj)ire them 
 with a horror of their cruelties. Hut this con- 
 jecture would betray a great ignorance both of 
 the poet and his audience. Thoroughly per- 
 suaded that the partition of the Indies by tlu- 
 Pope had invested his sovereign with the do- 
 minion of America, he sincerely regarded the 
 Intlians as rebels deserving of |nmishment ; and 
 equally convinced that Christianity ought to be 
 established by fut and sword, he shared with his 
 whole heart in the zeal of the concjuerors of 
 America, whom he considered as soldiers of the 
 faith. Moreover ho deemed the sacrifice of a hun- 
 dred thousand idolatrous Indians to Ix- an (iHerini; 
 highly acceptable to the Diity. Tlu- partiality of
 
 OF THE SPAMAltDS. 33 
 
 Spanish poets for their own nation is in <^eneral 
 so great, that tliey think it unnecessary to dis- 
 guise the cruelty of its conduct towards other 
 countries. That which is at this day so revolt- 
 ing to us in their history, was in their eyes a pe- 
 culiar merit. But the heroism of Caupolican and 
 the Indians, and the virtues of these infidels which 
 could not contribute to their salvation, bore in 
 the eyes of Lope de Vega a tragic character, in 
 proportion to their inefficacy. It was an earthly 
 lustre of which he wished to shew the vanity ; 
 and, in exciting for them a passing interest, 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 ex- 
 ample of the heroes of the faith, the Valdivias, 
 the Villagrans, and the Mendozas, who had 
 never experienced it. 
 
 These reflections lead us to the consideration 
 of that species of drama, entitled by the Spa- 
 niards Sacred Comedies. Religion, indeed, d- 
 ways 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 di- 
 vested his heart of belief; for infidelity is the 
 refuge of vice. This is not the case in Italy 
 
 VOL. IV. n
 
 34 0\ TllK LITHKATUUF. 
 
 and Spain, where not only those whom passion 
 has rendered criminal, but those who exercise the 
 most shameful and culpable professions, courte- 
 sans, thieves, and assassins, are true believers; 
 a domestic and daily devotion is strangely inter- 
 mingled with their excesses ; religion is ever in 
 their mouths, and even the studied blasphemous 
 expressions which are only found in the Italian 
 and Spanish languages, are a proof of their 
 abound in": faith. It is a sort of warfare as^ainst 
 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 S])ain are all so deeply tinc- 
 tured by religion, that I am constantly obliged 
 to call the attention of the reader to this striking 
 characteristic ; to mingle, as it were, the In- 
 Cjuisitiou wilii their literature, and to exhibit 
 the national character as well as the national 
 taste perverted by superstition and by fana- 
 ticism. 
 
 The sacred ))ieces of Lo))e 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 disadvantageous 
 idea of his genius. I have, therefore, deferred 
 giving an analysis of any of these pieces, until 1 
 had noticed his hist<)rical plays, and shewn that, 
 allowing him his choice of subject. Lopi' knew
 
 OF THF SPANIARDS. SG 
 
 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 Tolen- 
 tino, of which Boutterwek has given an analysis. 
 It commences by a conversation among a num- 
 ber 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 aj^pears 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 spec- 
 tacle 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 conver- 
 sion operated by love; a subtle theological dis- 
 pute 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, w lie re the 
 
 D 2
 
 30 ox TUF LITKHATrRK 
 
 Virgin and St. Augustine descend to meet him. 
 In the third act the holy winding-sheet is shewn 
 atKonie by two cardinals; Nicholas assumes the 
 habit of his order. During the ceremony the an- 
 gels form an invisible choir ; the devil is attracted 
 by their music, and tempts the holy man ; souls 
 are seen in the fire of ])urgatory. The devil re- 
 tires surrounded by lions and serpents, but a 
 monk exorcises him jestingly with a basin of 
 holy water. The saint, ni>w sutficiently tried, 
 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 witii them to heaven. 
 
 The Life of Saint Diego of Alcala is, perhaps, 
 not so extravagant in its composition. There are 
 no allegorical personages in it. and we there meet 
 with no other supernatural beings than several 
 angels, and the Devil, who robs Diego of some 
 turnips, whicii he had himself stolen to dis- 
 tribute to the poor. Yet this [)iece afHicts us 
 as profoundly as the preceding, by shewing 
 us iiow false a direction the.se [)ublic shows, 
 aided by the priests, gave to the devotion 
 of the jiurest minds. Diego is a poor peasant, 
 who attaches liim>elf as a domestic to a liermit. 
 Ignorant and liumble, endowed with tender and 
 amial:>K' feelings, he discovers many attractive 
 qualities. When he culls the flowers to adorn
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 37 
 
 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 plea- 
 sure all bonds of relationship amongst those with 
 whom God had ]}laced 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 poe- 
 try of the Spaniards. 
 
 "DitGO. lam ignorant, more ignorant than 
 any one ought to be. I have not even learnt my 
 Christus; but 'tis false, for of the whole alpha- 
 bet 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 j)hi- 
 losophers, who pretend to penetrate into the 
 secrets of earth and heaven. Christus is the 
 Alpha and O^ncga, 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 
 
 G <^ 1 2
 
 38 ON TJIt: LlTl. K A 11 UK 
 
 a C, because he is the creator ! an JI to aspirate 
 and respire in him ; an /to indicate how(mdigne) 
 unworthy you are ; an S, to induce you to be- 
 come a A-aint ; a T, because it has in it somethings 
 divine, for this 7' includes (le /out) every thing; 
 thus God is called Theos as the end of all our 
 desires.* The T is, further, the symbol of the 
 cross which you should bear, and it extends its 
 arms to invite you to embrace it and never quit 
 it. The V shews that you are (vcnu) come into 
 this house to devote yourself to Christ, and the 
 *S final, that you are changed into another .sub- 
 stance, a substance divine. This is the expla- 
 nation of CiiRisTUS. 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 con- 
 vert the inlmbitants 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 
 iiimself called on to begin the conversion of these 
 newly- discovered islands, by the massacre of 
 their infidel inhabitants. The moment he be- 
 holds men, whom from their rlothin<,'^ alone he 
 
 Thcns (CkxIi is Iiiic cuiiloiiiidcd vvilh /VAm (end.)
 
 OF THE SPANIAKDS. 39 
 
 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 Spa- 
 niards, instead of relying on the succour and 
 interference of heaven, measuring with a worldly 
 jDrudence the strength of their enemy, and re- 
 fusing 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 pan- 
 try 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 eccentric these compositions may 
 be, we may readily imagine that the people 
 were delighted with them. Supernatural be- 
 ings, transformations, and prodigies, were con- 
 stantly presented to their eyes ; their curiosity 
 was the more vividly excited, as in the mira- 
 culous course of events it was impossible to 
 predict what would next appear, and every im- 
 probability was removed by faith, which always 
 came to the aid of the poet, with an injunc- 
 tion to believe what could not be explained. 
 But the Autos sucrcnnodalcs of Loi)e seem less
 
 40 0\ Till'. LI'ILKATl UK 
 
 calculated to ])lease the crowd. They are infi- 
 nitely more simple in their construction, and are 
 mingted with a theology which the people would 
 find it difficult to comj)rehend. In the one 
 wliich rc|)rescnts 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 ca- 
 nopy before a table, with every thing requisite 
 for writing. Man is interrogated before this tri- 
 bunal. God tlie ])rince, or .lesus, advances ; Re- 
 morse kneeling jiresents to him a ])etition ; Man 
 is again interrogated by Jesus, and receives his 
 pardon, but the Devil interferes and protests 
 against this favour being shewn to him. .Man 
 has again to encounter vanity and follv. Christ 
 aj)pears ajjiirt, crowned with thorns, and re-as- 
 cends to iieaven amidst sacred music, and tlie 
 piece ct»ncludes wlien he is seated on his celestial 
 throne. 
 
 The greater part of these allegorical pieces 
 are formed of long theological dialogues, disser- 
 tations, and scholastic subtleties too tedious for 
 perusal. It is true that before the representation 
 of an auto .sacra nw/Ud/c, and as if to indemnify 
 the audience for the more serious attention about 
 to l)e recpiired for them, a /oa or ))rologue ecjually 
 allegorical, and at the same time mingled with 
 comedy, was first performed. After the auto, or 
 between the acts, appeared an intermediate
 
 OF THE SPANIAUDS. 41 
 
 piece called the Suijntte, 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 required, by 
 way of compensation, a greater degree of licen- 
 tiousness in the lesser pieces. 
 
 All the pieces of Lope which we have reviewed 
 are connected with public or domestic history, 
 and sacred or profane subjects ; but are always 
 founded on real incidents, which require a cer- 
 tain 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 comedies are of an 
 heroic cast, and as combats, dangers, and po- 
 litical revolutions are there mingled with do- 
 mestic 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 
 themselves full licence to create imaginary king- 
 doms and countries, and to a great portion of 
 Europe they were such entire strangers that 
 they founded principalities and subverted empires 
 at will. Hungary, Poland, and Macedonia, as well 
 as the regions of the North, are countries always 
 at their disposal, for the purpose of introducmg 
 brilliant catastrophes on the stage. Neither the
 
 42 ON' TlIK I.ITI KATl JltK 
 
 poet nur 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 kin^\ from which Rotrou 
 has formed his Vcmrs/ds. It was there that Lope 
 de Vega gave full reins to his imagination, when 
 he represents a female fugitive, charitably enter- 
 tained in the house of a poor gentleman of the 
 Carpathian mountains, bringing him as her por- 
 tion the crown of Hungary, in La Ventura .s'ui bits- 
 calla : The Lnhioked-f or Good-fortune. In another, 
 the supposed son of a gardener, changed into a 
 hero by the love of a |)rincess, merits and ob- 
 tains by his exploits the throne of Macedon. 
 This piece is intitled Kl llomhre par su palabra : 
 The Man of his Word. 
 
 If these pieces do not unite instruction with en- 
 tertainment, they are still deserving ot preserva- 
 tion as containing a rich lund of invention and in- 
 cident. Lope, though inexhaustible in intrigues 
 and interesting situations, can never be esteemed 
 a j)erfect dramatist; but no poit whatever has 
 brought together richer n»aterials, for the use of 
 those who may be capable of em])loying them. In 
 his comedies of pure invention, he possesses an 
 advantage which he Irecpienlly Io.sl.s in his his- 
 torical pieces. \\ hile the characters are better 
 drawn and l)etler supportid, tlu-re is greater pro-
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 43 
 
 bability in the events, more unity in the action, 
 and also in the time and place ; for, drawing all 
 from himself, he has only taken what was useful 
 to him, instead of thinking himself obliged to 
 introduce into his composition all that history 
 presented him with. The early French drama- 
 tists 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 Ar agon, from 
 a piece of Lope de Vega, intitled El Palacio 
 Conjiiso : and this single piece might still furnish 
 another theatrical subject entirely different, that 
 of the Ticins upon the Throne. The mutual re- 
 semblance of these two princes, Don Carlos iind 
 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 sufficient 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 2200
 
 44 ()\ Tllf. LITEKATURK 
 
 tlieatiicul pieces, he must every eight days, from 
 the beginnin;^ to the end of his life, have given 
 to tlie public a new i)lay of al)out 3000 verses ; 
 and in these eight days he must not only have 
 found the time necessary for invention and 
 unity, but also for making the historical re- 
 searches into customs and manners on which 
 his play is founded ; to consult Tacitus for ex- 
 ample, in order to compose his Nero ; while the 
 fruits of his spare time were twenty-one volumes 
 in (piarto of poetry, amongst which are five epic 
 poems. 
 
 These last mentioned works do not merit any 
 examination beyond a brief notice. They con- 
 sist of the Jerusalem Cojiqiilstadu, in octave verse, 
 and in twenty cantos; a continuation of the 
 Orlando Furioso under the name o{ La Ilennosiira 
 i/e Angelica: llie Beauty of Aiigelka, 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 Curo/ia 
 'J'ragiea, of which Mary of Scotland is the heroine; 
 anotlur ei)ic ])<)eni on ('irce, and another on 
 Admiral Drake, entitled Dragiuitea. Drake, ren- 
 dered odious to tlu' Sj)aniar(ls by his victories, 
 is represented l)y l-<'pr de Vega as tin.- njinister 
 and instrument ol liie devil. But none of these 
 voluminous poems have, even in the eyes of the 
 Spaniards, been placed on an c (luality with the
 
 OF TIIK SPANIARDS. 45 
 
 classical epics of Italy, or even with the Arau- 
 cana. Lope, moreover, determined to try every 
 species of poetry, composed also an Arcadia, in 
 imitation of Sannazzaro; and likewise eclogues, 
 romances, sacred poems, sonnets, epistles, bur- 
 lesque 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, notwith- 
 standing 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 nuuiber 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 un- 
 bridled imagination, the same carelessness, and 
 the same rapidity, as their master. We shall 
 review them when we notice the works of Cal- 
 deron, the greatest and the most celebrated of 
 his scholars and rivals. There is one, indeed, 
 who cannot well be separated from Lope. This 
 is Juan Perez de 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-
 
 AG LlTb.KATLKE OF THL M'AMAKDS. 
 
 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 
 tiiesc eccentric dramas, which excite little in- 
 terest, do not merit a longer examination. Juan 
 Perez de Montalvan composed with the same 
 rapidity as his master. In his short life (1603 — 
 1G39) he wrote more than one hundred theatrical 
 pieces, and hkc liis master he divided his time 
 between poetry and the business of the Inquisi- 
 tion, of which he was a notary. His works con- 
 tain almost in every line traces of the religious 
 zeal which led him to become a member of this 
 terrible tribunal.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIl. 
 
 Lyric Poetry of Spain, at the close of the Sixteenth and com- 
 mencement of the Seventeenth Century. Gongora and his 
 followers, Quevedo, Villegas, &c. 
 
 The poetry of Spain had, like the nation to 
 which it belonged, 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 character 
 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 ex- 
 perienced a fatal change when it became subject- 
 ed to the house of Austria ; and poetry suffered 
 the same fate, or rather it felt in the succeeding
 
 48 ox THE LITEIIATIRE 
 
 "feneration the efllVcts of this alteration. Cliarles 
 V. subverted tlie liberties of the Spaniards, anni- 
 hilated their rights and privileges, tore them from 
 Spain and enga<j^ed them in wars, not for their 
 country, but for his own political interests and 
 for the gratification of their monarch. He de- 
 stroyed their native dignity of character, and 
 substituted for it a false pride and empty show. 
 Philij^ his son, who presumed himself a Spaniard, 
 and who is considered as such, did not possess 
 the character of the nation, but of its monks, 
 snch as the severity of their order, and the im- 
 petuosity of blood ill tlie South, develo])ed 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 of the Sj)a- 
 niards are in no wise to be attributed to Nature: 
 they are the effects of the cruel discipline of the 
 convents, the ])rostration of tlic intellect, the 
 subjugation ol' will, and liie concentration of all 
 the passions in one alone which is deified. 
 
 Philii) IT., with a considerably less portion of 
 talents and virtue, bore a greater affinity to Car- 
 dinal 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 un- 
 bounded ami)ition and a shameful pirfidy, to 
 a savage disregard of the miseries of war and
 
 OF THE SPAXIARDS. 49 
 
 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 educa- 
 ted by the monks, had already changed their cha- 
 racter, and were become worthy instruments of 
 his dark politics, and his superstition. They dis- 
 tinguished 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 : exagge- 
 ration assumed the place of sentiment, and fana- 
 ticism that of piety. The two reigns of Philip 
 III. and Philip IV. were still more degrading to 
 the Spanish nation. That vast monarchy, ex- 
 hausted by gigantic efforts, continued her unceas- 
 ing wars to experience only a constant reverse 
 of fortune. The king, sunk in vices and effemi- 
 nacy, did not however, in the impenetrable secu- 
 rity of his palace, renounce his perfidy and un- 
 bridled ambition. The ministers sold the favour 
 of the crown to the highest bidder; the nobility 
 was debased under the yoke of favourites and 
 upstarts ; the people were ruined by cruel extor- 
 tions ; a million and a half of Moors had perished 
 by fire and distress, or had been driven into exile 
 by Philip III ; Holland, l^ortugal, Catalonia, 
 
 VOL. IV. K
 
 50 ON IMl. LI I IK A I I liK 
 
 Naples, and Palermo had revolted ; and the 
 clergy, joining their despotic influence to that of 
 the ministers, not only resisted the reform of ex- 
 isting 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 visit- 
 ed by authority, in Spain the Monks sought to 
 proscribe liberal sentiments even in the asylum 
 of conscience. 
 
 Such are the effects which these reigns, so de- 
 grading to humanity, had on the literature which 
 we are about to examine in this chaj)ter. They are 
 evident and indisputable; although this epoch is 
 by no means the most barren in letters. The 
 iiuman mind retains for a long period any im- 
 pulse it may have received : it is long before it 
 can be reduced to a state of stagnation in its im- 
 prisoned mansion. It will accommodate itself 
 rather than perish ; and it sometimes sheds a 
 radiance on a jieriod when it has lost its just 
 direction and its truth. 
 
 We have already noticed two celebrated men 
 who lived principally under IMiilij) II. and Phi- 
 lip III. Wii shall now contemj)late one who 
 reached the height of his fame under Philip IV. 
 Cervantes, Lo|)e deVega, and Calderon, bear the 
 impress of their age ; but their individual genius
 
 OF THE SPAXIARDS. 51 
 
 greatly predominates, though the ancient traits 
 of the national character were not entirely obli- 
 terated. 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 ex- 
 travagant images, than to reflect on the propriety 
 of his expressions, and to temper his imagination 
 by reason and good taste. His example difl"used 
 amongst the poets of Spain a style of writing 
 which seemed to harmonize with their character. 
 It was that which Marini at the sanie time 
 adopted in Italy. Marini, born in Naples, but 
 
 !•; 2
 
 52 ox THF. LITE R ATT 11 F. 
 
 of a Spanisli family, and educated amongst the 
 Spaniards, was the first to communicate to Italy 
 that atiectation and false taste which was al- 
 ready observable in the early })oetry of Juan de 
 Mena. The school of the Sciccnti^sti (or writers of 
 the sixteenth century), which he had formed, was 
 afterwards introduced into Spain, and produced 
 there in a much greater degree than in Italy that 
 pretension, afiectation of style, and pedantic ex- 
 pression, 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 retained 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, ex- 
 hausted themselves in the only ])ath which was 
 lelt open to them. 
 
 The chief of this fantastic and aft'ected school, 
 who fixed its style, and who was desirous of 
 Ibrming a new e})och in art by a more refined 
 culture, as he expressed it, was l.uis Gongora 
 de Argote, a man of great talent and genius, but 
 who by his sui)tilty and false taste destroyed his 
 own merit. lie had too to struggle with misfor- 
 tune and poverty. Born at Cordova in loGl, his 
 brilliant course of study had not succeeded in j)r()- 
 curing him an employ ; and it was not until after
 
 OF THE SPAXIAUDS. 53 
 
 he had waited on the Court for eleven years, that 
 he with difficulty 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 ciij), 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. 
 
 * Una vida bestial de encantamiento, 
 Harpias contra bolsas conjuradas. 
 Mil vanas pretensiones enganadas, 
 Por hablar un oidor, mover el viento. 
 
 Carrozas y lacayos, pages ciento, 
 Habitos mil, con virgines espadas, 
 Damas parleras, cambios, embaxadas ; 
 Caras posadas, trato fraudulento.
 
 ;")4 ov TIN (11 1 I! AIT It r. 
 
 His success was still greater in burlcsiiue sa- 
 tires, in the I'orm of romances or songs. In these 
 his language and versification exliil)ited precision 
 and clearness, and the natural expression did not 
 betray any affinity to the affected school which 
 he afterwards adopted. It was by cool reflec- 
 tion, and not in the warmth of an imagination 
 still young, that he invented for poetry a more 
 elevated style, which he denominated the culti- 
 vated .sti/lc. To this end he formed, with the ut- 
 most labour and research, a language aflected, 
 obscure, and ridiculously allegorical, and totally 
 at variance with the common manner of speaking 
 and writing. He endeavoured, moreover, to intro- 
 duce into the Spanish language the boldest in- 
 versions of the Greek and Latin, in a way never 
 before permitted ; he invented a particular punc- 
 tuntion to assist in ascertainiu''' 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 
 
 Mciitiras arbitrcras, abot^ados, 
 (Mi-rigos sobrc iniilas, toiiio inulus 
 I'.iiibustcs, callcs sucias, lodo ctcrno ; 
 
 Iloinbrcs tie giicrra lucdio esiropeados, 
 I'itiilos y lisonjas, disiiiiulos, 
 V.sXo t'H Madrid, iiitjor dixcra iiitimio.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 55 
 
 to add fresh ornaments to his language. It was 
 with this kind of labour that he wrote his Sole- 
 dades, 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. Gon- 
 gora'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 na- 
 tions 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 Soledades, by which word, of rare oc- 
 currence in Spain, he expresses the solitude of 
 the forest. There are two of these poems, each 
 of which contains about a thousand verses : 
 
 * 'Tvvas in that flowery season of the year, 
 When fair Eiiropa's spoiler in disguise, 
 
 * Era del ano la estacion Horida, 
 
 En que el mentido robador dc Europa
 
 56 ON THL 1. ntUAllUI. 
 
 (On Ills Herce front, his glittering arms, arise 
 A lialf-moon's horns, wliilc the sun's rays appear 
 lirightcnins; his speckled coat,) — the pride of heaven. 
 Pastured on stars amidst the sapphire fields ; 
 When he, most worthy of the oftiee given 
 To Ida's hoy — to hold Jove's cup that yields 
 Immortal juice — was wreck'd in savage sea. 
 Confiding to the waves his amorous pains ; 
 The sea relenting sends the strains 
 To the far leafy groves, glad to repeat 
 Echoes than old Arion's shell more sweet. 
 
 The Polyphemus of Gongora is one of" his 
 most celebrated poems, and the one Nvhich 
 has been most frequently imitated. The Cas- 
 tilian poets, who were persuaded that ncitiier 
 interest nor genius, sentiment nor thought, were 
 any part of poetry, and tir.it the end of the art 
 was solely tlie union of h;irmony with the most 
 
 (Media luna las armas de su frcnte, 
 
 Y el sol todos los rayos de su pelo) 
 
 Luciente honor del ciclo, 
 
 En campos de zafiro pace estrellas ; 
 
 Qiiando el, que ministrar podia la copa 
 
 A Jupiter, inejor que el gar\on de Ida, 
 
 Naufrago, y desdiTiado sobre ausente 
 
 Lagrimosas de amor, dulzes quircllas 
 
 Du al mar, f|ue condolido, 
 
 i'ue a las hondas, c|ue al viento 
 
 El misero gemido 
 
 S'^gundo de Arion, dulze instrumcnto. 
 
 />/haai7a ciliduu, 4to, 1659, p. 497.
 
 OF THE Sr^A MAUDS, 57 
 
 brilliant images, and with the riches of ancient 
 mythology, sought for subjects which might 
 furnish them with gigantic pictures, with a 
 strong contrast of images, and with all the aid 
 of fable. The loves of Polyphemus appeared to 
 them a singularly happy subject, since they 
 could there unite tenderness and affright, gen- 
 tleness and horror. The poem of Gongora con- 
 sists 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! — 
 
 Like a vast mountain rose his living frame ; 
 
 His single eye cast like a flame abroad 
 
 Its glances, glittering as the morning beam : 
 
 A mighty pine supported where he trod 
 I lis giant steps, a trembling twig for him, 
 
 Wliich sometimes served to walk with, or to drive 
 
 His sheep to pasture, where the sea-nymphs live. 
 
 * Era un monte de miembros eminente 
 Este, que de Neptuno hijo ficro 
 De un ojo ilustra el orbe de su frente, 
 Enmlo casi del mayor Luzero, 
 Ciclope, a quien el pino mas valiente 
 liaston le obedecia tan ligero, 
 Y al grave peso jungo tan delgado, 
 Ciue un dia era baston y otro cayado.
 
 58 ON rnK i.i ri katuuk 
 
 His jcl-b!ack hair in wavy darkness Imng, 
 Dark as the tides of the Lethean deep, 
 
 Loose to the winds, and shaggy masses clung 
 To his dread lace ; like a wild torrent's sweep, 
 
 His heard far down his ru<;}jed bosom llun<j 
 A savage veil ; while scarce the massy Iieap 
 
 Of ropy ringlets his vast hands divide. 
 
 That Hoatcd like the briny waters wide. 
 
 Not nionntainous Trinacria ever gave 
 
 Such fierce and unform'd savage to the day ; 
 
 Swift as the winds his feet, to chase or brave 
 The forest hordes, whose battle is his play, 
 
 Whose spoils he bears ; o'er his vast shoulders wave 
 Their variegated skins, wont to dismay 
 
 'I'he shepherds and their flocks. And now he came 
 
 Driving his herds to fold 'neath the still twilight !)eam. 
 
 Negro el cabello, imitador nudoso, 
 De las escuras aguas del Letco, 
 Al vi(!nto que lo peina proceloso 
 Buela sin orden, pende sin aseo. 
 I'n torrente cs su barba impetuoso, 
 Que adusto hijo deste Pireneo, 
 Su pecho inunda, o tarde, o mal, o «'ii vano 
 Sulcada aun de los dedos de su niano. 
 
 No la 'I'rinacria, en sus montaiias, fiera 
 Armo de crueldad, calco de viento, 
 (Jue redima feroz, salve ligera. 
 Su pi«-l nianchada de colores ciento ; 
 I'elliro vH ya, la que f-n los montes era 
 Mortal horror, al (jue con passo lento 
 Los bueycs a su albergue reclucia, 
 Pisando la dudosa luz del dia.
 
 OF THE SI'ANIARIJS. 59 
 
 With hempen cords and wild bees' wax he bound 
 A hundred reeds, whose music wild and shrill, 
 
 Repeated by the mountain echoes round. 
 
 Shook every trembling grove, and stream, and hill. 
 
 The ocean heaves, the Triton's shells resound 
 No more ; the frighted vessel's streamers fill 
 
 With the shook air, and bear in haste away : 
 
 Such was the giant's sweetest harmony. 
 
 Those who understand the Spanish language, 
 will perceive that the translation has rather soften- 
 ed 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 Gon- 
 gora on a people eager after novelty, impatient for 
 a new career, and who on all sides found them- 
 selves restrained within the bounds of authority, 
 
 Ceray canamo nnio (que no deviera) 
 Cien caiias, cuyo barbaro ruydo 
 De mas ecos, que unio canamo y cera 
 Albogue es duramente repetido. 
 La selva se confonde, el mar se altera, 
 Rompe Triton su caracol torcido, 
 Sordo huye el baxel a vela y rcino. 
 Tal la uiubica es de Polit'cnio.
 
 GO ox Tilt IJIKUATLMiE 
 
 of tlielawsand the church, presents a remarkable 
 phenomenon in literature. Restricted on every 
 side by the narrowest barriers, they resolved, 
 however, to enfranchise themselves from those 
 of taste. They abandoned themselves to all the 
 extravagances of a wild imagination, merely be- 
 cause all the other faculties of their minds were 
 under restraint. The followers of Gongora, proud 
 of a talent so laboriously accjuircd, 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 inconsequence 
 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 com- 
 menting on Gongora. They composed long cri- 
 tri([ues, and tedious ex})lanations of the works 
 of this poet, and displayed on this occasion their 
 whole stock of erudition. These persons have 
 been surnamed in derision culturistos, from the 
 cstih) cullo, or cultivated style, which they so 
 highly extolled. Others were named co/i<c/>ti.sto.s\ 
 from the comrpto.s (concetti) of which they made 
 use in common with iMarini and (iongora. These 
 last sought alter unc(jnininn thoughts, and an- 
 titheses of the sense and of images ; and then
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 01 
 
 clothed them in the eccentric language which 
 their master had invented. 
 
 In this numerous school some names have 
 shared in the 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 
 1G33, applied the same eccentric manner to pas- 
 toral poetry.* 
 
 I know not whether we must rank among the 
 disciples of Gongora, or only as conforming him- 
 
 * The following curious stanzas I quote from Boutterwek : 
 
 Los milagros de Amarilis, 
 A quel angel superior, 
 A quien dan nombre de Fcnix 
 La verdad y la passion, 
 
 Mirava a su puerta un dia 
 En la corte un labrador, 
 Que si adorar no merece 
 Padecer si merecio. 
 
 Una tarde, que es manana 
 Pues el alva se rio, 
 
 Y entre carmin encendido 
 Candidas perlas mostro, 
 
 Divirtiose en abrasar 
 
 A los mismos que alunibro, 
 
 Y del cielo de si mismo 
 El angel bello cayo.
 
 G2 ON 1 H 1 1 ITEUATritF. 
 
 self to the taste of the asfe, the monk Lorenco de 
 Zaniora, more celcl)rated indeed as a theologian 
 than as a poet. He has left us, under the name of 
 the Mijstic Monarchy of the Church, a work in many 
 quarto volumes which is well esteemed; and he 
 has intermixed his meditations with some poems. 
 The ep(jch of their publication (IG14) is that 
 with which we are now occupied, and we may 
 form an idea of them from the following rakm- 
 dilhas in honour of St. Josepii. " What language 
 is equal to express his glory who taught the 
 word of the Father himself to speak ; accord- 
 ing to whose wise dispensation, and by ditierent 
 means, God who is the master of the universe, 
 submits to find a master in the Saint. M'hat 
 higher claim to science can he advance than tiiat 
 he taught Jesus his letters — his very A. B.C.? 
 If 1 consider him as my servant who eats of 
 my bread, Mary, O Saint ! was your servant ; 
 (iod himself is your servant ; yet, since it was 
 (iod who created the fruits of your labours, 
 I scarcely know whether I should call him your 
 creator or }()ur creature. .)osej)li! what a ha|)py 
 man you were when God himself was your minis- 
 ter. \o man, and not even (Jod, was ever 
 better administered to, lliaii you were. (iod 
 rules above, and you rule also. (Jod reigns 
 over heaven and earth; but on earth you were 
 obeyed by the i-ord himself. How happy you 
 will be in heaven. \s\\v\\ you find on your arrival
 
 OF THF. SPANIARDS. 63 
 
 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 pri- 
 vilege 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 ?" * 
 
 * Redondilhas u San Josc/i/i. 
 
 Qne lengua podra alcan9ar 
 A quel que tanto subio, 
 Que a la palabra enstno 
 Del propio padre a hablar. 
 
 Segun su sabio aranzel, 
 
 Aunque por diversos modos, 
 Es Dios maestro de todos, 
 Pero de Dios lo fnc el. 
 
 De lo que su ciencia fue 
 Yo no se dar otra seiia, 
 Sino quo al Christus ensena 
 Las letras del A, B, C.
 
 64 ON THE I.ITI KATL'llE 
 
 Wliilst Gong^ora introduced into the higlier 
 walks of poetry an affected and almost unin- 
 telligible style, and his followers, in order to pre- 
 
 O Joseph ! cs tan jjloriosa 
 Viicslru virtiul, y de niodo, 
 Que cl niismo padre de todo 
 Su madre os dio por csposa. 
 
 Piido dar al hijo el padre 
 Madre de mas alto scr, 
 Aiintjue en razon de inuger 
 Pero no en razon de madre l 
 
 A esta cuenta pudo Dies 
 Joseph, hazeros mas santo, 
 Mas como padre soys tanlo, 
 Que otro no es mijor (pie vos. 
 
 Pero si vos en quanto hoiuhre 
 Soys tanto mcnos (pie Dios, 
 Por lo menos llei^ays vos 
 A ser ygiial eii cl uonihre. 
 
 Si yo llamo mi criado 
 
 Al fpic con mi pan scoria, 
 
 Vufstra criada cs Maria, 
 
 Y aim Dios cs vu(^stro criado. 
 
 Pues cria h Dios el sudor 
 De vuestra mauo, y vcntura, 
 Ni se si OS diga criatura 
 O si OS Ilamc criador. 
 
 Joseph dii'hoso avcys sido, 
 Pucs (pie scrvido dc Dios, 
 Nadie fuc mcjor (pie vos 
 Ni aim Dios fiic mcjor scrvido.
 
 OF TH1-: SPANIARDS. G5 
 
 serve the reputation of refined genius, descended 
 even on the most sacred subjects to the most 
 preposterous play of words, the ancient school 
 v^^hich had been founded by Garcilaso and by 
 
 Manda Dios, y mandays vos, 
 Manda Dios en suelo y cielo, 
 Pero vos, aca en el suelo 
 Mandastes al mismo Dios. 
 
 Que dire de vos que importe, 
 Dichoso quando alia, yreys, 
 Pues en llegando hallareys 
 Tales parientes en corte. 
 
 Pues pudo Dios escoger 
 Para su madre marido, 
 El mejor cjue avia nacido 
 Vos lo devistes de ser. 
 
 Si OS llamaremos mayor 
 
 Joseph que el seilor del cielo, 
 Pues viviendo aca en el suelo, 
 Fue el mismo vuestro menor. 
 
 Bien es que en sueuo y tendido 
 Os hable el angel a vos, 
 Que a quien despierto habla Dios 
 Hablele el angel dormido. 
 
 Distes pan al pan de vida, 
 Y con pan el pan criastcs, 
 Yvos a pan combidastes 
 Al que con pan nos conibida 
 
 VOL. IV.
 
 GG ON THF. J.ITKUATUUK 
 
 Boscan had not been wholly ubandoued. 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 i)owerful ins[)iration, and the charm 
 
 Otra celestial empresa 
 Rcalya vuestro valor, 
 Que al propio Dios y senor 
 Sentastes a vuestra mesa. 
 
 Soys en fin de tal mancra 
 (iue al misiiio Dios combiilastos, 
 
 Y aunque con Dios os sentastes, 
 Tuvistes lu cabeccra. 
 
 Por gran cosa el primer hontbre 
 Dio nonibre a los animales, 
 Mas son vuestras prendas talcs 
 Que al mismo Dios distes nonibre. 
 
 Soys (juicn soys, y tal soys vos, 
 
 Y vuestro valor de modo, 
 Que a Dios obedece todo, 
 
 Y a vos obedece Dios. 
 
 Joseph, (|uien soys aquel sabe 
 Que tayta ihmiaros siipo, 
 
 Y piles tal nonibre en vos c\ipo, 
 
 lisse OS ct'bbrc y alabe. 
 
 Muntin/iiti tmistuti ih In Yf>^lcsia, pur l-ntii l^miiio tic Zumuiii, 
 Mil. viii. I'.irl ill. ciip. I:!. i;,|. 52;J.
 
 OF Tiir: sPAViAuns. 67 
 
 of novelty. Some men of this school merit no- 
 tice from their attachment to the purest style of 
 poetry, but they were the last flashes of an ex- 
 piring flame. 
 
 Among the contemporaries of Cervantes and 
 Lope de Vega, two brothers, whom the Spa- 
 niards compare to Horace, occupy a distinguish- 
 ed place. Lupercio Leonardo de Argensola was 
 born in 1565, at Balbastro ; and Bartolomeo 
 Leonardo in 1566, of a family originally of Ra- 
 venna, 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 at- 
 tached 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 ulti- 
 mately 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 Boutteruek 
 and Nicolo Antonio, resembled each other so ex- 
 actly in taste, genius, and style, that it is difficult 
 to distinguish their compositions, and the two 
 
 I 2
 
 G8 O.V IMF. LITF.RATUUF. 
 
 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 vigorous and 
 elevated genius, a great talent of descrij)tion, 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. 
 
 Notwithstanding the suffrage of Cervantes, 
 the reputation of Argensola does not rest on liis 
 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 trantpiil and soft enthusiasm of de- 
 votion, 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 fpiarto, 1G34. Some specimens of their 
 choicest j)octry are given by Bouttervvck. Li a 
 fine sonnet of the eldest*, may be observed a |)e- 
 
 • Iniagcn rspantOi»a «le la inuerte, 
 
 Siifho cruel, no tiirhcs mas mi pccljo, 
 Moslrandoine cortatlo fl niido rstrcclu), 
 Consiit'Io solo (\c mi ;ulv*Tsn siicrlc.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 69 
 
 ciiliar elevation of imagery, style, and harmony, 
 joined to an obscurity of thought and expression, 
 which we cannot but regard as the harbinger of 
 a corrupt taste. His brother wrote some satiric 
 sonnets*, evidently in imitation of the Italians. 
 
 Busca de algun tirano el muro fuerte, 
 De jaspe paredes, de oro il techo ; 
 O el rico avaro el en angosto lecho, 
 Haz que temblando con sudor despierte. 
 
 El uno vea el popular tumulto 
 
 Romper con fiiria las herradas puertas, 
 O al sobornado siervo el hierro occulto ; 
 
 El otro sus riquezas descubiertas, 
 
 Con Have falsa, o con violento insulto ; 
 
 Y dexale al amor sus glorias ciertas. 
 
 * As a specimen of his manner, we give the following son- 
 net, addressed to an old coquette : 
 
 Pon, Lice tus cabellos con legias, 
 De venerables, si no rubios, rojos, 
 Que el tiempo vengador busca despojos, 
 
 Y no para volver huyen los dias. 
 
 Y las mexillas, que avultar porfias, 
 Cierra en porfiles languidos, y flojos, 
 Su hermosa atrocidad nobo a los ojos, 
 
 Y apriesa te desarma las ancias. 
 
 Pero tu acude por socorro all' arte, 
 
 Que aim con sus fraudes quiero que dcficnda 
 Al descngano descortes la entrada. 
 
 Con pacto, y por tu bien, que no pretendas 
 Reducida a ruinas, scr amada 
 Sino es de ti, si puedcs i-nganarle.
 
 70 ON' IMF. LITKUATLUE 
 
 The ei)istles and satires of both tlic one and the 
 other brother are the pieces in which they are 
 said to have most resembled Horace. The speci- 
 mens of them wliich I have seen inspire Htthi cu- 
 riosity. 
 
 The historical works of Ar<::ensola are com- 
 posed 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. I lis principal work is the His- 
 tory of the Contjuest of the Moluccas.* His con- 
 tinuation of the Annals of Aragon by Zurita, which 
 comprehends the troubles at the commencement 
 of the reign of Charles V t, was published early 
 ill 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 fol- 
 lowed the example of the Romans and the Italians, 
 of Roseau, and Garcilaso. Like the Italians of the 
 fifteenth century, they are more remarkable for 
 ])uriiy of taste and elegance of language, than 
 for richness of invention or force of genius; and 
 whilst we acknowledge tlu'ir talents, if we do 
 not possess an insatiabk- appetite for love-songs, 
 
 • Miulritl, lol. ItiOf). t Saragossa, /i>l. Ki.'JO.
 
 01- THE SPANIARDS. 71 
 
 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 Mo- 
 rillo, a happy imitator of Juvenal, Luis Bara- 
 hona de Soto, a rival of Garcilaso ; Gonzales de 
 Argote y Molina, whose poems breathe an un- 
 common ardour of patriotism ; and the three Fi- 
 gueroa, distinguished by their success in diffe- 
 rent styles, are the chief among a crowd of lyric 
 poets, whose names can with difficulty be pre- 
 served 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 attem})t- 
 ing every style and leaving monuments of his 
 genius on every topic, an adroitness in pointing 
 the shafts of ridicule, and the art of comi)elling 
 the abuses of society to appear before the bar of 
 public opinion. Some extracts from his volumi- 
 nous works will show within w hut narrow barriers
 
 72 ON THi: MTKHA TUHE 
 
 Voltaire must have confined himself under sucli 
 a suspicious government as that of Philip 11. 
 and beneath the yoke of the Incjuisition. 
 
 Don Francisco de Quevedo y Villegas was 
 born at Madrid in 15S0, of an illustrious fa- 
 mily attached to the court, wliere it held several 
 honourable appointments. lie lost both his pa- 
 rents when young, but his guardian, Don Jerome 
 de Villanueva, placed him in the university of Al- 
 cala, where he learned the languages. lie made 
 himself master of the Latin, Greek, Hebrew, 
 Arabic, Italian and French ; and he pursued at 
 the same time the usual scholastic studies, in- 
 cluding theology, law, the belles lettres, philo- 
 logy, natural ))hiiosophy, and medicine. Dis- 
 tinguished 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 de- 
 licacy he preserved the parties from any compro- 
 Fuise of character, he had at the same time the 
 art (jf reconciling them without an aj)peal to a 
 sanguinary ordeal. Highly accomplished in arms, 
 he possessed a courage and address l)eyond that 
 of the most skilful masters, although the malfor- 
 mation of his feet rendered bodily exercises pain- 
 ful to liini. A (|uarrel of a somewhat chivalric 
 nature, \v;i^ th( ( aiise of a change of Ins deslinv.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 73 
 
 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 nobleman 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 order 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 his service. During the time he was so 
 accredited, he was frequently pursued by assas- 
 sins, who wished to rid themselves of a negotia- 
 tor, 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. He was arrested in 1620, and carried 
 to his estate of Torre de Juan Abad, where 
 he was detained prisoner three years and a half.
 
 /A OS tiil: li Tin ai riJE 
 
 without hcini? allowed durini? the two first years 
 to call ill a physician from the lu ighbouring 
 village for the benefit of his declining health. 
 At length his innocence was acknowledged, his 
 imprisonment changed into banishment, and his 
 freedom soon after restored him ; but on demand- 
 ins^ indemnification for the injuries he had suffer- 
 ed, he was again sent into exile. This forced re- 
 tirement restored him to the cultivation of letters, 
 from which his jiolitical career had in some 
 degree estranged him. During his banishment 
 to his estates he wrote the greater part of his 
 |)oems, and in particular those which he pub- 
 lished 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, \C)'A2. The Duke dOlivarez solicited 
 him to enter again into public business, and 
 offered him an embassy to Cienoa, which (^uevedo 
 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 sensi- 
 ble 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 1(;:M, in order to es|)ouse 
 at the age of fifty-l«>nr a lady of high l)irth. He 
 lost her in the course ol a lew months, iind his grief
 
 I 
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 75 
 
 brought him back to Madrid, where in 1G41 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 con- 
 vent, where a stream of water passed under his 
 bed and produced a pernicious damp in his me- 
 lancholy 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 com- 
 mon 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 pre- 
 served. After an imprisonment of two and 
 twenty months, his case was enquired into, and 
 it appeared that it was already ascertained 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 long 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 Quevcdo
 
 76 ON THE LITEUATUUE 
 
 were stolen tVom liim in his lifi'tiinc, ciinongst 
 wliicli were his theiitrical })ieces and his historical 
 works, so that he cannot, as lie had hoped, lay 
 claim to distinction in every class of letters. 
 But, notwithstanding the loss of fifteen manu- 
 scri|)ts, which have never yet been recovered, 
 his remains form eleven large volumes, eight of 
 which are in j)rose and three in verse. 
 
 Quevedo was always on his guard against ex- 
 aggeration of style, pomp of words, extravagant 
 images, inverted sentences, and ridiculous orna- 
 ments borrowed from mythology. This false 
 taste, of which Gongora was in some degree the 
 founder, frequently afforded to our poet the sub- 
 ject 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 con- 
 tem|)oraries, 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 suc- 
 cession of pleasantries, strokes of wit, antitheses, 
 and j)i(piant e.\j)ressions, arc prepared before- 
 hand, and that he is more desirous of strikiu"^ 
 than of persuading. On serious subjects, it is
 
 OK TlIF, SPANMARDS. 77 
 
 needless to enquire whether or not he be sin- 
 cere, 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 succeeds ; 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 Govcniment of Chrid, and dedicated 
 to Philip IV, as containing a complete treatise 
 on the art of ruling. As secretary of the Duke 
 d'Ossuna, and as one who had executed the de- 
 signs, and often perhaps directed the councils 
 of this ambitious viceroy, whose political mea- 
 sures so long troubled Europe, he was certainly 
 entitled to be heard. If he had developed the 
 policy by which the terrible Spanish triumvirate, 
 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 immorality, than Machia- 
 velli. 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 sub- 
 ject of profound meditation. But the work ol
 
 78 0\ THE iriKKAIlHi: 
 
 (^iicvcdo is of II ciLiite diticrcnt nature, and con- 
 sists of political lessons taken from the life of 
 Christ, and aj)|)lied to kingly government, with 
 the most ])ious motives, but on the other hand 
 with as complete an absence of practical instruc- 
 tion, as if the work had been composed in a con- 
 vent. All his examples 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 obser- 
 vations, and a very diti'erent 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 
 thouglit on a subject of which he ought to have 
 been the master, he discovers notwithstanding, 
 at all times, in tlie 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 iluties of royalty, and to draw from his 
 life alone examples applicable to all the circum- 
 stances of war, finances, and j)ublic administra- 
 tion ; but it was intended, perhaps, to exhibit 
 rather a strong invention than a correct mode 
 of reasoning. 1 1 is most remarkable qualities
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 79 
 
 are, his precision and energy of language, his 
 rapid and eloquent phrases, and his fulness of 
 sense and thought. Quevedo wishes to per- 
 suade monarchs to command their armies in 
 person. The relation of this advice to the 
 moral precepts of the Gospel, it is not easy to 
 discover ; but he illustrates his subject in a na- 
 tural manner by the conduct of the apostle Peter, 
 who, under the eyes of his master, attacks the 
 whole body of the guard of the high-])riest, but 
 who, when he is separated from Jesus, shame- 
 fully denies him before a servant. " The Apostle,'' 
 he says, " then \vanted 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 lie 
 despatches them to the combat without seeing 
 them, he exculpates them from their negligence, 
 he trusts his honour to chance, and has only him- 
 self to blame for any misfortune. Those armies 
 which rulers only pay, differ much from those 
 which they command in person ; the former pro- 
 duce great expense, and renown attends on the 
 latter; the latter too are supported by the ene- 
 my, the former by indolent monarchs who are 
 wrapped up in their own vanity. It is one thing
 
 so 0\ TIIF. LITMRATUKF. 
 
 tor soldicis to obey cDniinunds, and another to 
 follow an example : the first seek their recom- 
 pense in pay, the latter in fame. A king, it is 
 true, cannot always combat in joerson, but he may 
 and he ought to ai)i)oint generals more known by 
 their actions than by their j)en. " These precepts, 
 although antitiietical, are just and true; and at 
 that time one might, perhaps, also consider them 
 as somewhat daring, since Philip HI. and Philij) 
 IV. never saw their armies, and l^hilip 11. was 
 early separated from his. At the i)resent 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 exjjression may, 
 perhaps, be considered 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 tlie Apostle Paul, and 
 tliat of St. Thomas of Villanueva, has also left 
 some treatises on moral j)hilosophy. The most 
 remarkable one, and that which atiords us the 
 best idea of liir character ol his genius, is the 
 ainjjbficatiou of a treatise attributed to Seneca, 
 and afterwards iuutaled by Petrarcii, on the con- 
 solations in good and bad fortune. Tiie Roman
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 81 
 
 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 sup- 
 ported 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 Edile. 
 
 " 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: 1 shall change 
 only my place of abode, not my country ; where- 
 ever 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 happiness.; but real happi- 
 ness is in the mind, not in place, and depends on 
 a man's self; if he be wise, his exile is no more 
 thana journey ; if he is unwise, he suffers banish- 
 ment. Thou art banished : That is to say, I am 
 made a citizen of a new state. 
 
 ** D.Francisco de Quevedo. Thou art ba- 
 nished: 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. 
 
 VOL. IV. (i
 
 82 0\ rilF. LlTKUATUKt: 
 
 Thou art Ixmisht'd : Such maybe my sentence, 
 but the world will not allow it, for it is the 
 country of all. Thou art banished : I shall de- 
 part, but shall not be exiled; the tyrant may 
 change the place where 1 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? 1 
 shall quit the place where I was born, not the 
 place for which 1 was born. Thou art banished : 
 1 quit only one part of my country for another 
 part. Thou shall see thy wife, thi/ ebildren, Ihu 
 relations, no more : That might happen to me when 
 living with them. Tlwu shall be deprived of thy 
 friends: I shall find others in the place to which 
 I go. Thou shall be forgotten : 1 am so already 
 where I am thus rejected, lluni shall be regretted 
 bif none: That will not be strange to me, leaving 
 the place I leave. Thou shall 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 in his own country ; a 
 stranger is therefore always better received." 
 
 Such is the genius of Quevedo, and such the 
 character of his morals. It surprises and amuses 
 us, and is presented to us in an attractive man- 
 ner, but it carries with it little persuasion and 
 less consolation. We feel that after all that has 
 been said, it would not be dithcult to delend the 
 opposite side with e([ual success.
 
 OF THE SPAMAUDS. 83 
 
 Many of his works consist of visions, and in 
 these we find more gaiety, and his pleasantries 
 are more varied. It must be confessed, however, 
 that he has chosen singular subjects to jest on ; 
 church-yards, alguazils possessed of devils, the 
 attendants 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, trades- 
 people, and, more particularly, tailors. It is the 
 latter that he most generally attacks, and we can- 
 not well imagine in what way a Castilian gentle- 
 man, 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 vi- 
 sion. El Suefw de las Calaveras, represents the Last 
 Judgment. " 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 pil- 
 lage ; the epicures and the idle received it as a 
 call to dinner, or the chase. This was easily 
 
 f; 2
 
 84 OV THE LITF.RATl'KK 
 
 seen from tlie 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 Hying from 
 their former bodies, some in disgust, others in 
 affright. To one body an arm was wanting, to 
 another an eye. 1 could not forbear smiling at 
 the diversity of the figures, and admiring that 
 Providence, which, amidst sucli a confusion of 
 limbs, prevented any one from taking the legs 
 or the arms of his neighbour. 1 observed only 
 one burial-ground where the dead seemed to be 
 changing their heads ; and 1 saw a notary 
 whose soul was not in a satisfactory state, and 
 who, by way of excuse, pretended that it had been 
 changed and uas not his own. But what asto- 
 nished 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 Corrcspinidoicc of the Chevalier de 
 la Tenaza, 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 Advke 
 lu Lovers of F'nie /Aif/cruage, where Gongora and 
 Loj)e de Vega are very pleasantly ridiculed ; 
 in the Treatise on all Suhjects in the World and 
 mami besides: in the I/ap/n/ Hour, where Fortune, 
 for once oniv, rewards every one according
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 85 
 
 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 strikinsr 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 dif- 
 ferent kinds, want, sickness, and sufferings ; but 
 absolute starving is a calamity which the most 
 wretched seldom experience ; and if they are re- 
 duced to this state, it generally throws them into 
 despair. If we are to believe the Castilian writers, 
 a considerable portion of their population are in 
 constant apprehension of famine, yet never think 
 of relieving themselves by labour. A crowd of 
 poor gentlemen, and all the knights of ificli/.stn/, 
 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 Qucvedo, and in all 
 the Spanish romances, have too great a sem- 
 blance of truth to have been mere inventions >
 
 SG 0\ Till-. LIILUATLKE 
 
 but with whatever humour and originality they 
 may have been drawn, they ultimately leave a 
 disagreeable impression, and discover an egre- 
 gious national vice, the correction of which 
 should be the hrst object ot" a legislator. 
 
 The ])oems of Quevedo form three large 
 volumes, under the name of the Spanish Parnas- 
 sus. 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 how- 
 ever intermixed, and consist almost entirely of 
 lyric poems, pastorals, allegories, satires, and 
 btwlesque 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. Sucli, m my eyes, is that 
 On the Jiubis of Runic, of which the following is a 
 translation : 
 
 SONNKT. 
 
 • Stranger, 'tis vain ! Midst Rome, thou seck'st for Rome 
 In vain ; thy foot is on her throne— her grave ; 
 Jhr walls are dust: Time's con(|uerin<,' banners wave 
 Otr all her hills; hills which themselves entomb. 
 
 • A liumit sepultuila en sus ruinas. 
 Huscus en Roma a Roma, 6 peregrine ! 
 Y en Roma misma a Roma no l.t liallas 
 Cadaver son, las «|uc ostento murallas, 
 "V' tumba de si prf»|)io cl Avciitino.
 
 I 
 
 OF THE SPANIAPxDS. 87 
 
 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 Quevedo 
 form the most numerous class of his writings. 
 In these short stanzas, neither the measure nor 
 the rhyme of which are difficult, we often find 
 the most biting satire, much humour, and not 
 unfrequently ease and grace ; though these latter 
 qualities accord little with his constant desire of 
 shining. On the other hand, these romances, 
 abounding in allusions and in words borrowed 
 from different dialects, are very difficult to 
 
 Yace donde reynaba el Palatino, 
 Y limadas del tienipo las medullas, 
 Mas se muestran destrozo a las batallas 
 De las edades, que blazon latino. 
 
 Solo el Tibre qiiedo, cuya corriente 
 Si ciudad la rego, ya sepultura 
 La llora con funesto son dolicntc. 
 
 O Roma ! en tu grandeza, en tu hermosura 
 Huyo lo que era firme, y solamente 
 Lo fugitivo permanece y dura. 
 
 Clio, 3.
 
 88 ox IHi: LlTKKATl'Ut 
 
 comprehend. 1 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 attention. When he has experienced misfor- 
 tunes as severe as those of Quevedo, his pleasan- 
 tries on his ill-fortune, although they may not be 
 very refined, bear a value in our eyes from the 
 moral courage which they exhibit : 
 
 • Since then, my planet lias 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, 
 'Twas sure to turn the other way. 
 
 • Rejiere su nacimento y las propiedades que Ic cuniunkb. 
 
 Tal Ventura desde entonces 
 Me dexaron los jjlanetas, 
 (iuc puede servir dc tinta 
 Scgun li:i sido de negra. 
 
 Porcjuc C8 tan feliz mi siicrlc, 
 (Juc no hay cosa mala o hucna 
 Que aunque la picnsc dc tajo 
 •M rcvcs i\(> me succda.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 89 
 
 Ye childless great, who want a heir, 
 Leave all your vast domaios to me. 
 And Heaven will bless you with a fair 
 Alas ! 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 eye ; 
 To holy mass they carry me. 
 And ask me alms, and bid good-bye. 
 
 Should bravos chance to lie perdu. 
 To break some happy lover's head, 
 I am their man, while he in view 
 His beauty serenades in bed. 
 
 De esteriles soy remedio, 
 Pues con mandarme su hacienda, 
 Los dara el cielo mil hijoa, 
 Por quitarme las herencias. 
 
 Como a imagcn de milagros 
 Me sacan por las aldeas, 
 Si quieren sol, abrigado, 
 Y desnudo, porque llueva. 
 
 Quando alguno me convida 
 No es a banquetes ni a fiestas, 
 Si no a los misacantanos 
 Para que yo Ics ofrczca.
 
 90 OV THE LITERATUUK 
 
 A looscn'J tile is sure to fall 
 In contact with my head below, 
 Just as I doff my hat. 'Mong all 
 The crowd, a stone still lays me low. 
 
 The doctor's remedies alone 
 
 Ne'er reach the cause for which they 're given, 
 
 And it" I ask my friends a loan. 
 
 They wish the poet's soul in heaven ; 
 
 So far from granting aught, 'tis I 
 Who lend my patience to their spleen ; 
 Mine is each fool's loquacity, 
 Each ancient dame will be my queen. 
 
 De noche soy parccido 
 A todos quantos espcran 
 Para molerlos a palos, 
 Y as I inoconte mo pcLrau. 
 
 Aguarda husta que yo pasc. 
 Si ha de caerse una tcja : 
 Aciertan me las pcdradas, 
 Las curas solo me yerran. 
 
 Si a alguno pido prcslado, 
 Me rcsponde tan a secas 
 Que en vc/ de prcstarmc a mi 
 Me hace prestarlc p.icicncia. 
 
 No hay nccio (pie no mc hablr, 
 Ni vieja <pic no mc (piicra, 
 Ni pobrt' que no mc |«ida, 
 Ni riio <|iK' no mi- oltnda.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 91 
 
 The poor man's eye amidst the crowd 
 Still turns its asking looks on mine ; 
 Jostled by all the rich and proud, 
 No path is clear, whate'er my line. 
 
 Where'er I go I miss my way, 
 I lose, still lose at every game; 
 No friend I ever had would stay. 
 No foe Ijut still remain'd the same. 
 
 I get no v^ater out at sea, 
 
 Nothing but water at my inn ; 
 
 My pleasures, like my wine, must be 
 
 Still mix'd with what should not be in. 
 
 We also find amongst the poems of Quevedo, 
 pastorals, allegories under the name of Sylvas, 
 epistles, odes, songs, and the commencement of 
 two epic poems, one biirlesc[ue, the other re- 
 ligious. But it is to his works themselves that 
 we must refer those who wish to be better ac- 
 quainted with a Spanish writer who has, per- 
 haps, nearer than any other, approached the 
 French style of writing. 
 
 No hay camino que no yerre, 
 Ni juego donde no pierda, 
 Ni amigo que no me engane 
 Ni enemigo que no tenga. 
 
 Agua me falta en cl mar, 
 Y la hallo en las tabernas. 
 Que mis contentos y el vino 
 Son aguados donde quiera. 
 
 Thalia, Romance IG.
 
 92 ON TJIL LITEKATIRE 
 
 By tlie side of Quevedo we may place Estevaii 
 Manuel de Villegas, born at Nagera, in old Cas- 
 tile, about the year 1595. He studied at Ma- 
 drid 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 j)eriod 
 he always imitated these two j)oets, to whose 
 genius his own was strictly analogous. At the 
 age of three and twenty he collected his various 
 poems, which he jirinted at his own expense, 
 and dedicated to Philip III., under the title of 
 A?jiato}'ias, or Eroticas. He obtained with diffi- 
 culty a small employ in his native city; for, al- 
 though noble, he was without fortune. Devo- 
 ting the remainder of his life to philological Latin 
 works, he contributed nothing-, after his twenty- 
 third year, to Sj)anish poetry. He died in 1(509, 
 aged seventy-four. He is considered the Ana- 
 creon of Spain. His grace and softness, and 
 his union of the ancient style with the modern, 
 place him above all those who have written in 
 the same class ;* but he was as incapable as the 
 other Spanish poets of submitting himself to 
 the rules of the ancients in the correction of 
 his thoughts, and he often induka'd himself in 
 
 • As a spcc-inicii of his Anacreontic niani\rr, I iii.iy refer (o 
 tlie tliirty-fillli (.'antilenti given l)rlo\v, and whieli I have the 
 rather selected, as it is not found in Uoiilterwek. The editions
 
 OK THE SPANIARDS. 93 
 
 the concetti of Marini and Gongora. I shall 
 give only one of his pieces, a model of grace 
 and sensibility, already quoted by Boutterwek : 
 
 of the Spanish poets are so rare, that every extract communi- 
 cates to the pubhc a piece of poetry, which it would have been 
 difficult to find elsewhere. 
 
 Dicen me las muchachas 
 Que sera don Esteban, 
 Que siempre de amor cantas 
 
 Y nunca de la guerra ? 
 
 Pero yo las respondo : 
 Muchachas bachilleras. 
 El ser los hombres feos 
 
 Y el ser vos otras bellas. 
 
 De que sirve que canto 
 Al son de la trompeta, 
 Del otro embarazado 
 Con el pavt's a cuestas ? 
 
 Que placcres me guiza 
 Un arbol pica seca 
 Cargado de mil hojas 
 Sin una fruta en ellas ? 
 
 Quien gusta de los parches, 
 Que muchos parches tenga ; 
 
 Y quien de los escudos 
 Que nunca los posea. 
 
 Que yo de los guerreros 
 No trato los peleas, 
 Sino las de las niiias 
 Porque estas son mis gm^i ras.
 
 94 0\ TUF. LITFUA I rUK 
 
 THE NIOHTINGALE. 
 
 • I have seen a niijlitiiiijale 
 On a sprig of tliymc, bewail, 
 Seeing the dear nest, whicli was 
 Hers alone, borne oft', alas ! 
 Ry 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. 
 Bore her tender tears. M>e spake 
 As if her fond heart would break ; 
 One while, in a sad sweet note, 
 Gurgled from her straininjr throat. 
 
 CD O 
 
 She enforc'd her piteous talc, 
 Mournfid prayer, and i)laintivo wail 
 One while, with the shrill dis)>ute 
 , Quite outwearicd, she was mute ; 
 
 * Yo vi sobre un tomillo 
 Quexarso un paraxillo, 
 Viendo su nido amado 
 De quien era caudillo 
 De un labrador robado. 
 Vi lo tan congoxado 
 For tal atrevimiento, 
 l)ar mil quexas al vierito, 
 Fara que al ciel santo 
 Llevc su tierno llanto, 
 Llcve su triste acento. 
 Ya con triste harmonia 
 Ksfor^ando al intento 
 Mil quexas repetia ,
 
 OF THE SPA MAUDS. 95 
 
 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, 
 Tlie delighted robber chas'd ; 
 And, alighting in his path, 
 Seem'dto 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 wc 
 may enumerate Juan de Xauregui, the translator 
 of the Pharsalia of Lucan ; Francisco de Borja, 
 Prince of Esquillace, one of the first grandees of 
 
 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 grama, 
 Parece que decia : 
 Dame rustico fiero 
 Mi dulce compania ! 
 Yo vi que respond ia 
 El rustico, 7/0 quicro. 
 
 * [For the kind communication of the above translation, the 
 Editor has to repeat his acknowledgments to Mr. Wiften. Tr.]
 
 90 ON TIIK LITr.UATLUK 
 
 Spain, who cultivated poetry with the greatest 
 ardour, and whose works are extremely volumi- 
 nous; and Bernardino Count de Rebolledo, am- 
 bassador to Denmark at the close of the thirty 
 years' war, who composed the greater ])art ot 
 his Spanish poetry at Copenhagen. But poetry 
 expired in these writers. They no longer sepa- 
 rated the powers of inspiration from the rea- 
 soning faculty ; and the Stiva.s- Danicas of Re- 
 bolledo, which comprehend in rliimcd prose the 
 history and geography of Denmark, and his 
 Sclvas Militarcs i/ Polit'icas, where he has col- 
 lected all that he knew on war and government, 
 seem written to prove the last decline of Spanish 
 jioetry. We should imagine it had here reached 
 its termination, if Calderon, whom we shall no- 
 tice in the following chapters, had not appeared 
 at the same epoch, and stamj)cd this as the 
 most brilliant period of J^he Spanish romantic 
 drama. 
 
 During the reigns of Philip II., Philip 111., 
 and Philip IV., several prose writers obtained ap- 
 plause. A romance in the modern taste, of Vin- 
 cent Espinel, intitlcd 'J'lic Life of the Sijuirc Marco 
 (k Ohrc<rufi, 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 
 /•'/ (htsto Picdrc.sco, the Life (f I)n/i Clusntan 
 tf Alfdrdclie aj)pein('(l in l.")!M). and of course
 
 OF THE SPy\NIAUDS. 97 
 
 previous 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 receiv- 
 ed was not sufficient to induce him to relin- 
 quish 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 1G23 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 princijinl 
 personages. Livy makes us acquainted 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 
 
 VOL. IV. H
 
 98 ON TllK LITKUATIJUK 
 
 the invention of tlic author. The speeches of 
 Mariana, on the contrary, though of a late age, 
 bear all the marks of antiquity ; they are de- 
 prived of all probability; and we ])erceive from 
 the very first word, that neither the Gothic 
 kings, nor the Saracen princes to whom they 
 are given, could ever have uttered them. Ma- 
 riana 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 translated it into Spanish, 
 and dedicated the translation to the same mo- 
 narch. Notwithstanding his great caution, he was 
 formally denounced to the Inquisition, the sus- 
 picious Philip thinking that he detected in his 
 work traces of that iVeedoni, the very memory 
 of which he wished to extinguish ; and Mariana 
 with difiiculty escaped prosecution. 
 
 The second of the historians of Spain in point 
 of reputation, was born only a few years before 
 the death of Mariana. Antonio de Solis, m ho 
 lived from 1010 to IGSO, not less distinguished 
 by his j)oetry than his prose, followed the ex- 
 ample of C'alderon, with wiiom he was united in 
 strict friendshij), and |)resented the stage with 
 many comedies written witli nuuli imagination. 
 His j)olitical and historical information procured 
 hiin employnienl ni the chancery of the state, 
 under the reign of Phili|) IV. After the death of
 
 OF TIIF. SPAVFARnS. 99 
 
 that monarch iu 1GG5, he was presented with the 
 office of historian of the Indies, with a consider- 
 able salary. At the close of his life he entered 
 into holy orders, and thenceforth was wholly de- 
 voted to religious observances. It was at a ma- 
 ture 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 peace- 
 ful virtues of the Mexicans, their arts, their go- 
 vernment, and their civilization, so different from 
 that of Europe, formed altogether an assemblage 
 of novel and attractive circumstances, and af- 
 forded 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 reflections, are all 
 called for by the subject, and excite our earnest 
 attention. Antonio dc Solis was not unequal 
 
 H 2
 
 T^O ON THF. LITER ATURF, 
 
 to the task, and iVw historical works are read 
 with more ])leasure. 
 
 All true taste seemed now to expire in Spain : 
 a passion for antithesis, concetti, and the most 
 extravagant fifjnrcs, had introdurod itself alike 
 into prose and verse. No one ventured to write 
 without callini,'^ to his aid, on the most simple 
 subject, all the treasures of mythology, and 
 without quoting, in support of the most common 
 sentiment, all the writers of antic[uity. The 
 most natural sentiment could not be expressed 
 without supj^orting it by an imposing image; 
 and in common writers, the mixture of so many 
 ])retensions, with a cumbrous phraseology and 
 dullness of intellect, formed a most extraordinary 
 contrast. The lives of the distinguished men 
 whom we have ])rcsentcd to the reader, are all 
 written by their contemporaries or their imme- 
 diate successors in this eccentric style. That 
 of Qucvcdo by the Abbe Paul-Antonio de Tar- 
 sia 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 trans- 
 ferred into prose all the defects and affectation of 
 Oongora, one of distinguished talents contributed 
 to extend this bad taste still lurthcr. This was
 
 OF THE SPAMAUDS. 10 1 
 
 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 rhe- 
 toric. The most diffuse of all bears the title of 
 el Critkoii, and is an allegorical and didactic pic- 
 ture of human life, divided into epochs, which 
 he calls crisis, intermingled with tedious ro- 
 mances. We discover throughout this work a 
 man of talent, who endeavours to soar above 
 every thing common, but who often at the same 
 time oversteps both nature and reason. A con- 
 stant 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. His repu- 
 tation was more proportioned to his efforts than 
 to his merit. He was translated and panegyrized 
 in France and Italy, and out of Spain contri- 
 buted 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 
 M horn his rellow-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 mo- 
 dern days. It would be improper to impeach 
 with levity so high a reputation ; and whatever 
 my own opinion may be on the merits of Cal- 
 deron, it is my duty to shew 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 
 natit)nal lorms, oftefi in opj)osition to our own ; 
 but that he may seek and feel the excellences 
 of the author, and may arm himself against pre- 
 judices from which I am myself perhaps not 
 exempt. 
 
 The life of C'aldcroM was not very eventful. 
 He was born in IGOO of a noble family, and at 
 lourteen years of age wc are assured he began to
 
 I.ITERATUUt: OK 1 11 L SPANIARDS. 103 
 
 write for the stage. After liaving 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 passion- 
 ately attached to the drama, and who himself 
 published many pieces which purported to be 
 written. By a Wit of this Court: Un inge?iio de csta 
 Carte; having seen some pieces of Calderon, gave 
 the author of them an appointment near his own 
 person, presented him with the order of St. 
 James, and attached him permanently to his 
 court. From that time the plays of Calderon 
 were represented with all the pomp which a rich 
 monarch, delighting in such entertainments, had 
 the power to bestow on them, and the Poet 
 Laureate was often called on for occasional 
 pieces on festive days at court. In 1652, Cal- 
 deron entered into orders, but without renounc- 
 ing the stage. Thenceforth, however, his com- 
 positions were generally religious pieces and 
 autos sacramental es ; 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. Ilis friend Juan de Vera Tassis y 
 Villaroel, having undertaken, in 1085, a com-
 
 104 ON I UK LlIKUAIl UK 
 
 plutc edition of his dramatic works, Calderon 
 authenticated all that are found in that collec- 
 tion, lie died two years after, in his eighty- 
 seventh year. 
 
 AujTUstus William Schlegel, who more than 
 any person has contributed to the diti'iision of 
 Spanish literature in Germany, thus speaks of 
 Calderon in his Lectures on the Drama. " At 
 length ai)peared Dun Pedro Calderon de la 
 Barca, as fertile in genius and as diligent in 
 writing as Lope, but a poet of a ditferent kind ; a 
 true poet, indeed, if ever man deserved the name. 
 For him, but in a suj)crior degree, was renewed 
 the admiration of nature, the enthusiasm of the 
 j)ublic, and the dominion of the stage. The 
 years of Calderon'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. Ac- 
 cording to his bicjgraphers, Calderon wrote more 
 than one hundred and twenty tragedies or come- 
 dies, more than a limulred sacreil allegorical 
 pieces (aulos sacrainciitales), a hundred humo- 
 rous interludes or sai/nctcs, and many other pieces 
 not dramatic. As he composed for the theatre 
 from his fourteenth year to his eighty-first, we 
 must dibtribule liis |)roductions through a long 
 space of time, and liiere is no reason to suppose 
 that Ik wroti with such wonderful celerity as
 
 OF THE SPANIAUDS. 105 
 
 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. Calderon has converted 
 into his own what served only as a model to his 
 predecessors, and he required the noblest and 
 most 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 ob- 
 ject of the dramatic art; but this view, so re- 
 stricted in others, becomes positive in him. 1 am 
 not acquainted with any dramatic author who has 
 succeeded in an equal degree in producing that 
 poetical charm which aff'ects the senses at the 
 same time that it preserves its ethereal essence. 
 
 "His dramas may be divided into four classes; 
 rci)resentations of sacred history, from scripture 
 or legends ; historical pieces ; mythological, or
 
 \0() ON THE LITKUAiTUL 
 
 drawn IVoin some poetical source ; and, lastly, 
 pictures of social life and modern manners. In a 
 strict sense we can only call those pieces histo- 
 rical which are founded on national events. Cal- 
 deron 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 himself with the sanguine natives of the 
 South or the East, but in no manner with the 
 people of classic anticjuity, or of the North of 
 Europe. M'hen he has chosen his subjects from 
 the latter, he has treated them in the most arbi- 
 trary manner. The beautiful mythology of 
 Greece was to him only an engagin<x fable, and 
 the Roman history a majestic hyperbole. 
 
 " Still, his sacred pieces must, to a certain ex- 
 tent, be considered as historical; for, although he 
 has ornamented them with the richest poetry, he 
 has always exhibited with great fidelity the cha- 
 racters drawn from the Bible and sacred history. 
 On the other hand, these dramas arc distinguished 
 by the lofty allegories which he often introduces, 
 and by the religious enthusiasm with which the 
 j)oet, 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 Hames ol love. It is in this last style 
 of composition that he has most excited the
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 107 
 
 admiration of his contemporaries, 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 par- 
 tiality has added to his eloquence. The passage 
 I am about to translate has been highly extolled 
 in Germany. I shall, in my turn, present Cal- 
 deron 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 and 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 ro- 
 mances. These they wished to sec repeated on
 
 108 ON rilK LITEKATUUE 
 
 tlie stage ; and as at this epoch the Spanish poets 
 had attained the liigliest point of art and social per- 
 fection, had infused a musical spirit into their 
 poetry, and purifying it of every thing material and 
 gross, had left only the choicest colours and 
 odours, there resulted an irresistible charm of 
 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 j^ermitted. 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 our- 
 selves influenced by a charm of fancy which pre- 
 vents us from regarding them as comedies, in the 
 ordinary sense of the word. The comedies of 
 Shakspeare are composed of two |)arts, strangers 
 to each other: the comic ]>art. which is always 
 conlormable to EngliNh manners, because the 
 comic imitation is drawn Ironi well-known and
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 100 
 
 local circumstances ; and the romantic part, 
 which is derived from the stage of the South, as 
 his native soil was not in itself sufficiently ])oe- 
 tical. In Spain, on the contrary, national man- 
 ners might be regarded in an ideal point of 
 view. It is true that would not have been 
 possible if Calderon had introduced 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 weak- 
 nesses. In those, a passionate sentiment pre- 
 vails which ennobles all that it surrounds, be- 
 cause it attaches to all circumstances an affection 
 of the mind. Calderon 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
 
 I |0 n\ TIIK LIIIUATUKK 
 
 deceit. Honour is there a feeling; which rests 
 on an elevated morality, sanctifying the principle 
 without regard to consequences. It may by 
 stooping to the opinions and prejudices of society 
 become the weapon of vanity, but under every 
 disguise we recognize it as the reflection of re- 
 fined sentiment. I cannot suggest a more ap- 
 pro|)riate 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 whiteness of its fur 
 to be soiled, resigns itself to its pursuers. This 
 refined sentiment equally predominates in the 
 female characters 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 allow- 
 ing no equivocal attentions, inconsistent with the 
 most severe feminine dignity. This love de- 
 mands an inviolable secrecy, until a legal union 
 permits a public declaration. This condition 
 alone defends it aj^ainst the poisonous mixture of 
 that vanity, which might boast of j)retensions ad- 
 vanced, 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, 
 truth and dissimulation, which honour else- 
 where forbids, are permitted. Hut the most
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. Ill 
 
 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 commission 
 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 wliich 
 they are performed, have named Comedies of the 
 mantle and the sword : Comedias de capa y enpada. 
 In general they possess nothing burlesque, further 
 than the part of the humorous valet, who is 
 known under the name of Gracioso. This per- 
 sonage, indeed, serves only to parody the ideal mo- 
 tives by which his master is governed, but he does 
 it often in the most elegant and lively manner. 
 It is seldom tliat he is employed as an instrument 
 to increase the plot by his artifices ; as this is 
 usually effected by accidental and well contrived
 
 I ll2 {)\ TIIF I 11 I UATUHF. 
 
 incidents. Other jMCces are named Comcdias de 
 Jigiiron ; the parts in which are cast in tlie same 
 manner, unly distinguished by one prominent 
 figure in caricature. To many of the pieces of 
 Calderon the claim of dramatic character cannot 
 be denied, althougli we must not expect to see 
 the more delicate traits of character exhibited 
 by the poets of a nation, whose powerful j)assions 
 and fervent imaginations are irreconcilcable with 
 a talent for accurate observation. 
 
 *' Calderon bestowed on another class of his 
 dramas the name of festival pieces. These were 
 intended to be represented in court on occasions 
 of solemnity. From their theatrical splendour, 
 the frequent change of scene, the decoration 
 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 
 com])ositions of this kind, since by their i)oe- 
 try alone an effect is produced which in the 
 simjde opera is obtained only by scenery, music, 
 and dancing. Here the j)oet abandons himself 
 to the highest flights of fancy, and his repre- 
 sentations seem almost too ethereal for earth. 
 
 " liut the true genius of Calderon is more pecu- 
 liarly shewn in his management of religious sub- 
 jects. l>ove is painted by him with its common 
 attributes, and speaks only the language of the 
 ]K)etic art. Hut religion is \\\> true flame, the 
 heart of his he:irl. i'or her alone he touches
 
 OF THK SPANIARDS. 113 
 
 those chords to which the soul most deeply re- 
 sponds. 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 dew- 
 drops in the beams of morning, reflect the image 
 of heaven. His poetry, whatever the subject ' 
 may ostensibly be, is an unceasing hymn of joy 
 on the splendours of creation. W itli delighted 
 astonishment 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 culti- 
 vation of mind, and the most mature reflection 
 could alone produce. When he united the most 
 opposite objects, the greatest and the smallest, 
 the stars and the flowers, the sense of his metaphor 
 always expresses the relation of his creatures to 
 their common Creator ; and this delightlul har- 
 mony and concert of the universe, is to him a 
 new and unfading image of that eternal love 
 which comj)rehends all things. 
 
 "Calderon was yet living, while in otiier coun- 
 tries of Europe a mannerism began to predonn- 
 vo[.. i\. , I
 
 114 ON THE LITKRATUKE 
 
 natc in the arts, and literature received that pro- 
 saic direction which became so general in the 
 eighteenth century. He may, therefore, be con- 
 sidered as placed on the highest pinnacle of 
 romantic poetry ; and all her brilliancy was la- 
 vished on his works, as in a display of fireworks 
 the brightest colours and the most striking lights 
 are reserved for the last explosion." 
 
 I have here sfiven a faitliful 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 v.hich 
 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. 15ut, in order to ex])lain 
 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, tJie corrujnion of religion 
 and of the government, the perversion of taste, 
 and, in fine, the change which the aml)ition of 
 Charles V, and the tyranny of IMiilip 11, ])ad 
 operated on the Castilians. Cal(Ur<jn had in 
 his youth seen Philip ill ; he had shared the
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 115 
 
 patronage of Pliilij) 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 de- 
 grading to mankind had not been in some de- 
 gree communicated to the leading poet of the age. 
 Calderon, in fact, although endowed by nature 
 with a noble genius and the most brilliant ima- 
 gination, 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 exag- 
 geration. 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 oliends 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 Calde- 
 ron increases with the misfortunes of their coun- 
 try, and their own debasement. There was in the 
 manners of the early knights a just estimate of their 
 own character, which prevented affronts, and as- 
 sured to every one the respect of his equals ; hut 
 when public and private honour became continu- 
 ally compromised by a corrupt and base court, the 
 
 1 2
 
 \\C) ON THE LITF.UATLMIE 
 
 stage represented lionour 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 so- 
 ciety. The lil'e of a gentleman was, in a manner, 
 made up of duelling and assassination ; and if the 
 manners of the nation became brutalized, 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 win- 
 dows and the grates of the convent, where the 
 younger part of the sex were immured ; gal- 
 lantry 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 su])port ; 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 be- 
 yond ;ill flights which his ])redecessors iiad al- 
 lowed themselves. If his imagination furnishes 
 him with a brilliant image, Iir jjursues it through 
 a whole page, and abandons it only through fa-
 
 OF THE SPAXIAKDS. 117 
 
 tigue. He links comparison to comparison, and, 
 overcharging his subject with the most brilliant 
 colours, he does not allow its form to be ])er- 
 ceived under the multiplied touches which he be- 
 stows 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 compassion 
 from one who is diverted from his griefy by the 
 display of his wit. The affectation and antithesis 
 with which the Italians have been reproached, un- 
 der the name of concetti, are, in Marini and in the 
 greatest mannerists, simple expressions in compa- 
 rison 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 taste, an epoch which com- 
 menced in Rome with Lucan, in Italy with the 
 scicentidi, or poets of the sixteenth century ; which 
 distinguished in France the Hotel dc Rainbouillet; 
 which prevailed in England under the reign of 
 Charles II ; and which all i)ersons have agreed to 
 condemn as a perversion of taste. Examples of 
 this style will crowd on us in the succeeding ex- 
 tracts; but we shall pass them over at the lime 
 in order not to suspend the interest ; and it will 
 be better to detach a single passage as a speci- 
 men. It is taken from a play in which Alexan- 
 der, Duke of Parma, relates how he is become 
 the rival of Don Ca-sar, his secretary anil IVicnd.
 
 118 ON THE LITEKATUUL 
 
 • In i,';illant mood, 1 sought my sister's bower. 
 And saw with her and with her ladies there, 
 My Anna, in a garden of tlie 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 fiU'd with that one glorious day. 
 
 * Entre galan al quarto de mi hermana, 
 
 Y con ella y sus damas vi a dona Ana : 
 Vi, en \in jardin do umores, 
 
 Que presidia entre communes flores 
 La rosa hermosa y bella ; 
 Mai digo, que si l)ien lo considero, 
 Yo vi entre muchas rosas una estrella, 
 O entre muchas estrellas un Luccro ; 
 
 Y si mejor en su Deidad reparo, 
 Prestando a los demas sus arreboles, 
 Entre muchos Luccros vi un sol claro, 
 
 Y al fin vi im cielo para muchos soles. 
 
 Y tanto su beldad los excedia, 
 
 Que en nuichos cielos huvo solo un dia. 
 Mabl.'iiido estuve, en ella diveriidos 
 Los ojos, (|uanio atentos los oidos ; 
 Por(|ue mostraba, en todo milagrosa 
 Cuerda bclloz« rn discreeion hermosa.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 119 
 
 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 poe- 
 tical, is still extremely false, becomes still more 
 misplaced when it is employed to express great 
 passions or great sufferings. In a tragedy, other- 
 wise replete with beautiful passages, and to 
 which we shall return, intitled Amur despucs dc la 
 Muerte ; Love after Death, or rather the revolt of 
 
 Despidio se en efecto ; si fue breve 
 La tarde, amor lo diga, que quisiera 
 Que un siglo intero cada instante fuera ; 
 
 Y aun no fuera bastante, 
 
 Pues aunque fuera siglo, fuera instant«\ 
 La sali acompanando cortesmente, 
 
 Y aqui basta decirte 
 
 Que muero amante y que padesco ausente. 
 
 A'(/(/ic fic sii sccicto. Jorn. i, t. i. ])• -73.
 
 120 ON TlIK I.ITEHATUUE 
 
 the Moors in the Alpuxaira, Don Alvaro Tuzam, 
 one of the revolted Moors, 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. 
 
 Claua. 
 • Thy voice — thy voice, my love, I fain would hear : 
 'Twill give me life : 'twill make my tlealh most happy. 
 Come nearer. Let me feel you in my arms. 
 Let me ilic thus — and — (■S'//f dus.) 
 
 Don Alvaro. 
 Alas, alas! They err who say that love 
 Can knit twain hearts, and souls, and lives in one ; 
 I'or wore such mirnolc a living truth. 
 Thou hadst not fled, or I had died with thee; 
 Living or dying, tlicn, wc had not piirted, 
 Hut hand in hand sniil'd t)'ir our ctjual fate. 
 Ye licavens ! that sec my anguish ; mountains wild ! 
 
 Claua. * Sola una voz (ay bien mio !) 
 
 Pudo nuevo aliento darnie, 
 I'udo hacer fcliz mi muerte ; 
 Dexa, dexa que te abraze, 
 Mucra en tus brazos, y muera. 
 
 J). Ai.vAKo. () (|uanto, o quanto ignorante 
 ICs quicn dice que el amor 
 Ilac'T dc dos vidas sabc 
 Una vida ! I'ues si fucran 
 Essos milagros vcrdailes, 
 Ni tu uuirit'ra.s, ni yo 
 Vivicra, que en estc iuslanle
 
 OF THE SPAXIAUDS. 121 
 
 That echo it ; winds ! 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, 
 
 In 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 ? 
 
 What hope, when, for the nuptial bed he drcam'd of, 
 
 He clasps the cold urn, weeps o'er dust and ashes. 
 
 Whom once he worshipp'd. Love's divinity ? 
 
 Nay, tell me not of comfort : I '11 none of it. 
 
 For if in such disasters men do weep not, 
 
 Muriendo yo, y tu viviendo, 
 Estuvieramos iguales. 
 Cielos que visteis mis penas ! 
 Montes que mirais mis males ! 
 Vientos que vis mis rigores! 
 Llamas que veis mis pesares ! 
 Como todos permites 
 Que la mejor luz se apague. 
 Que la mejor flor se os muera. 
 Que el mejor suspiro os falte ? 
 Hombres que sabeis de amor, 
 Advertidme en este lance, 
 Decidme en esta desdicha 
 Que debe hacer un amante 
 Que viniendo a ver su dama, 
 La nochc que ha de lograrse
 
 122 ov 111 1 II II i; All" nv. 
 
 They will ilo ill to follow other's counsels. 
 
 O ye invincible hills of Alpuxarra, 
 
 O 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 dipths profoimd. 
 
 More hapless beauty never breathed its last ! 
 
 But why complain ! if my complaints when pour'd 
 
 To the wild winds are but the wild winds' sport ( 
 
 A correct taste would have expressed, in a 
 situation so violent and so calamitous, the agoni- 
 zing 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 incident is calculated to produce ; a fault 
 continually repeated by Calderon. His decided 
 })redilection for investing with the beauties ol po- 
 etry the language of all his personages, deprives 
 him of all heartfelt and natural expression. We 
 may observe in him many situations of an admi- 
 rable effect, but we never meet with a passage 
 touching or sublime from its simplicity or its 
 truth. 
 
 Un amor do tantos dias, 
 
 Hanada la hallr en su sangre, 
 
 A/iizcna guarnecida 
 
 Del mas peligroso csmallc, 
 
 Oro acrisolado al fuego 
 
 l>fl ma.s rigiiroso cxiimen, clc. 
 
 Tomo I. p. ;56(>
 
 OF THE 8FANIAlli:)S. 123 
 
 The admirers of Calderon have ahnost im})uted 
 it to him as a merit, that he has not clothed any 
 foreign subject with national manners. His pa- 
 triotism, they say, was too ardent to have al- 
 lowed him to adopt any other forms than those 
 peculiar to Spain ; but he had the more oc- 
 casion to display all the riches of his ima- 
 gination, and his creations have a fantastic cha- 
 racter, 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 Ger- 
 many; but after shewing so much indulgence 
 on ore 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 in- 
 congruous facts, manners, and events, in the most 
 illustrious periods of Roman history, in a way 
 which would disgust even a schoolboy. Thus, 
 in his play of Coriolanus, which he has in- 
 titled The Anns of Bcautif, he represents Corio-
 
 124 o \ ruK Li 1 i-.HA rr K1-: 
 
 laiuis as conlinuinj,^ against Sabinius, king of the 
 Sabincs, the war which Romuhis had ah'cady 
 commenced against tlie same imaginary king, and 
 consequently at tlie distance of a whole genera- 
 tion ; and he even speaks to us of the conquest of 
 Spain and Africa, of Rome, tlie empress of the 
 Universe, the rival of Jerusalem.* The character 
 of Coriolanus, and that of the senate and the 
 peojile, are alike travestied. It is impossible to 
 recognise a Roman in the sentiments of any per- 
 son in the piece. Metastasio, in his Roman dia- 
 logues, was infinitely more faithful to history and 
 to the manners of antic[uity. 
 
 But we must not attribute to Calderon alone 
 an i^fnorance of forei<2:n manners. Whether it be 
 deserving of praise or of blame, it was not j)e- 
 culiar to him, but belonged to liis country and 
 his government. The circle of permitted infor- 
 mation became every day more circumscribed. 
 All books containing the history of other coun- 
 tries, or their state of civilization, were severely 
 prohibited, for there was not one of them which 
 did not contain a bitter satire on the ijovernmcnt 
 and religion of Sj)ain. How then could they be 
 allowed to study the ancients, with whom poli- 
 tical liberty was inseparable from existence ? 
 Whoever had been penetrated by their spirit, 
 must, at the same time, have regretted the noble 
 
 * I, II gi tin Conudia ih lii^ Aitiuu\ lU la Jliniiosinu, i. 1. |> \15.
 
 OF TFIE SPAN'IAllOS. 125 
 
 privileges whicli their nation luid lost. IIow 
 could they be allowed to contemplate the history 
 of those modern nations, whose prosperity and 
 glory were founded on religious liberty ? After 
 having studied them, would they themselves have 
 tolerated the Inquisition ? 
 
 There is one trait in the character of Calderon 
 on which I shall insist with the greater caution, 
 as I am sensible that my feelings on the subject 
 are extremely warm. Calderon is, in fact, the 
 true poet of the Inquisition. Animated by a 
 religious feeling, which is too visible in all 
 his pieces, he inspires me only with horror for 
 the faith M'hich he professes. No one ever so 
 far disfigured Christianity ; no one ever assigned 
 to it passions so ferocious, or morals so cor- 
 rupt. Among a great number of pieces, dic- 
 tated 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
 
 1 2() () \ T 1 1 i: L I T r R A T V 11 K 
 
 sacred symbol. His sister, Julia, who is also his 
 mistress, and is even more abandoned and fe- 
 rocious than himself, exhibits the same degree of 
 superstition. lie is at lcn«^th slain in a combat 
 against a i)arty of soldiers commanded by his 
 own father; but God restores him to life again, 
 in order that a holy saint may receive his confes- 
 sion, and thus assure his reception into the king- 
 dom of heaven. Ilis sister, on the point of being 
 apj)rchendcd, and of ])ccoming at length the vic- 
 tim of her monstrous iniquities, embraces a cross, 
 which she finds at her side, and vows to return to 
 her convent and deplore her sins ; and this cross 
 suddenly rises into the skies, and bears her far 
 away from her enemies to an impenetrable asylum. 
 We have thus in a manner laid the cause of 
 Calderon before the reader, and made him ac- 
 quainted with both sides of the question. Let it 
 not, however, be imagined that the faults which 
 I have brought forward are sufficient to oblite- 
 rate the beauties which have been so highly ex- 
 tolled by Schlcgel. There are, doubtless, sufii- 
 cient left to ])lace Calderon amongst the poets 
 of the richest and most original fancy, and of 
 the most attractive and brilliant style. It now 
 only remains for nic 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 ()])posite styles, but 
 with the decided intention ol jjlacing before the
 
 OF THF. SPA MAUDS, 127 
 
 reader such instances of the genius and sensibility 
 of this celebrated author as appear worthy of imi- 
 tation, and not with a desire of dwelling on his de- 
 fects, which I have already sufficiently pointed out. 
 I shall commence with one of the most beau- 
 tiful and engaging of his comedies of intrigue. 
 It is called El 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 
 referred to the supj^osed reign of a duchess Fle- 
 rida, heiress to the duchy of Parma, a mere 
 imaginary personage. This princess, suffering 
 under a secret passion, surrounds her court with 
 all the fascinations of art in order to divert her 
 grief. The action commences in the gardens, 
 and the scene opens with a troop of musicians, 
 who sing as they cross the stage, and are fol- 
 lowed by the whole court. The chorus cele- 
 brates the empire of Love over Reason ; and Flora, 
 one of 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 du- 
 chess ; the second, who conceals himself under 
 the name of Henry, is the Duke of Mantua, who,
 
 128 ON THE LITEUAIlKt; 
 
 enamoured of Flerida, and having already de- 
 manded lier in marriaue, wishes to appear to her 
 in the eharacter of a private gentleman, and 
 thus to contemj)late her more nearly. For this 
 purpose he addresses himself to the young and 
 gallant Frederick, tu 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 spectator more attentive 
 to the disguise of Henry. By the questions of 
 Henry and the replies of Frederick, we are 
 made acquainted with the character of the 
 duchess. 
 
 The latter returns, and wliile she observes 
 with Frederick the tone of a sovereign, she still 
 betrays that she is agitated by a tender emotion. 
 She is aware that Frederick is the author of the 
 verses which had just been sung before her; she 
 remarks that they are love-verses; and that all 
 the verses which he composes turn on love and 
 its sorrows. She wishes him to name the object 
 of his passion ; but Frederick, who laments his 
 poverty and ascribes to it alone his want of suc- 
 cess, utters nothing which may discover his 
 secret, or Hatter the desire of Flerida to see 
 herself beloved i)y hiin. 
 
 Meanwhile Henry ))resent.s himself as a knight 
 of the Duke of Mantua. He bears a letter ol 
 recommendation to the duchess, of his own writ-
 
 OF THE SPA MAUDS. 129 
 
 ing, in which he requests an asylum until his 
 reconciliation with 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 a mutual understanding, and maintain a cor- 
 respondence ; 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 questions on points of love 
 and gallantry, w^hich 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 advances a different proposition, 
 and supports it with arguments sufficiently la- 
 boured; but the princess, whose only pleasure con- 
 sists in these exercises of the mind and this affec- 
 tation of sensibility, gives additional room for 
 conjecturing that she is tormented by an un- 
 equal 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 
 
 VOL. IV. K
 
 130 ON int. LITKUATUKK 
 
 enchantment; 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 at- 
 tached. 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, tor- 
 mented by jealousy, orders Fabio to \\ atch nar- 
 rowly the movements of his master, and she on her 
 side seeks to interrupt the haj)piness 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 tliat very niglit. Frederick despatches 
 his valet to order his horses; but after having 
 communicated with the Duke of Mantua, they 
 agree that he shall open the letter addressed to 
 him, and that if Flerida has not discovered that he 
 IS concealed under the name of Henry, he shall 
 answer it as if he had received it at home. 
 
 Night arrives, and l.aura is on the point of 
 repairing to the window at which she had made 
 the appointment with her lover, when the du- 
 chess calls her, and informs her that she had 
 discovered that one of her ladies had made an 
 appointment to meet a gentleman at one of the 
 palace windows. She is anxious to discover
 
 or TUF, SPA XI A K US. 
 
 131 
 
 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 
 which she wished to prevent. Shortly after, some 
 one is heard to strike against the lattice, the signal 
 agreed on, and Frederick appears at the window. 
 The two lovers have a short explanation. Laura 
 is offended at the Duchess being made acquainted 
 with their meeting, and is jealous of tlie interest 
 which Flerida seems to take in it. However, 
 they exchange portraits, and that which Frederick 
 gives her completely resembles in the setting that 
 which he receives from her. He promises to 
 give her on the day following a cypher, by means 
 of which they may understand each other in the 
 presence of other persons. It is this cypher 
 which gives to the play the name of the Secret in 
 Words. 
 
 At the commencement of the second act, 
 Frederick and Fabio in travelling dresses appear 
 on the stage with Henry. The latter finding that 
 the Duchess did not suspect him, has answered 
 the letter, and Frederick is the bearer of his reply. 
 He presents to the Duchess, to the great asto- 
 nishment of his valet, the answer of the Duke of 
 Mantua ; and he takes the opportunity of giving 
 
 K 2
 
 132 o\ Tin: i.nr.itATrHF 
 
 to Laura a letter, whicli he pretends to have 
 received from one of her relatives at Mantua. 
 In this is contained the concerted cypher. The 
 letter runs thus: " \Mienever, Signora, you wish 
 to address me, betj^in 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, 1 shall discover what you wished to com- 
 municate. You will do the like when 1 give the 
 signal for speaking myself." Laura did not long 
 delay making 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 s])eaks more than a stanza at a time; and 
 Frederick, uniting the first words of each verse, 
 repeats them, and thus sj)ares 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 
 circumlocutions to express the most simple 
 things, in order to introduce at the commence- 
 ment of the stanzas the words for which she has 
 occasion, add still more to the humour of the 
 situation. But what is most lauL;hal)]e, is the
 
 OF TIIK SPA MAUDS. 133 
 
 surprise of Fabio, who, left alone with his master, 
 and without having been out of his sight, sud- 
 denly 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 con- 
 tinues to increase, though it is not directed to 
 Laura, invents a stratagem to obtain from Frede- 
 rick 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 be- 
 trayed her, and who has been in correspondence 
 with her mortal enemy. Frederick is astonished, 
 and at first believes that 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 ob- 
 ject of her love. Their mutual surprise renders 
 the scene highly interesting. The duchess, how- 
 ever, after having drawn forth an explanation 
 respecting Henry, resumes her accusation. She 
 reproaches Frederick with maintaining a criminal 
 corres[)ondence ; she questions his honour ; and 
 compels him to j)roducc all the |)apers on his
 
 134 0\ TIIK LlTKKATl.'Kt 
 
 person, and the keys oi his bureau. Tliis 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 whicli he refuses. She would 
 indeed have ettected her object, if Laura had 
 not succeeded in adroitly changing her portrait 
 for that oi' Frederick, wliich was in a similar case ; 
 in such a manner, that when the duchess opens 
 the suspected case she finds only the image of 
 the man from whom she lias taken it. 
 
 Fabio ap|)ears alone at the commencement of 
 the third act. He has the exact character of 
 the Italian harlecpiin ; iiujuisitive, cowardly, and 
 greedy. When he betrays his master, it is more 
 from his folly than his malice, and he is insensible 
 to the mischief which he occasions. His plea- 
 santries are often gross ; he narrates many tales 
 to the duchess as well as to his master, and these 
 tales arc in the most vulvar taste. The French 
 stage has, in regard to dccorun), an nilinite advan- 
 tage over those of other countries. F'abio, how- 
 ever, uneasy under his master's displeasure, hides 
 himsL'ir ill his apartiiuiit until the storm be pass- 
 ed over, i'rcderick soon afterwards enters with 
 Henry, and Fabio unintentionally overhears their 
 conversation. Frederick informs Henry, that the 
 duchess is aware that lie is the duke of Mantua, 
 and that it is useless to disguise himself longer.
 
 O F 1 M t. S P A X 1 A K DS. 135 
 
 At the same time he contides to him the embar- 
 rassment he is in respecting his mistress. Sen- 
 sible 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, be- 
 tween the park and the palace. Henry promises 
 not only to give him an asylum, but to con- 
 duct him himself to the borders of his state. As 
 soon as they are gone out to make their prepa- 
 rations, Fabio issues from his conceahnent, 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 de- 
 sire 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 aug- 
 mented 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 only to address the duchess on subjects 
 relating to the court. The duchess then indulges 
 some hope ; but she is again troubled at the re- 
 port 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
 
 13G ON TllK LITERATI RE 
 
 the wliole night. She assigns, as a reason, a duel 
 in which he was engaged by a love-afiair, and 
 from wliich 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. Er- 
 nest arrives at the house ot" Frederick at the 
 moment when the latter is issuing from it. lie is 
 aware that his mistress and the duke are waiting 
 for him ; that tlic 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 him- 
 self of his importunities, but Ernest repels them 
 with a well-managed obstinacy, which agrees ad- 
 mirably with the character of an aged flatterer. At 
 last Frederick declares his intention of going out 
 alone, when Finest calls in his guards with orders 
 to arrest him. F^rederick's house has, happily, 
 two outlets, lie 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 as- 
 sure 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 dis- 
 covers their attachment, and their project for 
 Hying together. She hesitates for some time as 
 to what she ought tu do ; she yields by turns to 
 jealousy and to love ; but she adopts at last a
 
 OF THE SPAXIAKDS. 137 
 
 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 conse- 
 quence of its brilliant and exaggerated colours^ 
 The sentiments are so strongly impressed with a 
 foreign character, that with whatever fidelity they 
 may be rendered, a Spaniard only can judge of 
 theiraccuracy,andthe pleasantries are all national. 
 In both the heroic and comic pieces, the emotion 
 or the mirth arises almost entirely from a comj)li- 
 cated plot, which, even in the original, requires 
 our constant attention, to make ourselves masters 
 of it, and which necessarily becomes confused in 
 an extract where many of the intermediate links 
 arc 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, docs not allow 
 him time to develope the situations, and to draw 
 from the feelings of his characters the full ex- 
 pression of their passions.
 
 13S 0\ 111 I I I \ EU ATL U K 
 
 Tlic plays ul Calderoii are not divided into 
 comedies and tragedies. They all bear the same 
 title of J.d uran Comt'dia, which was probably 
 given to thcni by tiic actors in their bills, in 
 order to attract pnblic notice ; and which ap- 
 pellation has remained to them. They all belong 
 to the same class. We find the same passions, and 
 the same characters, which, according to the de- 
 velopementofthe 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 ex- 
 position, nor the first incidents, prepare the spec- 
 tator for emotions sucli as are produced by The 
 Condinit Prince, and the Sccrto a Vozes. The 
 Constant Prince, or rather The Injkwible Prince, 
 the Uegulus of Spain, is one of the most moving 
 plays of Calderon. in a translation by Schlegcl, 
 it is at present performed 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 
 irom the whole western coast of the Peninsula, 
 passed over into Africa to pursue still further the 
 eneniii's of their failli. i lu y undertook the con- 
 quest (jf the kingdoms of Fez and .Morocco. The 
 same ardour led them to seek a new passage to 
 the Indies, and to phiiit the standard of Portugal 
 on the coast of (Himca, m the kingdom of Congo, 
 at .\lozambi(pi( , at J)iu, at (Joa, and at .Ma(ao.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 139 
 
 John 1. had conquered Cciita. At his death he 
 left several sons, all of whom wished to distin- 
 guish themselves against the infidels. Edward, 
 who succeeded him, sent his two brothers, in 
 the year 1438, with a fleet, to attempt the con- 
 quest of Tangiers. One of these was Ferdinand, 
 the hero of Calderon, the most valiant of princes ; 
 the other was Henry, who was afterwards cele- 
 brated 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 agree- 
 able to her, when its only accompaniment is the 
 sound of the fetters and chains which bind us ?" 
 They sing, however, until Phenicia appears, sur- 
 rounded by her women. The latter address to 
 her the most flattering compliments on her beauty, 
 in that eastern style which the Spanish language 
 has preserved, and which its extravagance would 
 render absurd in any other. Plienicia in sadness 
 repels their attentions; she speaks of her grief; 
 and she attributes it to a passion which she cannot 
 vanquish, and which seems to be accompanied by 
 sorrowful presentiments. Her discourse consists 
 wholly of description and of brilliant images.
 
 140 ON 1 111'. 1.1 1 i;ka 1 TUi-: 
 
 We are not to regard the tragedies ot" Calderon 
 as an imitation of Nature, but as an image of Na- 
 ture 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 
 themselves to a language beyond the rules of Na- 
 ture, in order to enjoy the union of the fine arts 
 witli an action in real life. 
 
 Fhenicia is attached to Muley Chcik, cousin 
 of the king of Fez, and his admiral and general; 
 i)ut her father wishes to marry her to Tarudant, 
 Prince of Morocco. She has scarcely received 
 this intelligence when Muley returns from a 
 cruise, and announces to the king the approach 
 of a Portuguese fleet, commanded by two princes, 
 and carrying fourteen thousand soldiers for the 
 attack of Tangiers. His speech, which is in- 
 tended to serve as an explanation of the prin- 
 ci))al 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 of the Portuguese with the cavalry of 
 the coast. 
 
 The landing is the sidjject of the next scene. 
 It is efi'ected near Tangiers amid.^t the sound 
 of clarions and InmipL'ts. In the miilst of this 
 military pomj) eacli i)\' the (luistian heroes, as 
 he reaches the shore, manifests his character,
 
 OF THE SPANTAUDS. 1-41 
 
 his hopes and fears, and the manner in which he 
 is affected by the evil omens which befel them 
 on tiieir voyage. Whilst Fernando is endea- 
 vouring 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, M'hen he finds that his 
 prisoner runs the danger, by his captivity, of 
 losing for ever the object of his love, restores 
 Muley to his liberty without a ransom. 
 
 In the mean while the kings of Fez and 
 Morocco had assembled their armies, and ad- 
 vanced with an overwhelming force. Retreat is 
 now become impossible to the Portuguese, and 
 their only resource is in their resolution to die 
 like brave soldiers and Christian knights. Even 
 this hope is frustrated, as the Moors obtain the 
 victory ; and Fernando, after having fouglit vali- 
 antly, surrenders to the King of Fez, who makes 
 himself known to him. His brother Henry also 
 delivers himself up with the flow^er of the Por- 
 tuguese army. The Moorish king makes a ge- 
 nerous 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 mraiis the
 
 142 0\ TUK MTIltAIUUi: 
 
 ransom of his brother. It is on this that tlio 
 fate of Fernando turns, as he is unwilling that 
 his liberty should cost Portugal her most bril- 
 liant conquest ; and he charges Henry to remind 
 his brother that he is a Christian, and a Chris- 
 tian prince. This ends the first act. 
 
 In the second act Don Fernando appears sur- 
 rounded by Christian cai)tives, who recognize 
 him, and hasten to throw themselves at his feet, 
 hoj)ing to escaj)c from slavery with him. Fer- 
 nando 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 hitter 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 thcni. During these trans- 
 actions Don Henry returns from Portugal. (Jrief 
 for the defeat at Tangiers has caused the death 
 of the King, but in expiring hi- had gi\en orders 
 to restore Ceuta to tiie King of Vcz, for the re- 
 dem])tion of the cai)tives ; and Alfonso V, who 
 had succeeded him. semis HtiirN back to .Africa
 
 OF TUF. spAXfAans. 143 
 
 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 
 
 Desir'd a brother's freedom. That must be 
 
 Obtain'd by other means ; by peace or war. 
 
 How ever may a Christian prince restore 
 
 A city to the Moors, bought with the price 
 
 Of his own blood ? for he it was, who 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 youth 
 
 To their own barbarous rites ; and is it meet 
 
 So many perish to redeem one man 
 
 From slavery ? And what am I but a man ? 
 
 A man now reft of his nobility ;
 
 144 nV Till". I rrFKATl'KK 
 
 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 hast li ft 
 
 Thy brother buried on the Afric shore. 
 
 For life is here, indeed, a livintj death ! 
 
 Christians, henceforth believe I'ernando dead ; 
 
 Moors, seize your slave. My captive countrynicn ! 
 
 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 Kino. 
 
 Proud and ungrateful prince, ami is it tlius 
 
 Thou spurn'st my favour, thus repay'st my kindness? 
 
 Deniest my sole retpicst ? Thou haply here 
 
 Thinkest thyself sole ruler, and would'st sway 
 
 My kingdom? But, henceforth thou shah l)e 
 
 By that vile name thou has-t thyself assumed — 
 
 A slave ! thou shalt be trea'ed as a slave. 
 
 Thy brother and thy ctumtrymen shall see 
 
 Thee lick the dust, and kiss my royal feet. 
 
 Alter a warm altercation, and vain .solicita- 
 tions, the Kini; ealls one of his officers : 
 
 Hence with this captive! rank him witli the rest : 
 
 Bind on his neck and limbs a heavy chain. 
 
 My horses be his care, the balii, the garden. 
 
 Let him be hundiled l)y ;ill abject tasks ; 
 
 Away with his silk mantle; cloth his liu)l)s 
 
 In the slave's gail). His fond, the Mackest bread;
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 145 
 
 Water his drink ; a cold cell his repose ; 
 And let his servants share their master's fate. 
 
 We next see Fernando in the garden, working 
 with the other slaves. One of the captives, who 
 does not know him, sings before him a romance, 
 of which he is the hero ; another bids him be of 
 good heart, as the prince, Don Fernando, had 
 promised to procure them all their liberty. Don 
 Juan Coutinho, Count of Miralva, one of the 
 Portuguese knights, who, from the time of their 
 landing, had been the most distinguished 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 instruments 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 ki'ng surprises them at this 
 moment, and instead of manifesting any sus- 
 picions, he engages Muley, by the ties of honour 
 and duty, to execute his wishes. He confides to 
 him the custody of Prince Fernando, assured tliat 
 
 VOL. IV. L
 
 146 ON THE LITERATUUF. 
 
 be alone is above all corruption, and that neither 
 friendship, fear, nor interest, can seduce him. 
 Muley fcL-ls tliat his duties have chant^ed since 
 the k\\\j; has reposed this confidence in him. 
 He still, however, hesitates between honour 
 and gratitude. Fernando, whom he consults, de- 
 cides against himself. That ])rince declares that 
 he will not avail liimself of his otler ; that he will 
 even refuse his liberty, if any one else should 
 propose his escape ; and Muley submits at last 
 with regret, to what lie considers the law of duty 
 and of honour. 
 
 Not being himself able to restore his bene- 
 factor to liberty, Muley endeavours to obtain his 
 freedom through the generosity of the Moorish 
 king:. At the commencement ol" the third act 
 we see him imj)loring his compassion on behalf 
 of his i^risoner. He gives a moving picture of 
 the state to which this unhappy prince is re- 
 duced : sleeping in damj) dungeons, working at 
 the baths and in tiie stables, deprived of food, 
 sinking under disease, and resting on a mat at 
 one of the gates of his master's house. The de- 
 tails oi his misery are such, that the taste of the 
 French stage would not suH'ereven an allusion to 
 them. One of his servants and a faithful knight 
 attach themselves to him, and m vcr quit him; 
 dividing with him their small ration, which 
 is .scarcely suthcient for the supjjort of a single
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 147 
 
 person. The king hears these revolting details, 
 but recognizing only obstinacy in the conduct 
 of the prince, he replies in two words: "'Tis 
 well, Muley." Phenicia comes, in her turn, to 
 intercede with her 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, Ta- 
 rudant and Alfonso V, who avail themselves of 
 the protection of the law of nations, to treat in 
 person of their several interests. They are ad- 
 mitted 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, con- 
 siders them as a personal provocation, and re- 
 plies that he is about to take the field with the 
 army of Morocco, and that he will shortly be 
 in a state to repel the aggressions of the Portu- 
 guese. The king, meanwhile, refuses to liberate 
 Fernando on any other terms than the restitu- 
 tion of Ceuta. He 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 
 
 L 2
 
 148 OV THE LITKUATIRE 
 
 considered by Calderon as the fiat of destiny, 
 and it is by sucli traits that we recognize the 
 courtier of Philip IV. 
 
 The scene chancres ; and Don Juan and the 
 other captives bear in Don Fernando on a mat, 
 and lav him on the ground. This is the hist time 
 that lie apj)ears on the stage ; he is overpowered 
 by the weight of slavery, disease, and misery. 
 His condition chills the heart, and is perhaps too 
 strongly drawn for the stage, where physical 
 evils should be introduced only with great re- 
 serve. In order, indeed, to diminish this painful 
 impression, Calderon bestows on him the lan- 
 oruaf>-e of a saint under martyrdom. He looks 
 upon his suflerings as so many trials, and re- 
 turns thanks to God for every pang he endures, 
 as the pledge of his ai)j)roaching beatifica- 
 tion. Meanwhile the King of Fez, Tarudant, 
 and Phenicia, pass through the street where he 
 lies; and Dun Fernando addresses them: " Be- 
 stow your alms," he cries, " on a poor sufferer. 
 I am a human being like yourselves ; I am sick 
 and in affliction, and dying of hunger. Have pity 
 on me ; for even the beasts of the forest compas- 
 sionate their kind." The king reproaches him 
 with his obstinacy. I lis liberation, he tells him, 
 depends on himself alone, and the terms are still 
 the same. Th'^ rci)ly of Fernando is wholly in 
 the oriental style. It is not by arguments, nor 
 indeed by sentiments of compassion, that he
 
 OF THE SPAMiMlDS. 140 
 
 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 appropriate to na- 
 ture 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 mi- 
 nerals, are all, agreeably to the traditions cited by 
 Fernando, alive to the sufferings 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 con- 
 demned. 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 suflPerings 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. lie only
 
 150 ON THh LITEKATUKE 
 
 asks to be invested in holy garments, as he is 
 the grand master of the religious and military 
 order of Advice ; and he 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 man- . 
 sions." 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 Fer- 
 nando, in the habit of iiis chapter, appears to 
 tliem, 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 ai)pears with a torch in his hand, 
 conducting the l^ortuguese army to the foot of 
 the walls. Don AHonso calls to the king, an- 
 nounces to him that he has taken j)risoners his 
 daughter, Phenicia, antl Tarutlant, his proposed
 
 OF THE SPAXIAUDS. 151 
 
 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 re- 
 mains, 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. lie only 
 requires that Phenicia be given in marriage 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 ge- 
 nerous 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 an idea of his self-devotion. I 
 have examined the original Chronicles, of the fifteenth century, 
 published by the Royal Academy of Sciences at Lisbon: Col- 
 le^fao de livros iiieilitos clc Historia Purfiigiieza, dos reinados dos 
 ienhores reys D. Joao I. I). Diiarli, D. Affonso V. c D. Jvao I J,
 
 152 LITERATUUE OF IIIL SPANIARDS. 
 
 3 vol. in Jul. We there find that, if Fernando was not libe- 
 rated from his captivity, it was not owinj^ to his own high feel- 
 ings, but to the troubles in which Portugal was involved, and to 
 the jealousy of the reigning princes ; that, though a prisoner 
 in 1138, he did not die until 1113; and that his death was 
 not accelerated by ill-treatment : C/irun. do ny Affonso V. por 
 Ru'i (h- Pina, t. i. c. 54. His remains were not redeemed 
 until 1173.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 Conclusion of Calderon. 
 
 After having noticed in Calderon the faults 
 which arose from the political state of his country, 
 from the religio\is prejudices in which he was born, 
 and from the bad taste which prevailed in Spain, 
 in consequence of the fatal examples of Lope de 
 Vega and Gongora, it would appear inconsistent 
 to confine our notice to his most celebrated pieces ; 
 pieces which are sufficiently conformable to our 
 rules to be introduced on the stage, as the play 
 of // Secreto a Vozes; or to those where the situ- 
 ation 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 interest of the romance he presents 
 to us, as in The Infitxibk Prince. If we once 
 admit the enthusiasm for religious conquests, 
 which, at that time, formed so essential a part of 
 the national manners, if we once believe it sanc- 
 tified 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
 
 1;>4 ox THK I.I 1 LUAI t UK 
 
 increases our pity, and we feel sensible of the 
 j)eculiar charm of the romantic unity, so dif- 
 ferent from our own. We perceive with pleasure 
 that the poet leaves nothing neglected which be- 
 longs 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 
 ilic jtlays of Calderon. We must, therefore, take 
 a view of some others of his dramas, tiiough we 
 shall nut dwell on tliem very long. More fre- 
 ([uently called upon to criticise, than to ofier mo- 
 dels for imitation, we shall detain the reader only 
 on such points as merit his attention, sometimes 
 as a proof of talent, sometimes as a picture of 
 maimers or of character, and sometimes as a 
 poetic novelty. 
 
 The discovery of the New World has, at all 
 times, been a favourite theme with the Spanish 
 poets. The glory of these prodigious conquests 
 was yet fresh in the minds of men, in the reign of 
 Philip 1\'. The Castilians at that time distin- 
 guished themselves as Christians and warriors, 
 and the massacre of infidel nations aj^peared to 
 them to extend at the same time llii' kingdom ol 
 God and of their own monarch. Calderon chose
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 155 
 
 as the subject of one of these tragedies, the disco- 
 very and conversion of Peru. He called it La 
 Aurora m Copacavana, 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 en- 
 thusiasm. 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 unknown monster, whose 
 bellowings (the discharges of artillery) they com- 
 pare to the thunder of the skies, are rendered 
 with equal truth and richness of imagination. To 
 avert the calamities 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. Idola- 
 try, represented by Calderon as a real being, 
 who continually dazzles the Indians by false 
 miracles, herself solicits this sacrifice. She ob- 
 tains the consent of the terrified luca, uliilst
 
 1 5n o N r H K LI 1 1- u A ri ; u r. 
 
 Jupanj^^ui 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 agreea- 
 ble and romantic interest, 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 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 with- 
 out experiencing any injury, and returns to the 
 combat. In another scene the Spaniards, al- 
 ready masters of Cusco, arc 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, lie addresses the Vir- 
 gin in a nujuieiil ul" danger, when the asylum of 
 his mistress, (iuacolda, is discovered, and the 
 Virgin, taking him under her i)rotection, conceals 
 them both Worn their enemies. 
 
 This new miracle gives rise to tin third action.
 
 OF THF. SPANIARDS, 157 
 
 which forms the third act, and which is appa- 
 rently founded on the legend of Copacavana. 
 Peru has wholly submitted to the King of Spain, 
 and is converted ; but Jupangui has no other de- 
 sire or thought than to form an image of the Vir- 
 gin similar to the apparition which he saw in the 
 clouds. Notwithstanding his ignorance of art, 
 and of the use of the requisite instruments, 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 ap- 
 peal ance to be deposited in a temple. Jupangui 
 is doomed to experience all sort of disappoint- 
 ments and mortifications. An attempt is made 
 by an armed band to destroy his image ; but the 
 Virgin at length, touched by his faith and perse- 
 verance, 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 ori- 
 ginal. 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 con- 
 quest 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 suf- 
 ficient to atone for the gratuitous violation of all 
 essential rules of art, and of those founded in
 
 158 ON THE LITFUATUUE 
 
 nature itself. The author perpetually diverts 
 our attention to new subjects, without ever sa- 
 tisfying us. Not to mention the interest which 
 might have been excited in us for the flourishing 
 empire of the Incas, which is represented to us in 
 the midst of solemnities, and which falls we know 
 not how, Pizarro apjjcars, landing for the first 
 time among the Indians of Peru; we stop to ad- 
 mire the contrast between these two distinct 
 races of men, when the scene is suddenly with- 
 drawn from us. The love of Ju|)angui and Gua- 
 colda 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 in- 
 stances 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 miracu- 
 lous image. Fresh personages enter on the scene ; 
 we find ourselves in an unknown world ; the new- 
 ])orn zeal of the converted Peruvians is beyond 
 our concej)tion; all the feelings j)reviously 
 awakened in us become enfeebled or extinguish- 
 ed, and those which the poet wishes to excite in 
 us in tlic third act are not j)roperly grounded in 
 the heart. How shall we account for the admi- 
 ration bestowed by critics of unquestioned cele-
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 159 
 
 brity on a piece like this? Intimately acquainted 
 with the ancient and modern drama, and ac- 
 customed to appreciate the perfect productions 
 of the Greeks, how is it possible that they could 
 be blind to the monstrous defects of these ill con- 
 nected scenes ? But, in fact, it is not in the capa- 
 city 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 Ju])angui redeems in their eyes all 
 the faults of the Aurora en Copacavatia. 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 extra- 
 ordinary degree from our own. He has shewn 
 it in all his pieces ; but there is one amongst 
 others which in this respect deserves to be no- 
 ticed for the eccentricity of its plan. It is in- 
 titled, T/te Origin, Loss, and Restoration of tJic 
 Virgin of the Sanctuary,* and was composed to 
 celebrate the festival, on the stage as well as in 
 
 * Origen, perdida, y restauracion de la Virgen del Sagrario, 
 t. vi. p. 99.
 
 160 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 the cliurcli, ut' a miraculous imaf^e of the Virgin 
 which was preserved in the cathedral at Toledo. 
 This piece, like all the Spanish comedies, is di- 
 vided into three acts, but the first act is placed 
 in the seventh century, under tlie reign of Re- 
 cesuindo, king of the Visigoths (A. D. G48); the 
 second is in the eighth century, during the con- 
 quest of Spain by Aben Taritia, (A. I). 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, if 
 unity it may be called, is placed in the history of 
 the miraculous 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 To- 
 ledo, St. lldefonso, who, with the authority of the 
 KingUecesuindo, establishes a festival in honour 
 of this image, worshii)|)c(l from the remotest 
 period in the church of Toledo. He relates the 
 origin of Toledo, founded, as he says, by Nebu- 
 chadnezzar. In this city, liie primitive church 
 worshipped the same Virgin of the Sanctuary 
 which the Saint now offers afresh to the adoration 
 of the Ciiristians. Ilis victory over the heresiarch 
 Pelagius is celebrated :it the same time. Pela- 
 gins himself Jij>])ears in the piece as an object 
 of persecution to the |)eopie and the ])riests, and 
 to give to tlic Spaniards a foretaste of their
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 161 
 
 Autos da fe. His heresy, which, according to ec- 
 clesiastical history, consists in obscure opinions 
 on grace and predestination, is represented by 
 Calderon as treason against the majesty of the 
 Virgin, as he is accused of denying the im- 
 maculate conception. The poet supposes that 
 he wishes to possess himself of the image by 
 theft. He is prevented by a miracle ; the Virgin 
 comes to the aid of her representative; she terri- 
 fies the sacrilegious intruder ; she encourages St. 
 lldefonso, and she announces to the miraculous 
 image that it must be long concealed, and must 
 be doomed to pass several ages in darkness. 
 
 It is difficult to imagine what advantage Calde- 
 ron found in mingling, particularly in his religi- 
 ous pieces, such gross anachronisms in his narra- 
 tions. The long discourse of St. lldefonso on the 
 origin of the miraculous image commences thus : 
 ** Cosmography, which measures the earth and the 
 heavens, divides the glol:>e into four parts : Africa, 
 Asia, and America, arc the three first, of which 
 I have not occasion at present to speak, but 
 which the learned Herodotus has fully 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. Hdefonso 
 could possibly have spoken of it. 
 
 In the second act, Tarifia is seen with the 
 Moors, besieging Toledo. Calderon conducts 
 
 vol.. IV. M
 
 HJ- OV TUf. MTKUATURK 
 
 liitn 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 Uodrigo at Xerc's, and the triumph of the 
 Musulmans. Godman, governor of the city, 
 whom the Guzmans consider at the present day 
 as their stock, rejilies, in a speech equally as 
 long, that the Christians of Toledt) will perish 
 on the ramparts rather tiian 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 miraculous image of Sagrario will not 
 permit itself to be carried away by the arch- 
 bishop. It remains for the purpose of comforting 
 the people of Toledo in their captivity; and the 
 prelate, carrying with iiini the relics of some 
 saints, leaves the image of the Virgin on the 
 altar. Godman, in the articles of capitulation, 
 obtains liberty of conscience for the Christians, 
 who remain intermixed with the Arabs, aiul he 
 conceals the image of the sanctuary at the bot- 
 tom of a well. 
 
 In the third act, we behold Alfonso VI. in the 
 midst of his court and knights, receiving the ca- 
 pitidation 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. Wc also see the origin 
 of the dispute, which was ultimately decided by
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 163 
 
 a duel, as to the preference of the Moparabian 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 Con- 
 stance appears before him to implore his pardon, 
 the Virgin surrounds her with a celestial glory ; 
 she dazzles the king, and convinces him, to the 
 great delight of the spectators, that it is an un- 
 pardonable 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 bu- 
 siness it is to entertain the pit, and to correct, 
 by their occasional witticisms, the too great so- 
 lemnity of the subject. 
 
 Among the religious plays there are few of 
 greater splendour 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 tendency so 
 directly contrary to what we regard at the prc- 
 
 M 2
 
 1G4 ox THE LITERATURE 
 
 sent day as jnoperly belonging to religion. The 
 triumph of faith and repentance over the most 
 frightful crimes, is the favourite theme ofCalderon. 
 The two heroes of the piece are St. Patricius, or 
 the Perfect Christian, and Louis Ennius, or the 
 Accomplished Villain. They are shipwrecked 
 together on the coast of Ireland. Patricius sup- 
 ports Louis in his arms, saves him by swimming, 
 and conducts him to the shore, where Egerio the 
 King of Ireland, and his winkle court, hujipen lo 
 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 strug- 
 gling in the waves in each other's arms, and as they 
 reach the shore they fall to the earth, exclaiming : 
 
 Patricks. Lend me thine aid, O God. 
 
 Louis. The devil aid me ! 
 
 Leshia. These shipwrcck'd men move my compassion, king! 
 
 Tun King. Not mine, who am a stranger to all pity ! 
 
 Path. Misfortune, Sire, within the noblest hearts. 
 
 Hath ever had compassion, nor rxibts, 
 I deem, a soul so hard as not to feel 
 My miserable state. Thus, in the name 
 Of God, 1 seek for pity at your handf. 
 
 Louis. I ask it not, nor men nor gods I seek 
 
 lo move witli my misfortunes. 
 
 The KiN(i. '"^ay, I pray, 
 
 Whence art v<>u, so \\c Ixttt r iiiav decide
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 165 
 
 Your claims unto our hospitality. 
 
 But first, that ye may know with whom ye speak, 
 
 I will reveal my title, lest, perhaps, 
 
 Through ignorance, you fail in reverence 
 
 And adoration of my rank. Know, then, 
 
 I am the King Egerio, sovereign 
 
 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 Patricius 
 exceeds one hundred and eighty lines, and that 
 of Louis Ennius three hundred ; each is a com- 
 plete biography, and abounds in events. Pa- 
 tricius 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 pre- 
 dilection for him in electing him to perform some 
 miracles ; that he had restored a blind person 
 to sight, and dispersed the waters of an inunda- 
 tion ; and he adds : 
 
 Yet greater miracles I could relate, 
 
 But modesty hath tied my tongue, made mute 
 
 My voice, and scal'd my lips.
 
 16G ON THE LITEKATUUE 
 
 We feel a pleasure in meeting with so mo- 
 dest a saint. He relates at length how he had 
 been carried oti' 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 inc 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 
 Patricias and myself aj^ree, 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. 
 1 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 nimil)er of crimes in the 
 course of a short life. He has killed an aged no- 
 bleman, and carried away his daughter, and has 
 assassinated a gentleman in the nujitial chamber 
 in order to rob hun of his wife. At Perpignan, 
 in a (|uurrel which he raised at a <raming-table,
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 167 
 
 he has murdered an officer, and wounded three or 
 four soldiers. It is true, that in defending 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 iu 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 the hands 
 of corsairs, is shipwrecked with Patricias, 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 En- 
 nius persisting in his faith, although his con- 
 duct is most atrocious, and meriting by his be- 
 lief the favour and protection of St. Patricius, 
 who follows him like his good genius to inspire
 
 ins ON IHL LITEllATUUL 
 
 him with repentance for his crimes, and who at 
 last assures his salvation. Louis seduces Po- 
 lonia, the daughter of the king-, engages in a duel 
 with Philij), the general betrothed to her, and 
 is made [)risoner, and delivered over to justice. 
 lie then considers whether he shall not commit 
 suicide : 
 
 No, that were only worthy of a heathen : 
 Wliat (lemon arm'd my hand for such a tlcctl ? 
 Myself a Christian, and my soul immortal, 
 Rejoicing in the holy light of faith, 
 Sli.ill I, nmidst these Gentiles, do an act 
 Disiionouring my creed ? 
 
 He therefore does not kill himself, and in that 
 acts wisely, as Polonia finds means to break her 
 chuins and escapes w^ith him. But he had in 
 fact never loved Polonia: 
 
 Love is with me a passing appetite, 
 Varying with each new object. I would lead 
 A lile unfctter'd by a woman's lovi- : 
 So must Polonia die. 
 
 We then see them on their route, in the midst 
 of a lorcst. Polonia wounded, is Hying from 
 her lover, who [jursues her with a dagger : 
 
 Poi.oMA. Restrain thy bloody hand. If love hath lost 
 
 His power, yet think upon thy Christian faith. 
 
 'J'liou hast robb'd me of mine honour ; oh ilien spare 
 
 My life, 'lliy fury terrifies my soul. 
 Luuis. Luckless Polonia, misery was always 
 
 'I'hc lot of boasted be.iutv, for t)i"( r v« I
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 1 G9 
 
 Were happiness and beauty join'd together. 
 
 In ine thou seest a more unpitying wretch 
 
 Than ever grasp'd a murderer's sword. Thy death 
 
 Is now become my hfe. 
 
 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 cottage 
 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 Po- 
 lonia 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 al- 
 low 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 moun- 
 
 'o 
 
 tain containing a cavern which leads to Purga- 
 tory. The king, in his haste to see the wonders 
 of the cavern, rushes into the gulf, blaspheming; 
 but, through an ingenious stratagem of St. Pa- 
 tricius, instead of reaching Purgatory, the king 
 falls direct into Hell ; a circumstance which pro- 
 duces 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 gracioso,
 
 170 ON JUt Lll'ERATUKfc 
 
 or buffo of tlie i)iece. They make together the 
 tour of Italy, Spain, France, Scotland, and Eng- 
 land. Alter an absence of several years, they 
 return to Ireland at the commencement of the 
 third act. Louis returns thither An' the purpose 
 of assassinating Philiji, on whom he had not 
 sufficiently revenged himself. But whilst he is 
 waiting for him at night in the public street, a 
 knight, completely armed at all points, challenges 
 him. Louis attacks him, but finds his strokes 
 arc lost in air. At length the cavalier raises his 
 casque, and shews himself to be a skeleton. 
 '* Knowest thou not thyself?'' he cries, " I am 
 thy likeness : I am Louis Ennius." This appa- 
 rition 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: " Wliat atonement 
 can bo made for a life spent in crime ?'' A celes- 
 tial music answers : " Purgatory.' He then re- 
 solves 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 wiio points out to Loiiis the route he 
 should follow. He is obliged to enter into a con- 
 vent of regular canons who guard the cavern ; he 
 addresses himself to ihcm ; he attends to their 
 exhortations; he shews himscll full ol laith and 
 hope; he enters into the cavern, and, at the end
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 171 
 
 of some days, he departs pardoned and sanctified. 
 The piece finishes by his narration of what he 
 has seen in the purgatory of St. Patricius. 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 attention 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 distinguished critics of 
 Germany has selected them as the noblest 
 pieces which human genius, seconded by the 
 most pure and enthusiastic piety, has pro- 
 duced. It should seem that by a sort of com- 
 pact, the literary world of the present day is 
 pleased to represent Spain as the country of true 
 Christianity. If, in a work of imagination, a 
 romance, or poem, French, English, or German, 
 it is intended to represent a religious person or 
 missionary, animated by the most tender charity 
 and the most enlightened zeal, the scene must 
 be laid in Spain. The more conversant we are 
 with Spanish literature, the more we find such 
 opinions injurious to true Christianity. This na- 
 tion has, indeed, been richly endowed. Genius, 
 imagination, depth of thought, constancy, dig- 
 nity, and courage, liave been lavished on her. 
 She seems in these to outstrip all other countries.
 
 172 0\ THE LiTtKATUlU: 
 
 but her religion has ahnost at all times rendered 
 these brilliant qualities unavailing. Let us then 
 nut be deceived by names, nor acknowledge in 
 thought or in word that such a religion is our own. 
 The chivalric plays of Caldcron possess a dif- 
 ferent 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 
 Gcdlier dc soi-mimc : L' Alcaide dc si ?fi is/no ; from 
 which Thomas Corneille, after Scarron, has 
 composed a ])iece 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 ])urchasc that cpiality at so high a price. 
 La J)ai/ia Diioidc, has furnished Ilauteroche with 
 his Datnv Jiivi.sildc, or L' Esprit Ftdlct, which is 
 still preserved on the stage. Quinault has trans- 
 lated, under the title of ('oujhs dc CAiiioKr cl dc la 
 Fortune, the piece intitled Lances dc Amor i/ For- 
 tnna ; and it is to ('aldcron thai we owe the
 
 OF THE SPAMAUDS. 173 
 
 Paysan Magistral of our own clays, which is little 
 more than a translation of the Alcalde de Zamalm ; 
 but the Spanish piece has the double advantage 
 of representing with great truth of invention, 
 nature, and consistency, the character of the 
 peasant magistrate, Pedro Crespo, and of paint- 
 ing 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 men- 
 tioned, 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 ])oint of 
 honour. It is intitled F.I Medico de sii Honra. 
 Don Guttierre Alfonso, who is fondly attached 
 to his wife. Donna Mencia de Acuna, discovers 
 that she is secretly attached to Henry de Transta- 
 mare, 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 name of Henry; 
 and whilst she observes all the laws of honour 
 and virtue, she has manifested a predilection 
 which had existed before her marriage, and 
 which she could not conquer. He has also 
 detected a letter from her, which shews him that 
 she had been always faithful to him, but that her 
 heart is not at rest. He carefully conceals all
 
 174 0\ Tlir MTFRATl KF. 
 
 lliesc proofs, and saves his wife's honour and his 
 own. In his words, we find a mixture of the 
 most tender and passionate love, and the most 
 delicate sense of high Spanish honour. M'hen 
 he snatches from her hands the letter which she 
 had written, she faints away ; and on recovering 
 she finds the following billet from her husband : 
 " Love adores thee, but honour condemns thee : 
 the one dooms thee to death, the other warns 
 thee of it. Thou hast only tMo hours to live. 
 Thou art a Christian ; save thy soul : as for thy 
 life, it is forfeited." " Heaven be my protection!" 
 she cries, "Jacintha ! () God, what is this ? No 
 one re})lies ; my terror increases ; my servants 
 are banished ; the door is closed ; I am left alone 
 in this dreadful emergency ; the windows are 
 barred ; the doors bolted; on whom shall I call 
 for succour? whither fiy ? the horrors of death 
 surround me." 
 
 She passes into her closet ; and in a succeed- 
 ing scene Guttierre returns with a surgeon, whom 
 he brings with his eyes bound, and whom he has 
 forced from his house. He thus addresses liim : 
 
 " Thou must now enter this closet, but first 
 hear me : This dagger shall j)ierce thy heart, if 
 thou dost not faithtully execute my orders. 
 Open this door, and say what thou secst. 
 
 The SuuGKON'. An image of death ; a corpse 
 stretched on a bed. Two torches ])urn at 
 each side, and a crucifix is ])lace(l before il. I
 
 OF THE SPAXIAKDS. 17 
 
 r. 
 
 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 Suugeon. What are thy dreadful com- 
 mands ? 
 
 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 exe- 
 cutes the orders given to him ; but on bis de- 
 parture 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 ban- 
 daged. 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 own blood. The 
 King, in reply, orders him to marry on the in- 
 stant 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 niy loss ?
 
 I 7G 0\ TKK r.I TFUATUHF. 
 
 Kino. You know my wisli ! Obey! 
 
 Gu r. Scarce 'scapM the tempest's wrath, would you again 
 
 Force me upon the deep ? What shall I have 
 
 Henceforth for my excuse? 
 Kino. Your kinj^'s commands. 
 
 Gut. Deign then to hear my reasons, which alone 
 
 To you I dare divulge. 
 
 King. 'Tis 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 ? 
 
 Kino. Yield not belief to such a tale. 
 
 Gut. But if 
 
 At my bed's foot I find Don Henry's sword ? 
 
 King. Think how a thousand times servants have been 
 
 Suborn'd to treachery ; and use thy reason. 
 
 Gut. Yet always that may not snlHce ; if day 
 
 And night I see my house bcsieg'd, how act I 
 
 King. Appeal to me. 
 
 Gut. Hut if, in my aj)peal, 
 
 A greater grief attend me ? 
 
 King. It imports not; 
 
 Grief may itself deceive you, \ou 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 tlu^ Infant 
 
 Not to abandon h(>r ? 
 
 Kino. Tor every wrong 
 
 1 he re is a remedy. 
 
 Gut. What ! fi)r this last / 
 
 Kinu. There is. 
 
 Gut. What is it ? 
 
 Kino. In yourself. 
 
 (JUT. You mean ? —
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. J 77 
 
 King. Blood! 
 
 Gut. Ah ! what say you? 
 
 King. Mark your gates ; there is 
 
 A bloody sign upon them. 
 
 Gut. Sire, 'tis known 
 
 That those who exercise an office, hang 
 Over their doors a shield that bears their arms : 
 My office is my honour. So my doors 
 Bear impress of a bloody hand, for blood 
 Alone can wash out injur'd honour's stains. 
 
 King. Give, then, thy hand to Leonora ; well 
 She merits it. 
 
 Gut. I give it freely, if 
 
 Leonora dare accept it bathed in blood. 
 
 Leon. I marvel not, nor fear. 
 
 Gut. 'Tis well, but 1 
 
 Have been mine honour's own physician, nor 
 Have yet forgot the science. 
 
 Lron. 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 afford us 
 the best example of the nicety of that honour, 
 and that almost religious revenge, which have 
 such a powerful influence on the conduct of the 
 Spaniards, and which 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 cliild at the epoch of 
 the expulsion of the Moors. Htit this despotic 
 
 \'()L. IV. N
 
 17S ON Til J. I.lTi-.UATUKK 
 
 act, wliich for ever alienated the two people, 
 and which separated from the Spanish domi- 
 nions 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 min- 
 gled with the Christians in Spain, and, in spite 
 of religious hatred and national prejudices, 
 Calderon has painted the Moors with singular 
 fidelity. Wc feel that to him, and to all Spa- 
 niards, they are brothers united by the same 
 spirit of chivalry, by the same punctilious ho- 
 nour, 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 l)r()UL;ht upon the 
 scene in opposition to the Christians, no one 
 appears to me to e.xcite in the perusal a more 
 lively interest than that which is entitled Amar 
 de.spiH's dc Id J\Iucr(c. The subject is the revolt 
 of the Moors under Pliili]) II, iii iolJO and 
 1070, in the Alj)U.\arra, the mountains of Gre- 
 nada. This dread I ul war, occasioned by un- 
 heard-of provocations, was the real epoch of the
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 179 
 
 destruction of the Moors in Spain. The govern- 
 ment, aware of their strength, while it granted 
 them peace resolved to destroy them ; and if its 
 conduct had to that time been cruel and oppres- 
 sive, it vvras thenceforth always perfidious. It is 
 the same revolt of Grenada, of which Mendoza 
 has written the history, and which we have al- 
 ready 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 fes- 
 tival of the Musulmans. The Cadi presides, 
 and they thus sing: 
 
 * A captive sad, in sorrow bow'd, 
 Lone Afric weeps, in sable shroud, 
 Her empire lost, her glory gone, 
 And set in night her ruling sun ! 
 'Twas Allah's hand that bent tlie bow, 
 That laid our nation's honours low ; 
 Dark and mysterious is his will, 
 But Allah's name be worshipp'd still ! 
 
 * Una voz. Aunque en triste cautiverio 
 De Ala por justo misterio 
 Llore el Africano imperio 
 Su misera suerte esquiva. 
 ToDOS. Su ley viva! 
 
 N 2
 
 180 ON TIIF I.ni UATl KE 
 
 Yet will we boast the golden time, 
 When fierce from Afric's swarthy clime, 
 Fair Spain was vanquish'd by our sword, 
 And Allah's name was all-ador'd ! 
 But Allah's hand hath bent the bow, 
 And laid our nation's honours low ; 
 Dark and mysterious is his will, 
 Yet Allali's name be worshipp'd still ! 
 
 Their songs are suddenly interrupted by some 
 one knocking violently against tlie door. Tliis is 
 Don JiKin de Malec, a descendant oi" the Kings 
 of Grenada, and entitled from his birth to be 
 the twenty-fourth sovereign of the Moorish dy- 
 nasty, lie had conformed to the laws of Philip, 
 and having become a Christian, he had, in re- 
 conii)ense, obtained a ]»Iace in the councils of the 
 city. He relates, that he is just returned from 
 this council, where an edict of Philij) was pro- 
 duced, by which the Moors were subjected to 
 new vexations : 
 
 Some of these laws arc 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 consuin'd this land, 
 
 La voz. Viva la memoria rstrana 
 I)e a(|uella gloriosa hasaiin 
 (2iie en la liberlaii tic ICspaua 
 A K.spana tuvo eaiitiva. 
 
 ToDos. Sii ley viva !
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 181 
 
 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 anx- 
 iety at these precipitate measures. Don Juan de 
 Mendoza answered him with warmth, reproach- 
 ing 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 Malec 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, our mountain home, peopled with towns, 
 
 And castles well defended, all our own ; 
 
 Galera, Berja, Gavia, looking forth 
 
 Midst rocks and woods to the bright azure skies. 
 
 This beauteous region still is ours, and there 
 
 Will we intrench ourselves. Now be it yours 
 
 To choose a chief of the illustrious Hood 
 
 Of Aben Humeya, for that race is still
 
 182 ON nil: i itekatuke 
 
 Found 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, liis daughter, 
 abandons herself to despair. The indignity 
 oftered to her father, deprives her at once of her 
 honour, her father and her lover; for Don Alvaro 
 Tuzani, tu whom she is attached, will, she thinks, 
 no longer regard her after the dishonour of her 
 house. At this moment, Tuzani enters the apart- 
 ment, 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 oftender. 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 CorregidorZuniga, and 
 Don Fernando de Valor, another descendant of 
 the kings of Grenada, mIio had also embraced 
 Christianity, arrive at the residence of Malec, 
 and place hiiu under arrest, having previously 
 arrested Mendoza, until a niconciliation should 
 be efll'ected. V^alor proposes a marriage between 
 ])onna Clara, the daughter of Malec, and Men- 
 doza. Tuzani, in order to frustrate an arrange-
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 183 
 
 ment which destroys all his hopes, seeks Men- 
 doza, provokes him to fight, and hopes to kill 
 him before the mediators can arrive with the pro- 
 position, which he so much fears. The provoca- 
 tion, the duel in the chamber, and all the details 
 of this affair of honour, are expressed 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. Mendoza haugh- 
 tily rejects them. The blood of Mendoza is not 
 destined, he says, to submit to such a stain. 
 
 Valor. Yet Juan dc Malec is a man — 
 Mendoza. Like you. 
 
 Valor. He is ; for from Granada'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 held possession of the mountains. Zu- 
 iiiga throws down his staff of corregidor, and 
 unites with Mendoza in treating the Moors with 
 extreme contempt. Tuzani, as well as Valor and 
 Malec, feels himself injured by this reflection on 
 his ancestors.
 
 184 ON' Tilt. LITtUAILUE 
 
 " 'riius arc we recompcns'd, who have einV)raccil 
 The Christian failh ; thus is our loyahy 
 To Christian laws rewarded. Yet sliall Spain 
 In bitter tears wash out tl\e stain this day 
 Cast on the blood ot" 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 Alj)nxarra, which extends 
 tonrteen leagues along the sea-coast, and explains 
 to him its strength, as well as its resources, con- 
 sisting of thirty thousand warriors who inhabit it. 
 Like the (Joths in former times, he says, they 
 have fled into the mountains, and hope from them 
 to reconcpier Spain. During three years they 
 have preserved their secret with such fidelity 
 that thirty thousand men w ho 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 de- 
 tection of the most suspicious of governments. 
 The chiefs of the blood of Abcn Hunuva, who 
 had renounced their Christian appellations, and 
 the language, the customs, and the nranners of Cas- 
 tilians, had divided themselves among the thrt^e 
 principal fortresses of the Alpuxarra. Fernando 
 \ alor had been recognized as kini^' ; had assumed
 
 OF IHE Sl'AXIAKDS. 185 
 
 the government of Berja, and had married the 
 beautiful Isabella Tuzani, who, in the first act, 
 was represented as attached to Mendoza. Tuzani 
 commands at Gavia, and he 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 is obliged to 
 enter into explanations, and to suspend the action, 
 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 Tu- 
 zani 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 ap- 
 proach of the Christian army. Valor despatches 
 Malec and Tuzani to their posts : 
 
 Love must forego l)is 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 approach of the Christian army, advauc-
 
 186 o\ lilt LI ri-.UA ri UK 
 
 iw^ to the siege of Galera. Tuzani wishes to 
 cttrry Clara witli 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 tlie third act, Tuzani returns 
 to the place of a|)puiutinent ; but tlie Spaniards 
 had discovered, beneath the rocks on which Ga- 
 lera was built, a cavern, wiiicli tiicy had tilled with 
 powder ; and, at the moment when Tuzani ap- 
 proaches 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 ano- 
 ther 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 Chris- 
 tian camp, wilicli he traverses, and at length 
 finds, in the hands of a soldier, who is acciden- 
 tally placed with himself in prison, the necklace 
 he had given to his mistress ; ho bids him relate 
 his history, and learns from his own mouth that 
 he is the murderer of (Mara. He instantly stabs 
 him with his dagger, and Mcndoza. drawn by the 
 dying cries of the soldier, enters the |)rison.
 
 OF TllK SPANIAUDS. 
 
 187 
 
 TuzANi. Thou start'st in fear, iMendoza? Dost not know 
 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 bclov'd. What wouldst thou 
 
 with me ? 
 Erewhile thou knovv'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 ? 
 
 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 Aus- 
 tria and Don Lope de Figueroa 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.
 
 188 ()\ INK I I rKU.\ rr HE 
 
 FioL'EUOA. Tin's man slew 
 
 The ludy that thou lov'dst ? 
 
 TtZANi. He dill, and 1 
 
 Slew him. 
 
 FiutKROA. 'I'hon hast done well! My lord, coniniaiul 
 
 His t'recdom ; such a deed demands our praise, 
 Not censure. You, my lord, yourself would slay 
 One who should injure her you lov'd, or else 
 You were not John of Austria. 
 
 Don Juliii hesitates; he dues not consent to 
 liberate Tu/.ani, but tluit lu ro opens a way for 
 himself witli his sword, and escapes in safety to 
 the defiles of the Alpuxarra. On the other hand, 
 the Moors accept the pardon ottered to them in 
 the name of l^hilip IT. They surrender tlieir 
 arms, and quiet is restored in the Alpuxarra. 
 
 The large edition of the plays of Calderon, 
 publisl)ed at Madrid in 1703, in eleven volumes, 
 octavo, ])y Fernandez de Apontes, contains one 
 hunched and nine pieces, of which I have ])erused 
 oidy thirty. I know not how far I may have made 
 the reader acquainted wiiii those from which 
 1 have given extracts, or whether 1 have suc- 
 ceeded in transferring to his mind the sentiments 
 which tluy have excited in my own; admiration 
 for thi' (liL^nity of the characters, and their noble 
 ehnation of iniiid ; indignation at tlu- sim;nlar 
 abuse of religion, which in this j)oet is almost 
 always at variance with the interests of morality ; 
 a |)erce[)tion of the delightful How of his poetry 
 which caj)tivatcs the senses, like music or per-
 
 OF TIIK SI' A MAUDS. 189 
 
 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 whicli, 
 in his 9ld age, he was anxious to attach all his 
 celebrity, since he regarded them less as drama- 
 tic works, than as acts of devotion. I allude to 
 the Autos Sacramentaks, of which I have seen six 
 volumes, published at Madrid in 1717, by Don 
 Pedro de Pando y Mier. I must ingenuously con- 
 fess, that of seventy-two pieces which they con- 
 tain, and which I have partially inspected, I have 
 fully perused only the first, and that even this 
 I should never have read through, if I had not 
 done so through a sense of duty. The most in- 
 congruous assemblage of real and allegorical 
 beings, of thoughts and sentiments totally ir- 
 reconcileable, all that the S{)aniards themselves 
 have, by a word sufficiently expressive, denomi- 
 nated disparates, are found united in these pieces. 
 The first of these autos is intitlcd, A Dios par 
 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 :
 
 liJO ON TMK LITKKATURE 
 
 '* Be it known to all who have lived here- 
 tofore, who live now, and who shall live, from the 
 day the sun tirst commenced his course to the 
 day when he shall be no more, that holy Theo- 
 logy, the science of Faith, to whom has been 
 given imperfect sight, but important matter, 
 little light ])ut splendour inetiable, will this 
 day hold a tournament in the university of the 
 world, called Marcdll, which, in Arabic, signifies, 
 the Mother of sciences, that the triumphant Mind 
 may share the honour of Valour. Here, then, she 
 challenges all the Sciences who dare to support 
 an allegorical combat against her propositions, 
 and 1, Fame, am charged as her ])ublic herald to 
 make known this defiance to the whole world !" 
 
 Theology then ajipears with Faith, her sponsor, 
 and sets forth the three propositions which she 
 intends to defend ; the presence of God in the 
 eucharist, the new life received \\\ communicat- 
 ing, and the necessity of a i'requent communion. 
 IMiilosophy presents herself to combat the first 
 of these propositions, and Nature is called in as 
 a witness. They dispute in a scholastic manner, 
 and also engage in battle as in a tournament, 
 so that we see at the same time the figure and the 
 thing which is represented under it. Theology is 
 of course victorious, and Philoso])hy and Nature 
 throw themselves at her feet, and confess the 
 truth of the jjroposition which they l»nd opposed. 
 Medicini", havini,^ Speech for sponsor, then a|»pears
 
 OK THE SPAXIAUDS. 191 
 
 to contest the second proposition, and is like- 
 wise vanquished. Jurisprudence comes in the 
 third place, having Justice for her sponsor, and 
 meets with a similar fate. After her three vic- 
 tories. 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 Pensamiaito being masculine, the part of 
 Thought is represented by a male actor. 
 
 Thought and Mind are attracted by a choir of 
 nmsic, whom they hear singing these words: — 
 " Great God ! who art unknown to us, abridire 
 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. Pnul. Their su))plic:iti()ns
 
 102 0\ TlIK LITKIJATrUF. 
 
 addressed to llie unknown Deity are renewed. 
 Paganism implores liim 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 lliereupon commences a scho- 
 lastic dispute, not less tedious than the answer 
 made by Paganism. iMind is desirous afterwards 
 of discussing 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 earth([uake and eclipse. 
 Mind maintains that the world is at an end, or 
 that its creator sutlers ; Paganism denies that a 
 God can sutler; and, on this point they dispute 
 together afresh ; whilst Thought, the fool, runs 
 from one to the other, and always coincides with 
 the j)erson who has last spoken. 
 
 Paganism de])arts, and Thought nmains alone 
 with Mind. The latter proposes, as there is neither 
 time nor place in the allcu'ory, to traverse the earth 
 in search of an unknown (iod who can suffer, since 
 this is the one he is anxious to adore. They 
 then take tluir departure to America, in i)ursuit
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. U)3 
 
 of Atheism, whom they question on the forma- 
 tion of the universe. 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 possesses 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 Messiah, 
 and who perished at the moment of an earth- 
 quake and eclipse. Another dispute arises, at- 
 tended with fresh discontent on the part of 
 Mind. But this dispute is interrupted by light- 
 ning, and by a voice from heaven, crying, " Paul, 
 why persecutest thou me ? " St. Paul is convert- 
 ed by these words. He then disputes with the Sy- 
 nagogue 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. Mind and Thought are con- 
 vinced ; Paganism and Atheism are converted ; 
 
 VOL. IV. o
 
 194 LITEIIATUKK OF TMi: SPANIARDS. 
 
 tlie Synagogue and Africa still resist; but Mind 
 pronounces the following decree, and all the 
 choir repeat it : " Let the human mind love the 
 unknown (lod, and believe in him for reasons 
 of state, even though faith be wanting."
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 Conclusion of the Spanish Drama. State of Letters during 
 the reign of the house of Bourbon. Conclusion of the His- 
 tory 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, dis- 
 guises, duels, personages unknown to themselves 
 or to others, pomp of language, brilliancy of de- 
 scription, and fascinating poetry, mingled with 
 the scenes of active life. In the seventeenth cen- 
 tury the Spaniards were regarded as the dictators 
 of the drama, and men of the first genius in other 
 countries borrowed from them without scruple. 
 They endeavoured, it is true, to adapt Castilian 
 subjects to the taste of France and Italy, and to 
 render them conformable to rules which were 
 despised by the Spaniards ; but this they did 
 more in deference to the authority of the ancients 
 than to indulge the taste of the people, which, 
 indeed, throughout all Europe was the same as 
 in Spain. At the present day this state of things 
 is reversed, and the Spanish drama is entirely un- 
 
 o 2
 
 196 ON THE LIfEKATi:UL 
 
 known in France and Italy. In those countries 
 it is designated only by the epithet of barbarous; 
 it is no longer studied in England ; and the re- 
 cent celebrity which has been attached to it in 
 Germany, is not yet become a national feeling. 
 
 The Spaniards iiave 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 retraced 
 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 themselves obliged to imitate this ra- 
 ])idity, and they abstained from all care and cor- 
 rection, not less scrupulously than a dramatic 
 author in France would have insisted on them. 
 They considered it essential to their fame to com- 
 pose their pieces without study ; if, indeed, we 
 may speak of fame when they aspired to nothing 
 further than the transitory applause of an idle po- 
 pulace, and the ])leasure of novelty, to which a 
 pecuniary |)rofit was attached ; while the greater 
 number did not even attempt to attract to their 
 pieces the attention of their well-informed con- 
 temporaries, or the judgment of posterity, by 
 committing theni to tiie press.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 197 
 
 We have elsewhere spoken of the Commedie 
 deW Arte of the Italians, those extemporaneous 
 masqued pieces, with given characters, often re- 
 peated 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 suc- 
 ceeded him, may with propriety be compared to 
 these Commedie deli' Arte. The extemporaneous 
 part was produced with a little more deliberation ; 
 since, instead of catching the moment of inspi- 
 ration 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 Redondilha.s, which naturally flowed 
 from the pen. In other respects, the writer did 
 not give himself more trouble to observe probabi- 
 lity, historical facts, or national manners, than an 
 author of the Italian harlequin pieces; nor did he 
 attempt in any greater degree novelty in the cha- 
 racters, 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 history of this 
 innumerable quantity of plays, have escaped not
 
 IDS ON THE LITKUATUUE 
 
 only the foreigner, who can bestow merely a rapid 
 glance on the literature of other nations, but even 
 those Spanish writers who have exerted them- 
 selves most to preserve every production which 
 could contribute to the fame of their country. 
 Each troop of comedians had their own reposi- 
 tory, or collection, and endeavoured to retain the 
 sole proprietorship of them ; whilst the book- 
 sellers, from time to time, printed on speculation 
 pieces which were obtained from the manager of- 
 tener than from the author. In this manner were 
 formed those collections of Coincdias iHirias, which 
 we find in libraries, and which were almost always 
 printed without correction, criticism, or judg- 
 ment. The works of individuals were scarcely 
 ever collected or published separately ; and chance 
 more than the taste of the public has saved some 
 from amongst the crowd which have perished. 
 (Jhance, too, has led me to ])eruse many which 
 have not been perused by Boutterwek, Schlegel, 
 Dieze, and other critics. Thus every opinion on 
 the personal merit of each author becomes ne- 
 cessarily vague and uncertain. M'e should have 
 more reason to regret this confusion, if the charac- 
 ter of the poets were to be found in their writings; 
 if it were possible to assign to each his rank, and to 
 distinguish his style or i)rinciples ; but the resem- 
 blance is so great, that we could readily believe 
 all these j)ieces to have been written by the same 
 hand ; und il any one ol them lias an advantage
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 109 
 
 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 
 M'ith which they are treated. 
 
 Among the various collections of Spanish 
 plays, the pieces which have most excited my 
 curiosity are anonymous. I refer more particu- 
 larly to those which were published as the 
 work of a poet of the court ; de un Ingenio de 
 esta Carte. It is known that Philip [V. 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 distin- 
 guished 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, as 
 an unknown individual may easily arrogate to 
 himself a rank which we have no means of as-
 
 200 ox tiil; litfuatliie 
 
 certaining ; 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 Fact that 
 I have found the most attractive Spanish come- 
 dies. Such, for instance, is The Devil turned 
 Prvaeher : El Diablo Predicator, i/ imn/or contrario 
 amigo ; the work of a devout servant of St. Fran- 
 cis and the Capuchin monks. He sui)poses that 
 the devil Luzbel has succeeded by his intrigues 
 in exciting in Lucca an extreme animosity against 
 the Capuchins; everyone refuses them alms; 
 they are ready to perish with hunger, and are 
 reduced to the last extremity; and the first ma- 
 gistrate in the city at length orders them to cpjit 
 it. But at the moment that Luzbel is congratu- 
 lating himself on his victory, the infant .Tcsus de- 
 scends to earth with St. Michael. To punish the 
 devil for his insolence, he com])cls him to clothe 
 liimself in the habit of St. Francis, and then to 
 j)reacli in Lucca in order to counteract the mis- 
 chief he had done; to ask alms, and to revive the 
 charita])le disposition of the inhabitants; and not 
 to cpiit the city or the habit of the order, until he 
 had built in Lucca another convent for the follow- 
 ers of St. Francis, more richly endowed, and ca- 
 pable of containing 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 \\\o>i imj)licit belief in the mi-
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 201 
 
 racles of the Franciscans ; but the execution is 
 not the less pleasing on that account. The solici- 
 tude 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 disguises his mission, and 
 wishes to pass off his chagrin as a religious mor- 
 tification ; the prodigious success which attends 
 his exertions in opposition to his own interests ; 
 the only enjoyment which is left him in his trou- 
 ble, to torment the slothful monk who accom- 
 panies him in asking alms, and to cheat him 
 in his gormandizing : all this is represented 
 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 gene- 
 rally on his side. 
 
 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 to- 
 wards the close of his life ; but, when Moreto en- 
 tered into the ecclesiastical state, he abandoned 
 the theatre. He possessed more vivacity than
 
 202 ON" THE MTIUATIMIE 
 
 Calderon, and his plots give rise to more amus- 
 ini; scenes, lie attempted, too, a more precise 
 delineation of character, and endeavoured to 
 bestow on his comedies that interest, the fruits of 
 accurate observation, which is so generally want- 
 ing 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 
 lonij^ time past acted on Shrove Tuesday, is the 
 Don Japhct of Armenia, of Scarron, almost literally 
 translated from FA Marques del Cigarral ; but this 
 is not amongst the best pieces of Moreto. There 
 arc 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 ptieile ser : It cannot bc\ 
 where a woman of talent and spirit, who is be- 
 loved by a man of jealous disposition, proposes 
 to herself, before marrying him, to convince him 
 that it is impossible to guard a woman efl'ectu- 
 ally, and that the only safe mode is to trust to 
 her own honour. 'J'he lesson is severe, for she 
 assists the sister of her lover in an intrigue, al- 
 tiiough he kept her siiut \\\\ and watched her 
 with extreme distrust. She contrives to arrange 
 lier interviews with a young man ; she aids the 
 sister in escajjing from her brother's house, and in 
 marrying without his consent ; and when she has
 
 OF THE SPANIAllDS. 203 
 
 enjoyed the alarm into which he is thrown, and has 
 convinced him that, notwithstanding all his cau- 
 tion 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 proba- 
 bility, and much originality, and gives rise to 
 many entertaining scenes, of which Moliere has 
 availed himself in his Ecole des Maris. 
 
 There is a piece in much the same style by 
 Don Fernando de Zarate, called, la Presiimida 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 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 
 shew its absurdity. His Gracioso exclaims against 
 the outrage which is thus committed upon the 
 poor Castilian tongue.* The two sisters, Leonora 
 
 * Leonora is represented with her sister in the presence of a 
 gentleman whom they both love, and she wishes him to decide 
 between them. 
 
 Leonor. Distinguid senor don Juan 
 Do esta retorica intacta, 
 Quien es el Alva y el sol ; 
 Portjue quando se Icvanta
 
 204 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 and Violante, have in this piece nearly the same 
 characters as Armande and llenriette in the 
 Fnnmcs .saivintcy ; but the Spaniards did not at- 
 
 I)t' la cuna de la aurora 
 La Dclfica luz, cs clara 
 Consecucncia visual 
 Que el Alva, nevado mnpa, 
 Cadaver de cristal, mucra 
 En monumcntos de plata : 
 
 Y assi en crej)usculos rizos 
 Donde se angclan las claras 
 Pavezas del sol, es fucrza 
 
 Que el sol brille, y line el Alva. 
 Juan. Seflora, vos sois el astro 
 
 Que da el fulgor a Diana; 
 
 Y violante cs cl candor 
 Que se deriva del aura. 
 
 Y si el candor inatutino 
 Cede la nautica braza 
 Al zodiaco austral, 
 Palustre serk la parca, 
 Avassallando las dos 
 
 A las rafagas del Alva. 
 Chocol. Viva Christo ; somos Indios, 
 Pucs de esta suerte se liabla 
 Entre Cliristianos ? Por vida 
 De la Icngua castcllana 
 Que si mi hcrinana habla cullo 
 (iue me oculte de mi licrmana, 
 Al ineulto barbarismo, 
 () a las lagunas de Parla, 
 () Ji la Nefritica idia ; 
 Y si algun criticu trata
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 205 
 
 tempt 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 pre- 
 posterous character neither adds to, nor dimi- 
 nishes the chances of her happiness; a stratagem, 
 a bold disguise conceived and executed 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 com- 
 mon class of Spanish comedies. 
 
 One of the comic authors who enjoyed the high- 
 est reputation 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 Span- 
 ish comedies, and from whom the French stage 
 has borrowed some dramas; amongst others, the 
 Venceslas of Rotrou, and Don Bertran de Cigarral 
 of Thomas Corneille. This last piece is trans- 
 lated from the one entitled, Entre bobos anda el 
 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 
 
 Morir en pecado oculto, 
 Dios le conceda su habla 
 Para que confiesse a voces 
 Que es castellana su alma.
 
 200 0\ THE LITF.RATrHK 
 
 The Patroness of Madrid, our Lady of Atocha, 
 written in antitiuated language, apparently to 
 give it more respectability, and which unites all 
 the extravagances, and all the monstrous moral 
 absurdities that we have seen exhibited in the 
 religious pieces of Calderon. 
 
 The critics of Germany and Spain have se- 
 lected The punishment oj Avarice : El Castigo de la 
 Aliseria, by Don Juan de Hoz, as one of the 
 best in this class of plays. This piece, though 
 highly humorous, is an instance of that radical de- 
 fect of the Spanish drama, which by the intricacy 
 of the plot entirely destroys the effect of charac- 
 ter. 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 })rincipal personage is no longer 
 the striking feature t)f the piece. There is, 
 besides, an im])roi)riety and effrontery in giving 
 to a comedy a title which announces a moral aim, 
 w hen it concludes with the triumj)h of vice, and 
 is marked by a shameful dereliction of all pro- 
 bity, even in those characters which are repre- 
 sented as respectable. 
 
 One of the latest of the dramatic writers of 
 Spain of the seventeenth century, was Don 
 Joseph Canizarez, who flourished in the reign of 
 Charles II. He left behind him a number of 
 |)lays, in almost every class. Some of these are
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 207 
 
 historical, as Picarillo en Espafia, founded on the 
 adventures of a Frederic de Braquemont, a son 
 of him who, with John de B(^thencourt, in 1402, 
 discovered and conquered the Canaries ; but 
 they are little less romantic than those entirely 
 of his own invention. To conclude, neither the 
 comedies of Canizarez, which are the most mo- 
 dern, nor those of Guillen de Castro and Don 
 Juan Ruys de Alarcon, which are the most an- 
 cient, nor those of Don Alvaro Cubillo of Aragon, 
 of Don Francisco de Leyra, of Don Agustino de 
 Zalazar y Torres, of Don Christoval de Monroy 
 y Silva, Don Juan de Matos Fragoso, and Don 
 Hieronymo Cancer, possess a character suffi- 
 ciently marked to enable us to discover in them 
 the manner and style of the author. Their works, 
 like their names, are confounded with each 
 other, and after having gone through the Spanish 
 drama, whose richness at first view astonished 
 and dazzled us, we quit it fatigued with its mo- 
 notony. 
 
 The poetry of Spain continued to flourish 
 during the reigns of the three Philips (1556 — 
 1665), in spite of the national decline. The 
 calamities which befel the monarchy, the 
 double yoke of political and religious tyranny, 
 the continual defeats, the revolt of conquered 
 countries, the destruction of the armies, the 
 ruin of provinces, and the stagnation of com- 
 merce, could not wholly suppress the efforts
 
 208 ON THE LITERATURK 
 
 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 con- 
 sciousness of their power urged them on to new 
 enterprises ; llicy lliirsted after distinction and re- 
 nown; and they rushed forward 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 j)hilosophy, were 
 closed against them ; as all civil employ was be- 
 come 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 ol" poets went on in- 
 creasing in proportion as the number of men of 
 merit in every other class diminished. But with 
 the reign of IMiilip IV. the spirit which had till 
 then animated the Castilians, ceased. For some 
 time before, ])oetry had partaken of the general 
 decline, although the ardour of its votaries had not 
 diminished ; and affectation, and bombast, and all 
 the faults of (iongora, had corrupted its style. At 
 length the impulse which had so long propelled 
 them subsided ; the vanity of the distinction which 
 attached itself to an affected and over-loaded 
 manner, was j)erceivcd ; :iiid no moans seemed to
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 209 
 
 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 re- 
 strain their sentiments, to confine their tastes to 
 physical enjoyments, to luxury, sloth, and effe- 
 minacy. 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 broke out shortly afterwards, though it 
 devastated the provinces 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 au- 
 thority, 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 imagination, which, during a century, 
 had given such numberless poets to Spain, Mas 
 extinguished, and those Mho at length succeeded 
 VOL. IV. r
 
 210 0\ THE LITKIIATURF. 
 
 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 Lan- 
 guage, which distinguished itself by the com- 
 pilation of its ex'cellent J)icti(>nary. In other 
 respects, he left his subjects to their natural bias 
 in the cultivation of letters. Meanwhile the 
 splendour of the reign of Louis XIV. which had 
 dazzled all luiropc, and which had imposed on 
 other nations and on foreign literature the laws 
 of I'rench taste, had. in its turn, struck the 
 Sj)aniards. A ])arty was formed amongst the 
 men of letters and the fashionable world, by 
 which the regular and classical coiupositions of 
 the French were decidedly preferred 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 albed to the national glory ; and the con- 
 flict between these two parties was more particu- 
 larly felt on the stage. Men of letters regarded 
 Lope de Vega and Calderon with a mi.xture of 
 pity and contempt, whilst the people, on the
 
 OF THE SPAN' I A It ns. 211 
 
 Other hand, woukl not allow, in the theatrical 
 performances, any imitation or translation from 
 the French, and granted their applause only to 
 the compositions of their ancient poets in the an- 
 cient national taste. The stage, therefore, remain- 
 ed, 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, 
 faith might supply the want of talent. In the 
 early part of the eighteenth century were pub- 
 lished or represented dramatic lives of the saints, 
 which, in general, ought to have been objects of 
 ridicule and scandal, and v/hich, 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 Mai^seillcs, and 
 the Conversion of France by St. JMary 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 
 Marseilles 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 
 
 p 2
 
 212 ON Till. LITKUATUUE 
 
 and by all the people in the heavens surrounded 
 bv the angels, and at another time on the same 
 ground as himself. She overthrows, at a word, 
 his tLmi)le, and finally commands the broken 
 columns and lullen capitals to return of them- 
 selves to their i)laces. The grossest pleasantries 
 of the butl'oons who accompany her, the most 
 eccentric burlesque of manners and history, are 
 mingled with the prayers and mysteries of re- 
 ligion. 1 liave also ])erused two comedies, more 
 extravagant if possible, by Don Manuel Fran- 
 cisco de Armesto, secretary of the Incpiisition, 
 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 Coronistd ma.s oraudc dc la 
 vuts sagrdda /tistoria, parte priincra i/ scgunda. 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 en- 
 couraged by the clergy, and sujjportcd by the 
 Inrpiisition, the Court, enlightened by criticism 
 and by a better taste, was desirous of rescuing 
 Spain from the scandalous reproach whicii these 
 ])retend{'d j)ious representations excited among 
 straugcrrs. Charles III. in \7 (')'}, proiiibited the 
 further j)erformaiu(' of religious plays and Autos 
 snrrawcfitnlcs : and the house of Bourbon had
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 213 
 
 already deprived the people of another recreation 
 not less dear to them, the Autos-da-fL The last 
 of these human sacrifices was celebrated in 1680, 
 in conformity to the wishes of Charles II. and as 
 a festival at the same time religious and nation- 
 al, which would draw down on him the favour 
 of Heaven. After the extinction 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 ex- 
 tensive information, who had a considerable in- 
 fluence on the character and productions of his 
 contemporaries. This was Ignazio de Luzan, 
 member of the Academies 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 re- 
 duced 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 Aris- 
 totle and those of the French authors ; and as he 
 was himself more remarkable for elegance and
 
 214 ox Till LITIlUATUKE 
 
 correctness of style, than for an energetic and 
 fertile imai^ination, he sought less to unite the 
 French correctness to the eminent qualities of 
 his countrymen, than to introduce a foreign lite- 
 rature in the place of that possessed by the na- 
 tion. In conformity witli these principles, and 
 in order to reform the taste of his country, he 
 composed his celebrated Treatise on Poetry, 
 printed at Saragossa in 1737, in a folio volume 
 of five hundred pages. This work, written with 
 great judgment and a display of vast erudition, 
 clear without languor, elegant and unaffected, 
 was received by men of letters as a master- 
 piece, and has ever since l)een cited by the clas- 
 sical j^arty 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 instructive 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 re- 
 gard this art from a more elevated jioint of view, 
 and substituted for the poetics of the peripatitic 
 philosopher ;i more hapj)y and ingenious analysis 
 of the mind and the imagination. 
 
 Some Spanish authors, about the middle of the 
 last century, commenced writing for the theatre, 
 on the principles of Luzan, and in the French 
 style. lie himself translated a piece of I/.i 
 C'haus>t'(', and inany other dramatic traiislatinii?>
 
 OF Tll£ SPANIARDS. 215 
 
 were about the same time represented on the 
 stage at Madrid. Augustin de Montiano y Luy- 
 ando, counsellor of state, and member of the two 
 academies, composed, in 1750, two tragedies, 
 Virginia and Ataulpho; which are, says Boutter- 
 wek, drawn with such exact conformity to the 
 French model, that we should take them rather for 
 translations than for original compositions. 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 agreeable. They are com- 
 posed in blank iambics, like the Italian tragedies. 
 Luis Joseph Velasquez, the historian of Spanish 
 poetry, attached himself to the same party. His 
 work, entitled Origines de la Poesia Espafiola, 
 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 trans- 
 lated 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 
 
 Gottingcii, 17Gy, 1 vol. 12mo.
 
 21G 0\ fllE LITKRATUKE 
 
 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 splen- 
 did period of her literature, was that of the pul- 
 pit. In no other {)rofession was an orator per- 
 mitted to address the public. But if the influ- 
 ence of the monks, and the shackles with which 
 they had loaded the mind of tlie nation, had at 
 length almost destroyed all poetical genius, we 
 may easily imagine what the art of elocpience 
 would be in their hands. The preposterous study 
 of an unintelligible jargon, which was presented 
 to students under the names of logic, philosophy, 
 and scholastic theology, inevitably corrupted the 
 minds of those destined to the church. Asa mo- 
 del of style, they had no other guide than Gon- 
 gora and his school ; and, on this affected and 
 extravagant manner, which had been named the 
 cultivated style, all their discourses were formed. 
 The ])rcnchers endeavoured to comj)ose long and 
 sounding periods, each member of which was al- 
 most always a lyric verse ; to form an assemblage 
 ol iionijjous expressions, however inconsistent 
 with each other; to construct ihcir sentences on 
 the complicated model of the Latin tongue ; and 
 by fatiguing and surj)rising the mind, to conceal 
 from their audittjrs the cmj)tiness of their sermons. 
 Almost every phrase was supported by a Latin 
 fpiotation. Provided they could repeat nearly
 
 OF THE SPANIvVRDS. 217 
 
 the same words, they never sought any con- 
 nexion in the sense, but they congratulated them- 
 selves, on the contrary, as on a felicity of ex- 
 pression, when, by applying the words of Scrip- 
 ture, they could express the local circumstances, 
 the names, and the qualities of their congregation 
 in the language of the sacred writings. Nor, in 
 order to procure such ornaments, did they con- 
 fine 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 ora- 
 torical strokes not unworthy of the pulpit ; and 
 popular preachers would not have been satisfied, 
 if violent and repeated bursts of laughter had not 
 borne testimony 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 scan- 
 dalize them by a beginning which seemed to be 
 blasphemous or heretical, provided that the con- 
 clusion of the sentence, which was always long 
 delayed, explained in a natural manner what had 
 at first amazed and confounded the hearer.
 
 218 ON rm. irii uatiiil 
 
 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 impression on bad preachers by the life 
 of his ridiculous monk, as the author of Don Quix- 
 ote had made on all bad romance-writers by the 
 adventures of his whimsical knight. This extra- 
 ordinary work, entitled. The Life of Friar Gcruitd 
 dc Campazds, by Don Francisco Lobon de Sala- 
 zar, apjicared in three volumes, in 1758. Under 
 the assumed name of Lobon, the Jesuit, father 
 de risla, 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 ro- 
 mance and a sportive style, is a peculiar charac- 
 teristic of Sjianish literature. The Italians do 
 not possess a single work to place at the side of 
 Cervantes, Quevedo, or Father iV^ V Isla. They 
 consider it beneath them to mingle pleasantries.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 219 
 
 or the interest of fabulous adventures, with phi- 
 losophic 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 at- 
 tention ; and while they have excluded philoso- 
 phy from the world of fashion, it has not derived 
 any advantage from its banishment. In their lite- 
 rature therefore we find, perhaps, more taste, and 
 an imagination fully as rich and better regulated, 
 but infinitely less wit, than among the Spa- 
 niards. 
 
 Friar Gerund, the hero of Father de 1' Isla, 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 theological 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 regu- 
 lar 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
 
 220 ON THE LITEKATUKE 
 
 nor understand.* Gerund was not yet seven 
 years old when he was sent to learn the rudi- 
 ments of language from the master of the school 
 of Villa Ornata ; and the author hence takes 
 occasion to describe, in a burlesque manner, the 
 
 • This epistle is worthy of Rabelais, wliom in other respects 
 also Father de 1' Isla often recalls to our recollection, by his 
 lively and exquisite satire, by hia humorous travestie of pedantry, 
 and by the address with which he lashes not only the particular 
 object of his castigation, but every thing ridiculous in his way. 
 At the same time the reverend father, in his imitation of Rabe- 
 lais, has never, like him, offended against propriety of manners. 
 We here give the commencement of this epistle, and the Cas- 
 tilian translation attached to it : 
 
 Ilactcnus me intra vurgam " Hasta acjui la cxcelsa in- 
 
 animi litesccntis inipitum, tua gratitud dc tu soberania ha ob- 
 hcre ludo instar mihi luminis scurecido en el aniino, a ma- 
 extimandea de normam redu- nera dc clarissimo esplendor 
 biare compellet sed antistar las apagadas antorchas del mas 
 gcrras meas anitas diributa, et sonoro clarin, con ecos lumi- 
 posartituni nasoncm quasi agre- nosos, a impulsos balbucientcs 
 dula: (piibusdam lacunis. Bar- de la furibunda fama. Pero 
 burrum stridorem averrucan- (piando examino el rosicler de 
 dus oblatero. Vos etiam viri los dcspojos al terso bruriir del 
 optimi, ne mihi in anginam vcs- emisferio en el blando oroscopo 
 trie hispiditatis arnauticataelum del argcntado catre, (pie ele- 
 carmen irreptet. Ad rabiin vado a la region de la techum- 
 meam niagicoperfit: cicures bre inspira oraculos al acicrto 
 i|U.TConKj)ieite ut alimones meis en l>obcdas de cristal ; ni lo 
 carnaboriis, (piam censiones ex- ayroso admiie mas competen- 
 tetiH, etc. cias, ni in lo heroyco eabcn 
 
 mas cloquentes disonancios."
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 221 
 
 mode of instruction 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 domhie or governor, who en- 
 quires into his attainments. It is impossible to 
 describe in a more entertaining manner, the gra- 
 vity 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 thing 
 that is most bombastic and ridiculous in the titles 
 and dedications of books. Father de 1' Isla takes 
 this opportunity of making war without distinc- 
 tion on the dunces of all countries. Thus the 
 governor presents to the admiring Gerund the de- 
 dicatory 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 some- 
 thing 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
 
 •222 ON THl. LITERATURF. 
 
 divine. If I liad been so fortunate as to have invent- 
 ed these titles, 1 should have considered myself an 
 Aristotle or a Plato, lie 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, Arch- 
 duke of Glorv, Duke of Life, 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,' tS:c. &c. &c." These examples give a 
 value to criticism, by presenting us with reality 
 in the midst of fiction, and by convincing us that 
 if Gerund and his teachers are in themselves 
 imaginary beings, the taste on which their his- 
 tory is founded, was but too real and jircvailing. 
 The young Gerund having at length finished 
 liis 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 elociuence, whilst the lay brother secretly 
 gains him over by making him acquainted with the 
 illicit indulgences which llic young monks find 
 in their convents; indulgences which are still 
 augmented, when, as preachers, they become the 
 fav(jurites of the women, and their cells are re- 
 plenished with chocolate and sweets, and all the 
 <jfferinL;s of ])ious souls.
 
 OF TflF. SPANIARDS. 223 
 
 The young monk takes for his model the senior 
 preacher of his convent, Friar Bias, whose por- 
 trait 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 audience 
 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 the instances of sudden surprise, 
 caused to the audience by the abrupt introduc- 
 tions 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 re- 
 gard each other with amazement, when, after a 
 pause, he continues : " Such is the language of 
 the Ebionite, the Marcionite, the Arian, the 
 Manichean ; but," &c. On another occasion, 
 preaching on the Incarnation, he exclaims : "To 
 your healths, gentlemen !" and when all his con- 
 gregation 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-disciplining penitents ; and as his un- 
 intelligible discourses had excited the wonder of 
 the people, and particularly of the cobbler of the
 
 224 ON Tin: MrruATUUE 
 
 village, an acknowledofed judge in the oratorical 
 art, Antonio Zotcs, who was at that time niajor- 
 domo of the brotherhood of the town of Cam- 
 pazas, sends for his son to deliver his first public 
 sermon there on the day of the feast of the Holy 
 Sacrament. Tlic triumpli v\' his relations, the 
 admiration of the villagers, the vanity and im- 
 pertinence of liic hero, are painted with exqui- 
 site truth by the satirical Jesuit. lie 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 tiie 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 lour knots of silk at the four 
 corners, to wijic away the pretended persjMra- 
 tion, nor after that, his other handkerchief of silk, 
 of rose colour on one side, and pearl on the other, 
 to blow his nose when ho had no occasion."' 
 
 On his arrival at the church, he rejieats a short 
 j)rayer, and entering into the vestry while mass 
 begins, which is sung by the licentiate Quix- 
 ano, his godfather, (wo curates, parishioners
 
 OF Tlir: SPANIARDS. 225 
 
 of the neighbourhood, serve him as dean and 
 sub-dean. The choir is composed of three sa- 
 cristans, 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 
 Galicia, 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 he gives us, is by no means 
 more extraordinary 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 by the mouth of Jesus 
 Christ, how unhappy a wretch am I ! I shall be 
 lost and utterly confounded, for this oracle has 
 declared that no man can be a preacher or a pro- 
 phet in his own country: Nemo Propheta in pat rid 
 sua. How rash, then, have I been to stand forward 
 as a preacher this day in mine! But, my bretli- 
 ren, suspend your judgment for a moment ; for, 
 
 VOL. IV. Q
 
 22G ON THK LITEKATUIIE 
 
 to my great comfort, I find from the sacred 
 writings, that all are not alike subjected to the 
 truths of the Kv;mi>elist : Ao// omnes obcd'uud 
 Evdfiiic/iu ; and who knows but this may be one 
 of those numerous propositions, wliich, according 
 to the opinion of a philosopher, are only put 
 there to terrify us : ad tcrronifi. 
 
 *' These, my brethren, are the first-fruits of 
 my oratorical labours, the exordium of my duties 
 in the jndpit ; or, to speak more clearly to the 
 most ig"norant, tliis is the first of all my sermons, 
 according to the text of the sacred oracles : Pri- 
 vuim aermonem feci, O Thcophik ! But whither 
 doth the bark of my discourse direct its voyage? 
 Attend to me, my friends ! Every thing here pre- 
 sages a happy event. From every side I per- 
 ceive prophetic glimpses of felicity. We must 
 either refuse our faith to the history of the Evan- 
 gelist, or the Anointed himself preached his first 
 sermon in the place where he received sacred ab- 
 lution from the ])urifying waters of baptism. It 
 is true that the evangelical narration does not 
 reveal this, but it tacitly sujiposes it. The Lord 
 received the frigid purification : Bdjdizatus est 
 Je.su s ; and the azure tafi'ety curtain of heaven 
 was rent: Kt ecce aperti sunt cadi; and the Holy 
 Ghost descended in the form of a fluttering dove: 
 Et vidi Spiritinn Dei de.scetu/cntem .sicut columhinu. 
 Behold! the Messiah receives the baptism! the 
 celestial veil is rent ! the Holy Spirit descends
 
 OF THE SPA MAUDS. 227 
 
 on his head. And do we not here trace the ves- 
 tiges of it? Does not the celestial dove still 
 hover around the head of the preacher? 
 
 '* 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 tentarctui' a Dlabolo. 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 cavipestri. 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 illustrious parish ; I retired into the 
 desert of religion, if the devil indeed did not lead 
 me thither : Ductus est a spiritu in desertum, ut ten- 
 taretur a Diabolo. And what else can a man do 
 in the desert, than watch, pray, fast, and endure 
 temptation ? And I escaped from the desert to 
 preach. To preach where ? In loco campestri ; 
 in a country place, at Campazas; a place which 
 recalls to mind the fields of Damascus, which 
 raises envy in the plains of Pharsalia, and con- 
 demns to oblivion the fields of Troy, et campus 
 ubi Trojafuit,"' 
 
 I never had the good fortune to hear a ser- 
 mon from a Spanish monk ; but I once when tra- 
 velling, met by chance with an Italian barber, 
 who made a trade of sellin<j: sermons to monks 
 
 Q 2
 
 22^! 0\ THE I.nrUATUKF. 
 
 wlio were tlicmselves too ignorant to compose 
 them. He had an ear not insensible to a certain 
 degree of harmony, and he succeeded in con- 
 structing a succession of sounding periods, to 
 which nothing was wanting but the sense. He 
 understood a little French, and had the curiosity 
 to turn over many old books. In order to com- 
 pose these marketable sermons, he collected 
 together the shreds and tatters of Christian 
 preachers wliieh \w had discovered in some old 
 library ; and it was by no means easy to detect 
 his plagiarisms, as he began and ended his theft 
 always in the middle of a sentence. He con- 
 sulted me on one of his sermons, but without 
 acc[uainting me with his secret, and I was not a 
 little astonished at those pompous periods, the 
 conclusion of M-hieh never corresponded with the 
 beginniiiL;-, and of which the different parts 
 had never been intended for one another. \\ hen 
 he confessed to me in what way he had com- 
 posed them, I endeavoured, in the best way I 
 could, to unite the two ends of the sentences; 
 but botli my time and my patience failed me, and 
 1 returned his sermon to him not unworthy of 
 Friar (lerund. A little time afterwards it was 
 preached l)y the monk who bought it, and ob- 
 tained as liiLjli ap|)laus(' as that of our hero of 
 Cam pa/as. 
 
 This .Icsuit, who ridiculed with so much cou- 
 rage the bad taste of the monks, and who was
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 229 
 
 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 occa- 
 sions the superiors of Friar Gerund, who endea- 
 vour, by advice full of wisdom and religion, to 
 lead him into a better style. The Jesuit at the 
 same time directs some part of his satire against 
 the new philosophy, which was at that time 
 rising in France and England. He not only com- 
 bats 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 compositions by 
 profane applications; and, in short, he shews him- 
 self through his whole book very warmly and 
 sincerely 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 discovered him under the assumed name by 
 which he had endeavoured to conceal himself; 
 they loaded him with invectives, and engaged 
 him in a literary warfare, which probably em- 
 bittered his days, though he always obtained
 
 230 C)\ IHL LITtriATUKE 
 
 the advantage in his arguments. Their hatred, 
 nevertlieless, only increased his reputation, and 
 the Ilisturi/ of Friar Gcrioid is regarded witli rea- 
 son as the first work of genius which Spain pro- 
 duced in the eighteenth century. 
 
 In the latter part of that century, a love of 
 national literature 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 attempted to unite Spanish genius with 
 classical elegance. 
 
 The first in this poetical band who ventured to 
 attack the French style, was Vincent Garcias do 
 111 lluerta, a member of llie Spanish academy, 
 and librarian to the king. It seems to me, that 
 without ii\ any manner allowing the superiority 
 of the Sj)anish over the French literature, wc 
 ought always to regard with approbation the at- 
 temj)ts 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 I'rom declin- 
 ing into a monotonous and fatiguing uniformity. 
 Tlie attempt of lluerta to revive the ancient li- 
 terature 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 h.itl already deservediv obtained the
 
 OF THE SPAXIAKDS. 231 
 
 name of a poet. A piscatory eclogue, which he 
 recited in 17G0, in a distribution of prizes made 
 by the academy, had attracted the attention of 
 the public; 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 hundred 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 conven- 
 tional forms of the French drama without sacri- 
 ficing its better qualities. 
 
 The public, with transport, seconded his patri- 
 otic 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 forwarded to various parts of the Spa- 
 nish dominions and to America. Yet this piece 
 is by no means perfect ; it is merely an honour- 
 able proof of the poetical and national sentiment 
 of a man of genius, who was desirous of contri- 
 buting 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
 
 •232 ON THE LITKUATURE 
 
 people accused as the cause of the calaniitiei 
 wliich had betailen the monarchy. He is en- 
 treated to terminate a passion wliich all his court 
 regrarded as dishonourable. He balances for a 
 long time betwixt duty and love, when a rebel- 
 lion, whicii he had with difhculty suppressed, 
 broke out afresli. Rachel, whilst i\\c king is 
 absent hunting, is surprised in the jialace by the 
 rebels ; her wretched counsellor Reuben is com- 
 pelled 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 
 joniadas, 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 unrhimed iambics, uithout 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 dig- 
 nified 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 aiiotiicr juece, called 
 Ai(<inu'fnnon VL>/<^mh, he attempted to ;ipi)ly the
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 233 
 
 romantic style to a classical subject: he mingled 
 iambics with octaves and lyric verses, and he thus 
 advanced a step further in his approach to Cal- 
 deron. 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 dra- 
 matists, published, in 1 785, his Teatro Espafiol, in 
 sixteen volumes, small octavo, in which he has 
 inserted his criticisms and invectives against the 
 French stage. He has not, however, himself 
 ventured to expose his favourite authors to a still 
 more severe criticism. He has given in his col- 
 lection few pieces except comedies of the cloak and 
 the siuord, and he has not admitted a single play 
 of Lope de Vega, the historical pieces ofCalderon, 
 or any of his Autos Sacramentales. He was too 
 well aware of the violent hostilities to which such 
 compositions would have exposed him. With 
 almost the same views, Don Juan Joseph Lopez 
 de Sedano published, in 1768, his Parnaso Es- 
 pafioly 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, 
 fasliionable sensibility, and the slii'liter interests 
 of the heart ; in others, they have attempted 
 the higher drama, and sometimes tiicy have
 
 234 ON IHL LITKKATUIU. 
 
 even risen to rnmedies of character. Nicolas 
 Fernandez de Moratin is known as an author 
 of regular tragedy, Leandro Fernandez de 
 Moratin as a comic autlior, and Don Luciano 
 Francisco ConieUa as approaching nearer than 
 either of the two others to the ancient national 
 style. Their works liave not, hitherto, found their 
 way into otlicr countries : and as they appear to 
 have few pretensions to originality, they excite 
 our curiosity in a slighter degree. Of all the au- 
 thors of this new school, there is only one with 
 whose pieces I am acquainted, and that imper- 
 fectly ; those of Don Ramon de laCruzycano pub- 
 lished in 178S, and consisting of a great number 
 of comedies, dramas, interludes, and sayiietes. 
 The last seem to have retained all the ancient na- 
 tional 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 picturesque language, preserve, even among 
 the people, something poetical ; and ennoble the 
 characters drawn from this class of society. Don 
 Uamon de Cruzycano has written, under the 
 ancient name of Loa. prologues for the comedies 
 represented })efore the Court, and we there find 
 allegorical beings conversing with men agreea- 
 bly to llic ancient taste. Thus, in tlie V<i(/iu'ros 
 (le Aranjucz, wliich served as a prologue to a
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 235 
 
 translation of The Barber of Seville, the Tagus, 
 the Escurial, Madrid, and Loyalty, appeared at 
 the same time with Shepherds and Shepherd- 
 esses. It is true, indeed, that the allegory is 
 not, throughout, treated with the ancient gravity, 
 and that 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 j^edon- 
 dilhas assonantes, and lyric verses are occasionally 
 mingled with them to express passion or sen- 
 sibility; 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 sentiments so opposite to 
 those of the ancient Spaniards. There is no 
 longer any trace in the higher ranks of the cour- 
 teous gallantry of the cavalier, of the mixed re- 
 serve and passion of the women, of suspicious 
 jealousy in the husband, of the cruel severity often 
 shewn by fathers and brothers, or of that irrita- 
 ble point of honour, so destructive to the happi- 
 ness 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 endearments of 
 marriage ; whilst the luisband, exposed to ca-
 
 236 ON' THt LITEllATURE 
 
 price, 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 behlml : 
 Kl Siirao, II el reversu del Sariio ; prove to us that 
 S])ain has exactly adopted the manners of Italy. 
 Another piece, taken from fashionable life, El 
 Divorzio fdiz. The happy Divorce, shews that the 
 Spaniards were also well acquainted with the cha- 
 racter of a man of successful gallantry; and that 
 the frivolous pride of these concpiests 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 Su))rcme Council, in his 
 Fahulas lAtterarias, published in 17S2, attained 
 HI sumc 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. lie never displayed more grace than 
 when he borrowed the redundilhas of the ancient 
 Castilian romances. 
 
 Two of \\\v lables of this author I shall here 
 translate. The first. The Ass and the Flute, is 
 ada[)tcd to a favourite j)opular air : 
 
 Till. Asi Asu THE I'm Ti;. 
 
 You must know that tliis ditty, 
 
 This htilc roiiiuncc, 
 (Be it dull, be it witty) 
 
 Arose iVnm nurc thaiicc.
 
 OF THE SrAXIAHDS. 237 
 
 Near a certain enclosure, 
 
 Not far from my manse, 
 An ass, with composure, 
 
 Was passing by chance : 
 
 As he went along prying, 
 
 With sober advance, 
 A shepherd's flute lying 
 
 He found there by chance. 
 
 Our amateur started 
 
 And eyed it askance, 
 Drew nearer, and snorted 
 
 Upon it by chance.* 
 
 * El Borrico y la Flauta. 
 
 Esta fabulilla. 
 
 Saiga bien o mal. 
 Me ha ocurrido ahora 
 Por casualidad. 
 
 Cerca de unos prados 
 Que hai en mi lugar, 
 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 un resoplido 
 Por casualidad.
 
 238 OV THE LITERATUHF. 
 
 The breath of the brute, Sir, 
 
 Drew music for once ; 
 It enter'd the Hute, Sir, 
 
 And blew it by chance. 
 
 " Ah I" cried he, in wonder, 
 
 " How comes this to pass? 
 Who will now dare to slander 
 
 The skill of an ass ? ** 
 
 And asses in plenty 
 
 I see at a glance, 
 Who, one time in twenty, 
 
 Succeed by mere chance. 
 
 The following:, The Bear and the Mimkn/, is 
 written in sini))le rcdondillias, rliiined like the 
 ancient romances : 
 
 En la ilauta el aire 
 Se hubo dc colai , 
 
 Y sono la fiauta 
 Por casualidad. 
 
 Oh ! dixo el borrico 
 Que bicn si' tocar 1 
 
 V diran (|uc es mala 
 La musica asnal '. 
 
 Sin rrglas del arte 
 Horriquitos hai 
 (Juc una vi'z aciertan 
 I'or casualidad.
 
 OF THE SPANfARDS. 239 
 
 * The Bear and the Monkky. 
 
 A bear with whom a Piedmontese 
 
 Join'd company to earn their bread, 
 Essay'd on half his legs to please 
 
 The public, where his master led. 
 
 With looks that boldly claim'd applause, 
 He ask'd the ape, " Sir, what think you ? " 
 
 The ape was skill'd in dancing-laws. 
 And answer'd, " It will never do." 
 
 " You judge the matter wrong, my friend," 
 
 Bruin rejoin'd ; " You are not civil ! 
 Were these legs given for you to mend 
 
 The ease and grace with which they swivel ?" 
 
 It chanced a pig was standing by : 
 
 " Bravo ! astonishing ! Encore ! " 
 Exclaim'd the critic of the sty, 
 
 " Such dancing we shall see no more!'' 
 
 * L'OsO Y LA MoNA. 
 
 Un oso, con que la vida 
 Ganaba un Pianiontes, 
 La no muy bien aprendida 
 Danza cnsayaba en dos pies. 
 
 Queriendo hacer de persona, 
 Dixo a una mona : Que tal? 
 Era perita la mona, 
 Y rispondiule : muy mal. 
 
 Yo creo, replico el oso. 
 Que me haces poco favor, 
 Pues que ? mi aire no es garboso ? 
 No hago el paso con primor ?
 
 240 OV THE LITKUATURE 
 
 Poor Bruin, when he heard the sentence, 
 Began an inward calculation ; 
 
 Then, witli a face that spoke rejientancc, 
 Express'd aloud his niediialion. 
 
 '* When the sly monkey call'd nie 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 
 
 Kely upon this wholesome rule; — 
 
 " Your work is bad, if wise men blame, 
 But worse, if lauded by a fool ! " 
 
 Estaba el cerdo prescnte, 
 
 Y dixo bravo! bicn va ! 
 Baylarin mas excelente 
 No sc ha visto ni vera. 
 
 Echo I'l oso, al vir csto, 
 Sus quentas alia cntrc si, 
 
 Y con ademan modcsto 
 liubo de cxclamar asl. 
 
 Quando me desaprobaha 
 La Mona. llegue a dudar, 
 Mas ya (|ue el cerdo me alaba 
 Muy mal debo de b;iylar. 
 
 (juardc para su rcgaio 
 Esta sentencin un antor : 
 Si el sabio no apruohn, mulo ; 
 Si cl nccio aplaudc, peor.
 
 OF THE SPANIARDS. 241 
 
 Yriarte also wrote a didactic poem on music, 
 which obtained a considerable reputation ; but 
 which, notwithstanding the poetical ornaments 
 with which the author has occasionally inter- 
 spersed it, is, in the scientific portion of it, little 
 more than rhymed prose. 
 
 Boutterwek, in conclusion, celebrates, as a fa- 
 vourite 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 volup- 
 tuous grace of the last, he has still adorned his 
 poetry with a moral delicacy, to wliich 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 Spaniard ; 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. 1 shall an- 
 nex in a note, two examples from Boutterwek*; 
 
 * The following is an idyl of Melendez : 
 Siendo yo nino tierno, 
 Con la iiina Doriln, 
 Me audabu por la ssdva 
 VOL. IV. U
 
 242 ON TUl I.iri KAriKK 
 
 and these arc the last specimens of Spanisli 
 poetry wliich I sliall present to the reader. 
 
 We sliall here close the history which we pro- 
 ])oscd to give of the literature of Spain ; and it is 
 
 Cogientlo ilorccillas, 
 l)e (|uc alcgrcs giiirnalilas 
 Con gracia jK-rcgrina 
 Para ambos coronarnos 
 •Sii inano disponia. 
 A si en nirieccs talcs 
 Dc jucgos y ik'licias 
 Pasabaiuos fclitcs 
 Las horas y los ilias. 
 Con ellos poco a poco 
 La e<la<l corrio ilc prisa, 
 
 Y i'lu' (le la inoccncia 
 Saltando la inalicia. 
 
 Yo no sc ; mas al vernu- 
 Dorila sc reia, 
 
 Y a mi, (le solo liablarhi 
 Tambien me ilaba risa. 
 Luego al darle las (loii-s 
 EI pecho me lalia, 
 
 Y al el la eoronarme 
 tiiiedabase embebiila- 
 Una lanle tras esio 
 Vimos dos torloldlus 
 (iuc con Irenudos pieos 
 Sc balagaban aniigus. 
 Alentonos su exemplo, 
 
 Y cntre honcstas earieiab, 
 Nus conUtmos turbados 
 Nuesiruh dulcck latiga:*.
 
 OV THE SPANIAIUXS. 243 
 
 with regret that we perceive the brilliant illusions 
 which illustrious names and chivahic manners at 
 first excited in us, successively vanishing from our 
 eyes. The poem of the Cid first presented itself to 
 us amongst the Spanish works, as the Cid himself 
 amongst the heroes of Spain ; and after him we 
 find nothing in any degree equalling either the 
 noble simplicity of his real character, or the 
 charm of the brilliant fictions of which he is the 
 subject. Nothing that has since a})peared can 
 justly demand our unqualified admiration. In 
 
 Y en un punto, qual soiubra 
 Volo dc nuestra vista 
 La nines ; mas en torno 
 Nos dio el amor sus dichas. 
 
 Tlic sonnet below is by tlic same author : 
 
 Qual suele abeja inquieta rcvolando 
 Per florido pensil, entre mil rosas, 
 Hasta venir a hallar las mas hcrmosas, 
 Andar con dulce trompa susunando. 
 
 Mas lucgo que las ve, con vuelo blando 
 Baxa, y bate las alas vagaj'osas, 
 Y en medio de sus vcnas olorosas 
 El delicado aroma csta gozando. 
 
 Asi, mi bien, el pensamiento mio, 
 Con dicbosa zozobra, por hallarte 
 Vagaba de amor libra, por el suclo. 
 
 I'ero te vi, rcndimc, y mi albcdrio 
 Abrazado en tu luz, goza al mirarte 
 Gracias, que envidia de tu rostro cl ciclo. 
 
 u 2
 
 244 (TV Till. IlTKUATl'UE 
 
 the midst of the most ])rilliant ctibrts of Spanisfi 
 genius, our taste has been continually wounded 
 by extrava<j:ancc and affectation, or our reason has 
 been ottcndcd Ijy an eccentricity often borderini^ 
 on folly. It is impossible to reconcile the alli- 
 ance 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 
 tliat wc 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, ii it does not rival that of 
 Ariosto and Tasso, at least bear a comparison 
 with it without Inimiliation. But the feeble 
 efforts of Luzan, of la Huerta, of Vriarte, and 
 of Melendez, the only boast of their nation for a 
 whole century, convince us how low their coun- 
 try 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, m hen the study of the an- 
 cients presented new treasures to Ariosto and to 
 Tasso; and lastlv, that <if reason and mind de- 
 voted to the arts, when the elevation of thought
 
 OF Till. spAxiAuns. 245 
 
 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 su imported 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 Castilian 
 romances ; all tlic fund of sentiments, [ideas, 
 images, and adventures, of which she afterwards 
 availed herself, is to be found in this original 
 treasure. lioscau and Garcilaso, indeed, gave it 
 a new form, but not a new substance and a new 
 life. The same thoughts, the same romantic sen- 
 timents are found in these two poets and in their 
 school, with the addition only of a ncv/ dress 
 and a form almost Italian. The Spanish drama 
 awoke ; and, for the third time, this primitive 
 source of adventures, images, and sentiments, was 
 brought into action in a new shape. Lope de 
 Vega and Calderon introduced on the stage tlie 
 subjects of the early romances, and transferred 
 to the dramatic dialogue the language of the 
 national songs. Thus, inidcr an api)arent variety, 
 the Spaniards have been wearied witlt monotony.
 
 240 ov TFir. irn.KA'rrur 
 
 The prodigality of their images and the brilliancy 
 of their poetry, discover only a real poverty. If 
 their minds hud been properly diseiplincd, and 
 if they had enjoyed freedom of thought, the 
 Spanish writers would ultimately 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 fre([ucntly availed them- 
 selves, is that to which in our days the name of 
 romance has been particularly attached. We 
 here find the sentiments, the opinions, the vir- 
 tues, 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 oj)position 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 |)eople, who rejected all new ideas, 
 all foreign assistance, and the results of expe- 
 rience derived from other princij)les. This ob- 
 servation may, perhaps, teach us that the man- 
 ners and ])rcjudices 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 appro- 
 priating these materials from remote ages, it is 
 requisite to lical tiuiu in the sj)irit <>1" uur own 
 times. Soj)hocles and Euripides, when they repre- 
 sent to us with so much subliniitv tlir Ik loic age.
 
 OF THE SPAN! Alios. 247 
 
 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 OEdipus and 
 Agamemnon. It is only by an accurate know- 
 ledge of the times, and the truth of all its history, 
 that we can expect to give a new interest to the 
 age of chivalry. But the Spaniards of modern 
 days were in no wise superior to the personages 
 who were the subject of their poetry. They were, 
 on the contrary, inferior to them ; and they found 
 themselves unqualified to render justice to a 
 theme of which they were not masters. 
 
 In another point of view also, the literature 
 of Spain presents to us a singular phenomenon, 
 and an object of study and observation. Whilst 
 its character is essentially chivalric, we find its 
 ornaments and its lans^uaij^e borrowed from the 
 Asiatics. Thus, Spain, the most western coun- 
 try 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, in- 
 vesting 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 some- 
 times almost disgust us in the i)oetry of Spain,
 
 248 LllKKATUKE OF THE SPANIARDS. 
 
 arc the genuine characteristics of tlie poetry of 
 India, Persia, Arabia, and tlie East; poetry, to 
 which the most ancient nations of the world, and 
 those whicli have had tlie i^rcatest inliuence on 
 civilization, have concurred in yicldini^ their ad- 
 miration ; that the sacred writings ])resent to us in 
 every page instances of that highly figurative lan- 
 guage, which we there receive with a kind of vene- 
 ration, but which is not allowed in the moderns; 
 that hence we may perceive that there are ditier- 
 ent systems in literature and in poetry ; and that, 
 so far from assigning to any one an exclusive pre- 
 ference over the rest, we ought to accustom our- 
 selves 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 (nvn, it will possess in our 
 eyes a new interest. M'e may thus inhale, in a 
 language allied to our own, the ))crfumes 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 ])eople ol' luirope, that 
 brilliant Asiatic poetry, which was the parent of 
 so many beautiful fictions of the imagination.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 State of Portuguese Literature until the Midille of the 
 Sixteenth Century. 
 
 There 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 observed the 
 rise and progress of the Provencal, the Romance- 
 Wallon, the Italian, the Castilian, and, indeed, 
 of all of those mixed tongues peculiar to the 
 South of Europe, from the extreme point of 
 Sicily to the Levant ; and we next prepare to 
 trace their progress as far as the western extre- 
 mity 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 particulaily, to owe their existence to 
 the Roman, In the Sclavonian and Teutonic 
 tongues there yet remain two distinct subjects of 
 consideration. The former of these have never yet 
 been carried to a sufficiently high point of cultiva-
 
 250 ox Tlir I.ITFllATURF. 
 
 lion to cxhil)it those powers of which tliey might 
 be rendered capa])le among a more civilized peo- 
 ple, and in a more advanced state of society. But 
 we look forward to a period when we may direct 
 uur enquiries both to the western and eastern 
 regions of the North of Europe ; and after dwell- 
 ing upon the more abundant resources of the 
 Englisli and German, the two most distinguished 
 among the Teutonic nations, we shall proceed to 
 take a more raj)id view of the respective litera- 
 tures of Holland, Denmark, and Sweden. Thence 
 extending our researches into the Polish and the 
 Russian, we shall have completed the very en- 
 larged 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 lN)rtuguese, who 
 even assumed the name of Spaniards, conferring 
 on their neighbours and rivals, with whom they 
 partici|)ated its sovereignty, the ai)pellation of 
 Castilians. Portugal, nevertheless, possesses a 
 literature of its own; and its language, so far from 
 being ranked as a mere dialect of the Sjianish, was 
 regarded by an indrpcndrnt people as the charac- 
 teristic of their freedom, and was cultivated with 
 proportional assiduity :ind delight. Hence the 
 most celebrated amouLT iIh* Portuguese devoted
 
 OF THK PORTUGUESr.. 251 
 
 their talents to confer lustre on the literary cha- 
 racter 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, in- 
 deed, that their literature will be found much 
 more complete than abundant; with examples 
 of almost every kind of excellence, it is really 
 rich in nothing, if we except its lyric and bu- 
 colic poetry. Its reputation triumphed but 
 a short time ; and we must consider that the 
 most distinguished among a nation, by no means 
 very formidable in point of number, produced 
 many of their works in the Castilian language. 
 We may add, that its literary treasures were, 
 in a manner, locked up from the rest of Eu- 
 rope. The Portuguese holding little communica- 
 tion with the more civilized portions of the globe, 
 were too seriously 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 lite- 
 rary celebrity abroad. Of this, my frequent jour- 
 neys, and my researches into the most celebrated 
 libraries, which have enabled me only to pro- 
 cure a very small proportion of their works, have 
 made me but too fully sensible. Not unfre- 
 quently, among a hundred thousand volumes.
 
 2;')2 ()\ tin: irrFUATrur. 
 
 collected at immense expense, wc scarcely meet 
 with a single work written in the l^ortuguesc 
 tongue; insomuch that, without referring to the 
 labours of Boutterwek, it would have been dith- 
 cult to give a sketch, however imperfect, of the 
 literature of this country. 
 
 Although the greater number of the Portuguese 
 poets occasionally composed in Castilian verse, 
 the transition from one language to the other 
 was by no means so easily etiected as we might 
 at first be led to supj)ose. 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 Ibrms of speech prevailing in 
 mountainous regions. Such is the relation be- 
 tween the High German and the Dutch, between 
 the Danish and the Swedish, and between the 
 dialects of Venice and Komagna.* 
 
 • The contraction of the Portuguese language from the 
 Spanish is eHt'Cted chiclly by the suppression of the consonants ; 
 the consonant in the nii(hlle of tlic words being generally that 
 fixed upon for cxpunciion ; n retrenchtncnt tlie most perplexing 
 of any ta^thc etymologist. It is thus that (luloi- becomes dor, 
 grief; cclos, ceos, heaven; nitii/nr, ni'nr ; iii/lo, tm ; lUllo, ilu, \c. 
 'riicrc appear to lie some letters lor whicli ilic Porttiguese
 
 OK THE PORTUGUESE. 253 
 
 The Teutonic conquerors of Portugal very pro- 
 bably spoke a different language from those of the 
 rest of Spain; and if any monumentsof the Ainiiliar 
 language of the middle ages remained, it would, 
 perhaps, appear that among the Vandals and the 
 Suevi, who never mingled much with the Visi- 
 goths, those peculiar contractions 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 pro- 
 vinces, after the conquest of the Barbarians, as we 
 may observe the Portuguese bears a stronger affi- 
 nity 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 alto- 
 gether uncertain ; although, at the same time, the 
 
 entertain an absolute aversion. The letter / is even expelled 
 from their proper names as, Alfonso is written Ajfonso ; Albo- 
 qucrque, Aboqtierque ; or it is sometimes changed into an r; 
 blando becomes brando; and ptcijc, praja. The double / is 
 changed into ch ; for llegar we have c/iegar ; for lleno, c/ieo. The 
 consonant J, not aspirated, but pronounced as it is in French, 
 sometimes takes the place of y, and sometimes of ^. Thesis 
 used instead of h ; hidalgo being Jida/jo. M is invariably sub- 
 stituted for n at the end of words ; and the nasal syllables of 
 ion, are changed into the nasal ones of no. Thus nacion be- 
 comes na^uo ; navigacion, tiaiigd^do.
 
 254 ON Tin: LITLUATLRE 
 
 most learned writers Portugal can l)oast, main- 
 tain that llicir own particular dialect prevailed 
 among the Christians under the dominion of the 
 Arabs, and had been already applied to poetical 
 composition.* 
 
 • In his Europa Pi)rliigiics(i, Manuel de Faria y Sousa pre- 
 sents us with fragments of an historical poem, in verses of arte 
 mai/or, and which lie asserts had been discovered in the begin- 
 ning of llic twelfth century, in the castle of Lousam, when it 
 was taken from the Moors. The manuscript containing them, 
 apiJcarcd even then, he observes, to have been defaced by time, 
 from which he would infer, that the poem may be attributed to 
 tlic period of the conquest of the Arabs. But the fact itself 
 seems to rest on very doubtful authority, and tljc verses do not 
 appear cither in their construction, in their language, or even in 
 their ideas, to lay claim to so high an anticpiity. This earliest 
 monument of the Romance languages is, however, sulHciently 
 curious to merit attention ; and three stanzas are therefore here 
 subjoined : 
 
 A Juliaui et Horpas a saa grei daminhos, 
 
 Que cm scmbra co os netos de Agar fornczinhos, 
 
 Iluma atimarom prasmada fazanha, 
 
 Ca Muza, et Zariph com basta companha, 
 
 De juso da sina do Miramolino, 
 
 Com falsa infancom et Prestcs malinlio, 
 
 De Cepla aduxeron ao solar d'Espanha. 
 
 Kt poripie era forya, adarvc et fo^ado 
 Da Betica almina, et o sen Casteval 
 O Conde por encha, et pro comunal. 
 Km terra os encreos jMiyaron a sa.igrado. 
 El Gibaraltar, maguor (|ue adornado, 
 Kt CO compridouro per s;ui defensao, 
 l*ello susodeto seni algo de af;io 
 Presto fov di lies enirado el tilhudo.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 255 
 
 The antiquity of the earliest specimens of the 
 language seems to unite with historical ac- 
 
 E OS ende filhados leaes aa verdade, 
 
 Os hostes sedentos do sangue de onjndos 
 
 Metero a cutelo apres dc rendudos, 
 
 Sem que csguardassem nem scixo ou idadc ; 
 
 E tcndo atimada a tal crueldade, 
 
 O templo e orada de Decs prolanarom, 
 
 Voltando em mesquita, hu logo adorarom 
 
 Sa besta Mafoma a medes maldade. 
 
 Julian and Horpas, wiili tl»e adulterous blood 
 
 Of Agar, fiercest spoilers of tlie land, 
 These changes wrought. They call'd fierce Isl.im's brood 
 
 'Neatli the INIiramolin's sway ; a numerous l);uul 
 Of shameless priests and nobles. M usa stood, 
 
 And Zaripli there, upon the Iberian strand, 
 Jlail'd by the false count, who betray 'd the power 
 Of Bcctica, and yielded shrine and tower. 
 
 He led them safely to that rocky pile, 
 
 Gibraltar's strength. Though stored with rich resource 
 Of full supplies, though men and arms the while 
 
 Bristled its walls, its keys without remorse 
 Or strife he gave, a prey, by shameless guile, 
 
 To that vile unbelieving herd, the curse 
 Of Christian lands, who, rifling all its pride, 
 To slavery doom'd the fair ; the valiant died. 
 
 And died those martyrs to the truth, who clung 
 To their dear faith, midst every thrcafcniiig ill ; 
 
 Nor pity for the aged or the young 
 
 Stay'd their fierce swords, till they had drunk tlicir till ; 
 
 No sex found mercy, though, nnarm'd, they hung 
 Round their assassins' knees, rejoic'd to kill ; 
 
 And Moors, within tiie temples of the Lord, 
 
 Worshipp'd ihcir prophet lalse with rites abhorr'd.
 
 25G ON IHE LITERATI UL 
 
 counts, in lending us to the supposition that the 
 Cliristians under the Moorish govennncnt had re- 
 treated to tlie western coasts of Spain, wliile the 
 eastern parts were occupied by the Arabs, ambi- 
 tious of commanding 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 tiie 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 sup})osing, that the ])rovinces first recon([uered 
 were those which previous to their subjection 
 had been inhabited chieHy by Mocarabian Chris- 
 tians, who promoted the views of their liberators. 
 The little county of Portugal, comprehending 
 only at that time the modern province of 7'rrt 
 los AlonU's, or the district of liraganza, together 
 with a very small j)ortion o^ the Minho, suc- 
 ceeded, like (ialicia, in throwing off the Maho- 
 metan yoke, a short time after their invasion. 
 But as long as the dominion of the Ommiades 
 Caliphs continued, the Portuguese, 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 llescham el 
 Mowajed, the last ol the (Jmmiades of Cordova,
 
 or THE PORTUGUr.SE. 2.57 
 
 in 1031, and which continued until 1087, wlien 
 Joseph, the son of Teschfin the Morabite, brought 
 the Moors of Spain under the dominion of Mo- 
 rocco, gave both the Portuguese and the Cas- 
 tilians time to recover themselves, and to 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. Flenry of 
 Burgundy, its first acknowledged 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 ex- 
 pense of the surrounding Moors. His son Al- 
 fonso Henriquez, the real founder of the Por- 
 tuguese monarchy, successively acquired, during 
 a life of ninety-one, and a reign of seventy-three 
 years,* nearly the whole of Portugal, with the 
 exception of the kingdom of Algarves. The 
 efforts of the Almoravides to keep the lesser 
 princes of Spain in subjection to the em- 
 pire of Morocco, appear to have afforded a 
 short respite to the Christians ; while the very 
 formidable number of Mo^arabian Christians in 
 
 * Between 1 112 and 118.>. 
 VOL. IV. S
 
 258 o\ Tin: litlkatike 
 
 these provinces, doubtless promoted a conquest, 
 which might more justly be considered a revolu- 
 tion, inasmuch as it introduced a new dynasty 
 and a new religion, without otherwise changing 
 the peoj)le. Tnder the reign of the same Alfonso 
 was achieved the memorable victory of Ourique, 
 obtained over the Moors, on the twenty-sixth 
 of July U30, in which live Moorish Kings were 
 defeated, and which was followed by the adop- 
 tion of the title of kingdom, in j)lace of the 
 county, of l\)rtugal. The Cortes, assembled at 
 Lameuo in 1 145, conferred a free constitution 
 up(jn 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 extensive commerce. 
 
 Tlie great wealth and power enjoyed by this 
 vast capital of a small nation, soon exercised a 
 decisive influence on the genius and manners of 
 the people. Imoih the earliest times, the Portu- 
 guese had been habituated to a life of active in- 
 tercourse with society and mankind, rather than 
 to one of monkish seclusion in their castles. 
 They were, therefore, far less haughty and fana- 
 tical; wink' ;il the same time, in consequence of 
 llic greater number of Mocarabians incorj)orated 
 with the nation, the inHuence of Eastern man- 
 ners was dirtuseil ovir them, more generally than 
 over the Castilian>-. I'he passion of love seemed 
 to oeeu|)y a larger share of thiir existence; it
 
 OF THE PORTUGUKSE. 259 
 
 was at once more impassioned and contempla- 
 tive ; and their poetry was mingled with a sort of 
 worship of the idols of their affections, more en- 
 thusiastic 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 ob- 
 serve 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 meet- 
 ing with a cottage, a blade of corn, or the slight- 
 est appearance 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 Por- 
 tuguese under the severest labours and privations. 
 As seamen and shepherds, they were inured to 
 hardships, and ready to encounter the greatest 
 dangers ; l)ut as soon as the excitement of the 
 
 s 2
 
 2G0 ON THE MTtUATUUE 
 
 passions ceased, an habitual and thoughtful in- 
 dolence resumed its sway. The indulgence of 
 this pro|)ensity, peculiar to the people of the 
 South, does not aj)pear to enervate the mind 
 as in more northern rcLrions. The pleasures to 
 which they abandon themselves are of a re- 
 fined nature, and are found in the enjoyment 
 of contemplative feelings, and the pleasing in- 
 fluences of the climate. In the moments when 
 they apj)ear least active, they are really alive 
 to emotions derived from external nature. How- 
 ever fallen the Portuguese may appear to us in 
 these latter ages from the glory of their ances- 
 tors, 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 
 following the frontiers of this little kingdom 
 were never known, at least in Europe, to have 
 been encroached upon or thrown back. Heroic 
 battles against the Moors acquired for them a 
 country which they contended for, inch by inch. 
 Tn 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 e\j)loits which illustrate the 
 period, without the assistance of the Portuguese, 
 who always occupied an honourable station.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 261 
 
 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 Mo- 
 rocco. 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. Va- 
 rious hardy navigators traversed the torrid zone, 
 then supposed uninhabitable, passed the line, 
 and, launching into an unknown sea, steered 
 their course by the aid of constellations in a 
 heaven which was equally unknown to them. 
 It was then that they first doubled the appal- 
 ling 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 king- 
 doms, equalling in extent and resources the mo- 
 dern possessions of the English, was the work 
 of a little band of adventurers. Their dominion 
 there is, indeed, now no more ; but the Por- 
 tuguese 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.
 
 2G2 0\ TMt LITEIIATUUE 
 
 The poetry of l^rtugal 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 tlu' Mo^arahians, or Christian Moors. 
 Manuel de Faria y Sousa has preserved some 
 specimens of ballads ascribed to Gonzalo Her- 
 migues, and Egaz Moniz, two knights who 
 flourished under All'onso I. the last of whom is 
 represented by Camoens as a perfect model of 
 heroism. We are assured that he really died 
 of grief, on learning the infidelity of the beauti- 
 ful Viulante, the lady to whom his love-songs 
 were addressed. What 1 have seen, however, of 
 his poetry, aj^pcars to me nearly unintelligible.* 
 As the productions of these two heroes consti- 
 tute 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 en- 
 quiries of the antic^uary have been more par- 
 ticularly directed to the recovery of the verses 
 written by king Diunysius, 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 
 
 • Manuel de Faria, who cites tlicm in his F.uropn Portvgvrsa, 
 confesses that he himself can conij)rehen(l only a few of the 
 words, without, however, being able to collect their meaning 
 Europa PoitiigiUin : vol. iii, p. iv, c. ix, p.ipe 379, &c.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUKSE. 263 
 
 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 cen- 
 tury to the notice of the Portuguese, and that 
 the latter availed themselves of these master- 
 pieces of song, which were not imitated until 
 a much later period in Spain. But such vestiges 
 of the early poetry of Portugal, during three 
 centuries, between the years 1100 and 1400, 
 may be said to belong rather to antiquarian 
 than to literary research ; and serve to mark 
 the progressive changes of the language much 
 more than the degrees of intellectual cultivation 
 and the developcment 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 charac- 
 ter. 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 them- 
 selves masters of the kingdom of the Algarves. 
 They were surrounded on all sides by the peo- 
 ple of Castile, and no longer bordered u))on 
 the confines of the Moors; and the sanguinary
 
 2G4 ON TUK L IT i: KAIL' lit 
 
 wars of the fourteenth century, in which they 
 engaged, had luiled to enhxrgc the limits of the 
 monarchy. In the earlv i)art of the fifteenth 
 century, the spirit of cliivalry seemed to acquire 
 fresh energy, and to spread tlirough all ranks 
 of the people. K^ing 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, whicli was 
 considered as the key of the kingdom of Fez ; a 
 place which his son prince Fernando, the In- 
 flexible Prince of Calderon, refused to yield up, 
 even to preserve his own life and liberty. In the 
 succeeding reigns of his sons„ and of his grandson 
 Alfonso, called the African, many other cities 
 were captured from the Moors, on the coasts of 
 Fez and Morocco. It is not unlikely that the 
 Portuguese would have taken the same advan- 
 tage of the weakness of these barbaric powers, 
 as their ancestors had dt^ne 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. 
 
 Hut the astonishing activity displayed by 
 the I'ortuguese, 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
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 265 
 
 which they so much delighted to dwell. Their 
 existence seemed to be divided between war 
 and love, and their enthusiasm for poetry and 
 glory soon arrived at its highest pitch. The ad- 
 jacent 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 Cas- 
 tilians 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 agreeable school of warm and poetical 
 lovers, was Alaciasy justly entitled Z' Enamo- 
 rado. 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 and Ara- 
 gon, and the domineering favourite and minister
 
 2G6 ON TMK LIT1.UATURE 
 
 of his own kings. Villena set a just value on 
 the talents and ability of Macias, but was se- 
 riously displeased when he found him inclined 
 to mix his poetical loves and reveries with the 
 more wcii^hty aflairs 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 pri- 
 son belonging to the order of Calatrava, at Jaen, 
 of which Villena himself was the grand master. 
 There the lover poured forth the chief ))()rtion 
 of those songs, in which he seems to have dis- 
 missed all idea of the hardships of captivity, 
 in order that he might more largely indulge in 
 descrij)tions of the severer pangs of absence. 
 Porcuna having intercepted one of these poe- 
 tical api)eals 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 instru- 
 ment of his (liatli was sus|>en(led over his tomi) 
 ill the chureh of St. Catherine, with the follow- 
 ing simple notice : A (jui i/acc Alacias el Kna-
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 267 
 
 morado ; which may be said to have consecrated 
 the appellation. 
 
 Nearly all the productions of this unfortunate 
 poet, once admired and imitated throughout Por- 
 tugal and Spain, are now lost. Sanchez, how- 
 ever, 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 obsti- 
 nate perseverance, and, not unfrequently, to their 
 cruelty. In the following stanzas are embodied 
 the most striking sentiments of this effusion, so 
 intimately connected with the untimely fate of 
 the author : 
 
 * Though captive, it is not my chains 
 That strike each pitying heart with fear ; 
 All ask what more than mortal pains 
 Speak in each throb, each bitter tear. 
 
 * Cattivo, de niina tristura 
 
 Ya todos prenden espanto, 
 E preguntan que ventura 
 Foy que nie atormenta tanto? 
 Mas non se no mundo amigo 
 Que mais de meu quebranto 
 Diga desto que vos dio, 
 Que bem ser nunca dcbia 
 Al pensar que faz solia.
 
 2(j8 ON THK LITERATURE 
 
 I aim'd at fortune proud and high 
 To reach a blessing still more dear ; 
 Wherefore it is I lowly lie, 
 No friend to soothe my latest hour, 
 Or say she heeds the tears I pour. 
 
 What should I say ? Now do I learn 
 
 The wretch who dares thus madly soar, 
 
 (Long shall I rue the lesson stern) 
 
 Has mounted but to fall the lower. 
 
 If to desire her were to see, 
 
 Then should I see my love once more. 
 
 My heart confess'd my destiny. 
 
 And warn'd me still, with bodings vain. 
 
 Of love desj)is'd and cold disdain. 
 
 Cuidc subir en alteza 
 
 Por cobrar mayor estado, 
 E cai en tal pobrcza 
 Que moiro desamparado. 
 Com pesar e com deseio ; 
 Que V03 direy mal fadado ? 
 Lo que yo he ben ovcjo ; 
 Quando o loco cay mas alto 
 Subir prende mayor salto. 
 
 I'ero que pohre sandece ! 
 Portjuo me den a pesar, 
 Mina loc-ura asi crcce 
 (iue moiro ])or entonar. 
 I'ero mas non a vrrey 
 Si non vcr e dcscjar, 
 E porem asi direy. 
 Qui en carcel sole viver 
 En carcel sobcjn morcr.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 2G9 
 
 We are assured on the authority of Portuguese 
 antiquaries, that the poetical followers of Macias 
 were extremely numerous, 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 me- 
 lancholy which they breathed into their effu- 
 sions, 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 indefatiga- 
 ble exertions of Boutterwek have been in vain 
 directed to the different libraries throuohout 
 Germany in pursuit of them, while my own re- 
 searches into those of Italy and Paris have only 
 had a similar result ; insomuch that this very 
 brilliant period, which is said to have decorated 
 
 Miiia Ventura en demanda 
 Me puso atan dudada, 
 Que mi corazon me manda 
 Que seya siempre negada. 
 Pero mais non saberan 
 De miiia coyta lazdrada, 
 E poren asi diran 
 Can rabioso c cosa braba 
 De su senor se que traba. 
 
 Sanchez, t. i. p. 138, § 212 to 221,
 
 270 ON THE LITERATUHF. 
 
 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 con- 
 quests in Africa and the Indies, while the very 
 heroism of chivalry seemed united in her people 
 with all the persevering activity peculiar to a com- 
 mercial state. The Infant Don Henry had now 
 directed the energies of the nation for a period of 
 forty-three years (1420 to 14G3); the western 
 coast of Africa appeared covered with Portu- 
 guese 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 
 
 • A member of tlie Academy of Lisbon, Joaquim Jose Fcr- 
 roira Gor«lo, was commissioned by the academy in the year 
 1 790, to examine the Portumiese books preserved in the Spanish 
 libraries al Madrid. He there discovered a Portuguese Cancin- 
 luirn, written in the fifteenth century, and containing tlie verses 
 of one liundreil and fifty-five jioets, wliosc names he records. 
 All these poems are in the burles(jue style, but no specimens 
 of them are given. Mcmoriax tic Lcttciattna Voituirinza, iii. GO. 
 
 This Cdncionciri), the first of its kind, is of extreme rarity. A 
 copy is preserved in the Colh'geof the Nobles at Lisbon. Ano- 
 ther is it) the possession of Sir Charles Stuart, the English am- 
 bassador at the Court of France. No other copy is known. The 
 Cancionri in of Ueysende, which was published at a subsequent 
 |)eriod, is more fretpiently met with.
 
 OF THE POUTUGUESE. 271 
 
 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 af 
 heroes, whose valour has never been surpassed, 
 conferred lustre on this unknown world. In 
 the year 1507, Alfonso d' Albuquerque possessed 
 himself of the kingdom of Ormuz, and in 1510, of 
 Goa ; thus within a few years, adding an im- 
 mense empire to the crown of Portugal. 
 
 About the same period, under the reign of the 
 great Emmanuel, between the years 1495 and 
 1521, appeared Bernardim Ribeyro, one of the 
 earliest and best poets of Portugal, who rose to 
 very distinj^uished 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 effusions, 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 ex- 
 tremely 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 impression, that he is said to have 
 passed w hole nights among the woods, or beside
 
 272 ON THE I.ITEKAIUUK 
 
 the banks of a solitary stream, pouring forth the 
 tale of his woes in strains of mingled tenderness 
 and despair. 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 manner these apparent contradictions are 
 to be reconciled. 
 
 Ribeyro's most celebrated pieces consist of 
 eclogues; and he was the first among the poets 
 of Sj)ain who represented the pastoral life as the 
 j)oetical model of human life, and as the ideal 
 point from which every ])assion and sentiment 
 ought to be viewed. This idea, which threw an 
 air of romantic sweetness and elegance over the 
 poetry of the sixteenth century, but at the same 
 time gave to it a monotonous 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 regarded as the earliest in Eu- 
 rope. The scene of Ribeyro's pastorals is in- 
 variably laid in his own country. We are led 
 along the banks of the Tagus and the Mondego, 
 and wander amidst the scenery of the sea-shores. 
 His shepherds arc all Portuguese, and his pea- 
 sant girls liaN c all ol them Christian names. We 
 often feel sensible, however, of a sort of relation 
 and resemblanc<*, which we do not (jiiitr under-
 
 {^F THE PORTUGUESE. 273 
 
 stand, between the events belonging to this pas- 
 toral world, and that in which the author really 
 moved at court. Under the disguise of fictitious 
 characters, he evidently sought to place before 
 the eyes of his beloved mistress the feelings of 
 his own breast ; and the wretchedness of an im- 
 passioned 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, more- 
 over, a tinge of conceit, which we must not ex- 
 pect 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 manner, can be sup- 
 posed to confer. His eclogues are, for the most 
 part, ^^ritten in rechndilhas, in a verse consisting 
 of four trochees, and a stanza of nine or ten 
 lines. The eclogue is always divided into two 
 parts, one of which is a recital or dialogue, by 
 way of introduction, and the other a lyric 
 song by a shepherd, on which a more particular 
 degree of poetic care and polish is bestowed. 
 Such, with very slight alterations, was the me- 
 thod pursued by Sanazzaro, which most proba- 
 bly served as a model for Ribeyro; though the 
 introductory pieces of the Italian poet are given 
 in each eclogue in a sort of measured prose in- 
 stead of verse; a form which was likewise 
 adopted at a later period by the Portuguese. 
 
 VOL. J v. T
 
 274 ox TMK. LITEUATUUF. 
 
 or all species of poetry, perhajis, the lyric 
 and bucolic are least susceptible of being ren- 
 dered into another tongue. They lose the very 
 essence of their beauty ; and an exquisite pas- 
 sage 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 melli- 
 fluous 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 : 
 
 • 01), wretched lover ! wliillier flee ? 
 
 What refuge from the ills I bear? 
 None to console me, or to free, 
 
 And none with whom my griefs to share! 
 Sad, to the wild waves of the sea 
 
 I tell the tale of my despair 
 In broken accents, passion fraught, 
 
 As wandering by some rocky steep, 
 
 I tfath the echoes how to weep 
 In dying strains, strains dying love liath taught. 
 
 • Triste de mi, que sera ? 
 () coitado que farei, 
 Que nam sei onde me vA 
 Com quern me consolarei f 
 Ou (jucm me consolara f 
 Ao longo das Hilteiras, 
 Ao som das suaa agoas, 
 Chorarci muitas cnncciras, 
 Minhas magoas derradciras, 
 Miiihas derradeiras magoas.
 
 I 
 
 OK THE PORTUGUtSE. 275 
 
 There is not one of all I loved 
 
 But fail'd me in my suffering hour, 
 And saw my silent tears unmoved. 
 
 Soon may these throbbing griefs o'erpower 
 Both life and love, so Heaven approved ! 
 
 For she hath bade me hope no more. 
 I would not wish her such a doom : 
 
 No! though she break this bruised heart, 
 
 I could not wish her so to part 
 From all she loved, to seek, like me, the tomb. 
 
 How long these wretched days appear. 
 
 Consumed in vain and weak desires ; 
 Imagined joys that end in fear, 
 
 And baffled hopes and wild love's fires. 
 At last then, let me cease to bear 
 
 The lot my sorrowing spirit tires ! 
 For length of days fresh sorrow brings : 
 
 I meet the coming hours with grief — 
 
 Hours that can bring me no relief, 
 But deeper anguish on their silent wings. 
 
 We have already observed that Ribeyro en- 
 tered into the marriage state, and his biographers 
 
 Todos fogem ja de mim, 
 Todos me desempararem, 
 Meus males sos me ficarcm, 
 Pera me darem a fim 
 Com que nunca se acabaram. 
 De todo bem desespero, 
 Pois me desespera quern 
 Me quer mal que Ihe nam quero ; 
 Nam Ihe quero se nam bem, 
 Bem que nunca delha cspero. 
 T 2
 
 270 ON THE LITEUATl'RE 
 
 agree in giving him the character of an attec- 
 tionate and constant husband. In one of his 
 cantigas, hcnvever, whicli has been handed down 
 to us, he contrasts the passion lliat he enter- 
 tained for liis mistress with the matrimonial fide- 
 lity due to his wife, in a manner by no means 
 flattering to the latter.* 
 
 I am not wed. No, lady, no ; 
 'I'lioii^h with my hand I seal'd the vow, 
 My heart, unmarried, fondly turns to you. 
 
 Ere yet I jjazcd upon your face. 
 Unconscious that I err'd, I gave 
 
 O nieus desditosos dias 
 O meus dias desditosos : 
 Como vos his saudosos, 
 Saudosos de aleirrias, 
 D'alegrias desejosos ; 
 Deixame ja descansar, 
 I'oisijuc eu vos fa^o tristes, 
 I ristes, porquc men pesar 
 Me den os males que vistes, 
 E miiitns mais ]ior passar. 
 
 • We here subjoin the whole of this little caiitiga, in the fornj 
 m which it has been cited by Houtterwek : 
 
 Nam sam casado, senhora, 
 Que ainda (jue dei a nino, 
 Nam cnsei o cora^au. 
 
 Antes que vos conhecese, 
 •Sem errar contra vos nada.
 
 OK THE POKIUGUKSE. 277 
 
 One trifling hand, nor cared to save 
 
 Its freedom, keeping in its place 
 
 Both eyes and heart, where you may trace, 
 
 Lady, how much they are your own ; 
 
 Oh, freely yours ! and yours alone. 
 
 They say, Love's union, to be blest 
 
 On either part, should meet with free, 
 
 Unfetter'd souls ; and you may see. 
 
 My thoughts, my liberty, my rest, 
 
 Are all shrin'd in one gentle breast; 
 
 Glad that though one poor hand I lost, 
 
 You still my heart and soul and love may boast. 
 
 Hua soa mao fiz casada, 
 Sem que mais nisso metesse 
 Doulhe que ella se perdcsse ; 
 Soltciros e vossos sao 
 Os olhos e o corayao. 
 
 Dizem que o bom casamcnto 
 Se a de fazer de vontade, 
 Eu a vos a libertade 
 Vos dei e o pensamento ; 
 Nisto soo me achei contento. 
 Que se a outra dei a mao 
 Dei a vos o corajao. 
 
 Como senhora vos vi, 
 
 Sem palavras de prcsente, 
 Na alma vos recebi, 
 Onde estareis para sempre ; 
 Nam dee palavra, somcnte 
 Nem fiz mais que dar a mao, 
 (luardando vos o corarao.
 
 278 ON THE LITfcUATUUl. 
 
 Wc think, however, tliat we can discover a 
 strain of sjiortiveness running througli this little 
 piece, which might serve to tran([nillize the feel- 
 ings of his consort. It was with a very ditierent 
 expression of feeling that Ribeyro had sung 
 his early loves, in the de[)th and seriousness of 
 his soul. 
 
 There remains, likewise, a singular work <»f 
 the same hand in prose, consisting of a romance, 
 entitled, MtnuKi c Mo^a: Tlic In)ioccut )'(iinii:[ 
 Ciirl; and it is ecjually remarkable as being the 
 earliest Portuguese production written in prose, 
 aiming at an elevation of language and the ex- 
 pression of the more impassioned sentiments of 
 the heart. It is a mere fragment, and the author 
 has added to its obscurity by a studied conceal- 
 
 Caseimc com iiaii ciiiilailo, 
 E com vosso ilcscjar 
 Senhora nam sau casado ; 
 Nam mo qiioiras a cuitar 
 Que scrvirvos e amar 
 Mo nascco do cora^ao 
 Que tcndcs cm vossa m.io. 
 
 O casar nam fr/ mudanV'i 
 ICm men anli^jiio ciiidado, 
 Ncm tnc ncgou fspcranya 
 Do ^alardam csporado ; 
 Nam mc cn^eitt-is jior c.ts.nlo 
 (iiic so a oiiira di-i a mao 
 A vus dci o Curasao.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 279 
 
 ment 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 consi- 
 dered in the light of a mixed pastoral and chival- 
 ric story, which served as a model for the other 
 poets of Portugal, and, in particular, for iMonte- 
 mayor. Here, therefore, we find the source of 
 the Diana, and of the prolific race of Spanish ro- 
 mances, as well as of the Astrea, and its no less nu- 
 merous offspring, in the literary annals of France. 
 Next follows Christoval Falcam, a Kni":ht of 
 the Cross, an Admiral, and Governor of Madeira. 
 He was contemporary with Ribeyro, and, like 
 him, composed eclogues, equally full of ro- 
 mantic mysticism and the dreams and sorrows of 
 love. The genius of Portuguese poetry is cer- 
 tainly 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, Falcam was 
 acquainted with the })assions, 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
 
 280 «)\ rriE liikuatluk 
 
 Mtnuia c Moai ; a work which contains nearly 
 the whole of the Portuguese poetry that ap- 
 peared before the reign of John HI.* 
 
 • We subjoin a few of the strophes of this long eclogue. 
 Its fair object, Maria, after an interview with him, is again 
 separated from her lover. Christoval Falyam concealed himself 
 under the name of Crisfal : 
 
 E dizendo : o mcsqniuha, 
 Como pude ser tain criia ? 
 Bern abravado me tinha, 
 A niiiiha boca na sua, 
 E a sua face na minlia ; 
 liagrimas tinha choradas 
 Que com a hoca gostey ; 
 Mas com (jiuinto ccrto sey 
 Que as lagrimas sara salgadas, 
 Atiuellas doces achey. 
 
 Soltci as ininhas entam, 
 
 Com muitas palauras trisles ; 
 E tomey por coneruzam, 
 Ahna porque nam partistes, 
 Que bem tinheis de rezam. 
 luitam ella assi chorosa 
 De tam choroso me vcr, 
 J a pera me socorrer, 
 Com liuma voz piadosa 
 Comezoume assi dizcr. 
 
 Amor de n)inlia vontadc 
 
 Ora non mais ! Crisfal manyo, 
 liem sey tiia Jeaidade, 
 Ay <|ue grande deseanrt) 
 He falar com a vi rdadc ?
 
 OF riiK iMiiru(;u ESE. 281 
 
 In the same work we also meet with several 
 glose.s, or voltas, upon a variety of devices and can- 
 zonets, which are often very laboriously studied, 
 while they occasionally discover something of 
 antique simplicity and grace*. 
 
 Eu sey bem que nao me mentes, 
 Que o menter he diferente ; 
 Nam fala d'alma quern mente. 
 Crisfal, nam te descontentes, 
 Se me queres ver contente. 
 
 * The following is, perhaps, one of the most simple and 
 pleasing of these pieces : 
 
 Nam posso dormir as noites, 
 Amor, nam as posso dormir. 
 
 Desque mens olhos olharom 
 Em vos seu mal e seu bem, 
 Se algum tempo repousarom, 
 Ja nenhum repouso tem. 
 Dias vam e noutes vem 
 Sem vos ver nam vos ouvir ; 
 Como as podcrei dormir ? 
 
 Meu pensamento ocupado 
 Na causa de seu pesar, 
 Acorda sempre o cuidado 
 Para nunca descuidar. 
 As noites do repousar 
 Dias sam ao meu sentir, 
 Noutes de meu nam dormir.
 
 •2^2 ON tml: mtf, katike 
 
 Tlie brilliant ivigii of the great Eininamiel was 
 succeeded by that of John 111. which continued 
 from the year 1521 to 15o7; but this prince failed 
 in securiiiLT tor his sul)jects the same prosperity 
 which they ii;id enjoyed under his father, lie 
 involved himself in imprudent wars in Asia, and 
 invaded llie civil ami religious rights of his Euro- 
 pean subjects. In IVIO, he introduccfl into his 
 states the Spanish liupiisition, in order to enslave 
 the minds and dictate to the consciences of his 
 peoi)!i'. He bestowed all the power at his court 
 upon IJK' .Jesuits ; and he confided to their care 
 the education of his grandson, Don Sebastian, 
 whose fanaticism subsequently led to the destruc- 
 tion of the country. But, whilst his wxnikness 
 and folly were thus, during a long reign, prepar- 
 ing the downfal ol the monarchy, his taste Ibr 
 
 Toilo o bein he ja passado 
 K passailo cm nial prcstiitc ; 
 O scntido dcsvclado 
 O coracao descontcntc ; 
 () jiiizo que csto scntc 
 Conio sc dcvc scntir, 
 Poiico Icixara donnir. 
 
 Coiiio nam \ i o (jiic vcjo 
 Cos ollios do cora^ain, 
 Nam me dcito sciii di-sscjo 
 Ncm me erj^uo ^ixn paixaii.. 
 Oh dins sem vos vcr, vam, 
 As noiu-K scm vos ouvir, 
 Imi as nam pos.so dormir
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 283 
 
 letters, and the patronage he aftbrded to them, 
 raised the literature of Portugal to a high degree 
 of excellence. 
 
 Among the first of the classic poets who dis- 
 tinguished themselves at his court, was Saa de 
 Miranda, already known to us in the character 
 of a Castilian writer. We have seen that his 
 eclogues in that tongue, are among the first in 
 point of time, and are the most respectable in 
 point of merit. All the Portuguese poets equally 
 cultivated the two languages. Regarding their 
 own as best adapted to soft and impassioned 
 sentiment, they had recourse to the Castilian 
 when they wished to embody more elevated and 
 heroic thoughts ; and sometimes, when they 
 treated amusing and burlesque themes, as if the 
 mere employment of a foreign dialect gave a 
 ludicrous air to the ideas. Several of the finest 
 poems of Saa de Miranda, nearly the whole of 
 those of Montemayor, and a few pieces of verse 
 at least from the pens of all the other Portuguese 
 poets, are in the language of Castile, while there 
 is scarcely an instance of any Spanish ])oet ex- 
 pressing his })uclical feelings in the Portuguese 
 tongue. 
 
 The birth of Saa de Miranda took place at Co- 
 imbra, about the year 1495. Of noble parent- 
 age, he was early intended for the legal pro- 
 fession, and he became [)rofessor of law iu the 
 university of his native place. These pursuits.
 
 *2S4 ON I III-, LllKHAll Ui. 
 
 however, were too little in unison with his tastes 
 and talents, to be continued beyond the lite-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 ob- 
 tained a situation at the court of Lisbon, where 
 he was generally regarded as one of the most 
 j)lcasing characters, although not unfretjuently 
 sutfering 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 laltered ; the tears starlcci into 
 his eyes; and it was only when he was torcibly 
 roused from this state of wretchedness, that he 
 was conscious of having given way lo his emo- 
 tions. Philosojihical studies were blended with 
 his love of poetry, and he apjiears to have con- 
 ceived as ardent an affection for (Irecian as for 
 Roman literature. To music he is said to have 
 been |)assionately devoted, and to have been a 
 line pertbrmer on the violin. In consequence 
 of a (juarrcl fastened iipon liim by one of the 
 favourite courtiers, he was ctiustrained to retire 
 to his country seat of Taj^ada, near Ponte de 
 Lima, between the Douro and Miidio. There he
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 285 
 
 devoted the remainder of his days to the plea- 
 sures 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 l)y 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 pro- 
 duce a revolution in the national literature. 
 But its introduction into Portugal some time be- 
 fore, 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 following sonnet presents a 
 favourable specimen of the style of this poet.* 
 
 • Nam sei que em vos mas vejo, nao sey que 
 Mais 0U90 et sinto ao vir vosso, et fallar ; 
 Nao sey que entendo mais, te no callar, 
 Nem, quando vos nam vejo, alma que vee. 
 
 Que Uic aparece em qual parte que este, 
 Olhe o Ceo, olhe a terra, ou oihe o mar, 
 E triste aquellc vosso susurrar, 
 Em que tanto mais vai, que dircy que c ?
 
 28G OV IMF. I.ITF.UATURE 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 I know not, lady, by what nameless cliarni 
 
 Tliose looks, that voice, that smile, have each the power 
 Ofkincllini,' loftier thoughts, anil feelings more 
 
 Kesolved and higli. Kvcn in your silence, warm 
 
 Soft accents seem my sorrows to disarm ; 
 
 And when with tears your absence 1 deplore, 
 Where'er I turn, your influence, as before, 
 
 Pursues me, in your voice, your eye, your form. 
 
 Whence are those mild and mournful sounds 1 hear, 
 Tiirough every land, and on the pathless sea ? 
 Is it some spirit of air or fire, from thee, 
 
 Subject to laws I move by and revere ; 
 
 Which, lighted by thy glance, can ne'er decay — 
 
 Rut what I know not, why attempt to say? 
 
 If we arc pleased with the de[)th and delicacy 
 f)f feeling displayed in this sonnet, we shall per- 
 haps he no less gratified with the striking picture 
 of a sunset in the following, where Nature appears 
 in her truest and hajipiest colours, and the re- 
 flections rising out ol' the scene harmonize beau- 
 tifully with its external character. Whatever 
 degree of praise may have been bestowed by 
 
 Em verdade nao scy (juc he isto (juc anda 
 Entrc nos, ou sc he ar, como parcce, 
 Ou fogo d'outra sorte, et d'outra ley, 
 
 ICui (pie ando, de (pie vivo, et mmca abranda 
 I'or Ventura cpie ji vista resplaiulece. 
 ( )ra I) (pie eu sey la(~) inal como direy /
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 287 
 
 modern critics upon a boldness of imagination, 
 which, in other times, would have been censured 
 as extravagance, fine description and reflection 
 have their own ])eculiar merits; and these, under 
 the inspiration of a true poet, are always sure to 
 command the emotions of his readers, and to 
 attract them b5^ the force of truth. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 * As now the sun glows broader in the West, 
 
 Birds cease to sing, and cooler breezes blow, 
 And from yon rocky heights hoarse waters flow, 
 
 Whose music wild chases the thoughts of rest ; 
 
 With mournful fancies and deep cares oppress'd, 
 I gaze upon this fleeting worldly show. 
 Whose vain and empty pomps like shadows go, 
 
 Or swift as light sails o'er the ocean's breast. 
 
 Day after day, hope after hope, expires ! 
 
 Here once I wander'd, 'mid these shades and flowers, 
 Along these winding banks and green-wood bowers, 
 
 Fill'd with the wild-bird's song, that never tires. 
 
 Now all seems mute — all fled ! But these shall live, 
 
 And bloom again : alone unchanged, I grieve. 
 
 * O sol he grande ; caem com a calma as aves 
 Do tempo, em tal sazao que soe ser fria, 
 Esta agoa que d'alto cae, acordarme hia 
 Do sono nao, mas de cuidados graves. 
 
 O cousas todas viis, todas mudaveis ! 
 Qual he o corafao que em vos confia? 
 Passando hum dia vay, passa outro dia, 
 Incertos todos mais que ao vento as naves.
 
 288 ox THE LITERATI' KF. 
 
 But it wai^ in tlie pastoral world that Saa do 
 INIiranda seemed to breathe and live; a world of 
 his own. His thoughts and his atiections conii- 
 nuallv recurred to it ; and his other productions 
 every where bear the stamp of his idyls and his ro- 
 mance. His most deliglitful eclogues, it is true, 
 as 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.* 
 
 En vi ja por aqui sombras ct Horcs, 
 Vi aj^oas, ct vi fontcs, vi vertlura, 
 As aves vi cantar (odas d'ainores. 
 
 Mudo et scco lie ja tudo, ct do iiii.stura 
 
 Tambeni lazcndonic, cu fuy d'oulras cores. 
 E tudo o mais rcnova, isto he sem cura. 
 
 • These consist of tlie fourth addressed to Don Manuel of 
 rorluRal, and the eighth to Nun Alvarez Pereira. In the latter, 
 Miranda has turned into verse the satiric fable of Pierre Car- 
 dinal on the rain which ])roduced madness. The orij^'inal Pro- 
 vencal is cited in flu- fifth chapter; vol. i, p. 1!»7. We now 
 rarely meet with the old fictions of the 'JVoubadours in modern 
 verse, which renders this the more remarkable. Its application, 
 however, is difl'erent. 
 
 HiKiTo, Str. .^I. 
 Come dc loda a vianda, 
 Nam andcs ncsses antejos 
 Nam sijas tam vindo a banda, 
 Jcmte a volta cos desejos.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 289 
 
 Miranda was the first who introduced poetical 
 epistles to the notice of the Portuguese. In these 
 he united a sort of pastoral language, more pecu- 
 
 Anda por onde o carro anda ; 
 Vez como os mundos sao I'eitos ; 
 Somos miiitos, tii so es : 
 Poucos sao OS satisfeitos, 
 Hum esquerdo entre os direitos 
 Parece que anda ao rcvcz. 
 
 32. 
 
 Dia de Mayo chorco ; 
 A quantos agoa alcan^ou 
 A tantos endoudecco ; 
 Ouve hum so que se salvou, 
 Assi entam Ihc pareceo. 
 Dera, vista as sanceadas 
 Essas, que tinha mais perto, 
 Vio armar as trovoadas, 
 Alongou mais as passadas, 
 Foyse acolhendo ao cuberto. 
 
 33. 
 Ao outro dia, hum Ihc dava 
 Papaiotcs no nariz, 
 Vinha outro que o cscornava, 
 Ei tanibem era o juiz 
 Que de riso se finava. 
 Bradava elle, homens olhay ! 
 Hiam Ihe co dedo ao olho ; 
 Dissc entam, pois assi vay 
 Nam creo logo em raeu pay, 
 Se me desta agoa nam molho. 
 VOL. IV. U
 
 290 ()V THi; I ITF.UATl'UE 
 
 liarly his own, to an imitatiun of his favourite 
 author, Horace; together forming an union of 
 romantic and didactic verse, whose attractions 
 consist in the trutli and feeling it displays, 
 but which is, on the other hand, somewhat ver- 
 bose and suj)erticlal. Unfortunately, Miranda was 
 too much subjected to monastic authority to de- 
 velopc his thoughts clearly and boldly to the 
 world. He did not venture to prefix the La- 
 tin title of Kpistold' to this portion of his produc- 
 tions, 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 
 Consistent, one in faith, in face, 
 Who cannot stoop, tliouj,'h ho may fall. 
 Will fearless go wherever Fale may call, 
 Except to court, to jiension, and to jilace. 
 
 I l<»iiiLin (If liuiu so parecer, 
 D'hum Ku rustro, liuii so fi-, 
 D'anlcs (juebrar (jue torcer, 
 Ellc tudo podc ser, 
 Mas de corlf homem nao he.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUKSE. 291 
 
 In the fifth Epistle we likewise meet with a 
 singular passage, respecting the progress of a 
 luxurious and dissipated taste in Portugal, im- 
 bibed during its commerce with the East. It 
 will be found to run as follows : 
 
 * So rude were our forefathers in the lore 
 
 Of letters, that they scarce knew how to read ; 
 
 Though valiant all and virtuous : not the more 
 I praise their ignorance; but I would plead 
 
 For the grave manners by our sires of yore 
 
 Observed, which now their sons no longer heed. 
 
 Whence springs the change ? From letters ? No ; from gay 
 
 And frivolous customs of the modern day. 
 
 I fear for thee, my country ; and I sigh 
 To see thee ape the slavish climes of Ind ; 
 
 To see thee lose in feeble sloth the high 
 Proud name thou ownest ; like that conqueror blind 
 
 And madly weak, who triumph'd but to die; 
 
 He whom Rome's proudest generals could not bind, 
 
 Nor Trebia, Thrasimene, nor Cannae tame, 
 
 To Capua's vices yielded up his fame. 
 
 * Dizem dos nossos passados. 
 Que OS mais nao sabiam ler, 
 Eram bons, eram ousados ; 
 Eu nam gabo o nam saber, 
 Como algus as gra9as dados. 
 Gabo muito os sens costumes : 
 Doeme se oje nam sam tais. 
 Mas das letras, ou perfumes, 
 De quais veo o dano mais ? 
 u 2
 
 292 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 The prediction of Miranda was but too soon 
 hilfilled. After the conquest of the Indies, 
 
 Dcstes inimos Indianos 
 Ey gram medo a Portugal, 
 Que venhao a t"a/erllie os danos 
 Que Capua fez a Anihal 
 Vencedor dc tantos annos. 
 A tcmpestadc espantosa 
 Do Trebia, de Trasinieno, 
 De Canas, Capua vi^osa 
 Venceo em tempo pcqucno. 
 
 The following advice respecting the obligation of kings to 
 listen before they condemn, is expressed in a very lively way : 
 
 Quint. 50. 
 
 Senhor, nosso padre Adam 
 Peccou, chamou o juiz, 
 Tenha que dizer, ou nao. 
 Mi sua fraca razao, 
 Porem livremente diz. 
 
 In the fourth Kpistle, stanza 39, &'c. the fable of the Town 
 and Country Mouse is extremely well told : 
 
 Hum rate usado a cidade, 
 Tomou o a noite por fora, 
 (Quem foge a neccssidadc). 
 IiCMiil)roulhe a vc Iha amistade 
 D'ontro r.iio ([iic :dli mora. 
 
 I-'az hum liouicn a lonia rrrada, 
 Muitas vezes, et acontcce 
 Crescimento na Jornada, 
 (I)iz)et enlrando na pis.-ida 
 Cidadaiu ln^o p:irc<r.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 293 
 
 luxury and corruption spread their baneful in- 
 fluence over Portugal. The accumulation of riches, 
 frequently obtained by the infliction of the most 
 
 O pobre assi salteado 
 D'um tamanho cortesam, 
 Em busca d'algum bocado 
 Vay e vem sempre apressado, 
 Sem tocar cos pes no chao. 
 
 Ordena a sua mezinha, 
 Poslhe nella algum legume, 
 Mesura quando hia e vinha, 
 Duelhe tudo quanto tinha, 
 Pede perdam por custume. 
 
 Diz, quern tal adivinhara ! 
 Contra o cortesam severo, 
 Que tanto andara e buscara, 
 Te que algua cousa achara, 
 A quem tanto devo et quero. 
 
 Cumpre porem nesta mesa, 
 Que aja mais fome que gula, 
 Temle a fogueyrinha acesa, 
 Faz rostro ledo a despesa, 
 Vee o outro et dissimula. 
 
 E dizendo esta consigo. 
 Que gente a dentre penedos, 
 Quanto a de Pedro a Rodrigo ? 
 Que bem diz o exemplo antigo 
 Que nao sao iguais os dedos ? 
 
 Miranda could hardly have drawn so spirited a picture, if it had 
 not been his own lot to entertain a courtier occasionally in his 
 humble dwelling.
 
 204 ox THE LITJ UATUKE 
 
 atrocious* cruelties, was more regarded than the 
 preservation of integrity and honour; while the 
 excesses to whicii indolence and profusion gave 
 rise, were considered as tlie just heritage of no- 
 bility, 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, 155;^ ; and not, 
 as it has been supposed, in that of Alcazar, 
 which did not take j^lace 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 him- 
 self glory in heaven, although it served to allay 
 his j)atcrnal griefs, was but little calculated to 
 heighten the ])oetic embellishment of the subject. 
 
 In imitation of the classic Italian writers 
 whom he admired, Miranda was desirous of con- 
 ferring a classical theatre upon his own country, 
 similar to that of the Romans, or to that which 
 was palroni/ed by Leo X. in Italy. He succes- 
 sively emulated the dramas of Ariostoand of Ma- 
 chiavel, of Plautus and of Terence; and he pro- 
 duced, among others, two comedies which may 
 be referred to the class of iruditc comcdu's in the 
 literature of Ititiy, (piite o|)|)osite in character to 
 a species of cnmaUcs of art, at th:il time played
 
 OF THl-: PORTUGUESE. 295 
 
 on the boards of Portugal. One of these dramas 
 by Miranda is entitled, Os Edrangeiros : The 
 Strangers ; the other, Os Villalpcnidios, the name 
 of two Spanish soldiers introduced upon the 
 scene. The action is placed in Italy, but the 
 poet would have succeeded 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 Boutter- 
 wek 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 approach- 
 ing nearest to him in the taste and genius of 
 his compositions, was Montemayor. Though a 
 Portuguese by birth, he seems to have refused to 
 hold a station in the literary history of his coun- 
 try. The only specimens of his Portuguese 
 poetry which remain, are two little songs to be 
 found in the seventh book of his Diana, and al- 
 most too trifling to deserve our notice. The suc- 
 ceeding age, however, produced a poet, who 
 dedicated his talents to his country ; who la- 
 boured to reconcile the «jfenius of his native Ian-
 
 29G ON TML LITKIIATUUK 
 
 puaijc willi classical poetry ; and wIk) merited 
 from his countrymen the title of the Horace of 
 l^ortugal. 
 
 Antonio Ferreira was born at Lisbon in the 
 year 1528, and being destined by Ins 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 exliibit their ])oetie skill in the 
 production of Latin verses. liut Ferreira, in- 
 spired by those patrit)tic 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 (jualities he so much admired in the 
 poets of Italy, and in particular in his favourite 
 model, Horace. He bestowed the pains of classi- 
 cal correction, both on his ideas and on his lan- 
 guage; and confining himself almost exclusively to 
 the Italian metres, he never devoted his time to 
 the composition o{ rahnuliUids, or of any other spe- 
 cies of verse in the old national manner. The 
 greater part of the sonnets that a])pear in his works, 
 were written befori' \w Kft tlir university. After 
 havin'4 filled a professor's chair at Coimbra, he 
 visited the court, w lie ii" he occupied a distin- 
 guished situation. Wvvv he was soon n^ufarded as 
 the oracle of the ciities. and a>^ a model of good
 
 OF THE POHTUOUESE. 2U7 
 
 taste to all young poets. A brilliant career ap- 
 peared to be opening to his view, when he was 
 suddenly carried off by the plague which raged 
 in the year 1569. 
 
 In the opinion of Ferreira, the nicest degree 
 of correction, both of thought and language, 
 was requisite to the poetical beauty of every 
 finished performance. It was one of his objects 
 to banish every species of orientalism from the 
 literature of his country ; and he sought to avoid 
 in his writings the appearance of singularity as 
 much as of mere common-place. He aimed rather 
 at noble than at novel ideas ; and the quali- 
 ties which most distinguished him were those of 
 correctness, picturesque power, and variety of 
 expression, together with what may be termed 
 the poetry of language. By an union of 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 country- 
 men. They are, at the same time, the easiest to 
 be understood of any in the language ; while 
 they approach the nearest, among the Portu- 
 guese, to those of the Roman tongue. If wc
 
 2[)f< ON Tilt LITlltATUUE 
 
 are unable to detect many defects in the poe- 
 try ol Fcrreira, we are, on the other hand, at 
 a loss to discover any ot those higher efforts 
 of genius, which strike the imagination or 
 fire the soul. W hen a j)oet fails in bringing tiie 
 vivid creations of genius before our eyes ; when 
 he no longer stirs the heart with the tenderness 
 or the Molence ol 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 disj)lay of feeling 
 and retieetion, and however much we may ap- 
 j)laud the force, ease, and elegance, of his de- 
 scriptions, we are never borne away by the 
 strength of his illusions, and never seem to lose 
 ourselves with him ft)r a moment. The power 
 which such a j)oet exercises over us, is still fur- 
 ther lost in a translation. The sonnets of Fer- 
 reira remind us of Petrarch, and his odes, of 
 Horace; but in neither of these departments does 
 the imitator rival the excellence of his models. Of 
 his elegies, the greater j)art arc filled with ex- 
 pressions of regret, which do not appear to have 
 ])roceedcd from the heart of the writer, being 
 chiefly written on the death of some illustrious 
 jicrsonage, whom the poet was bound to cele- 
 brate. Others are rather of a luxurious than a 
 pathetic cast of sentiment. Such is one of the 
 happiest of these pieces, written un the return 
 of the month of .May, and giving a very pleasing
 
 OF THE POUTUGUESE. 299 
 
 description, in terza r'lma, of the glowing fresh- 
 ness of Spring, and the reviving reign of the 
 Mother of the Loves. The eclogues of Ferreira 
 possess little merit beyond what ease and sweet- 
 ness of diction may be supposed to confer. In 
 truth, his genius was not of a pastoral turn. His 
 Epistles, forming by far the most voluminous por- 
 tion 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 
 
 * As some example of the miscellaneous pieces of Ferreira, 
 a single sonnet and an extract from one of his Epistles are here 
 given. The sonnet appears to have been addressed to his mis- 
 tress, Marilia : 
 
 Quando entoar come90, com voz branda, 
 Vosso nome d'amor doce e soave, 
 A terra, o mar, vento, agoa, flor, folha, ave, 
 Ao brando som s'alegra, move e abranda. 
 
 Neni nuvem cobre o ceo, nem na gente anda 
 Trabalhoso cuidado, ou peso grave. 
 Nova cor toma o sol, ou se erga, ou lave 
 No claro Tejo, e nova luz nos manda 
 
 Tudo se ri, se alegra e reverdece. 
 Todo mundo parece que renova, 
 Nem ha triste planeta ou dura sorte. 
 
 A miiih' alma so chora, e se enlristece. 
 Maravilha d'amor cruel c nova! 
 O que a todos traz vida, a mini iraz morte
 
 300 ON nit: LirLUAiruE 
 
 powers, adding to liis acquisitions in ancient li- 
 terature and pliilosophy, an intimate acquaintance 
 with the existing world. 
 
 I sliall not, however, have recourse to the au- 
 tliority of Boutterwek in estimating tlie dramatic 
 works of Ferreira, although so greatly indebted, 
 on many occasions, to his researches into Portu- 
 guese literature. To me 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 tragedy on the national sub- 
 ject of Inez de Castro, a story which so many 
 
 In an epistle to his friend Andrade Caminha, he advises him 
 to compose only in his native ]an<(iiage, and not to enricli by 
 his talents the literature of a nation considered the rival of 
 Portugal. Book i. Epis. iii. 
 
 Cuida melhor, que ({uanto mais honraste, 
 E em mais tivcste essa lingua estrangeira, 
 Tanto a esta tua ingrato te mostrastc. 
 
 Volvc, pois volve, .\ndradi', da caneira 
 (iue errada levas (com tua pas o digo). 
 Alcanyaras tua gloria verdadcira. 
 
 Ti' quando contra nos, contra ti iniigo 
 Te moKtraras ? ol)riguite a razao. 
 Que eu como posso, a tua sc>n)l)ra sigo. 
 
 As mcsmas Mu.sas mal te julgarao, 
 Seriut cm odio a nos, tcus naturais, 
 Pois, cruel, nos roubas o (jue em ti nos dao.
 
 OF THE POUTUOUESE. 301 
 
 Portuguese poets have since celebrated. He had 
 then no other model than the ancients; the Spa- 
 nish theatre 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 Sophonisha could not 
 very long have preceded the Inez ck Castro of 
 the Portuguese poet. Besides, the few trage- 
 dies which had till then appeared in Italy, exhi- 
 bited 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 contempo- 
 rary writers of Italy. 
 
 The story of Inez de Castro is very generally 
 known. She was the object of his son Don Pe- 
 dro's passion, and was assassinated by order of 
 King Alfonso IV. to prevent an unequal union. 
 Ferreira, desirous of blending dignity with cle- 
 mency in the character of Alfonso, attempts to pal- 
 liate the cruelty of the act on the plea of religious 
 and political expediency, artfully impressing upon 
 the minds of the audience the same feeling of 
 poj)ular resentment which is supposed to have 
 actuated all parties against the unfortunate Inez.
 
 .'^02 0\ TIIF r.ITFUATlliK 
 
 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 lather was 
 considered 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 ])ro- 
 claim this universal feeling ; and from the open- 
 ing to the close, we behold two unfortunate beings 
 struggling with the madness of passion against 
 the overwhelming tide of national displeasure. 
 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 in- 
 spire us cither with horror or disgust ; his weak- 
 ness is mingled with a certain degree of dignity 
 and kindness; and when, yieldimj; to the advice 
 of his council, he dej)lores the wretchedness of 
 a royal lot, we are strongly reminded by Ferreira 
 of the lofty language of Altieri : 
 
 • He only is a kinj;, who, like a king, 
 
 Vtcc from haso fi-ars, anil empty liopos and wishes, 
 (Howbfit his name hv never hr\iite(l forth) 
 
 Aijiu lie he rcy s«Mncntc (jue assini vivi-, 
 Inda <{ue ea .^eii nonie ntinca n'oiivn) 
 Quv il«- medo e dfspjo, e d'esprranya
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESF.. 303 
 
 Passes his days. O blissful clays, how gladly 
 Whole years of weary life, thus worn with toils, 
 Would I exchange for you! I fear mankind : 
 Some men there are with whom I must dissemble ; 
 Others, whom I would strike, I dare not reach at. 
 What ! be a king and dare not ? Ay ! the monarch 
 Is awed by his own people ; doom'd to suffer, 
 And smile and simulate. So, I feel I am 
 No king, but a poor captive. 
 
 In the beginning of the third act, Inez relates 
 to her nurse a terrific dream, which gives her a 
 presentiment of some approaching evil. This is 
 described in very elevated language, full of poetic 
 beauty and conceived in the most touching strain 
 of sorrow. It breathes a glow of maternal tender- 
 ness, which the more lofty style of tragedy 
 might not deem quite 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 
 
 Livre passa seus dias.... Oh bons dias! 
 Com que eu todos mens annos tarn cansados 
 Trocara alegramente.... Temo os homes ; 
 Com outros dissimulo ; outros nao posso 
 Castigar.... ou nao ouso! hum rey nao ousa !. 
 Tambem teme seu povo, tambem sofre, 
 Tambem suspira e geme, c dissimula ! 
 Nao son rey, son cativo.... 
 * Ignez. Oh sol claro e fermoso ! 
 
 Como alcgras os olhos, que esta noite
 
 304 ON THE I.lTEllATUUr. 
 
 They meet thy beams upon the morrow ! Night ! 
 
 fearful nij,'ht ! how heavy hast tliou been, 
 How full of phantoms of stranf^e grief and terror! 
 Mcthought, so hateful were my dreams, the object 
 Of my soul's love for ever disappear'd 
 
 From tliese fond eyes. Methought 1 kft 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 scene : 
 
 • Chorus. Too piteous tidings. 
 
 Tidings of death and woe, alas ! we bring ; 
 
 Cuidarao nao te vcr ! Oh noite triste ! 
 Oil noite Lscura! Quam comprida fostc ! 
 Como cansaste est' alma em sombras vas ! 
 Em medos me trouxestes taes, que cria 
 Que alii se me acababa o men amor, 
 Alii a saudade daminh'alma 
 (iuc me ficava ca.... e v6s, nieus filhos ! 
 Mens filhos lam fcrniosos, em que eu vejo 
 Acjuellc rosto e olhos do pay vosso. 
 Dc mini ficavcis ca desemparados !.... 
 Oh sonho iristc ([uc assi me assonibrastc! .. 
 Trcnio ind' agorn, tremo.... Deos afartc 
 De nos lam triple agouro! 
 () CiioRo. Tristejj novas, crucis. 
 
 Novas murtaes tc trago, dona Igncx!
 
 OF THE POKTUGUFSE. 305 
 
 Too cruel to be heard, unhappy Inez. 
 
 Thou hast not merited the dreadful fate 
 
 Which surely waits thee now. 
 Nurse. What say you ? — Speak I 
 
 Chorus. Tears choke my words. 
 
 Inkz. Why? wherefore should you wrep? 
 
 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. 
 
 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 ; the 
 victim is herself. She now trembles at the idea of 
 
 Ah coitada de ti ! Ah triste, triste ! 
 
 Que nao mereces-tu a cruel morte 
 
 Que assi te vem buscar.... 
 A AMA. Quedizes? Fala! 
 
 O Choro. Nao posso ! choro! 
 Ignez. Dequechoras? 
 
 O Choro. Vejo 
 
 Esse rosto, esses olhos, essa.... 
 loNF.z. Triste 
 
 De mini! triste : que mal ? Que mal tamanho 
 
 He esse que me trazcs ? 
 O Choro. He tua morte!.... 
 
 Ignez. Uiamamh). 
 
 Ho morto () mcu scnhor ? o niou IH'anto! 
 
 VOL. IV. N.
 
 300 OV THE I.ITF.llATUUE 
 
 meetinsj licr iute ; and she mourns over the sweet 
 and delightful scenes she is about to leave for 
 ever. But iicr generosity seems half to vanquish 
 her fears; and the interest which mc 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, ilcar nurse ! * 
 Far from the vengeance tliat pursues me ; licre, 
 Here will I wait alune, with innocence 
 Mine only sliielil; nor other arms 1 crave. 
 Come, Death! but take me an unspotted victim. 
 In you, sweet pledges of our mutual truth. 
 In you I still shall live; though now they tear you 
 From my fond heart, and Heaven alone can help me. 
 Yet haste to succour, haste, ye pitying virgins! 
 All noble-hearted men who aid the innocent ! 
 Weep, weep no more, my boys ! ' Tis I should grieve 
 For you ; but yet, while you can call me mother, 
 
 Ama ! fuge 
 Fugc dcsta ira grande que nos busca! 
 Eu fico, fico St').... mas innocente : 
 Nao (|nrro mais ajudas; venha a niorte 
 Moiira eu, mas innocente ! vos mens fdhos 
 N'ivireis cd por mim ; mens tarn pecpienos! 
 (iue crnelmcnte vem tirar de mim.... 
 Socorra me so Deos ; c socorrt yme 
 Vos mo^-as de Coymbra!... Ilomrs! <|ue vedes 
 Fsia innocencia minha, soccorrry me!... 
 Mens fdhos! nao chnreis.... ICu j)or vos chon).... 
 Logray vos desta may, dcsta may triste.
 
 OK T!IF. POUTUr. UESF, 307 
 
 Love me, cling to me, wretchedcst of mothers : 
 Be near me every friend ; surround and shield mc 
 From dreaded death tliat even now approaches. 
 
 The ditferent choruses which divide the acts 
 seem imbued with the very spirit of poetry, in 
 one we have a majestic ode lamenting the ex- 
 cesses to which the age of youth is so liable, and 
 the violence of the passions. The recitation af- 
 fords the spectators, as it were, leisure to breathe, 
 between the agonizing- scenes in which they be- 
 hold the victim struggling in the storm of con- 
 tending passions and involved in a shroud of 
 grief, of terror, and of dying love, till she dis- 
 appears wholly from their eyes. It has the 
 effect of enabling us to contemplate human des- 
 tiny 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 confidential advisers, Coelho and 
 Pacheco ; and the scene that follows is a noble 
 combination of pathos, eloquence, and fine chi- 
 valric manners. After she has appealed to the 
 justice, the compassion, and generosity of the 
 monarch in behalf of her offspring at her side, 
 
 Em quanto a tcndes viva!... E v6s, amigas ! 
 Cercay me em roda todas, e podendo, 
 Dofendry me da morte que me busca. 
 
 X 2
 
 308 ON' Tin IlTIUATrUF 
 
 whom she presents to him, the kini^ replies to her 
 in these words : 
 
 It is tJiy sins that kill thcc, think on them. 
 
 On wliich she answers : 
 
 Alas! whate'cr my sins. 
 None (laro accuse my loyalty to thee, 
 Most fjracious prince ! My sins towards God arc many : 
 Yet doth not Heaven hear the repentant voice 
 Tliat sues for pity ? God is just, but merciful. 
 And pardons oft where he might punish ; oft 
 Ix)ng suffering, reprieves the wretch, who lives ; 
 For Heaven is watchl'id still to pardon sinners. 
 And such th' example once you gave your subjects ; 
 Nor chanire vour tjenerous nature now to me! 
 
 Coellio informs her that she is already con- 
 demned, and that it is time she should prepare 
 her soul, in order that she may avoid a still more 
 tremendous doom. At these words, turning to- 
 wards her executioners, she appeals to their 
 knightly honour, and to their ancestral chivalry. 
 It is here that Iier conhdence in the prevailing 
 laws ot" honour, contrasted with the dark coun- 
 sels of political convenience, produces the finest 
 efiect : 
 
 Have I no friend ( where are my friends ! who else 
 
 Should now appease the anger of the king ? 
 
 Implore him for me ; help to win his pity ! 
 
 And ye, true knights, who succour the oppress'd. 
 
 Let not the innocent thus unjustly sutler : 
 
 If you can sec me die, the world will say, 
 
 'Twas you wlio bade me sutler.
 
 Ob- THE PORTUGUESE. 309 
 
 One might imagine that such language would 
 have blunted the weapons of her destroyers; 
 but the reply of Coelho, intent upon her death 
 and about to strike the fatal blow, is calm and 
 dignified : 
 
 I do beseech you, Inez, by these tears 
 
 You shed in vain, to snatch the few short moments 
 
 That still are yours, to render up your soul 
 
 In peace and prayer to God! 'Tis the king's will, 
 
 And it is just. We did attend him hither 
 
 For this, to save his kingdom, not to punish 
 
 The innocent ; it is a sacrifice 
 
 Which, would to Heaven ! might be averted from us. 
 
 But as it may not be, forgive the king : 
 
 He is not cruel; and if we appear so 
 
 In having given him counsel, go where thou 
 
 May'st cry for vengeance just, upon thy foes 
 
 At the eternal throne. We have condemn'd thee 
 
 Unjustly, as it seems ; yet we shall follow 
 
 Thy steps ere long, and at the judgment-seat 
 
 Render account before the Judge supreme 
 
 Of that which thou complain'st of — of this deed. 
 
 Notwithstanding the great beauty and pathos 
 of the dialogue, there is perhaps too little va- 
 riety of action in this play. After granting the 
 pardon of Inez, the king permits his followers to 
 pursue and assassinate her behind the scenes, at 
 the end of the fourth act. The prince, Don Pe- 
 dro, never once appears during the whole perform- 
 ance, except to acquaint his confidant with his 
 passion in the first act, and to lament his mis- 
 fortune in the last; but without holdmg a single
 
 oin ON Mil-, LITEKATUIIL 
 
 ilialoguu willi the object of his •iitleclions, or 
 ever attcniptinj^ to avert her fiite. It would be 
 unjust, however, not to consider the extreme 
 disadvantage under wliicli the author laboured, 
 in producing a tragedy without having any ac- 
 (juaintance with a theatre, or with the feelings 
 of the public. 
 
 The classical school, instituted by Saa de Mi- 
 randa, and in particular by Antonio Ferreira, in 
 Portugal, obtained a considerable number of fol- 
 lowers. Pedro de Andrade Caminha, 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 arc 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 (»f the animation recjui- 
 site in didactic compositions, joined to an agree- 
 able 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 j)ower. Throughout twenty tedious elegies, 
 there is not luund a single one in which the au- 
 thor leads us to sympathise with the imaginary 
 sorrows of his muse. More tlian eighty epitaphs, 
 and above two hundicd and fifty epigrams, will 
 complete the catalogue of Amirades works. The 
 author's correct taste and perspicuity of style,
 
 OF Tilt: PORTUGUESE. 311 
 
 have conferred on these effusions all the merit 
 of which they were susceptible ; but in these, as 
 in the rest of his works, we trace the labours of 
 the critic and the man of taste, endeavouring to 
 supply the want of genius and inspiration. We 
 may applaud his exertions, but we reap neither 
 pleasure nor profit from their perusal. 
 
 Diego Bernardes was the friend of Andrade 
 Caminha, and another disciple of Ferreira. He 
 was some time employed as secretary to the 
 embassy from the court of Lisbon to Philip II. 
 of Spain. He afterwards followed King Se- 
 bastian to the African war, and was made pri- 
 soner by the Moors, in the disastrous battle 
 of Alcacer, in which that monarch fell. On re- 
 covering his liberty, he returned and resided in 
 his own country, where he died in 1596. He la- 
 bours under the imputation of a flagrant plagia- 
 rism, in having wished to appropriate to himself 
 some of the lesser productions of Camoens. His 
 works, collected under the title of O Li/ma, the 
 name of a river celebrated by him, and on whose 
 banks the scene of his pastorals is laid, con- 
 tain no less than twenty long eclogues, and 
 thirty-three epistles. We may frequently trace 
 in the charm of the language, and in the ele- 
 gance and native sweetness of the verse, a degree 
 of resemblance to the poems of Camoens ; but 
 the spirit of the compositions is by no means the
 
 :H'2 O.V TUl. LITJ-KATUKE 
 
 siamc. NN c arc no Nvheie affected by powciiul 
 touches ol 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 Ibrce of conceit, and a play of 
 words, to ac([uire a de;j:ree of brilliancy foreign 
 to his subject ; and the monotony of pastoral life 
 is but j)oorly relieved by sallies of wit and fan- 
 cy inconsistent with genuine taste. The first 
 eclogue is a lament for the death of a shepherd, 
 Adonis, who a])pears, however, to have no sort of 
 relation to the iabulous lover of old. The follow- 
 ing specimen of it may not be unacceptable : 
 
 Sekuano.' 
 O, bright Adonis ! brightest of our train ! 
 
 For thee our mountuin pastures greenest sprung, 
 Transparent fountuins water'd every plain, 
 
 And hivish nature pour'd,as once when young. 
 Spontaneous fruits, tliat ask'd no fostering care; 
 
 With thee our flocks from dangers wander'd free 
 Along the hills, nor did the Hcrce wolf dare 
 
 To snatch by stealth thy timorous charge from thee ! 
 
 • SfcRUANo. O Adonis, pastor fermoso c charo, 
 Contigo nos crecia herva na serra, 
 E das fontcH corria crystal clar«>. 
 
 Os fruitos sem trabalho dava a terra, 
 Seguro andava o gado nas montanhas, 
 Naci Ihc iuzta o lobo cruel guerra.
 
 OF THE POllTUGUESK. 
 
 Sylvio. 
 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. 
 
 Serrano. 
 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. 
 
 Sylvio. 
 Oh, ill-starr'd day ! oh day that brought our woe. 
 
 Sacred to grief! that saw those bright eyes close. 
 And Death's cold hand, from the unsullied snow 
 
 Of thy fair cheek, pluck forth the' blooming rose. 
 
 Serrano. 
 Faint and more faint, the tender colours died. 
 
 Like the sweet lily of the summer day. 
 Found by the plough-share in its fragrant pride, 
 
 And torn, unsparing, from its stem away. 
 
 313 
 
 Sylvio. Dai lagrimas sem fim, varias na(;oes 
 
 A dor qu'enche de dor, enche d'cspanto, 
 A dor, de tygres magoa e de Leoiies. 
 
 Serrano. Nao negue cousa viva vivo pranto, 
 De quantas o ceo ve, a terra cria. 
 As qu'o mar cobre fa9a6 outro tan to. 
 
 Sylvio. Escuro torne sempre aquelle dia, 
 
 Em que da branca neve andou roubando 
 A morte as frescas rosas co mao fria. 
 
 Serrano. Assi se foi teu rosto descorando, 
 
 Como o lyrio no campo, ou a bonina, 
 A quern o arado talha em trcspassando.
 
 ;U4 UN 1 \IE Ll IKUATl UL 
 
 We might suppose from the conceited turns of 
 tlie original, that we were here presented with 
 llie brilliant flights of Marini. The colours are, 
 in part, so vivid, as almost to conceal the design 
 itself from our view ; the imagery is far more 
 striking than correct; and the expressions of 
 rey:rot arc so fantastic as to relieve the reader 
 from any apprehension of the author feeling the 
 wretciiedness which he so ingeniously describes. 
 NN'c are now only just entering on the history of 
 Portuguese poetry ; yet we already seem, in 
 JJernardes, to have attained its opposite limits. 
 The mistaken admiration which the noets of 
 this nation indulged for pastoral compositions, 
 induced them to lavish the whole of their poe- 
 tical 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 l)c mentioned, 
 who likewise shed a lustre on the same ])eriod. 
 Amongst these are Jorge Ferreira de Vasconcellos, 
 the author of several comedies, and of a romance 
 founded on the Round Table; Estevan Rodriguez 
 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; anil .Miguel diC-abedo de Vasconcellos, 
 particularly celebrated for the biauty of his Latin 
 verses, lint there is om man who stands alone ;
 
 OF THE roUIL'GUJ -SE. 315 
 
 wlio reflects unequalled lustre on the literary 
 character of his times ; and who deserves to oc- 
 cupy 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 en- 
 suing chapters.
 
 CIIAITKK WWII 
 
 Luis dc Camoens : Lusiudus. 
 
 We next proceed to consider the merits of the 
 illustrious man wlio lias long been considered the 
 chief and almost the only boast of his country. 
 Camoens, indeed, is the sole poet of Portugal, 
 whose celebrity has extended beyond the Penin- 
 sula, and whose name appears in the list of those 
 who have conferred honour upon Eurojie. 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 ])osterity ; and a crowd of lesser objects 
 disap])ear in its superior light. 
 
 Luis de Camoens was descended from a noble, 
 though by no means a wealthy, family. He was 
 the son of Simon Vas de Camoens. One of his 
 ancestors, of the name of Vasco I*erez, who had 
 accjuired some reputation as a (Jalician poet, 
 (piitted the service of the court of Castile, in 
 l;i7(», and attached himself to that of Portuiial. 
 Smion Vas de Camoens was commaiuUr of a ship
 
 LITKRATUUE OF THE PORTUGUFSE. 317 
 
 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 ascer- 
 tained. In the life prefixed to the splendid edi- 
 tion of his great poem, by M. de Sousa, it is sup- 
 posed, agreeably to the previous conjecture 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 ac- 
 quaintance with the liistory 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 displayed, he failed to conciliate the 
 friendship of Ferreira, and of other distinguish- 
 ed characters, then completing their studies at 
 Coimbra. Engaged in bestowing on Portuguese 
 poetry its utmost degree of classical perfection, 
 they affected to look down on the ardent imagi- 
 nation 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 Catharina 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 pur- 
 suits. We are unacquainted with the views 
 which he at that time entertained, as well as 
 with his means of subsistence; but it is certain
 
 n\9, 0\ TIIK I.rTF.UATlTRF. 
 
 tluil his attachment gave rise to some unpleasant 
 circumstances, in consequence of which lie re- 
 ceived an order to leave Lisbon. He was banish- 
 ed to Santareni. where he produced several of 
 those poems which, while they served as fuel to 
 his ])assion, increased the danfj^ers of his situation. 
 His ill success and disappointed aft'ection at last 
 led him to the resolution of embracing- a military 
 life, and he volunteered his services into the Por- 
 tuguese fleet, then employed against the African 
 powers. It was not without a feeling of 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 accpiire for him the recomj)ense 
 which had been refused to him as a poet; but no 
 one evinced the least disposition to serve him. 
 All his cftorts to distinguish himself in laud- 
 able entiTpriscs ;ind pursuits were successively 
 thwarted, and iiis small resources daily became 
 less. While his soul was the scat of lofty 
 thoughts ;iii(l patriotism, he felt that ho was neg- 
 lected and contemned by the country he loved. 
 Yielding to a feeling of indignation, like that of 
 Scipio, he exclaimed with him, Iiiu:ral<i paind iicc 
 f)ss(i (jii'idcw hahchis! and came to the restilution
 
 OF THF. PORTUGUKSE. 319 
 
 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 com- 
 pany of auxiliaries sent by the viceroy of India 
 to the King of Cochin. Nearly all his compa- 
 nions in arms fell victims, during this campaign, 
 to the fatal insalubrity of the climate. Camoens, 
 however, survived its effects, and returned to 
 Goa after having contributed to the triumph 
 of his country's ally. Still destitute of employ- 
 ment and resources, he next joined an expe- 
 dition against the Corsairs of the Red Sea. Pass- 
 ing the winter in the Isle of Ormuz, he had 
 there full leisure to indulge his poetical pursuits, 
 and to complete a portion of his poems. Every 
 object around him seemed to assume a poetic 
 dress ; and the love of his country revived with 
 fresh force, while he trod those eastern scenes, 
 rendered famous by the exploits of his country- 
 men. But the abuses of the government excited 
 his strongest feelings of indignation, and instead 
 of attempting to conciliate an administration 
 which had yet shewn him no favour, he wrote a 
 bitter satire on its conduct. The Diyxtrt/fcs i/u
 
 :\'20 OV Tlir. LITF.KATUHF, 
 
 India, or Follies in I/idia, was a severe mortification, 
 on its ap))carancc, to the feelings of the viceroy, 
 lie iinniudiatcly banished tlie unfortunate poet 
 to the Isle of Macao, situated on the coast of 
 China; and while there, Camoens made an ex- 
 cursion into the Moluccas. Hut here, as he him- 
 self relates, while in one hand he bore his books, 
 and in the other his sword : 
 
 N'liuiiia mao livros, n'oiitra fcrro ct nyo, 
 N'luima niao scmprc a cspada, n'outra a pena : 
 
 in neither career did he meet with the success 
 which he deserved. Ilis necessities at last com- 
 ])elled him to accept the situation of commissary 
 for the effects of the deceased, provedor mdr doa 
 dcfuiitus, at Macao. He remained there five years, 
 and employed his time in completing that great 
 ejuc w^ork which was to hand down his name to 
 posterity. There is still to be seen on the most 
 elevated ])()int of the isthmus which unites the 
 town of Macao to the Chinese continent, a sort 
 of natural gallery formed out of tlie rocks, appa- 
 rently almost suspended in the air, and conmiand- 
 ing a magnihcent 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 conferred on 
 this retreat the name of the grotto of Camoens. 
 Soon afterwards, Constantino de RraLran/a, thc^ 
 new viceroy, gave liini ixiniission to return to
 
 OF THE PORTUCaJESE. 321 
 
 Goa; but he was shipwrecked on his passage at 
 the mouth of the river Gambia. He saved him- 
 self 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 sus- 
 picions, he was, nevertheless, 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 dis- 
 charge his debts, to recover his liberty, and take 
 his passage to his own country. In the year 
 15G9 he arrived at Lisbon, after an absence of 
 sixteen years, and without having realized any 
 fortune in a part of the world, where so many of 
 his countrymen had amassed immense treasures. 
 
 At the moment when Camoens set his foot on 
 his native shore, a dreadful plague was prose- 
 cuting its ravages in the 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 Camoens. King Se- 
 bastian was yet a minor, and completely under 
 the authority of the priests, who betrayed liiiii 
 
 vol.. IV. V
 
 :j22 UN VnV. l.llEHATl \{V. 
 
 not many years afterwards into the tatal expecli 
 tion to the coast of Africa. He consented, how- 
 ever, to permit Camoens to dedicate his poem to 
 liim, althoii'di tlie onlv return he made was a 
 wretched pension of fifteen milreas.* Camoens 
 was subjected to the most distressing^ embar- 
 rassments. Not nnfrcfinently he was in actual 
 want of bread, for which he was in part indebted 
 to a l)lack servant who had accompanied him 
 from the Indies, and wlio was in tlie habit of 
 soliciting^ charity at night in the open streets, to 
 obtain a precarious subsistence for liis master; 
 a poet wIk) was destined to confer celebrity on 
 his country. Vet more aggravated evils were in 
 store for the wretched Camoens. Sebastian had 
 enrolled the whole chivalry of Portugal in his 
 fatal cxjH'dition against Morocco. He tliere 
 j)eri>lu'd in the disastrous liattle of Alcacer-Qui- 
 vir, or Alcacar la Crrandc, in 1578; and with 
 liiin c\|)ircd tiie royal house of Portugal ; as the 
 only remaining branch, an aged cardinal, on 
 whom tlie crown devolved, died after a reisrn of 
 two years; having had the mortification of seeing 
 all I'lurope, while he was yet alive, contending for 
 the succession of his kingdom. The glory of 
 the Portuguese nation was suddenly eclipsed: 
 her independence did not long survive ; and the 
 
 • [Not quilc five |K)un(lH a year. If is (loiibtful wlictlicr this 
 sum was not iiu-nlv Iiis rcfjiilar liall'-pay. V'/.j
 
 i 
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESJi:. 323 
 
 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 suiferings. 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 pre- 
 tend to resist such overwhelming misery, seems 
 to me a kind of vain impertinence."* The last 
 days of his life were passed in the company of 
 some monks ; and it is ascertained 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.t 
 
 * Quem ouvio dizer que em tao pequeno teatro, como o de 
 lium pobre leito, quisesse a fortuna represeniar tao grandes 
 desvcnturas? E eu, como se ellas nao bastassem, me ponho ainda 
 da sua parte. Porque procurar resistir a tantos males, paicceria 
 especie de desavergonhamcnto. 
 
 t The negligence and indifference shewn towards Camoens 
 have been recently atoned for by the patriotic zeal of D. Jose 
 Maria de Souza Botelho. It was his wish to raise the noblest 
 and most splendid monument to the first of the Spanish 
 poets ; and to this he devoted a great share of his fortune 
 
 Y 2
 
 ;J24 cN Tiir. liti.hatui{F. 
 
 The poem on which the general reputation of 
 Camoens depends, usually known under the name 
 of the Lu.sidd, is entitled by the Portuguese, 
 Os Lusiai/us, or The Lusitanians. It ai)pears to 
 have been the object of the author to produce a 
 work altogether national. It was the exploits of 
 his fellow-countrymen that he imdertook to cele- 
 brate. But though the great object of the poem 
 is the recital of the Portuguese conquests in the 
 Indies, the author has very happily succeeded in 
 enii)racing all the illustrious actions performed by 
 his compatriots in other quarters of the world, 
 together with whatever of splendid and heroic 
 achievement, historical narration or popular fa- 
 bles could suj)ply. 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 connected with that comman- 
 der'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- 
 
 and of liis time. Me protlucccl Ins splendid edition of the 
 Lusiud, at Paris, 1817, in folio, after havini,' revised the 
 text with the most scrupulous care, and i-mhejlished it with 
 all that the arts of typo;^'raphy, design, and en^^raving could 
 lavish on a book, intended to he presented as an ornament to 
 the most celebrated libraries of Europe, Asia, and America. 
 lie would not even permit a single copy to be sold, in order 
 that not the remotest suspicion of eniobnncnt niii;ht attach to so 
 disinterested and patriotic an undertaknig.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 325 
 
 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, 
 Through seas where sail was never spread before, 
 Beyond where Ceylon lifts her spicy breast. 
 And waves her woods above the wat'ry waste, 
 With prowess more than human forc'd their way 
 To the fair kingdoms of the rising day : 
 What wars they wag'd, what seas, what dangers past, 
 What glorious empire crown'd their toils at last, 
 Vent'rous I sing, on soaring pinions borne, 
 And all my country's wars the song adorn ; 
 What kings, what heroes of my native land 
 Thunder'd on Asia's and on Afric's strand : 
 Illustrious shades, who levell'd in the dust 
 The idol-temples and the shrines of lust; 
 
 * As armas c os Baroes assinalados 
 Que da occidental praja Lusitana 
 Por mares nunca d'antes navegados, 
 Passaram ainda alem da Taprobana : 
 Que cm perigos e guerras esforfados 
 Mais do que promettia a forya humana, 
 Entre gente remota edificaram 
 Novo reino que tanto sublimaram. 
 
 E tambem as mcmorias gloriosas 
 D' aquelles reis que foram dilatando 
 A fe, o imperio, e as terras viciosas 
 l)e Africa e de Asia andaram de^ astando
 
 32G ON' IllL I.ITEKATUUF. 
 
 And where, crewhile, foul ilemons were rever'd, 
 To holy faith unmimber'd altars rear'd : 
 Illustrious names, with deathless laurels crown'd, 
 While time rolls on in every clime renowiVd !* 
 
 At liie ])erio(l in wiutii Cainoens wrote, we 
 must remember that there had in tact appeared 
 no epic poem in any of the modern tongues. Tris- 
 sino liad, indeed, attempted the subject of the 
 liberation of Italy from the Goths, but had not 
 succeeded. Several of the Castilians liad, like- 
 wise, dignified with the title of epics their his- 
 tories 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 happiest and most glowing 
 colours ; but neither Ariosto, nor any of those 
 whom he so far surpassed in that kind of compo- 
 sition, ever aspired to the character of epic 
 writers. Tasso, it is well known, did not pub- 
 lish iiis Jcntsalon Dclivcnd until tlie year after 
 the death of Camoens. The Lusiad, moreover, 
 was composed almost entirely in India, so that 
 its author could only have been acquainted 
 
 K a(|uelles que por ohras valerosas 
 Se vno da lei da inortf libertando, 
 Cantnndo cspnlharei por toda parte, 
 Se a tanto mc njudar o en^cnho, o arte. 
 
 • [I'lic passajifs (juolcd froui thr Lusiad arc txtrnctcd from 
 ^Il. Miikle's trauslation. 7V.]
 
 ov thp: portuguesi:. 327 
 
 with such works as had already appeared before 
 the year 1553, in which he left Portugal. He 
 apj)ears, nevertheless, to have studied his Ita- 
 lian contemporaries, and to have appreciated 
 in common with them the excellences of the 
 models of antiquity. We may trace, between 
 the poetical works of Camoens and those of the 
 Italian school, resemblances much more remark- 
 able and striking than any we meet with be- 
 tween 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 ve?^60 sciolto of Trissino, or 
 unrhymed iambic. He approaches nearer, like- 
 wise, to Ariosto than to Trissino, or to any of 
 the Spanish writers, when he considers the epic 
 poem as a creation 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 perfect 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 has invested his sub- 
 ject with a degree of passionate tenderness, 
 visionary passion, and love of pleasure, which 
 the more stoical ancients seem always to have
 
 328 ON nil- Li n.uA iLUK 
 
 coiisickred as bencatli the dignity of the epic 
 muse. With all the enthusiasm of Tasso, and 
 all the luxurious fane y 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 mo- 
 nument of his own and his country's glory, 
 is the national love and i)ride 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 inHuence of 
 the Portuguese, and when the most important 
 objects had been attained by the smallest states. 
 For half a century before Camoens wrote, Eu- 
 rope, 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 
 hvv population, her wealth, and her dominions, 
 when ])ut 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 
 nund)ers, and she was first indebted to the 
 Portuguese fi)r the discovery. Camoens, little 
 foreseeing the approach of the fatal period, 
 which was lu de|)rive his country of its in- 
 dependence, and to hasten his steps towards
 
 OF THE roKTUGUL:ji:. 32D 
 
 the tomb, wrote in the triumphant tone of na- 
 tional enthusiasm, and succeeded in impressing 
 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 away : 
 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, 
 
 * Vereis amor da patria, nao movido 
 
 De premio vil ; mas alto, e (piasi etcrno ; 
 Que nao he premio vil ser conhecido, 
 Por hum pregaon do ninho meu paterno. 
 Ouvi, vereis o noma engrandecido 
 Daquellcs dcquem sois senhor superno. 
 E julgareis qual he mais excellente 
 Se ser do mundo rey, se de tal gentc. 
 
 Ouvi, que nao vereis com vaas fayanhas 
 I'hantasticas, fingidas, mentirosas 
 Louvar OS vossos, como nas estranhas 
 Musas, dc engrandeccr-sc dcsejosas ;
 
 ;J30 0\ THE LITERATURE 
 
 The dreams of barils surpass'd the world shall vi ew, 
 
 Ami own their boldest fictions may be true ; 
 
 Surpass'd, and dimm'd by the superior blaze 
 
 Of Gama's mighty deeds, which here bright Truth displays. 
 
 (Ireat public virtiirs invariably exercise over 
 the iniiul a power which no iiulividual jiassion 
 can command, communicatin;; a sort of electric 
 feeling from heart to heart. The patriotic spirit 
 of Camocns, devoting a whole life to raise a 
 monument worthy ol his country, seems never 
 to liave indulged a thouuht which was not true 
 to the gh'iy of an ungrateful nation. We are 
 every where deeply sensible of this. Our no- 
 blest and best affections accompany him in his 
 generous enterprise, and Portugal becomes inte- 
 resting 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 
 tiie most hapjn' description for an e])ic ])oem. 
 The discovery of the passage to the Indies; tiie 
 reciprocal communication between those coun- 
 tries where civilization first aj)peared, and those 
 whence it now proceeds ; the em])ire of Europe 
 extended over the rest of the world ; are all 
 eviiit^ (•!' universal nnportance, and which have 
 
 As vcrdadciraa vossns sao tnnianhas 
 
 (Juo excedem as sonhadas fabidusas, 
 
 (iue excedem KluxhunoMte, e o vao Kogeiro, 
 
 IC Orlando, iiulatpie lora verdadeiro. 
 
 (tiiilo i, sir. 10.
 
 or THE rORTUCUilSE. 331 
 
 produced lasting effects on the destinies of man- 
 kind. 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 south- 
 ern 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 same manner, we are made 
 acquainted with all the succeeding events and 
 discoveries which were to complete the system of 
 the world, but faintly perceived by Gama; and 
 all the ulterior conquests of those immense re- 
 gions, of which Gama only touched the extreme 
 shores. These different portions of the work, 
 embracing the past, the present, and the future,
 
 .'{32 ON nil. MTKKATUUE 
 
 were nil intimately blended with the national 
 glory, and were intended 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 
 imj)ression which a more enlarged account of 
 Libya and of India might have produced, they 
 involved the reader in a labyrinth of events, 
 none ol which were calculated to make a very 
 lasting impression on his mind. Tasso, in his 
 Jerusalem, seemed to gather spirit and enchant- 
 ment from the nature of his theme, and his poe- 
 try ])osscssed all the romantic charm attached 
 to the sacred wars which he sung; while Ca- 
 mocns, on the other hand, conferred on his 
 subject a degree of interest which it did not 
 originally possess. It called for an exertion 
 of tlu' highest powers, and for the most se- 
 ductive influence of j)oetry, to induce the rea- 
 der to enter into the details of a history, of 
 little interest to any but the author; and it was 
 only by a continual sacrifice of the poet, that he 
 was rnablcd to celebrate the memory of his 
 heroes. Hut he accomplished the difficult task 
 of reconciling an historical view of Portugal with 
 poetical fiction ; and he lias every where thrown 
 light uj)()ii It, with :i masterly degree of art. His 
 success, though very surprising, is hardly to be 
 justified, if we consider the great poetical risk, and
 
 OF THE poiitugui.se. 333 
 
 the extreme imprudence of the attempt. In the 
 epic, perhaps, more than in any other class of 
 composition, the poet has less power of com- 
 manding the attention, and has greater difficulties 
 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 chro- 
 nological details, which are yet so happily inter- 
 woven 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 intrin- 
 sically 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 than was adopted by Ariosto in celebrating 
 his imaginary heroes, and he uniformly pre- 
 serves a noble dignity both of style and imagery. 
 He never, like Ariosto, seems to throw ridi- 
 cule on his reader and his heroes. Proposing 
 Virgil rather than the chivalric romances for his 
 model, he marches with rapid and majestic steps 
 to his object, and confers on his poem that 
 classical character sanctioned by the greatest 
 geniuses of antiquity, and emulated by all their 
 successors, who invariably considered it as an
 
 :j34 0\ TMl" I.ITEUATUIIF. 
 
 essential portion of tluir art. Tluis, from the tirst 
 canto, we find evcrv iIhul: modelled according 
 to that rtgular system, which has been perhaps 
 too closely adhered to in all epic productions. 
 The tirst three stanzas consist of an exposition 
 of the subject ; the fourth is an invocation to 
 the nymphs of the TaL,ais ; and at the sixth, the 
 poet addresses himself to King Sebastian, recom- 
 mending the poem to his auspices. But although 
 this must be allowed to be the established 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 ])oetic art, 
 than upon the authority of early examples. 
 
 it is much u])on the same principle that the 
 marvellous has been considered as an indispen- 
 sable recpiisite in all epic productions, leaving to 
 tlie j)()(t only ihe choice of the difl'erent mytho- 
 logies ; as if the ancients tiiemselves 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. ^^ ith them the mar- 
 vellous formed a |)art of the popular fictions and 
 recollections, and the actions of their heroes were 
 drawn from the same source. Conhninn them- 
 selves to the developement of these, they gave 
 them new life by the creative energies of the poe- 
 tic mind, lint they would never have succeeded 
 in making ».ueh mythology the animating prin-
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 335 
 
 ciple of their works, if it had not ah'cady ob- 
 tained 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 in- 
 fluence approaching to something like that of 
 faith. Love, v^^henever introduced into verse, ne- 
 cessarily assumed the form attributed to the son 
 of Venus ; valour was personified in the arms of 
 Mars ; and wisdom, by Minerva. This species 
 of deification, now so trite and insupportable to 
 us in epic poems, still meets with a degree of 
 favour from the lyric muse. We find the odes 
 of Lebrun as full of invocations to Minerva, to 
 Mars, and to Apollo, as we might have expected 
 in the sixteenth century, when a pedantic edu- 
 cation 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 inte- 
 rested in the accomplishment of the great work ;
 
 X](] 0\ THI IITFRATIMIF, 
 
 not in the spirit of a ruling providence fore- 
 sccini,'^ and (lisj)c)sing oi" all events to come, but 
 likf frail and errinij: mortals, whose passions 
 lead them to interfere with the state of human 
 ati'airs. This species of miraculous interference 
 was indeed a ])ortion 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 contradictory 
 machineries, which it required some jiains 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 some- 
 thing extremely revolting; but national educa- 
 tion and prejudice sutHciently account for this 
 a])parent inconsistency in so great a man, and 
 this consideration should prevent us from form- 
 ing 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 wc observe these two contending mytholo- 
 gies struggling for precedency in the Ninnantia 
 of Cervantes, and in the D'kdui of Montemayor. 
 
 The Lusiad is divided into ten cantos, contain- 
 ing only eleven hundred and two stanzas, and it 
 is therefore not to be com|)ared in ])oint of length 
 to the Jerusalem Delivered, or indeed to most 
 epic poems. It is, likewise, less generally 
 known, and entitled therefore to a more parti- 
 cular consideration ; especially as it contains all
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 337 
 
 the most interesting information which can be 
 afforded respecting Portugal. The extracts we 
 proceed to give, will at once throw light upon 
 the argument of the poem, and upon the his- 
 tory of the people to whose glory it was con- 
 secrated : 
 
 * Now far from land, o'er Neptune's dread abode 
 The Lusitanian fleet triumphant rode ; 
 Onward they traced the wide and lonesome main. 
 Where changeful Proteus leads his scaly train ; 
 The dancing vanes before the zephyrs flow'd, 
 And their bold keels the trackless ocean plow'd ; 
 Unplow'd before the green-tinged billows rose, 
 And curl'd and whiten'd round the nodding prows. 
 When Jove, the god who with a thought controls 
 The raging seas, and balances the poles, 
 From heaven beheld, and will'd, in sovereign state, 
 To fix the Eastern World's depending fate : 
 Swift at his nod th' Olympian herald flics, 
 And calls th' immortal senate of the skies ; 
 Where, from the sovereign throne of earth and heaven, 
 Th' immutable decrees of fate are given. 
 
 * Jii no largo Oceano navegavam, 
 As inquietas ondas apartando ; 
 Os ventos brandamente respiravam, 
 Das naos as velas concavas inchando ; 
 Da branca escuma os mares se mostravam 
 Cobertos, onde as proas vao cortando ; 
 As maritimas aguas consacradas 
 Que do gado de Protheo sao cortadas. 
 
 VOL. IV. Z
 
 33s o N 1 1 1 F. 1. 1 r K u A 1 1 ' i{ i: 
 
 Instant the rejjcnts of the spheres of light, 
 
 And those who rule the paler orbs of nit^ht, 
 
 With tliose, the gods whose delegated sway 
 
 'llif burning South and frozen North obey ; 
 
 And they whose empires see the day-star rise, 
 
 And evening Plui'bus leave the western skies ; 
 
 All instant j>our'd along the milky road. 
 
 Heaven's crystal |)avenH'nts 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 lliat, according to an ancient order of tlie 
 Destinies, the Portuguese were to surpass every 
 thing that hud been recorded as most glorious 
 in the annals of the Assyrians, the Persians, the 
 Greeks, or the Romans. He dwells on their re- 
 cent victories over the Moors, and over the more 
 formidable Castilians, and on the glory acquired 
 of okl l)y Viriatus, and then by Sertorius, in 
 cheeking the career of the Romans. He next 
 j)oints them out as traversing in their vessels the 
 
 (Ju'^iido OS Deoses no Olympo luminoso, 
 Onde o govcrno esta da humana gente, 
 Se ajimtam em concilio glorioso 
 Sobrc as cousas futuras do Oriente : 
 Fizando o crystalino ceo formoso 
 Vem pcla via Inctea juntamentc, 
 Convocados da parte do tonante, 
 l*eh) Vteto gentil «li> vtllio Atlantc. 
 
 Canto i. \fr. I f).
 
 OF TIIK PORTUGUESE. 339 
 
 untried seas of Africa, to discover new countries, 
 and establish kingdoms in the regions of the 
 rising sun. It is his will that after navigating 
 through the winter they should meet with a 
 hospitable reception on the coasts of Africa, in 
 order to recruit their forces for renewed exploits. 
 Bacchus then speaks : he seems apprehensive 
 that the Portuguese may eclipse the glory al- 
 ready acquired by himself in his conquest of 
 India, and he 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 enter- 
 prise. The whole synod of Olympus is then 
 divided between the two divinities, and the tu- 
 mult of their deliberations is described in one 
 of the happiest and most brilliant images.* Mars, 
 
 * Qual austro feio on Boreas, na espessura 
 De sylvestre arvoredo abastecida, 
 Rompendo os ramos vao da mata escura, 
 Com impeto e braveza desmcdida, 
 Brama toda a montanha, o som uiurniura, 
 Rompemse as folhas, ferve a serra erguida, 
 Tal andava o tumulto levantado 
 Entre os Deoses no Olympo consagrado. 
 
 Canto i. .sfr. 35. 
 
 z 2
 
 34U ON Tin: i.itf.uatuhi: 
 
 equally favourable to the l*ortugucse, at last pre- 
 vails upon tiie Thunderer to support tliem and 
 to send Mercury to direct them in their course ; 
 and the deities then severally depart to their ac- 
 customed seats. 
 
 After thus introducinu^ us to the councils of the 
 L^ods, Camocns rccals our attention to the heroic 
 personages of his poem. 'I'hey were navigating 
 the straits which separate the isle of Madagas- 
 car from the Ethiopian shore, and after doubling 
 Caj)e Prasso, they discovered new islands and 
 a new sea. Vasco de CJama, the brave comman- 
 der of the Portuguese, who appears for the first 
 time only in the forty-fourth stanza, was pre- 
 paring to proceed onwards, when a number of 
 small canoes advanced from one of the islands, 
 and surrounded liini on all sides, demanding, in 
 Arabic, some account of the nature of the voy- 
 age. Here, lor the first time, the Portuguese, alter 
 sailing many hundred leagues, metwith a language 
 which tiicy nndorstnod, and discovered traces of 
 civili/alion in the arts and commerce of the people 
 around them. I'hey now cast anchor at one of 
 these islands, named Mo/.ambicpic, a sort of em- 
 porium for the trade of tin' kingdoms of (^uiloa, 
 Mondia^a, and S(;fala. The Moors who had in- 
 terrogated (iaina were themselves foreign mer- 
 chants trading in the country. \\ hen they 
 heard ol the in\ inciljJe lieroism of Clama, tra- 
 versing unknown seas to discover India by an
 
 OF THE POUTUGUKSE. 341 
 
 untried route, and at the same time learned that 
 he commanded a Christian and Portuguese fleet, 
 they attempted to dissuade him from his enter- 
 prise. 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 this design, 
 Gama is proceeding very peaceably towards 
 the fountain, with three boats, when he is sur- 
 prised by the appearance of a party of Moors 
 prepared to repulse him from the spot. On their 
 proceeding to insult the Christians, a contest en- 
 sues. The Musulmans spring from their am- 
 buscade 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 instruc- 
 tions to betray the Portuguese into certain de- 
 struction. The pilot accordingly informs them 
 he will guide them to a powerful kingdom in- 
 habited by Christians. The Portuguese enter- 
 tain no doubt of its being that of Prester John,
 
 342 ON THl. LlTtKATiniE 
 
 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 sove- 
 reign was sufficiently powerful to crush them at a 
 blow. \'enus, however, counteracts the intended 
 treachery, and directs the vessel towards Mom- 
 basa, where the pilot likewise informed Gama 
 that he would meet with Christians. It is hardly 
 likely that by this assertion the Moors intended to 
 deceive the Portuguese : they answered that in 
 the country whither they were desirous of con- 
 ducting them, there were a great number of in- 
 fidels, who went under the generic name o(Giaour, 
 inditterently applied among the Arabs, to Gue- 
 bres, idolaters, and Christians. It was impossible 
 that in a language, which both parties very im- 
 j)erfectly understood, the ignorant interpreters 
 should be able to exj)lain the peculiar distinc- 
 tions oi" sects known only to the learned, by 
 whom ihey were all equally despised. 
 
 The second canto opens with the arrival of the 
 Christians at Mombaca, where the king had been 
 already aj)prised of their voyage, and where 
 Bacchus was in readiness to ])lot their destruc- 
 tion by new artifices. (Jama despatches two of 
 his soldiers with j)resents for the king, giving them 
 at the same time instructions to observe the man- 
 ners of the place, and to ascertain wliat degree 
 of confidence might be placed in tlie professions 
 of the -Moors. Buccliu.s, m order to induce them
 
 or THE POIiTUGUESE. 343 
 
 to suppose that Christians inhabit Mombasa, 
 affects to receive them with hospitality, and 
 himself presides over the feast in an edifice 
 ornamented like a temple. The Virgin Mary 
 and the Holy Ghost are represented on the altar ; 
 the statues of the Apostles embellish the portico 
 of the temple ; while Bacchus himself, assuming 
 the character of a priest, worships the true 
 God of the Christians. In order to comprehend 
 this singular fiction, we ought to bear in mind, 
 that in the eyes of the Catholic doctors, the gods 
 of the Pagans are no other than real fiends, in- 
 vested with actual power and existence, and that 
 in opposing the Divinity, they are only main- 
 taining 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 incident thus in- 
 troduced by Camoens, was on historical record 
 amongst the Portuguese. These hardy navi- 
 gators were, in fact, received at Momba9a, in a 
 house where they observed the rites of Chris- 
 tian 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 al- 
 lowed that the mythology of Camoens is almost 
 always uniutelligible, and that the interest is by
 
 ;}44 ON THE LlltKATLUL 
 
 no means hitherto sufticiently excited. The open- 
 ing of the poem was imposing, but the narrative 
 soon bejrins to lamruish. The circumstances of 
 the voyage are recounted with historical correct- 
 ness ; yet Camoens presents us with little more 
 than we meet witli in the fourth book of the tirst 
 Decade of Barros, in which is given a history of 
 the Portuguese conquests in India. We might 
 almost imagine that he drew iiis materials from 
 this source, rather tlian from his own adven- 
 tures and researches in those unknown regions. 
 His ornaments appear to have been wholly bor- 
 rowed from Grecian fLible ; nor has he sutficiently 
 availed himself of the advantages atibrded him 
 by the climate, manners, and imagination of 
 these oriental realms. But let us only proceed, 
 anil 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 
 compensate us for all our labour. 
 
 Encouraged by the report of his messenger, 
 and the pressing invitation of the King of INK)m- 
 bara, Gama resolves to enter the port on the en- 
 suing day. He weighs anchor, and with swelling 
 sails arrives at the place destined for his destruc- 
 tion; when Venus, hastening;- to his rescue, ad- 
 dresses herself to the iiyiiij)hs of the sea, be.<?eech- 
 ing them by their common origin from the bosom 
 of the waves, and by the love they bear her, to fly 
 to the assistance of her favoured people, and avert
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 345 
 
 the impending doom. The Nereids throng affec- 
 tionately round the goddess ; and a Triton, de- 
 lighted with his burden, wafts her along the sea, 
 bounding before his companions. The rest of 
 the ocean deities then hasten to impede the pas- 
 sage 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 manoeuvres of the 
 crew.* The whole squadron is lost in wonder 
 at the miracle ; the Moors imagine that their 
 treachery is discovered, and precipitate them- 
 selves into the sea ; the pilot himself escapes by 
 swimming; while Vasco de Gama, conjecturing 
 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 Por- 
 tuguese ; and her graceful appearance and pro- 
 gress through the heavens, with her supplications 
 at the throne of the Thunderer, are described 
 with an ease, tenderness, and even voluptuousness, 
 
 * Poese a Deosa com outras em dircito 
 Da proa capitaina, c alii fechando 
 O caminho da barra, estao de geito 
 Que em vao assopra o vcnto a vela inchando, 
 Poe no madeiro duro o brando peito, 
 Para dctraz a forte nuo foryando : 
 Outras cm derredor Icvaiuloa estavam, 
 E da barra inimi^a a disviavam. 
 
 Caitlo li. ■'ill , 2'Z.
 
 34G ox THE LITllJATl RL 
 
 not surpassed by tlie old poets, whose worship 
 of Venus formed a part of tlieir religion.* Jupiter 
 
 * E como hia affrontada do caminho, 
 Tao formosa no j^csto se mostrava, 
 (iiic as cstrj.'llas, o Ceo, c o ar visinho 
 V. tuilc) (juaiuo a via naniorava. 
 Dos ollios, onde faz scu tilho o ninlio, 
 lliiins cspiritos vivos inspirava, 
 Conujiic OS polos gclados acccndia, 
 K tornava dc Togo a csfi'ra fria. 
 
 E por mais namorar o sobcrano 
 Padre, do quoin for sempre amada e chara, 
 Se Ihc aprcscnta assi como ao Trojano 
 Na selva Idea j;\ se aprcscntara, 
 Se a vira o ca^ador, que o viiho Iminano 
 l*crdeo, vcndo a Diana na agua clara, 
 Nunca OS faniintos galgos o mat;'irani, 
 Que primeiro dcsejos o acabarani. 
 
 Os crcspos fios de ouro sc cspraziam 
 IV'Io colo, que a neve escurecia : 
 Andando, as lactcas tctas llie tremiani, 
 Coin quern amor brincava, e nao se via. 
 De alva ])retina flammas llic saliiam, 
 Onde o Mcnino as almas accendia ; 
 Pclas lisas columnas Ihe trepavam 
 Descjos, que como liera sc enrolavam. 
 
 K mostraiulo no Angelico semblaiue 
 Co o riso huma tristcza misturada ; 
 Como dama que foi do incauto amante 
 I'-m brincos amorosos mal tratada;
 
 OF THE POHTUCJUESE. 347 
 
 receives her with kindness, and consoles 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 commands 
 Mercury to conduct Vasco de Gama into the 
 kingdom of Melinda, whose inhabitants, although 
 Moors, will receive him with open arms, and pro- 
 vide 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 Por- 
 tuguese, is desirous of entering into an alliance with 
 the strangers. He supplies them with provisions 
 and other accommodations, of which they stood 
 in need, and even consents to embark in order 
 to hold a conference with the admiral, who 
 will not be prevailed upon to land. He then 
 expresses a curiosity to hear the adventures of 
 the Europeans, of which the poet avails him- 
 self 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 
 
 Que se queixa, c se ri n'hum mismo instantc, 
 E se mostra entrc alegre magoaila ; • 
 
 Dcsta arte a Deosa, a qiicm iKMiluima igiiala 
 Mais mimosa ([uc triste ao padre I'ala. 
 
 Canto ii. ^// . J3 to 38.
 
 348 ON THK LlTERATl'KE 
 
 alone occupies nearly one third oi" the poem, 
 and tlu)Uj[rh very important, according to the plan 
 laid down by Camocns, is certainly introduced 
 in a much less natural manner than either that 
 of Ulysses, delivered to the rhaacians, or that of 
 iEneas to Dido, both of which he had before him 
 as his models. The Moorish king, to whom it is 
 addressed, having no j)revious ac(]uaintance 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 uiulerstood, could only 
 have had the effect of prepossessing him against 
 his guest, an hereditary enemy of the Maho- 
 metan religion and of the Moorish race. Con- 
 sidered by itself, however, the whole discourse 
 may be pronounced almost a perfect model of the 
 narrative style. 
 
 The hero begins his relation with a descrijition 
 of J'^urope ; that portion of the world whence 
 the concpierors and the instructors of the universe 
 are destined to arise. The passage is noble and 
 poetical ; i)ourtraying the characteristic features 
 of the various people who occupy these regions 
 ot lljc world. We arc told of the inhabitants 
 of the Scandinavian snows, who boast the glory 
 of having first vancpiishcd the Koinans; of the 
 (Jermans; of the Poles, and tlu' Russians, who 
 succeeded the Scythians ; of the 'I'hracians sub- 
 jected to the Ottoman yoke; and u[' the iidia-
 
 OF THE POKTUGUESF. 349 
 
 bitants of the famed land of valour, genius, and 
 manners ; the land that gave birth to the most 
 eloquent hearts and the brightest and most ima- 
 ginative spirits, who carried arms and letters to 
 a pitch of glory never witnessed in any country 
 but Greece. After the Greeks follow the Ita- 
 lians, 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 tri- 
 umphs of Coesar, are next noticed ; and, at last, 
 the poet arrives at the hills of the Pyrenees, and 
 thus continues : 
 
 Ami now, as head of all the lordly train 
 
 Of Europe's realms, appears illustrious Spain. 
 
 Alas, what various fortunes has she known ! 
 
 Yet ever did her sons her wrongs atone : 
 
 Short was the triumph of her haughty foes, 
 
 And still with fairer bloom her honours rose. 
 
 Where, lock'd with land, the struggling currents boil, 
 
 Famed for the godlike Theban's latest toil. 
 
 Against one coast the Punic strand extends, 
 
 And round her breast the midland ocean bends ; 
 
 Around her shores two various oceans swell, 
 
 And various nations in her bosom dwell ; 
 
 Such deeds of valour dignify their names, 
 
 Each the imperial right of honour claims. 
 
 Proud Aragon, who twice her standard rear'd 
 
 In conquer'd Naples ; and for art revered, 
 
 Galicia's prudent sons ; the fierce Navar ; 
 
 And he, far dreaded in the Moorish war,
 
 .i;'A) OS riiK i.n KUATi'in. 
 
 'I'hc bold Asiurian : nor Scvilia's race, 
 
 Nor thine, Granada, claim the second place. 
 
 Here too the heroes who command the plain 
 
 By Betis waterd ; here, the pride of Spain, 
 
 The brave Castilian pauses o'er his sword, 
 
 His country's dread deliverer and lord. 
 
 Proud o'er the rest, with splendid wealth array'd, 
 
 As crown to this wide empire, Europe's head. 
 
 Fair Lusitania smiles, the western bound, 
 
 Whose verdant breast the roUini,' waves surroimd. 
 
 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 regard, 
 
 And fair success my perilous toils reward, 
 
 May that dear land my latest breath receive. 
 
 And give my weary bones a peaceful grave. 
 
 Gama tlicii goes on to describe the formation 
 of the kingdom of Portugal, a recital, we ima- 
 gine, 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 ])ef()re our view every thing cal- 
 culated to inspire us with the loftiest virtues, or 
 the most touching griefs. Still, however, we must 
 expect to meet with more real instruction than 
 romantic interest in the course of our ])rogress 
 through the Lusiad, It was the object of Camoens 
 to exhibit in his epic every incident with which 
 history furnished him, most glorious to the cha- 
 rnctor ofhis ronntrv; and he endcavound to re-
 
 OF TJIE PORTUGUESE. 351 
 
 commend 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 pos- 
 terity, but he could not divest them of the pecu- 
 liar character attached to them as national re- 
 cords only. The account given by Gama will 
 supply us with the following short abridgment 
 of the history of Portugal. 
 
 At the time when King Alfonso VI. by the con- 
 quest of Toledo, had drawn together from all j)arts 
 an army of adventurers ready to consecrate their 
 swords to the cross, and had extended his domi- 
 nion as far as the shores of the western ocean, 
 he resolved to reward these valiant knights by 
 presenting them with the government of the con- 
 quered provinces. For this purpose he made 
 choice of Henry, second son of the King of Hun- 
 gary, according to Camoens, for their chief, al- 
 though most genealogists agree that he was the 
 son of Robert le Vieux, grandson to Hugh Capet, 
 and founder of the first house of Burgundy. Al- 
 fonso VI. created the same Henry Count of Por- 
 tugal ; presented him with a portion of the terri- 
 tories of the country ; and gave him in marriage 
 his own daughter Teresa. Henry, though left to 
 his own resources, soon extended his dominion 
 over fresh provinces, which he wrested from the 
 enemies of the faith.
 
 '352 OS nil LiTKit ATL'in: 
 
 (Ju liis decease, lull ul years and glory, Henry 
 expected to leave the crown to his son Alfonso. 
 But Teresa, having contracted a second mar- 
 riage, asserted her claims to the kingdom, on the 
 ground that her lather had conferred it on her as 
 a portion, and she excluded her son from all 
 share in tlie succession. Alfonso, however, re- 
 fused to submit to these terms, and the Portu- 
 guese, impatient of the least dei)endencc upon 
 Castile, ardently embraced his cause. The ar- 
 mies met in the plains of Guimaraens, where, 
 for the first time, in the year 1128, Portuguese 
 blood was shed in a civil war. Victory declared 
 in favour of Alfonso I ; his mother and his step- 
 father fell into his hands; and the wiiole of their 
 fortresses opened their gates to him. In a parox- 
 ysm 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. I'nable to o])|iose them, 
 Alfonso was compelled to oW'vr complete submis- 
 sion ; and pledged for its performance the word 
 of Ega/Moniz, a Portuguese nobleman, his former 
 tutor, and the same individual who is celebrated 
 as tlie earliest j)oet of Portugal. But the imme- 
 diate danger being t)nee removed, Alfonso felt his 
 reluctance to submit to foreign authority, and to 
 pay a foreign tribute, again revive. Kgaz Moniz 
 was as unwilliuy; lo rmiain pk'dged for llic word
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 353 
 
 of a perjured prince, as to contribute, in order to 
 save his own life, to the ruin of his country. 
 
 * When Egas to redeem his faith'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, O 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 death thy wrath appease ; 
 For us let all the rage of torture burn, 
 But to my prince, thy son, in friendship turn. 
 
 * E com seus filhos e mulhcr se parte 
 A levantar com elles a fian9a ; 
 Descalyos c despidos, dc tal arte 
 Que mais move a piedade que a vingan9a. 
 Se pretendes rei alto, dc vingarte 
 Da minha temeraria confianfa, 
 Dizia, ves aqui, venho ofFerecido, 
 A te pagar co a vida o promettido. 
 
 Ves aqui, trago as vidas innocentes 
 Dos filhos sem pecado, e da consorte ; 
 Se a pcitos generosos, e excellentes 
 Dos fracos satisfaz a fera morte. 
 Ves aqui as maos et a lingua delinqucntes ; 
 Ncllas SOS exprimenta toda a sortc 
 De tormcntos, dc mortcs, pclo cstilo 
 Dc Scinis, v do touro de Pcrilo. 
 VOL. IV. 2 A
 
 354 o\ THE i.rn UATUUI-. 
 
 He spoke, and bow'd his prostrate body low, 
 As one who wails the lifted sabre's blow, 
 When o'er the block his languid arms are spread, 
 And death, foretasted, whelms the heart with dread. 
 So great a leader thus in hutnbled state, 
 So firm his loyalty, and zeal so great. 
 The brave Alonzo's kindled ire subdued. 
 And lost in silent joy the monarch stood ; 
 Then gave the hand, and sheath'd the hostile sword, 
 And to such honour honour'd peace restored. 
 
 Alu r the civil wars of Alfonso I. Vasco dc Gama 
 proceeds to recount the exploits of that prince 
 against the Moors, and, in particular, the victory 
 of Ouricpie, gained on the twenty-sixth of July, 
 W'.id, 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 ])lacc himself at least 
 uj>on an ecpiality with those he had overcome, as- 
 sumed the title of Kiui; instead of tiiat of Count, 
 adopting for llie arms of his new kingdom, five 
 escutcheons ranged in the form of a cross, on 
 
 Qual diante do algoz o condemnado 
 Que ja na vida a morte tern bel)ido, 
 Poc no cepo a garganta, e ja entregado 
 Kspcra |K'lo golpe tao temido ; 
 'I'al diante do principe indignado 
 Fgas estava a tudo oflTerecido. 
 Mas o rey vcndo a estranha lealdadc, 
 Mais pode vm fun i\hc a ira a ]>iedade. 
 
 Canto iii. sti . 38.
 
 OF THi: PORTUGUESE. 355 
 
 which were represented the thirty pieces, the 
 price for which Jesus was betrayed. The strong- 
 est places in Portugal, still occupied by the 
 Moors, were reduced to submission after this 
 victory. The city of Lisbon, founded, if we are 
 to believe the Portuguese, by Ulysses, was taken 
 in 1147, with the aid of the knights of England 
 and Germany, forming part of the second crusade ; 
 and in the same manner Sylves fell, in the follow- 
 ing reign, by the help of the Christian armies of 
 Richard and of Philip Augustus, proceeding on 
 the third crusade. Alfonso pursued 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 
 
 2 a2
 
 MtO ()\ Tin: LITF.RATl'UK 
 
 prisoner. Mistrusting liis futiirc lorlnnes, he then 
 resijjncd the administration of his kingdom into 
 the hands of liis son Don Sancho. But he no 
 sooner learned that the l«tler was besieged in the 
 town of Santarem by thirteen Moorish kings, and 
 the Kmin el Munienim, than, summoning his ve- 
 teran In .ops, the old hero of Portugal hastened 
 U) 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 ot the Portuguese mo- 
 narchy yielded at last to the combined force oi 
 sickness and age, in 1 185.* 
 
 Gama next proceeds to relate the victories of 
 Alfonso's son Don Sancho ; the caj^ture of Sylves 
 from the Moors, and of Tui from the King of 
 I.eon. These are followed by the conquest of 
 Aleazar do Sal, by Alfonso II., and by the weak- 
 ness and cowardice of Don Sancho li., who, sunk 
 111 sloth and pleasure, was deposed, in order to 
 make way for his brother Alfonso III. the con- 
 ipuror of the kingdom of Algarves. To iiim sue- 
 
 l)i- tiiiii.iiilKis vieloriiiN triunipliavu 
 O vellio Afonso, I'rincipo subiilu ; 
 (jiiando (iiuMii tiitio cm fiin vimk-i'IwIo aiulnva, 
 Da larga c nuiiln idadr foi vcncido. 
 A pallida dornva Ihc tocava 
 Com fria iiiao o coriH) tnrra(|iK'cid«i, 
 V. pa^arant hciis annos dcslc gcitn 
 A irisic Li))itina o sen dir(*it<i.
 
 Of THI-: poiiTUCiUj'.si;. 357 
 
 cccded Dionysius, the legislator of Portugal and 
 the founder of the University of Coinibra, a 
 monarch whose declining years were embittered 
 by the restless ambition of his son Alfonso IV. , 
 who afterwards acquired the surname of Tlic 
 Brave, by his exploits during a warfare of twelve 
 years with the Castilians. When, however, 
 the dominions of the Christian princes were 
 threatened by a fresh invasion of the Almoades 
 Moors, conducted by the Emperor of Morocco, 
 Alfonso brought an army of auxiliaries to the 
 assistance of the King of Castile, to whom he 
 had married his daughter, and bore a share in 
 the brilliant victory of Tarifa, obtained on the 
 thirtieth of October, 1340. Towards the close of 
 this reign the fatal incident occurred upon which 
 is founded the episode of the unfortunate Inez 
 de Castro, who, after her death, was proclaimed 
 Queen of Portugal on the accession of her lover 
 to the throne ; an episode the most affecting 
 and beautiful of any in the poem; and one which 
 affords a fine relief, by its highly dramatic inte- 
 rest, to the historical details in which Camoens 
 so much indulged. 
 
 'Twas thou, O love, whose dreaded shafts control 
 The liind's rude heart, and tear the hero's soul ; 
 Thou ruthless power, with bloodshed never cloy'd, 
 Twas thou thy lovely votary destroy'd. 
 
 riiy thirst still burning for a deeper woe, 
 
 In vain to thee the tears of beauty How ; 
 The breast that fuels thy purest flames divnie, 
 
 With spouting gore must bathe thy cruel shrine.
 
 358 ON THK LITEUy\TURE 
 
 Such thy dire triumphs! — Thou, O 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 Mondcgo's ever-verdant bowers 
 
 Languish'd away the slow and lonely hours : 
 
 While now, as terror waked ihy boiling fears, 
 
 Tiie conscious stream received thy pearly tears ; 
 
 And now, as hope revivetl the brighter flame, 
 
 Kach 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 kcart endearing flow : 
 
 Hy night liis 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. 
 
 • Estavas, linda Igncz, posta em socego, 
 Dc tens annos colhendo doce fruto ; 
 Natpielle engano da alma, K-do, e cego. 
 Que a forluna nao deixa durar muto ; 
 Nos saudosos campos do Mondego, 
 Dc tens formosos olhos nunca enxuto, 
 Aos montes ensinando, e as hcrvinhas 
 O nomc que no peito cscrito tinhas. 
 
 Do ten I'rincipe alii te rcspondiam 
 As lembran9as, cjue na alma ihc moravam ; 
 (iuc scmpre ante sens olhos te traziam, 
 (^lando dos tcus formosos se apartavam ; 
 Dc noitc cm doccs sonhos (|ue mentiam, 
 De dia i in pensamentos (pic voavam ; 
 I'^ (juanio cm fnH cuidava, e cpianto via 
 Era 111 tu«lo nicHiorias de alcgria. 
 
 Cantn iii. Ur. 120, 121.
 
 OF THE POUTUGUKSE. 359 
 
 Tlioiigli fairest piiiicely dames invok'd his love, 
 
 No jirincely dame his constant faith could move : 
 
 For thee alone his constant passion biirn'd, 
 
 For thee the proffer'd royal maids he scorn'd. 
 
 All, hope of bliss too high — the princely dames 
 
 Refused, dread rage the father's breast inflames ; 
 
 He, with an old man's wintry eye, surveys 
 
 The youth's fond love, and coldly with it weighs 
 
 The people's murmurs of his son's delay 
 
 To bless the nation with his nuptial day. 
 
 (Alas, the nuptial day was past unknown, 
 
 Which but when crovvn'd the prince could dare to own.) 
 
 And with the fair one's blood the vengeful sire 
 
 Resolves to quench his Pedro's faithful fire. 
 
 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, 
 
 Unarm'd, by softness and l)y love possess'd ! 
 
 Dragg'd from her bower by murderous ruiBan hands, 
 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,
 
 360 OV TllK LlTEUATL'Ui: 
 
 Smiliii}^ in innocence of infant age, 
 
 Unawcil, unconscious of their grandsirc's rage ; 
 
 To whom, aa bursting sorrow gave the flow, 
 
 The native heart-sprung eloquence of woe, 
 
 The lovely captive thus :* — O monarch, hear, 
 
 If e'er to tliec the name of man \sas dear, 
 
 If prowling tygers, or the wolf's 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 Home's great founders to the world were given; 
 
 Shalt thou, who wear'st the sacred stamp of heaven. 
 
 The human form divine, shalt thou deny 
 
 That aid, that pity, wliich e'en beasts supply ! 
 
 ( ) that thy heart were, as thy looks declare. 
 
 Of human mould, supcrHuous were my prayer ; 
 
 Thou could'st not then a helpless damsel slay, 
 
 Whose sole offence in fond affection lay, 
 
 In faith to him who lirst his love confess'd, 
 
 Wlio tirst to love allured her virgin breast. 
 
 In these my babes shall thou thine image see, 
 
 And still tremendous hurl thy rage on me? 
 
 Mc, 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 ; 
 
 I'ara o ceo crystallino alevantando 
 Com lagrimas, os olhoa piedosos, 
 Os olhos, porcpie as maos Ihe estava alando 
 Hum dos duros ministros rigorosos; 
 E ilespois nos nu-ninos attentando. 
 Que tat') (picridos tinha, e lau mimosos, 
 Cuja orphandade como miii temia, 
 I'ura o uvii cruel ussi dizia. 
 
 i'liniii in. yli . X'iii,
 
 OF THK POIITUGUESE. 301 
 
 That thou art brave, let varKiuish'd Afric tell,* 
 
 Then let thy pity o'er mine anguish swell ; 
 
 Ah, let my woes, unconscious of a crime, 
 
 Procure mine exile to some barbarous clime : 
 
 Give me to wander o'er the burning plains 
 
 Of Libya'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 tygers' 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 : 
 
   
 
 E se vencendo a maura resistencia, 
 A morte sabes dar com fogo e ferro, 
 Sabe tambem dar vida com clemencia 
 A quem para perdela nao fez erro. 
 Mas se assi merece esta innocencia, 
 Poe-me em perpotuo e niisero desterro, 
 Na Scythia fria, ou la na Lybia ardentc, 
 Onde em lagrimas viva eternamentc. 
 
 Poe-me onde se usa toda a fcridadc ; 
 Entre leoes e tigres, e verei 
 Se nellcs acliar posso a piedade 
 Que entre peitos humanos nao achei. 
 Alii CO o amor intrinscco, e vontade 
 Naijuclle, por quem mouro criarei 
 Estas reliquias suas que aqui viste. 
 Que refrigerio scyam da mil triste.
 
 3f)2 OS TIIK LITEUyVTUftE 
 
 All my Ibiul wish, and all my hope, to rcai 
 These infant pledges of a love so dear, 
 Amidst my griefs a sootliing, glad employ, 
 Amidst my fears a woeful, hopeless joy. 
 
 In tears she ullcr'd : as the frozen snow 
 Toucird by the spring's mild ray, begins to How, 
 So just began to melt his stubborn soul 
 As mild-ray 'd pity o'er the tyrant stole. 
 r>nt destiny forbade: with eager zeal, 
 Again pretended for the public weal, 
 Her fierce accusers urged her speedy doom ; 
 Again dark rage diiTuscd its horrid gloom 
 O'er stern Alonzo's brow : swift at the sign. 
 Their swords unsheath'd around her brandish'd shine. 
 Oh, foul disgrace, of knighthood lasting stain. 
 By men of arms an helpless lady slain! 
 
 Thus Pyrrhus, burning with unmanly ire,* 
 FuUiird 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, 
 Uesign'd her bosom to the sword, and died. 
 Tluis Inez, while her eyes to heaven appeal, 
 Resigns her bosom to the murdering steel : 
 
 • (Jual contra a linda moya Policena, 
 Consola^ao extrema da mai velha, 
 Porque a 8oml)ra de Achilles a condena, 
 Co o ferro o duro l*yrrho se aparelhu ; 
 Mas clla os olhos, con que o ar serena, 
 (Hem como paciente r mansa ovelha) • 
 Na misera njai pohlos, (|ue endoudece, 
 Ao <luro hacrificio sr ofl'ercce.
 
 OF THE POUTUGUESE. 3G3 
 
 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 procluim'd ; 
 That snowy neck was stained with spouting gore, 
 Another sword her lovely bosom tore. 
 The flowers that glisten'd with her tears bcdew'd, 
 Now shrunk and languish'd with her blood imbrued. 
 As when a rose, ercwhile of bloom so gay, 
 Thrown from the careless virgin's breast away, 
 Lies faded on the plain, the living red. 
 The snowy white, and all its fragrance fled ; 
 So from her cheeks the roses died away. 
 And pale in death the beauteous Inez lay: 
 With dreadful smiles, and crimson'd with her blood. 
 Round the wan victim the stern murderers stood, 
 Unmindful of the sure, though future hour, 
 Sacred to vengeance and her lover's power. 
 
 Taes contra Ignez os brutos matadores. 
 No colo de alabastro, que sostinha 
 As obras com que amor matou de amores 
 Aquelle que despois a fez rainha ; 
 As espadas banhando, e as brancas flores, 
 Que ella dos olhos sous regadas tinha, 
 Se encarni^avam fervidos e irosos. 
 No futuro castigo nao cuidosos. 
 
 Bem puderas o sol, da vista destes, 
 Tens raios apartar aquelle dia, 
 Como da seva mesa de Thyestes, 
 Quando 03 filhos por mao de Atrco comia, 
 Vos, o concavos valles, que pudestcs 
 A voz extrema ouvir, da boca fria, 
 O nome do sen Pedro que Ihe ouvistcs 
 Por muito grandc cspavo rcpetistcs.
 
 3G4 ON" THI. LITKIlATUItl': 
 
 O Sun, c-ouldst thou so loul a crime bclioUl, 
 Nor veil tliinc licnd in darkness, as of old 
 A sudden nif^ht unwonted horror cast 
 O'er that dire ban(iuet, where the sire's repast 
 The son's torn limbs supplied! — Yet you, ye vales! 
 Ye distant forests, and ye llowery dales! 
 When pale and sinkinij; to tlie dreadful fall, 
 Vmi heard her (piiverinp lips on I'edro call ; 
 Your fnithful echoes caught the partiii<^ sound, 
 Andl'edro! Pedro! mournful, si<:jh'd around. 
 Nor less the wood-nymphs of Mondej^o's groves 
 Bewail'd the memory of her hapless loves : 
 Her griefs they wept, and to a i)laintive rill 
 Transform'd their tears, which weeps and murmurs sldi. 
 Vo give immortal pity to her woe 
 ihey taught the riv'lct through her bowers to llow, 
 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 awfid reign. 
 In vain her murtlerers for refuge fly, 
 Spain's wildest hills no place of rest supply. 
 The injur'd lover's and the monarch's ire. 
 And slern-brow'd justice in their doom conspire : 
 In hissing llanics they die, and yield their souls in lire. 
 
 Assi como a bonina, (pie cortada 
 Antes do tempo foi, Candida e bella 
 Sendo das maos lascivas nialtratada 
 Da menina ipie a trouxe na capella, 
 O cheiro traz perdido, e a cor murchada ; 
 'I'al esta murta a pallida don/.ell.i, 
 Seccan do roslo as rosa<s, c perdidu 
 A branca e viva cor, co a doce vjdu. 
 
 }
 
 OF Tin: PORTUGUESE. 305 
 
 Don Pedro, after the loss of his mistress, 
 giving way to his ferocious feelings, signalized 
 his reign only by acts of cruelty ; while his suc- 
 cessor, Ferdinand, on the contrary, was of a 
 mild, weak, and even effeminate character. Eleo- 
 nora, whom he had espoused, after tearing her 
 from the arms of her former husband, dishonoured 
 his reign by her dissipated and abandoned con- 
 duct. He left behind him only one daughter, 
 named Beatrice, whom the Portuguese would 
 not consent to acknowledge. Don John, a na- 
 tural 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 Nufio Alvarez Pereira, by his eloquence in 
 the national council, prevailed upon the nobles 
 
 As filhas do Momlcgo a morte cscura 
 Longo tempo choraiulo nicmoiaram ; 
 E por mcmoria etcrna, cm tbnte pura 
 As lagrimas choradas tiansformaram : 
 O nomc Ihe pozcrani, que ainda «luia, 
 Dos amores de Ignez, que alii passarani. 
 Vcdc (pie fresca fontc riga as flores, 
 Que lagrimas sao agua, e o nomc amores. 
 
 C.V//(^>iii. stf. 1.31 to 135.
 
 [iGG o\ riii: i.itkiiati ui. 
 
 of the land to rally round their king. The speech 
 attributed to him In' Camoens, preserves through- 
 out all that chivalric lire and dignity, together 
 with that bold and niaseuline tone, which cha- 
 racterized the eloquence of the middle age.* In 
 till- same spirit as he had spoken, Nuho Alvarez 
 
 • 
 
 Mas nunca foi que cstc erro se sentissc 
 No forte dom Nun' Alvares : mas antes, 
 I'ostoque cm sens irmaos tao claro o vissc, 
 Heprovantlo as vontades inconstantcs ; 
 A (jjicllas diividosas gentes disse. 
 Coin palavras mais diiras que elc<;antcs, 
 A niao na espada irado, ct nao facundo, 
 Anica^aiidi) a terra, o mar, c o mundo. 
 
 Como ? da gente illustrc Portugueza 
 Ha de aver qucm refuse o patrio Marte: 
 Como ? desta provincia, (jue Princeza 
 Foi das gentes na guerra cm toda i)art(', 
 Ha de saliir <|uem neguc ter deftza ? 
 (iiicin negue a fe, o amor, o csfor^o e arte, 
 Dc I'ortuguez? e jxir nenlium resi)i'ilo, 
 C) proprio reino (pieira ver sujeito ? 
 
 Como ? Nao sois vos inda os desccndcntes 
 Daquelles, que del)aixo da bandeira 
 Do grande Hcnrupies, feros c valentes, 
 Vcncestes esla gente tar> guerreira < 
 (juando taiilas bandeiras, tantas genles, 
 Poseram cm fugida, de maneiru 
 (2 111- sete illustres Condes Ibe trou\(>rani 
 IVrsos, af('»ra a presa que livcram ? 
 
 ('until iv. \ti . 1 I to i?0.
 
 OF THE POUTUGUESE. 3G7 
 
 fought for the independence of his country. In 
 the battle of Aljubarotta, the most sanguinary 
 which had ever taken place between the Por- 
 tuguese and the Castilians, he found liimself 
 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 Portu2:al. Whilst 
 the king, Don John, remained master of the field 
 of battle at Aljubarotta, Nufio Alvarez followed 
 up his victory, and penetrating as far as Seville, 
 he compelled it to surrender, and dictated the 
 terms of peace to the haughty people of Castile. 
 After this signal victory over the Castilians, 
 Don John was the first Christian prince who 
 passed into Africa to extend his conquests among 
 the Moors. He seems to have transmitted the 
 same spirit of chivalry to his children. During 
 the reign of his son Edward, the renewed hos- 
 tilities with the infidels were rendered memo- 
 rable by the captivity of Don Fernando, the 
 heroic Injleaible Pri/tce celebrated by Calderon 
 as the Regulus of Portugal. Next follows Al- 
 fonso V. distinguished for his victories over the 
 Moors, but vanquished, in his turn, by the Cas- 
 tilians, whom he had attacked in conjunction 
 with Ferdinand of Ara^on. He was succeeded
 
 3G8 LITI KAll HE OF TIIF. POUTIC; T ESK. 
 
 by John 11.. the thirtconlh king- of Portup:al, who 
 was the first to attempt the discovery of a path 
 to those reu'lons which first meet the beams of 
 the sun. He sent out adventurers on a journey 
 of discovery, by way of Italy, Egypt, and the 
 lied 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 
 (langes and Indu.s appeared in a vision to the 
 monarch, inviting him to undertake those con- 
 quests, which from the beginning of ages had 
 ])een reserved for the Portuguese, l^iimanuel 
 made choice, for this i)urpose, of Vasco dc Gama, 
 who, in the fifth book, commences the recital of 
 his own voyage and discoveries.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 Sequel of the Lusiad. 
 
 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 re- 
 gions of the earth, are no longer a source of mys- 
 tery and alarm, we look back upon the voyage 
 of Vasco de Gama to the Indies, one of the bold- 
 est 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 discoveries, had not yet pre- 
 pared the minds of men for an undertaking of 
 such magnitude and extent. For a long period 
 Cape Non, situated at the extremity of the em- 
 pire of Morocco, had been considered as the li- 
 mits of European navigation ; and all the honours 
 awarded by the Infant Don Henry, with the ad- 
 ditional hopes of plunder, on a coast purposely 
 abandoned to the cupidity of adventurers, were 
 
 VOL. IV, 2 B
 
 370 ov Till i.n iitAiuur. 
 
 necessary to induce the Portuguese to approacli 
 the borders of the p:reat desert. Cape Bojador 
 soon presented a new barrier, and excited new 
 fears. Twelve years of iVuitless 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 
 thousand to be traversed before tliey could attain 
 the Cape of Good 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 ])henomena, 
 witii fresh apprehensions, and not unfrequently 
 with fresh perils. Successive navigators, how- 
 ever, gradually advanced along the African 
 shores, whose extent far sur|)assed every thing 
 known in European navigation, without disco- 
 vering any traces of civilization or commerce, or 
 entering into any alliances which might enable 
 them, at sucii a distance from their country, to 
 sujii)iy their exhausted magazines, to recruit 
 their strength, and to repair the various disasters 
 of the sea and climate. But at length, in 1480, 
 the vessel of Bartolomeo Diaz was carried by a 
 violent storm beyond the Cape of Good Hope, 
 which he |)assi'd without observation. He then 
 remarked that the coast, instead of preserving- 
 its direction invariably towards the south, ap- 
 peared at length to take a northern course;
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 371 
 
 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 information already ac- 
 quired by the Portuguese relating to the navi- 
 gation of these seas, when King Emmanuel made 
 choice of Gama to attempt a passage to the 
 Indies by the same route. There still remained 
 a tract of two thousand leagues to be discovered 
 before arriving at the coast of Malabar; an extent 
 of territory as great as that which it had required 
 the whole of the preceding century to explore. 
 The Portuguese were likewise uncertain, whe- 
 ther 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 power- 
 ful enemies, equal to themselves in point of ci- 
 vilization and the arts of war, ready to over- 
 power 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 
 
 2b2
 
 372 ON TllK LlTKItATUllK 
 
 service. They -Nvcre commanded by Vasco de 
 Gama, by Paul de (Jama, liis brother, and by 
 Nicholas Coelho ; and set sail from the port of 
 Belem, or lUtiileem, about a league distant from 
 Lisbun, un the eighth of July, 1497. The descrip- 
 tion of the sailing of this little fleet is given in 
 the following terms by Vasco de Gama, in his 
 narration to the King of IMelinda : 
 
 Where foaming on the shore the tide appears, 
 A sacred fane its hoary arches rears : 
 Dim o'er the sea the evening sliadcs 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, 
 " O! mighty God! be thou our watchful guide.'' 
 While kneeling thus before the sacred shrine 
 In holy faith's most solemn rite we join. 
 Our peace with heaven the bread of peace confirms, 
 And meek contrition every bosom warms : 
 Sudden the lights 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 offer'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 brsj)reads 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.
 
 } 
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 373 
 
 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 — 
 
 Forgive, O 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, my son !* 
 
 A hoary sire exclaims ; oh, whither run, 
 
 My heart's sole joy, my trembling age's stay, 
 
 To yield thy limbs the dread sea-monster's prey ? 
 
 To seek thy burial in the raging wave. 
 
 And leave me cheerless sinking to the grave ? 
 
 Was it for this I watch'd thy tender years, 
 
 And bore each fever of a father's fears ? 
 
 Qual vai dizendo . o' filho, a quem eu tinha 
 So para refrigerio e doce amparo 
 Desta cansada ja velhice minha. 
 Que em choro acabard penoso e amaro ; 
 Porque me deixas, misera e mesquinha ? 
 Porque de mi te vas, o filho charo ? 
 A fazer o funereo enterramento, 
 Onde scias dc pcixcs mantimcnto ?
 
 ;i74 ON THK I.ITKIIATUKE 
 
 Alas! my boy ! — his voice is licard no more, 
 The female shriek resounds along the shore : 
 With hair ilishevcll'd, through the yielding crowd 
 A lovely bride springs on, and screams aloud : 
 Oh I where, my husband, where to seas unknown. 
 Where wouldst thou fly me, and my love disown? 
 And wilt thou, cruel, to the deep consign 
 Tiiat valued life, the joy, the soul of mine : 
 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 I be scatter'd in the wind, 
 Nor thou bestow one lingering look behind ? 
 
 Such the lorn parents' and the spouses' woes, 
 Such o'er the strand the voice of wailing rose ; 
 From breast to breast the soft contagion crept, 
 Moved by the woeful sound the children wept ; 
 The 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. 
 
 (iual em cabello : o doce c amado csposo, 
 Sem quem nao quiz amor (pie viver possa ; 
 Porquc is aventurar ao mar iroso 
 Essa vida, que he minha, c nao he vossa ? 
 Como, por hum caminho duvidoso, 
 Vos esquecc a affei^-ao tuo doce nossa ? 
 Noaso amor, nosio vao contentamento 
 Quereis (pic com as velas kve o vento ^ 
 
 Caiilo IV, ,«//•. J)0, 91.
 
 Ol' THE POUTUGUESE. 375 
 
 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 affection and what love could do. 
 
 Tlie last embrace the bravest worst can bear : 
 
 The bitter yearnings of the parting tear 
 
 Sullen we shun, unable to sustain 
 
 The melting passion of such tender pain. 
 
 Now on the lofty decks prepared we stand, 
 When towering o'er the crowd that veil'd the strand, 
 A reverend figure fix'd each wondering eyo, 
 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 throuirh the fleet these awful words were heard : 
 
 O 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! 
 'I'hou 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, vvhen Paradise was lost, 
 Wlicn thy big promise steep'd the world in gore, 
 And simple innocence was known no more.
 
 376 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 And say, has fame so dear, so dazzling charms? • 
 Must brutal ticrccness and the trade of arms, 
 Conquest, and laurels dipp'd in blood, be prized, 
 While life is scorn'd, and all its joys despised ? 
 And say, does zeal for holy faith inspire 
 To spread its mandates, thy avow'd desire ? 
 Behold tlie Ilagarene 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 recjuire ; 
 That higli-plumed foe, renown'd for martial fire, 
 Before thy gates his shining spear displays, 
 Whilst thou wouldst fondly dare the watry maze, 
 
 Ja que nesta gostosa vaidade 
 Tanto enlevas a leve phantasia, 
 Ja que a bruta crueza, c feridade 
 Pozeste nome, csforco e valentia ; 
 Jti que prezas em tanta quantidade 
 O desprezo da vida, que devia 
 De set sempre estimada, i>ois que jd 
 Temeo tanto perdela quem a da. 
 
 Nao tens junto contigo o Ismaelita, 
 Com quem sempre terus gucrras sobejas ? 
 Nao segue clle do Arabio a lei maldita, 
 Se tu pela de Christo su pelcias ? 
 Nao tern cidades mil, terra infmita, 
 Se terras, e riqucza mais dcsejas ? 
 Nao he elle jwr armas esforyado, 
 Se qucrcs por victorias ser louvado !
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 377 
 
 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 ves- 
 sels had alread}^ 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 ; 
 
 Deixas criar ds portas o inimigo. 
 For ir a buscar outro de tao lonere. 
 For quera se despovoe o reino antigo, 
 Se enfraquefa, e se va deitando ao longe? 
 Buscas o incerto e incognito perigo, 
 Porque a fama te exalte, e te lisonge, 
 Clamandote senhor, com larga copia 
 Da India, Persia, Arabia, e da Ethiopia ? 
 
 Canto iv. str. dO, 100, 101. 
 
 Ja a vista pouco e pouco se desterra 
 Daquelles patrios montes que ficavam : 
 Ficava o charo Tejo, e a fresca serra 
 De Cintra, e nella os olhos se alongavam : 
 Ficava nos tambem na amada terra. 
 O cora^ao, que as magoas li deixavam; 
 E ja dcspois que toda se escondco 
 Nao vimos mais em fim que mar e ceo. 
 
 Canto V. s(r. 3.
 
 :i7^ ON TUl: I.ITI HA 11 lil: 
 
 Tajro's loved stream, anil Cintra's mountains cohl 
 Dim latlinj^ now, we now no more behold ; 
 And still with yearning hearts our eyes explore, 
 Till one dim speck of land ajjpcars no more. 
 Our native soil now f';ir behind, we ply 
 The lonelv drearv waste of seas and boiuuUess sky. 
 
 Vasco de (lama next proceeds to relate his 
 voyage aloiii,^ tlie western coast of Africa. He 
 describes Madeira, tlie first island jieopled by 
 the Portuguese, the l)urnin,t; shores of the Zan- 
 hagan desert, tlie passage of the Tri)pic, and the 
 cold waters of the dark Senegal. They touch for 
 refreshments at San Jago, where they renew their 
 provisions, pass the rocky precipices of Sierra 
 Leone, the island on which they bestow^ed the 
 name of St. Thomas, and the kingdom of Congo, 
 watered ))y the great river Zahir, and already 
 converted to the Christian faith; till at h-ngth, 
 having crossed the line, they behold a new pole 
 rising above the horizon, but less richly studded 
 with the constellations of heaven. Gama enume- 
 rates the phenomena which they witnessed in 
 these hitherto untraversed seas, and presents us 
 with a very striking and poetical description of the 
 water-sj)()utseen at sea. To whatever shores, how- 
 ever, they direct their course, they in vain seek 
 to obtain information from countries whose savajre 
 inhabitants attempt to sur])rise and cut them off* 
 l)y trcach(My. At length, alter an anxious voyage 
 of five months, tluty arrive in the latitude of the
 
 01" THE I'OUTLGUESE. 379 
 
 Cape of Good Hope, where, enveloped in 
 gathering clouds which foreboded storms, a ter- 
 rific vision is supposed to meet their eyes : 
 
 * 
 
 I spoke, when rising through the Jarken'd air, 
 Appall'd we saw a hideous phantom glare ; 
 High and enormous o'er the flood he tower'd, 
 And tliwart 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. 
 
 * Nao acabava, quando hua figura 
 Se nos mostra no ar, robusta e v<ilida, 
 De disforme e grandissima estatura, 
 O rosto carrcgado, a barba esqualida : 
 Os olhos encovados, e a postura 
 Mcdonha e ma, e a cor terrena e piilida ; 
 Cheos de terra e crespos os cabelhos 
 A boca negra, os dentes amarelhos. 
 
 E disse : o gente ousada mais que quanta 
 No mundo cometteram grandes cousas, 
 Tu, que por guerras cruas taes e tantas 
 E por trabalhos vaos nunca repousas : 
 Pois OS vedados tcrminos quebrantas, 
 E navcgar meus longos mares ousas, 
 Que cu tanto tempo ha que guardo c tcnho, 
 Nunca arados de estranho ou jiroprio Irnlio.
 
 380 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 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 
 ^Vitll hollow groan repeats the tempest's roar. 
 Cold gliding horrors ihrill'd each hero's breast ; 
 Our bristling hair and tottering knees conless'd 
 Wild dread; the while with visage ghastly wan. 
 His black lips trembling, thus the fiend began : 
 
 O you, the boldest of the nations, lired 
 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 watry way, 
 And all the storms that own my sovereign sway, 
 Who mid surrounding rocks and shelves explore 
 Where never hero braved my rage before ; 
 Ve sons of Lusus, who with eyes profane 
 Have view'd the secrets of my awful reign, 
 Have pass'd the bounds which jealous Nature drew 
 To veil her secret shrine from mortal view ; 
 Hear from my lips what direful woes attend, 
 And bursting soon shall o'er your race descend. 
 
 With every bounding keel that dares my rage. 
 Eternal war my rocks and storms shall wage ; 
 The next proud fieet that through my drear domain. 
 With daring search shall hoise the streaming vane, 
 
 I'ois vens ver os secredos escondidos, 
 Da natureza e do lunnido elemento, 
 A nenhum grande humano concedidos 
 De nobrc on de inunortal mcrecimento : 
 Ouve 08 damnos de mi, que apercebidos 
 Kstau a tcu sobejo atrevimento, 
 I'or lodo o largo mar, c pcla terra 
 (^ic inda has de sobjugar com dura guerra. 
 
 L'antu V. !,tr. Ji), &c.
 
 OF THE POKTUGUESE. 381 
 
 That gallant navy, by my wliirlwinds toss'd, 
 
 And raging seas, shall perish on my coast : 
 
 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 fail, 
 
 O 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 
 
 * Bartolomeo Diaz, who discovered the Cape of Good Hope 
 before the time of Gama, and who perished there with three 
 vessels in the expedition of Alvarez Cabral, in the year 1500. 
 
 + Francesco d'Alraeida, first viceroy of the Indies, who was 
 killed by the Caflres of the Cape in the year 1509. 
 
 Aqui espero tomar, se nao me engano, 
 De quern me descobrio summa vingan^a, 
 E nao se acabara so nisto o dano 
 De vossa pertinace confian^a : 
 Antes, em vossas naos vereis cada anno 
 (Se he verdade o que meu juizo alcanna) 
 Naufragios, perdi9oes de toda sorte, 
 Que o menor mal dc todos seja a morte. 
 
 E do
 
 382 ox Tiir. i.n KUATiuF. 
 
 The howling blast, yc slumbering storms, prepare! 
 A youthful lover and his beauteous fair * 
 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 escajwd, 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 iiands employ ; 
 IJy 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, 
 
 E do primeiro dlustre que a ventura 
 Com fama alta fizcr tocar os ccos, 
 Serei eterna e nova sepultura, 
 Por juizos incognitos de Dcos ; 
 Aqui pora da Turca armada dura 
 Os soberbos e prosperos tropheos : 
 Comigo de sens damnos o amea^a 
 A destruida Quiloa e Momba9a. 
 
 Manuel de Souza and his wife. 
 
 Outro tambem vira de honrada f;nua, 
 Liberal, cavalleiro, enamorado, 
 E comsigo trara a fermosa dama, 
 (Jue amor por gran merce Ihc tera dado; 
 Tristc ventura, e negro fado os ehama 
 Ncstc terreno meu, cpie duro c irado, 
 Os dcixara de hum cru naufragio vivos 
 Para verem trnbalhos excessivos.
 
 OF TMF. PORTHGUKSE. 383 
 
 Tho 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 shrivcH'd by the cohl 
 Of dewy niglit, shall he, fond man! 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. 
 
 Some few, the sad companions of their fate, 
 Shall yet survive, protected by my hate, 
 On Tagus' banks the dismal tale to tell, 
 How blasted by my frown your heroes fell. 
 
 Verao morrer com fome os filhos charos, 
 Em tanto emor gerados e nascidos : 
 Verao os Cafres asperos e avaros 
 Tirar a linda dama os seus vestidos. 
 Os crystallines membros, e preclaros, 
 A calma, ao frio, ao ar verao despidos : 
 Despois de ter pizado longamentc 
 Co OS delicados pes a ariia ardcnte. 
 
 E verao mais os olhos que escaparem 
 De tanto mal, de tanta desventura, 
 Os doces amantes miseros ficarem 
 Na fcrvida e implacabil espessura. 
 Alii, despois que as pedras abrandarem 
 Com lagrimas de dor, de magoa pura 
 Abra^ados, as almas soltarao 
 Da formoza e miscrrima prisao. 
 
 Canto V. str. 46 to 18.
 
 ^ 
 
 ;iy4 ox TUF. I.ITKUATUUE 
 
 He paused, in act still fartlicr to disclose 
 A long, a dreary prophecy of woes : 
 When spriM{,Mng onward, lovid my voice resounds, 
 Anil midst his rage the threateninj^ shade confounds : 
 NVliat art thou, horrid form, that rid'st the air ? 
 I3y 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, 
 \\ hile dark-red sparkles from his eyeballs roU'd, 
 In me the spirit of the Cape behold. 
 That rock by you the Cajie of Tempests named, 
 15y Neptune's rage in horrid earthquakes framed. 
 When Jove's red bolts o'er Titan's ortspring flamed. \ 
 
 With wide-stretch'd piles I guard the pathless strand. 
 And Afric's soutliern mound unmoved I stand: 
 Nor Roman prow, nor daring Tyrian oar 
 Ere dash'd tJie 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 Icngthcn'd sigli 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 <lis8olved, an enipty shadow, lied ; 
 So may his curses by the winds ol" heaven 
 Far o'er the deep, their i«lle sport, be driven !
 
 OF THF. PORTrCUESE. 385 
 
 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 sjjectre 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 appears 
 To hide her weeping face, his voice he rears 
 O'er the wild storm. Deep in the days of yore 
 A holy pilgrim trod the nightly shore ; 
 Stern groans he heard ; by ghostly spells controll'd, 
 His fate, mysterious, thus the spectre told : 
 
 By forceful Titan's warm embrace compress'd, 
 The rock-ribb'd mother Earth his love confessed. 
 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 I 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 lovely Thetis from the wave advance 
 In mirthful frolic, and the naked dance. 
 
 * [The story of Adamastor's metamorphosis, which Mickle 
 here assigns to the King of Mclinda, is related in the original 
 by the spectre himself. T/-.] 
 
 VOL. IV. 2 €
 
 386 ox THE LITERATURE 
 
 In all licr (harms reveal'd the goddess trodc ; 
 
 With fiercest fires my struggling bosom glow'd ; 
 
 Yet, yet 1 feel them burning in my heart, 
 
 And hojM'less languisli 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 unite she fled. 
 
 Madd'ning with love, by force I ween to gair» 
 
 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 impell'd, old Doris tries to move. 
 
 And win the spouse of Peleus to my love. 
 
 The silver goddess with a smile replies : 
 
 What nymph can yield her charms a giant's prize ? 
 
 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 clung : 
 
 In all the transfMrts of the warm embrace, 
 
 A hundred kisses on her angel face, 
 
 On all its various charms my rage bestows. 
 
 And on her cheek my cheek enraptured glows. 
 
 When, oh, what anguish while my shame I tell! 
 
 What fix'd despair, what rage my bosom swell !
 
 OF THE POKTUGUESE. 387 
 
 Here was no goddess, here no heavenly charms ; 
 
 A rugged mountain fiU'd my eager arms, 
 
 Whose rocky top o'crhung 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 :* 
 
 O 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, 
 
 I felt the hand of Jove my crimes pursue; 
 
 My stiffening flesh to earthy ridges grew, 
 
 And my huge bones, no more by marrow warm'd. 
 
 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, 
 
 Oh que nao sei de noja como o conte : 
 Que crendo ter nos braf os quem amava, 
 Abrafado me achei co hum duro monte 
 De aspero mato e de espessura brava, 
 Estando co hum penedo fronte a fronte 
 Que eu pelo rosto angelico apertava, 
 Nao fiquei homem nao, mas mudo e quedo, 
 E junto de hum penedo outro penedo. 
 
 Canto v. str. 
 
 2c2
 
 388 ON Till. MTERATIKF. 
 
 llie silvery Thetis bids licr surges roar, 
 Anil waft my groans along the dreary shore* 
 
 I have thus given, in full, two of the finest epi- 
 sodes containetl in tlie whole poem of the \a\- 
 siad ; those of Inez de Castro and of Adaniastor. 
 No extracts are suHicient to convey a true feel- 
 ing of the creative power, and tlie 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 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 aflord the 
 reader more true pleasure in perusing the original, 
 than he could derive from the most perfect trans- 
 lation. 
 
 (lama continues the account of his voyage 
 along the eastern side of Africa; his passage be- 
 yond the island where Diaz first checked his 
 course; and his arrival, at length, at the spot 
 wliifh they distinguished by the name of the 
 port of Ctcwd Promise, on account of the Arabic 
 
 • Convertese me a carnc em terra dura, 
 Em pc-nedos os ossos se fucram ; 
 Kstis nieinhro.s (juc ves, c esta figura, 
 Per estas longas agnas se cstendt'^ram : 
 Em fun, uiinha grandissima eslalura 
 Nestc rcmolo cabo couvcrlrram 
 Os Deoses, c por mais dobradas magoas. 
 Me aiula Thctin ccrcando destas agoas. 
 
 Cantd V. .v/r. 50.
 
 OF THE rOKTUGUESE. 389 
 
 language being there first understood, the appear- 
 ance 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 conso- 
 lation ; as a scorbutic disease had broken out, and 
 was making fatal progress among the crew. The 
 expedition then passes by the ports of Mosam- 
 bique and Mombaca, 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 Por- 
 tuguese admiral enters into an alliance, strength- 
 ened by the sacred rites of hospitality, with the 
 King of Melinda. He assures him that the vessels 
 of Portugal 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 assembled. 
 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 antic^uity, as far as an imitation 
 can possibly rival its model. The gods of the 
 sea, excited by Bacchus, consent to let loose the
 
 390 ox IHK LlTtUATUUE 
 
 winds iiiul waves upon the daring navigators who 
 tluis venture to explore the secrets of the deep. 
 
 Belore the council of marine deities had adopt- 
 ed this fatal resolution, the Portuguese adven- 
 turers, steering their course in full security, had 
 stationed their watches for the night. The se- 
 cond had already commenced its office ; and the 
 men were striving to chase slumber from their 
 eyes by recounting to each other amusing stories; 
 when Leonardo, himself a lover, begged his com- 
 panions 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 thrcatcn'd, let the tale inspire 
 The scorn of danger, and the hero's fire. 
 
 lie is then re([uested lo narrate some proud 
 fear of war, and he recites the history of the 
 Knights of Portugal called the Twelve of Eng- 
 land. 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 ottered to prove by knightly 
 leat of arms, that those by whom thev had been 
 oftcnded were no longer entitled to the rank of
 
 OF THE POirrUGUESE. 391 
 
 honourable dames. None were found in England 
 bold enough to accept their challenge, as they 
 were considered to be the most redoubtable cham- 
 pions of their time. But the Duke of Lancas- 
 ter, who had fought for the Portuguese in the 
 wars of Castile, and had married his own daughter 
 to King John, advised the ladies, whose honour 
 had been thus aspersed, to look for champions in 
 the kingdom of Portugal, and he recommended 
 to them twelve noble cavaliers from among those 
 whom he best knew. He caused each of the 
 twelve ladies to select by lot the true knight des- 
 tined for the defence of her honour ; after which, 
 the ladies wrote conjointly to King John, and 
 each separately to the cavalier whom she had 
 chosen; while the Duke, on his side, addressed 
 letters to all. This invitation to battle, from 
 these unknown beauties, was considered in the 
 light of a favour by the noble Portuguese ; who, 
 after obtaining the sanction of their monarch, 
 equipped themselves with arms and steeds, and 
 took ship at Oporto, on their way to England. 
 One only, of the name of Magri^o, wished to go 
 by land as far 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,
 
 392 ON nil I.ITIUATDKK 
 
 this knight was in fact detained by contrary winds 
 at a port in Flanders, and his eleven compeers 
 entered into the lists without him to engage the 
 twelve Englisli 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 .Magri^o rode forward, embraced 
 his companions, and ranged liimself by their 
 side. Accustomed to such engagements, and 
 doubtless as weary as his readers of the frequent 
 j)octical encounters of the sword and the lance, 
 the author spares us the recital of the particulars 
 of this scene, contenting himself with proclaim- 
 ing 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 u itii 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. lie 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 (Janui has her 
 main-nuist carried away, and Coelho's ship is in 
 little less danger, although the pilot succeeded
 
 OF THE POKTUGLESE. 393 
 
 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 extreme 
 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 al- 
 ready rose above the horizon, summons her 
 nymphs to attend her, and to adorn themselves 
 with garlands of the freshest flowers, 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 Portuguese that 
 they are now approaching the kingdom of Cali- 
 cut, 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 individual, in the 
 collective exploits of the people ; as if individual
 
 394 0\ llIK I.ITIKATI'KL 
 
 iin|)ortancc were not merged in the overwhelm- 
 ing influence of aggregate bodies ; and as if in- 
 dividual 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 lar more genuine description, 
 inasmuch as it implies the accomplishment of 
 great designs, with very inadequate means. It 
 is only the inhabitants of circumscribed do- 
 minions, 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 Ca- 
 moens 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 ! 
 
 A vos, ogera^ao de Luzo, digo 
 Que tao pe([ucna parte sois no niuiulo, 
 Nao digo inda no nmndo, mas no amigo 
 Curral de (juem governa o ceo rotundo; 
 Vos, a (juem nao sumente algum perigo 
 Estorva contpiistar o povo imnnuido, 
 Mas nem c-obi\a, ou pouca ol)edien^a 
 Da madre (pjc hob ceos csta em essencia.
 
 OF THE POKTUCiUliSE. 395 
 
 Ah heaven ! what fury Europe's sons controls ! 
 What self-consuming discord fires their souls ! 
 'Gainst her own breast her sword Germania turns; 
 Through all her states fraternal rancour burns ; 
 Some, blindly wandering, holy faith disclaim, 
 And fierce through all wild rages civil flame. 
 High sound the titles of the English crown, 
 King of Jerusalem, his old renown ! 
 Alas, delighted with an airy name. 
 The thin dim shadow of departed fame, 
 England's stern monarch, sunk in soft repose. 
 Luxurious riots mid his northern snows : 
 Or if the starting burst of rage succeed. 
 His brethren are his foes, and Christians bleed ; 
 While Hagar's brutal race his titles stain. 
 In weeping Salem unmolested reign. 
 And with their rites impure her holy shrines profane. 
 
 } 
 
 Vos Portuguezes poucos, quanto fortes, 
 Que o fraco poder vosso nao pczais, 
 Vos que a costa de vossas varias mortes, 
 A lei da vida eterna dilatais ; 
 Assi do ceo deitadas sao as sortes. 
 Que vos, por muito poucos que sejais, 
 Muito fa9ais na sancta Christandade, 
 Que tanto o Christo exalta a humildade. 
 
 Vedes os Alemaes, soberbo gado. 
 Que por tao largos campos se apascenta, 
 Do successor de Pedro rebellado. 
 Novo pastor e nova seita inventa ; 
 Vedes lo em feas guerras occupado. 
 Que inda co o cego error se nao contenta, 
 Nao contra o superbissimo Othomano, 
 Mas por sahir do jugo sobcrano. 
 
 Canlu vii. .^Ir. 2, li, 4.
 
 390 ON I'll irrhKAHiJi: 
 
 Cainoens then describes the English, the 
 French, and the Italians, in a similar way, re- 
 proaching thcin t(»r their profane wars and luxury, 
 while they ought to have been engaged in oppos- 
 ing the eni'inies of the faith : 
 
 Yet sleep, ye powers of Europ<% 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 onlain'il before, 
 Tlie Lusian race shall guard Messiah's lore. 
 Wiien lieaven decreed to crush the Moorish foe, 
 Heaven gave the Lusian spear to strike the blow. 
 NVhen heaven's own laws o'er Afric's shores were heard, 
 Tlie sacred shrines the Lusian heroes rcar'd ; 
 Nor shall their zeal in Asia's bounds expire, 
 Asia subdued shall fume with hallow'd lire : 
 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. 
 
 Camocns proceeds to describe, with more 
 geograj)hical correctness, perhaps, than j)oetic 
 culouring, the western peninsula of India, the 
 shores of Malabar, and Calicut, the capital ot" 
 the Zamoriin, where (laina had landed. The 
 l*<)rtii;_,Miese there nu't with a Moor of liarbary, 
 mimed MoiiYaide, w Ikj rei ogni/.ing the Sj)an- 
 ish drcbs, s|)oke to them in the Castilian 
 tongue, and gave them a hospitable recep- 
 tion, lie seemed to rememln r only his former
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 397 
 
 proximity to them, forgetting the numerous inju- 
 ries which his persecuted race had sustained at 
 their hands. After receiving Gama's messenger 
 in his house, he went himself on board the Portu- 
 guese vessel, and gave his guests a particular 
 account of every thing he had learned relating to 
 India. The Zamorim next invites Gama to repair 
 to an audience; who sets out in a palanquin, ac- 
 companied by his soldiers on foot. Mon9aide 
 acts as an interpreter ; requesting in the name 
 of the King of Portugal, the friendship 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 
 answer, wishes to have the opinion of his council ; 
 inquires of Mon^aide some particulars respect- 
 ing Portugal, and orders the ships arrived in his 
 port to be visited by his officers. The arrival of 
 the Catual, or minister of the Zamorim, on board 
 the ships, and his examination of the historical 
 portraits which meet his eye, afford occasion for 
 another digression, in which Camoens discusses 
 the antiquities of Portugal. But he first ad- 
 dresses himself to the nymphs of the Tagus, 
 lamenting the many disappointments 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 ! 
 
 * Mas oh cego 
 
 Eu! que cometto insano c temcrario,
 
 398 ()\ DIE LITKUA'I I UF. 
 
 Or yours, yc Dryads ot Monilego's bowers! 
 Williout your aid how vain my wearied powers ! 
 Lonjj 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 ! gee 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: 
 
 Sem vos, nymphas do Tejo, c do Mondego, 
 Por caminho tao arduo, longo e vano. 
 
 Olhai, (jue a tanto tempo que cantnndo 
 O vosso Tejo, c os vossos Lusitanos, 
 A fortuna me traz peregrinando, 
 Novos travalhos vendo c novos danos. 
 Agora o mar, agora cxprimentando 
 Os perigos Mavorcios inhumanos, 
 Qual Canace, que a morte se condcmna, 
 N'huil mao scmpre a espada, c n'outra a penna. 
 
 Agora com pobreza aborrecida 
 For hospicios alheos degradado. 
 Agora da esperan^a ja adcpiirida 
 l)e novo, mais que nunca derribado, 
 Agora as costas escapando a vida, 
 Que dc hum fio pendia tao dilgado. 
 Que nao menos milagrc foi salvar-se, 
 (iue para o re judaico acrcsccntarse.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 399 
 
 As Canace* 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 heaven-doom'd king of yore, 
 
 By miracle prolong'd ; yet not the more 
 
 To end my sorrows : woes succeeding woes 
 
 Belied my earnest hopes of sweet repose : 
 
 In place of bays around my brows to shed 
 
 Their sacred honours, o'er my destined head 
 
 Foul calumny proclaim'd the fraudful talc, 
 
 And left me mourning in a dreary jail. 
 
 Such was the meed, alas ! on me bestow'd, 
 
 Bestow'd by those for whom my numbers glovv'd, 
 
 By those who to my toils their laurel honours owed. 
 
 Ye gentle nymphs of Tago's rosy bowers. 
 Ah, see what letter'd patron-lords are yours ! 
 
 Pois logo em tantos males, he for^ado 
 Que so vosso favor me nao fallcfa, 
 Principalmente aqui, que son chegado 
 Onde feitos diversos engrande^a ; 
 Dai-me vos sos, que eu tenho ju jurado 
 Que nao o empregue em quern o nao mereya, 
 Nem por lisonja louve algum subido, 
 Sob pena de nao ser agradecido. 
 
 Canto vii. xtr. 78. 
 * The daughter of jEoIus, whose illegitimate children were 
 condemned to death. Ovid attributes to her one of his Heroids.
 
 400 0\ TUL I.ITF.KATrRF 
 
 Dull as tlic herds that j^raze their flowery dales. 
 
 To ihcni in vain the injured tn\ise bewails : 
 
 No fostcrinjjj care their barbarous hands bestow. 
 
 Though to ilie 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 ofKce 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 siiall 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 ci;^'Iith book, which folh)ws this very af- 
 fectinj,' appeal, w ill scarcely, we (ear, suit our 
 jmrposc, in the lorni of extracts. The heroes of 
 Portu)^^al, IVoni the time of Lusus, one of the 
 coini)anions of IJacchus, who conferred his name 
 on Lusitania, and of Ulysses the founder of Lis-
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 401 
 
 bon, down to the infants Don Pedro and Don 
 Henrique, the conquerors of Ceuta, are all repre- 
 sented in the portraits of Gama, and are like- 
 wise characterized by appropriate verses, inte- 
 resting 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 oracles 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 inconsistent- 
 ly attributed by them to these false and lying 
 idols. Through these oracles the Emperor 
 of Calicut is made acquainted with the future 
 dominion of the Portuguese over the Indies, and 
 the consequent downfal of his own empire. 
 x\ll the Mahometans throughout his dominions, 
 actuated by either religious or commercial mo- 
 tives, conspire against the Portuguese; and en- 
 deavour to 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 cor- 
 sairs, and requires him to reveal the real truth. 
 
 VOL. JV. 2 D
 
 .|(»2 ON THK LlTFUAiritE 
 
 The hero repels sueh au accusation with becom- 
 ing dignity ; avowing at the same time that ar- 
 dent 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 recjuires the kinc^'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 CJama speaks convinces the 
 emperor of his sincerity. He consents to his de- 
 parture ; but his ministers, and particularly the 
 Catual, seduced by the presents of the Moors, 
 will not allosv the commander to return to his 
 rteet. lie 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 permission once more to re-embark. 
 Nearly all these details have the recommendation 
 of historical truth, as we scarcely find a circum- 
 stance 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 in- 
 s|)ires (iama with his eloquent discourse, and the 
 jealousy of Bacchus, who excites a Mahometan 
 l)riest against the Christians by appearing to him 
 in a dream, gives an air of ridicule ancl improba- 
 bility to a fiction so ])erfcctly at variance with all 
 the modern feelings and passions with which it 
 is associated. \\'e have already observed thai
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 403 
 
 Canioens 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 mythology of the 
 Greeks, the object of his studies while at Coim- 
 bra, served to revive the delightful impressions of 
 his childhood and his youth. Had he deferred 
 the composition of his work until his return to 
 Europe, his imagination would, perhaps, have 
 luxuriated as fondly amidst the enchanting 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 have opposed the wild fic- 
 tions of India to the miracles of Christianity, 
 and his genius would have been enriched by 
 his 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 Moncaide, to whom 
 this project had been confided by his country- 
 men, moved by compassion for the Portuguese, 
 who had been his guests, informed them of the 
 
 2 D 2
 
 404 0\ THF. LITERATURE 
 
 apjiroaching cUing-cr. He then renounced his re- 
 ligion, 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 se- 
 cretly 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 
 Heet, 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 intelligence of his discoveries. 
 
 t The queen of love, by heaven's eternal grace, 
 The guardian goddess of the L\isian 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 ; 
 
 • [In the version of Mickle, this portion of the original is 
 omitted, and the liberation of the factors is efltcted by a victory 
 obtained by Gama over the Indians. Mickle inserts, for this 
 purpose, about three hundred lines of his own. 7V.] 
 
 t Porem a Deosa C'ypria, (jue ordenada 
 
 Era para favor dos Lusilauos, 
 Da Padre eterno, e por bom genio dada, 
 Que sempre os guia ja de longos annos ; 
 A gloria jKir traballios alcan(,ada, 
 Satiiifayau de ben> H«)fl'ridos danos, 
 Lhe andava ja ordenando, e pertendia 
 Dnr lhe nos mares tri«tcs alegria.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 405 
 
 These toils, these woes lier yearning cares employ, 
 
 To bathe and balsam in the streams of joy. 
 
 Amid the bosom of the watery waste, 
 
 Near where the bowers of Paradise were placed, 
 
 An isle, array'd in all the pride of flowers, 
 
 Of fruits, of fountains, and of fragrant bowers, 
 
 She means to offer to 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. 
 
 It is in this manner that Camoens introduces a 
 very singular, but easy and agreeable episode, re- 
 counting the love adventures of his heroes in one 
 of the islands of the ocean.* The real Deity of 
 Camoens, who had selected Venus to protect 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 
 
 Alii quer que as aquaticas donzellas 
 
 Esperem os fortissimos Baroes, 
 
 Todas as que tern titulo de bellas, 
 
 Gloria dos olhos, dor dos cora^oes ; 
 
 Com dan^as e coreas, porque nellas 
 
 Influira secretas affbi9oes. 
 
 Para com mais vontade trabalharem 
 
 De contentar a quern se att'eiyoarem. 
 
 Canto ix. xfr. 18. 
 * It is not improbable that the annual ceremony of the 
 Ascension at Venice, during which the Doge, in the name of 
 the Republic, weds the sea, furnished Camoens with this alle- 
 gory. Thetis is espoused by the Portuguese commander in the 
 ocean isle, at the moment when the dominion of the seas is trans- 
 ferred from the Republic of Venice to the King of Portugal.
 
 406 ox THE I.ITKRATLRE 
 
 all his realms, to implore his aid ; and the truly 
 classical description iriven of her progress is one 
 of the most seductive of its kind. She arrives, 
 at length, at tlie place where Love's artillery and 
 arms are forged ; a busy scene of little winged 
 boys and nymphs working 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 enfiame 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 woo. 
 Some store the quiver, some steel- spring the bow ; 
 
 • 
 
 Muitos dfstes meninos voadores 
 Estau em varias obras trabalhando, 
 Hums amolando ferros passadorcs, 
 Outros hasteas de scttas delgayando. 
 Traballiando, cantando estao de umores, 
 Varios casos em versos moduhmdo : 
 Melodia sonora e concertada. 
 Suave a letrii, angelica a soada. 
 
 Na» fragoas immortaen onde forjavam, 
 Para as settas, as pontas penelrantes, 
 I*or lenha cornv'Hs ardcndo esfavam, 
 Vivas cniranhas inda palpitantcs.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 407 
 
 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. 
 
 Venus intercedes with her son in favour of the 
 Portuguese, and explains to him her design in 
 the following terms : 
 
 * Then bend thy bow and wound the Nereid train, 
 The lovely daughters of the azure main ; 
 And lead them, while they pant with amorous fire, 
 Right to the isle which all my smiles inspire : 
 Soon shall my care that beauteous isle supply, 
 Where Zephyr breathing love, on Flora's lap shall sigh. 
 There let the nymphs the gallant heroes meet, 
 And strew the pink and rose beneath their feet: 
 In crystal halls the feast divine prolong, 
 With wine nectareous and immortal song : 
 
 As aguas onde os ferros tempera vam, 
 Lagrimas sao de miseros amantes : 
 A viva flamma, o nimca morto lume, 
 Desejo e so que queima e nao consume. 
 
 Cantu ix. sir. 30. 
 
 Alii com mil refrescos, e manjares, 
 Com vinhos odoriferos e rosas, 
 Em crystallinos pa^os singulares, 
 Formosos leitos, e ellas mais formosas, 
 Em fim com mil deleites nao vulgares 
 Os espcrem as Nymphas amorosas ; 
 De amor fcridas, para Ihe entregarem 
 Qtuiuto del las os olhos cobi<;arcm.
 
 408 ON' IHL I.I IFKATl'RK 
 
 Let every nymph the snow-white bed prepare. 
 
 And, fairer far, resign her bosom there ; 
 
 There to the greedy riotous embrace 
 
 Resign each hidden charm with dearest grace. 
 
 Thus from my native waves a hero Unc 
 
 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 |)roject of Venus ; and it is exe- 
 cuted by Love liimself. M ith tliem is associated 
 Fame, wlio, every where bruiting forth the glory 
 of the Portuguese, has inspired the sea-nymphs 
 with a passion for lier licroes before they have 
 yet beheld them. The island to which they 
 repair, floats, like J)clos of old, upon the bosom 
 of the waves, but becomes fixed on the instant 
 the vessel appears in sight. Notliing can sur- 
 pass the beauty of embowering trees, the clus- 
 tering fruits and blossoms, the flower-enamelled 
 green, the song of birds bursting from every 
 bough, and the pure transparent waters in 
 
 (iuero que haia no reino Neptunino 
 Ondc eu nasci, progcnie forte e hclla, 
 E tome exemplo o mundo vil, malino 
 (iiic contra tua potencia se rcbella ; 
 Porquc entendnm que muro ndamantino 
 Nem tristr hypocrisia val contra ella ; 
 Nfnl havera na terra qiieni sr guarde, 
 Se tcu Togo immortal na.i aguan arde. 
 
 Can/n ix. t//. 41.
 
 OF THK POUTUGUiLSE. 409 
 
 which the love-nymphs bathe their limbs, in- 
 dulging in voluptuous anticipations of the ex- 
 pected 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 glow^ing mood, suddenly vanishes to- 
 wards the close of the same canto, to the infinite 
 surprise of the reader, who learns as suddenly 
 that these apparent realities are merely alle- 
 gorical. 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 are 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 anti- 
 quity were merely mortals like ourselves, on 
 whom Fame conferred such illustrious 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 ;
 
 410 ON 1 M L LllKUATLRE 
 
 The silver roofs resound the living song, 
 Tlif harp and organ's lofty mood prolong 
 The liallowod warblings ; listening silence rides 
 The sky, and o'er the bridled winds presides; 
 In softest miirnuirs flows the glassy deep, 
 And each luUd in his shade, the bestials sleep. 
 
 Before Camoens describes to us the song 
 of this })rophetic Siren, he for tlie last time ad- 
 dresses himself to tlic muse ; and there is a tone 
 of sorrow in the lines, which touches us the more 
 deeply when we reflect upon the unhappy situa- 
 tion to which this great poet was at last reduced: 
 
 • And thou, my muse, O fairest of the train, 
 Calliope, inspire my closing strain. 
 No more the summer of ray life remains. 
 My autumn's lengthening evenings chill my veins ; 
 Down the bleak stream of years by woes on woes 
 Wing'd oil, I hasten to the tomb's repose. 
 The port whose deep dark bottom shall deLiu'n 
 My anchor never to be weigh 'd again, 
 Never on other sea of Ijfe to steer 
 The human course Vet thou, O goddess, hear. 
 
 • Aqui minha Calliope te invoco, 
 
 Neste trabalho extrrmo, ponjuo em patfo 
 Me tornes, do (jue eacrevo e cm vao j)ertcrKlo, 
 () gosto de cscrcver que vou perdeiidu. 
 
 V«o OH aiinos desecndo, c ji\ do Estiti 
 Ma poueo (|UL> pas»ar ate o Outono ; 
 A lortiuja me I'm o engeno frio. 
 Do ijual j.i me jiao jatto, ntni me abono ;
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESF.. 411 
 
 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 fourth 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 every thing 
 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 Pa- 
 checo, the Achilles of Portugal, the defender of 
 Cochin, and the conqueror of the Zamorim, whose 
 armies were destined to be seven times defeated 
 
 Os desgoBtos me vao levando ao rio 
 Do negro esquecimento e eterno sono. 
 Mas tu me da que cumpra o grao Rainha 
 Das NJusas, co o (jue qucro a nayao minha. 
 
 Canto X. str, 8.
 
 412 OV rilE IITLKATIRE 
 
 by him. Hut these exploits, aceomplished with 
 only a few hundred comrades, will prove insuf- 
 ficient to protect him a<,^ainst his country's in- 
 gratitude. Neglected by Ins King, and forgotten 
 by his fellow citizens, he is doomed to terminate 
 his wretched days in a hospital. Next appears 
 the celebrated Alfonso d'Albuqucrque, 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 liis severity towards his soldiers. Soarez, 
 Menezes, Mascarenhas, Hector de Silveiras, and 
 others who obtained great names by their ex- 
 ploits in the Indies, all pass in succession, with 
 their characteristic traits and their respective 
 titles to fame. Unhappily for the honour of Por- 
 tugal, these exhibit little more than a catalogue of 
 slaughter, spoliations, and bloodshed. Tlic 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 advan- 
 tages in point of strength, arms, and discipline, 
 over the different people of the countries which 
 tliey had discovered. One hundred European 
 soldiers were, in fact, a strong army when op- 
 posed 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 un-
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 413 
 
 resisting victims were put to the sword. It 
 was not until after streams of blood had flow- 
 ed, that so small a body of troops began to 
 be considered as formidable. It was then 
 that the instinctive ferocity inherent in the vul- 
 gar, 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 character never permitted them 
 even the shedding of blood ; who preferred re- 
 nouncing the use of flesh to inflicting the least 
 pain upon any thing endued with life; and 
 who professed 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 inva- 
 riably 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 far more severe, and permitted no sort of in- 
 dulgence to be shewn to this most impious sect. 
 Every one that did not receive immediate bap- 
 tism was delivered up to the stake or the sword. 
 The Turks, who had already established them-
 
 414 OV THE in EHATLRF. 
 
 selves, eitluT with commercial or warlike views, 
 in the Indies, so far from beinj^ permitted to unite 
 with the Christians, from their knowledge and 
 worship of the same true God, were only the 
 more detested by the Portuj^uese ; an hereditary 
 line of hatred was drawn between them ; and no 
 treaties, no alliance could lead tliem to unite. 
 The accounts, indeed, written by foreii]jners, 
 with the opinions delivered in a succeeding 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, 
 
 ' 1 feci some coinpunftion in thus bringing forward the name 
 of Albuquerciuc only for the purpose of accusation. The crime, 
 however, is not his : it wliolly rests with the age, tlie religion, 
 and that ferocious spirit which, I cannot observe without shud- 
 dering, some men are now attempting to revive. liut the eleva- 
 tion of his mind remains his o wn, and we recognize the dignity 
 of his character in the letter which he addressed to the King at 
 his death. The founder of the Portuguese empire in India was 
 recalled; his personal enemy was substituted in his place; and 
 tlu? wretches whom he had |)unished for their crimes, were ad- 
 vanced to the government of other ])lacos. Instead, however, 
 of complaining or justifying himself, he thus writes: 
 
 '* .Senhor, esta he a dcrradeira (|ue com solu^os de mortc 
 •irnvo a Voss.i Mii/.i, d • (pinntos com espiiito de vida llic
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESF. 415 
 
 De Barros gives an account of the most atro- 
 cious cruelties with the most perfect indif- 
 ference ; and Vasco de Gama himself, in his 
 second voyage, set the example to others. The 
 history of the different Portuguese expeditions, 
 written by Osorius, and that of Lope de Casta- 
 gneda, 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 destroyers suddenly surprise 
 their victims in one of their remotest retreats : 
 no provocation had ever been offered to them, and 
 no treaty had ever set bounds to their cruel rage. 
 Alter 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 age or sex. The cries of children were 
 mingled with the groans of aged chiefs ; * and 
 
 tenho escrito, pela tor livre da confusao desta derradeira hora, 
 e muito contento na occupa^ao de seu servi9o. Neste reino 
 deixei hum filho por nonie Braz d'Abuquerque ao qual pcfo a 
 Vossa Altcza que faja grande, como Uie meus servifos mere- 
 cem. Quanto as cousas da India, clla fallara por si e por ml." 
 
 JoAo DK Barros, Dccad. ii. Lib. viii. 
 
 * Among many other instances is tliat of Vasco de Gama burn- 
 ing an Egyptian vessel, with two hundred and fifty soldiers o\i
 
 41G ON THE LITKUATURE 
 
 wlicn torrents of blood and the agonies of the 
 victims seemed to excite feelings of compassion in 
 the minds of the soldiery, the more ferocious 
 priests rushed forward to renew, with fanatical 
 zeal, their relenting fury. Tribunals of the Inquisi- 
 tion were established at Cioa and at Diu, and innu- 
 merable victims perished in the most frightful tor- 
 ments. 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 hor- 
 ror, once more to view. The same critics who, in 
 our own times, have attracted attention to the sub- 
 ject of Spanish and Portuguese literature, repre- 
 senting it as the combined result, the finished pro- 
 duction of the rich spirit of chivalric manners and 
 romance, have at the same time applauded the re- 
 ligious j)rinci])le which animated 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. lint it is not according 
 to poetical rules that we are ])ermitted to judge 
 of the actions of men. The language of passion 
 may, perhaps, be more energetic, more elocjuent, 
 and better suited to poetry; although the pas- 
 
 board, and (iftyone women and cluldren, after tlicy had surren- 
 dered ihemsielveH to liiii), atid witliout the least provocation 
 froni tlic Kgyptians, with wliont he had never been iit \\ar. 
 JoAo nr Hahuos, Dvcnd. i. 1. vi. eap. .1.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE, 417 
 
 sions 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 cha- 
 racteristic of the passions being that of always 
 going beyond their object, he who is labouring 
 under their influence appears to act with a 
 disinterested 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 atrocious crime, ima- 
 gines 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 pro- 
 phetic song on the sjdondid actions of the For- 
 
 vo r.. I \ 'i /•:
 
 413 ON TMF. LITEKATUUE 
 
 tiiguesc, Thclis, leading Vasco dc Oania ])y the 
 hand, conducts him to the pinnacle of a moun- 
 tain, wiiere she shews him a celestial globe of 
 transjiarent materials, on which she describes to 
 him the whole structure of the heavens, accord- 
 iuii to tlie system of I'tolemv. In the centre of 
 the i^lobe, she points out to him the earth, and 
 the ditferent regions he has already traversed, 
 with those that yet remain to be discovered when 
 he shall be no more. Here, likewise, are de- 
 scribed 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 Magalliaens, who, on being 
 otiended by king Emmanuel, abandoned his 
 service to enter into that of Castile, and con- 
 ducted his Sj)anish comrades through tlie Strait 
 which yet bears his name, to the acquisition of 
 the Moluccas, till then in the sole possession of 
 the Portuguese. After having e\hi!)itrd these 
 astonishing events to the eyes of Gama, Thetis 
 addresses him in a speecli, with whicii, and with 
 the poet's apostrophe to king Sebastian, we shall 
 close our extracts and our remarks on this cele- 
 brated poem. 
 
 How ralm the wnvrs, how niilil the h:ihny fjah- ! 
 'Ihc halcyons call, yo Ijtisians, spread the sail ! 
 Old Ocean now appeased shall rapje no more, 
 Haste, poini ilic howsprit to your native shore :
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. .410 
 
 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 ships 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'd ; 
 Fair as immortal fame in smiles array'd. 
 In bridal smiles, attends each lovely maid. 
 O'er India's sea, wing'd on by balmy gales 
 That whisper'd peace, soft swell'd the steady sails : 
 Smooth as on wing unmoved the eagle flies, 
 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 glide; 
 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 Lusian sway. 
 
 * Enough, my muse, thy wearied wing no more 
 Must to the seat of Jove triumphant soar. 
 
 * Nao mais, Musa, nao raais, que a lyra tenho 
 Destemperada, e a voz enrouquecida 
 E nao do canto, mas de ver que venho 
 Cantar a gente surda e endurecida. 
 O favor com que mais se accende o engenho. 
 Nao o da a patria, nao, que esta metida 
 No gosto da cobifa, e na rudeza 
 De huii austcra, apagada, e vil tristeza. 
 
 2 F. 2
 
 420 OV THE LITF.RATnilE 
 
 Chiiri] by iny nation's cold neglect, lliy fires 
 Glow bold no more, and a)l tliy rage cxpiri's. 
 
 Yet thou, Sebastian, tliou, ray king, attend; 
 
 Bobold wlial glories on thy throne dosccml ! 
 
 Shall hau^rlny Gaul or sterner Albion boast 
 
 'Dial ail tljc Lusian fame in ihcc is lost! 
 
 Oh, be it thine these ghiries to renew. 
 
 And Jv)hij\s bold path and Pedro's conrse pursue: 
 
 Snatch from the tyrant noble's hand the sword, 
 
 And be the rights of human-kind restored. 
 
 £ nao sci por que iiifluxo do deit'mo, 
 Nao tern hum h'do nrgulho e genii gosto, 
 Que OS animos icvanta do contino, 
 A ler para trabaliins ledo o rosto. 
 Por isso vos, 6 rey, que por diviuo 
 Conselhn, estais no n'-gio solio posto, 
 Olliai que sois, (e vcde as oulras gentcs) 
 ^enhor so dc vassallos exccllenies. 
 
 Olhai que ledos vao, por varias vias. 
 (Jnaes roinpintes leoi^, r bravos tonros, 
 Daudo OS corjios a fumes c a vigias, 
 A fi-rro, a fogo, a Sottas, v a pelouvo< : 
 A quentes regioes, a phigas frias ; 
 A golpes de idolatras c de Mouros, 
 A pt-rigos incognitos do njundo, 
 A naufragios, a pcixes, ao profundo. 
 
 Por siTvir vos, a tudo aparelhados, 
 Dc vos tao l<»nge, sempre obeditntes, 
 A quaesqutr vossos aspcros mandados, 
 Sem dar resposia, proiuptos c contentes. 
 So com %a\icT (pie sao dc vos olhados, 
 Dcmonios infcrnaes, neyros c ardentcs, 
 ('omettcrao coujvosco, r nao duvido 
 Que v( ncrdor vos fac jim, nao vcncido
 
 OF THt POKTLGUtSi;. 421 
 
 The statesman prelate to his vows confine. 
 
 Alone auspicious at the holy shrine ; 
 
 The priest, in whose meek heart heaven pours its fires. 
 
 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 cv'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 shoidd see 
 
 Great Amnion's warlike son revived in thee; 
 
 Revived, unenvied of the Muse's flame 
 
 That o'er the world resounds Pelides' name. 
 
 Mas eu que falto, humilde, baixo e rudo, 
 De vos nao conhecido, nem sonhado ; 
 Da boca dos pequenos sei com tudo 
 Que o louvor sahe as vezes acabado. 
 Nem me falta na vida honcsto estudo. 
 Com longa experien^a misturado, 
 Nem engenho, que aqui vereis prescnte 
 Cousas que jontas se hacam raramcnte. 
 
 Para servir vos, bra^o as armas feito. 
 Para cantar vos, mente as Musas dada, 
 So me fallece ser a vos acceito, 
 De quem virtude dcve ser prczada. 
 
 Canto X. str. 151).
 
 CHAl'TEIl XXXIX. 
 
 Miscellaneous l»ocnis of Camocns: Gil Vicente; Rodriguez 
 Lobo ; Cortercal ; Portuguese Historians of the Sixteenth 
 Century. 
 
 We have now completed our long examination 
 of the great master-piece of Portuguese poetry. 
 The Lusiad is a work of a conception so wholly 
 new, and at the same time so lofty and national 
 in its character, that it appeared nnportant to 
 give some account not only of its most cele- 
 brated episodes, but also of its general ])lan and 
 of the objects which the author liad 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 Spanish poetry, in the 
 i'j)ic, 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 stu- 
 dents of foreign literature are often unactpiainted 
 with the names ol" the numerous other poets of
 
 „«U.TmU. O. THK PO..TUCUBSK. 423 
 
 Ponuga,. The. worKs a. .deed, so .a.e. tUat 
 
 ^^-^-■'\''Ti".^::r^Lys and .. 
 
 small number by repeate j ij^.^rles. 
 
 searches into all the pub he and pr. ^^^_ 
 
 The Portuguese themselves for the 1 .^ 
 
 treasures. 1 have . ^f purchasing a 
 
 t- f-™ ^'^'^°"; ;: : 'J rembrance of the. 
 few volumes as a kind oi _ 
 
 .esidence .n that slng^- — y.^but ^^^^ ^^^^_ 
 
 :S^rr:Vri of the Portugue. poets 
 
 was eonfined to Camoens alone 
 
 ^''^^'''^^'^^'^'iwCwmwL they are 
 niards most excelled, and ^ ^^^.^^ 
 
 "-V — Polrr t dramat.e Uterature 
 wantnrg to P^^tu a ^^ ^^^ ^^,,. 
 
 presents a barre^fie d 1 er ^^^^ J^^^^ . ^ ^^^^ 
 
 tary poet, of any nam . „f ^ho„, 
 
 spirit of his nation. This s U ^^^^^^^^_ 
 
 i shall have ---' ^^^ ^oLdies and classi- 
 Their other pieces co--tJ^^ „^„,,1 „f ^Ue 
 
 eal tragedies, -mposed ajler ^^^^_^^^^.^ ^^^_^^^ 
 
 ancients, than -^^^rl rather essays of power 
 of the nation, ^'''^^f , , „„ters in a career 
 ,, a few <l'f ^- :i'^:: Xs, calculated 
 .vholly new, than &"' J^^^ J ^„^1 1„ be relished 
 
 ,„ form ''-^•^'".t /t Iteal success was short, 
 ,,y the public The. thea ^^^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^^^ ^^_ 
 
 and the stage ot Libuun
 
 ■'*^ "X rill- LlfKKATUHt 
 
 sides Italian operas and Spanish comedies repre- 
 sented in their orii;inal form and lanffnage. 
 
 This, however, will be found to °be '"the only 
 branch of poetic composition which this m- 
 ^emous nation has not cultivated with success. 
 Ihe same chivalric and romantic spirit which 
 ."'Pircl the Spaniards, was felt, perhaps, in a 
 superior degree by the Portuguese, inasmuch as 
 they were called to the perforn.ance of .'reat ex 
 Jdo.ts w,th far inferior means. Engaged in con- 
 imual combats with enemies, from whom thev 
 recovered their country foot by foot; without 
 communication with the rest of Europe, with 
 'he single exception of a rival nation in pos- 
 session of all their frontier.,; inclosed between 
 sea aiHl mountain, and compeMeci to risk upon 
 the ocean that adventurous spirit too closely cir- 
 cu.nscnbc.1 within their own narrow bound.'ries   
 I'.-.bi.ua.ed ,0 the tempest and ,o the imposing' 
 "...ye o the mhni.e winch boundless seal pre 
 sent to the nnagmation, the Portuguese, likewise 
 
 were familiar with the most delightful and ":t- 
 hcen objects .„ „„.„ „,,„ 5;- 
 
 '-..Kl ev„y „„„. „,,i,,, eouhl cKvelope he 
 [^^-^ "f ''-^'-'-^ -''MmlHic the vc y s 1 
 
 ""hpoctry; alando, myrtlesandofLJ 
 >"«x.rs. delicious valleys, and mountains wliotc 
 
 «dd ranges coinprchende.l all the variety of form! 
 -"1 'o.npera.uiv ,1, the world. If .heir langm Cc
 
 OF THE POHTUGU£S£. 42tj 
 
 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 struc- 
 ture enabled it, far beyond that of the French, 
 to produce a very striking effect by a happy com- 
 bination 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 pas- 
 sions 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 lan- 
 guage and the variety of terminations gave an 
 unrivalled facility of execution. The poet felt sa- 
 tisfied in having given expression to the feeling 
 that oppressed him ; an'^ his hearers scarcely be- 
 stowed any attention on u They seemed to dis- 
 cover in his effusions only the developement of 
 their own ideas ; and the highest degree of talent 
 procured little celebrity. Camoens lived in ob- 
 scurity, and died in wretchedness ; though from 
 his earliest years, before his departure for the In- 
 dies, he had given decisive proofs of his astonish-
 
 120 ON lllK LITER ATUUE 
 
 ing powers of poetry. The publication of the 
 Lusiad, of which two editions were given in 1572, 
 equally failed to draw the attention of his coun- 
 trymen, and 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 na- 
 tion, but to the importunity of a friendless servant 
 wanderiug through the streets, without a recom- 
 mendation or a name. Me have noticed the 
 complaints in which he frequently indulged in 
 liis poem, of the neglect evinced by his country- 
 men 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. 'I'he subse- 
 ([uent misfortunes of the monarchy commencing 
 during the life of Camoens, the deatii of Don 
 Sebastian in Africa, in 1578, and the subjection 
 of Portugal to Spain in the year 15bO, destroyed 
 all the beneficial effects which so noble an ex- 
 ample might have produced on ihr national spirit 
 ol tlie people. 
 
 hi the poems of Camoens alone we discover 
 examples of almost every ditl'erent kind of \ erse. 
 The first portion of his works consists of sonnets.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 427 
 
 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 1 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 ; nor do they contain any 
 circumstances which might serve to throw light 
 upon his private life. They are, for the most 
 part, full of studied ideas, antithesis, and con- 
 ceits, 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 termi- 
 nation 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- 
 nological information, insomuch that the obscu- 
 rity of events, united to the obscurity which must
 
 428 o.v rm: LiXEKATUiit 
 
 occasioniilly perplex the reader of a foreign lan- 
 guage, enable inc to forni only a doubtful judg- 
 ment on the subject. Yet the inipixssion which 
 the perusal of Camocns has made upon my mind 
 is by no means, on that account, of a less melan- 
 choly character. In a few of these sonnets there 
 is a wild tone of sorrow, which seems to strike my 
 ear like wailin*^s heard throui^h the u^loom of mid- 
 night darkness. W c know not whence they 
 spring, or by what calamity they arc called forth; 
 but it is the voice of grief, and it awakens an 
 answering throb within my breast. 
 
 SOX NET C 
 
 * Few years I miuiber ; years of anxious care. 
 Sad hours and seasons of unceasing woe ; 
 My fifth short histre saw my youth laid low ; 
 So soon was overcast h'fe's morning fair : 
 lar lands and seas I roam'd, some hojH; to share 
 Of solace, for the carca that stamp'd my bnnv : 
 Hut they, wliom forlnne fails, in vain bestow 
 Sttrn toils, and imminent hazards vainly dare. 
 
 • We here subjoin two sonnets, which, in an etlition of Ca- 
 mocns in my possession, arc the hundredth and hundred and 
 iirst of the series : 
 
 No nmndo, poucos annos e cansados 
 Vivi, chros de vil misiria dura, 
 Foimc lao cedo a hi/ do dia escur.i, 
 line nao vi cinco lustros acabados.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 429 
 
 Beside Alanquer, first my painful breath 
 
 I drew, 'midst pleasant fields of fruits and flowers ; 
 
 But fate hath driven me on, and dooms that here 
 
 These wretched limbs be render'd up to death, 
 A prey to monsters of the sea, where lowers 
 
 The Abyssinian steep, far from my country dear. 
 
 This sonnet appears to have been written in 
 the year 1553, while the fleet of Ferdinand Al- 
 varez Cabral, in which Camoens had sailed in 
 the month of March of the same year, was coast- 
 ing the shores of Africa, where it was surprised 
 by a tempest, in which three of the vessels pe- 
 rished. We ought to add, that the biographers 
 of Camoens are agreed that these lines were in- 
 tended merely for an epitaph on one of his com- 
 panions, in whose name the poet is supposed to 
 speak. The following sonnet, written doubt- 
 less at a later period, is, we think, little inferior 
 to the preceding in its passionate flow of tender- 
 ness, drawn from the deepest sources of the breast: 
 
 Corri terras e mares apartados, 
 
 Buscando a vida algum remcdio on cura, 
 Mas aquillo qu'em fim nao qucr vcntura, 
 Nao o alcanpo trabalhos arriscados. 
 
 Criou me Portugal, na verde e chara 
 
 I'atria minha Alanquer, mas ar corrupto. 
 Que neste meu terreno vaso tinha, 
 
 Me fez manjar de peixes, em ti bruto 
 Mar que bales na Abassia fera e avara, 
 Tao longe da ditosa patria minlia.
 
 430 ONT THE r.lTF.UATURK 
 
 SONNET CI. 
 
 • 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, 
 Thouph he should now return, my youth decay'd : 
 But Icngthcn'd years roll on in deepening shade, 
 
 And warn you hence. The pleasures wc pursue 
 
 Vary, with every faceting 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! 
 
 * Que me quereis perpctuas saudades ? 
 
 Con que esperan^a ainda m'cnganais ? 
 Que o tem])o que se vai, nao tornamais, 
 E se torna, nao tornai) as idades. 
 
 Rezau he ja 6 annos que vos vades ; 
 Portju'estcs tao ligeiros que passais, 
 Nem todos para hum gosto sao iguais, 
 Ncm sempre sao conformes as vontades. 
 
 Aquillo a que ja quis, he tao mudado 
 
 Que (juasi he outra cousa, porque os dias 
 'I'ciu o primeiro gosto ja danado. 
 
 Kspcran^as de novas alegrias 
 
 Nao mas dcixa a fort una, c o tempo orrado, 
 (Jue do contentamcnto sao cspias.
 
 OF TTfE PORTUGUESE. 431 
 
 Let me here add a third sonnet, which bears 
 equal evidence of the sutterings which fortune 
 heaped upon the head of this truly great man: 
 
 SONNET XCII. 
 
 * What is there left in this vain world to crave, 
 To love, to see, more than I yet have seen ? 
 Still wearying cares, disgusts and coldness, spleen, 
 
 Hate and despair, and death, whose banners wave 
 
 Alike o'er all ! Yet, ere I reach the grave, 
 'Tis mine to learn, no woes nor anguish keen 
 Hasten the hour of rest ; woes that have been ; 
 
 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 ! 
 
 * Que poderei do mundo ja querer ? 
 
 Que naquillo e que pus tamanho amor ? 
 
 Nao vi senao desgosto e desamor, 
 
 E morte em fim, que mais nao pode ser. 
 
 Pois vida me nao farta de viver, 
 
 Pois ja sei que nao mata grande dor, 
 Se cousa ha que magoa de mayor, 
 Eu a verei, que tudo posso ver* 
 
 A morte a meu pesar me assegurou 
 De quanto mal me vinha, ja perdi 
 O que perder o medo m'ensinou. 
 
 Na vida, desamor somente vi, 
 
 Na morte, a grande dor que me ficou, 
 Parece que para isto so naci.
 
 432 ON TUK. LITKUATUUE 
 
 These arc followed in the order of Camoens's 
 Avork^, by the Caurads, or canzoni, composed 
 chiefiy ^^n tiie model of those of Petrarch. The 
 first of these canzoni consist of love-songs, in one 
 of which he revives the recollections of liis youth- 
 ful days spent at Coimbra, and upon the delight- 
 ful borders of the Mondego. The ninth of them 
 was written in sight of Cape (niardafu, the ut- 
 most boundary of Africa, oj)posite to the Arabian 
 coast. The poet describes the mournful aspect 
 of the wild and precipitous mountains overhang- 
 ing the stormy deep ; and there is something so 
 ])eculiarly striking in contcni])lating a character, 
 gifted with such lofty genius, exiled thus far 
 from Europe, from the land of letters and of 
 arts, that, independent of its own merits, a poem 
 written amidst such scenes cannot fail to be un- 
 usually interest in I,''. It appears as if the unfor- 
 tunate passion which tirst led Camoeus to en- 
 counter his many perilous adventures, continued 
 afterwards to embitter them : 
 
 • All I inij^lit 1 tlri'.iin that in some softer hour, 
 
 Those sweet bright eyes, on which I madly gazed, 
 O'er all my toils pour'd one reviving shower 
 Of pitying tears, for memories ne'er erased, 
 
 • So, de tantos trabalhos, so tirasse 
 Saber inda j)f)r fcrto, (lu'algum hora 
 Lcnibrava a litis claros olhos t\\w ja vi ; 
 E so rsta trisic \u/, r(iiii|irnd<i fura,
 
 OF THE POUTUCUKSK. 433 
 
 Thougli 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, widi thoughts in fiction dress'd. 
 
 To cheat my woes ; for woes and fears are flown 
 
 As orelhas angelicas tocassc. 
 
 Da quella, em cuja vista, ja vivi : 
 
 A qual tornada hum pouco sobse si. 
 
 Rebolvendo na mente presurosa 
 
 Os tempos ja passados, 
 
 De mens doces errores, 
 
 De meus suaves males, e furores, 
 
 Por ella padecidos e buscados, 
 
 Tornada, (inda que tarde) piadosa. 
 
 Hum pouco Ihe pesasse, 
 
 E consigo por dura se julgasse. 
 
 Isto so que soubcsso, me seria 
 Descanso, para ii vida que me fica ; 
 Com i.sto afagaria o sofrimento : 
 Ah senora, senora, e que tarn rica 
 Estais, que ca, tao longe d'alegria, 
 Me sustentais e'huui doce frngimciito. 
 VOL. IV. 2 F
 
 434 UN' TllK MTEUATl'UF. 
 
 When your bright imn<io thus bursts on tho lioiir 
 
 Of anguish, like the rainbow throuf^h the shower, — 
 
 Promise of brij^luer days I decm'd were ever gorte- 
 
 Only your smiles, and voice, and look, 
 
 Then fill my soul ; fresh memories throng 
 
 That bid me scorn my fate, and I belong 
 
 To love and you : no more the dark clouds lower ; 
 
 No more you seem to slum my glad return ; 
 
 And fiercer pangs within my breast 
 
 Hesunte 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, 
 
 \N here last they saw her; on what flowery ground 
 
 She walk'd ; with whom conversed, what day, what hour? 
 
 Now with new hope 1 nerve my wearied mind ; 
 
 No more I mourn •, with soul refresh 'd I rise 
 
 I'^ni vos afligurando o pcnsamcnlo, 
 Foge todo o trabalho, e toda a pena : 
 So com vossas lembran^as, 
 M' acho seguro c forte 
 Contra o rosto feroz da fera morte. 
 K logo se m' ajuntao as esparanvas, 
 Com qu'a fronte tornada mais serena 
 'I'orna os tormentos graves 
 Km saudades brandas e suaves. 
 
 Aqui com ellcs fico, preguntando 
 Aos vcntos amorosos que respirao 
 Da parte donde stais, j)or vos senhora ; 
 As aves que alii volati, se vos virao ; 
 Que fazicis, que staveis praficando: 
 Onde, como, com que, <pie dia, e qu'hora. 
 Alii a vida cansada se melhora,
 
 OK THE POIM IKIUF.SK. 435 
 
 To wrestle yet with fortune, toil, and pain ; 
 
 So I may love, and serve, and onee aj^jain 
 
 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 outpouring of poetic feeling; 
 a gush of living grief on the misfortunes of his 
 life, pursuing him from the cradle to the tomb. 
 Impelled by undefined wishes, and by distant 
 hopes, incessantly agitated by ardent passions, 
 engaged in restless pursuits, and destitute of the 
 means by which to attain his object, his existence 
 was the sport of disappointment and pain. In 
 his earliest years, when slumber failed to visit 
 his infant eyes, it is said that some old love- 
 ditties alone were found effectual in pacifying his 
 childish griefs. Love seemed to continue the 
 ruling star of his youthful destiny, and its in- 
 fluence was only made known through years 
 of bitterness and tears. Love impelled him to 
 embrace a military life, where he lost an eye 
 while servin^i' aoainst the Moors ; and the same 
 
 Toma spiritos novos, com que ven9a 
 A fortuna c trabalho, 
 So por tornar a vervos. 
 So por ir a scrvirvos e qucrervos. 
 2 F 2
 
 43G OS THI I ITKltATUKl 
 
 passion led him to volunteer his services in the 
 Indian tieet. 
 
 • 'Tis done ! by human hopes and human aid 
 Abandon'd, and unpiticd left to mourn, 
 I weep o'er all my wrongs ; o'er friends fast sworn, 
 Whose friendship hut hetray'd, 
 Hut whose firm liatred 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 j)rcy : 
 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. 
 
 O strange unhappy sport of mortal things ! 
 
 To live, yet live in vain. 
 
 Bereft of all that Nature's bounty brings. 
 
 That life to sweeten or sustain ; 
 
 Doom'd still to draw my painful breath. 
 
 ThouLjh borne so often to the gates of death. 
 
 • A picdadc humana me faltava, 
 A gente amiga, ja eontraria via, 
 No priuiciro perigo, e no segundo 
 Terra em que p'lr os pes nie fallccia, 
 Ar para respirar se me negava, 
 E faitavamc em fim o tempo e o mundo. 
 Que scgredo tao arduo e tao profuiido 
 Nacer pnra vivir, e para a vida 
 I'altarme (]uanto o mundo tern para ella. 
 E non potcr |>crdella, 
 Estaujlo tantas vezes ja pcrdida!... 
 
 Nao conto tantos males, como afpiellc 
 Que despois da tormenta procellosa.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 4',i7 
 
 For, ah, not mine, like the glad mariner 
 To liis 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 voyager'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 beauteous vision his, 
 
 Grasps but the painful memory of the past. 
 
 In tears my bread is steep'd ; the cup I drain 
 
 Is fiU'd with tears, that never cease to flow, 
 
 Save when with dreams of pleasure short and vain 
 
 I chase the conscious pangs of present woe. 
 
 Os casos della conta em porto ledo ; 
 Qu'ind'agora a fortuna fluctuosa 
 A tamanhas miserias me compelle, 
 Que de dar hum so passo tenho medo. 
 Ja de mal ([ue me venha nao m'arredo, 
 Nem bem que me falleya ja pretendo, 
 Que para mi nao val astucia humana> 
 De forca soberana ; 
 Da providencia cmfim divina pendo. 
 Isto que cuido e vejo, as vezes tomo, 
 Para consola^ao de tantos dannos ; 
 Mas a fraqucza humana, quando lan^a 
 Os olhos na rjue corre, c nao alcanya 
 Stnao memoria dos passados annos.
 
 43vS ON Til 1. 1. 11 I H A I r UK 
 
 After the eair/oni, a sort of lyric soiil^ in the 
 romantic form, follow the odes of Camoens, 
 to the number of ten or twelve, wliich may be 
 cousidereil as lyric songs in a classical dress. 
 Tlie strophes are shorter, being only of five, 
 six, or seven verses ; but very sweet, ami full of 
 inspiration. Some of these are of a mytholo- 
 gical, and otiurs of an impassionccl character. 
 The eighth is addressed to one of the viceroys of 
 India, to remind him of the ancient alliance be- 
 tween 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 liimsell but too frequently 
 exposed to the cravings of necessity, though he 
 never rec[uested assistance on his own account ; 
 and we no where, throughout all his writings, meet 
 with any traces of a venal or adulatory muse. 
 In asking sym])athy ibr iiis sutierings, he did not 
 forget that his benefactor was only his etpial. 
 
 Camoens also wrote some sextinc })ieces, of 
 which I am actpiainted only with one. Wc might 
 be ltd to supj)ose that he wished to shew how 
 well he could preser\f an air of freedom under 
 the extreme constraint imposed by such a form 
 ol ^c^^e, whieli Ins -ood laste suun led him to 
 
 As a^oas (jiic ciitao Who, «• o pao (juc como, 
 I<Hf{riina» trisus sao, <|iriii iiiinca ilonio, 
 Srnar> com labriiar iia laiiLisia 
 I'dtUablicus piiiUiias d'ali^ria.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESi:. 439 
 
 abandon. To these we have to add twenty-one 
 elegies. I am only in possession 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 ini 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 imputation 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 Ca- 
 moens, 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 at- 
 tention the stanzas entitled Disparates na India ; 
 but it must be admitted that their meaning is ex- 
 tremely obscure ; and there is, perhaps, nothing 
 in any language more difficult to be understood, 
 than the ridicule attaching to subjects of a sati- 
 rical nature. Both the persons and their actions 
 are here unknown to us ; belonging to a country
 
 440 ox Tin: l.riKKATL'UE 
 
 Avhose niaiinrrs and customs are so widclv dif- 
 ItTciU from our own, as to afford no clue to a 
 discovery. The sentence, however, of the vice- 
 roy appears uncommonly severe. The abuses 
 satirized by Camoens were altoi^^ether of a y:eneral 
 nature ; no persmi was desijjnated by name, nor 
 was any dejrree of blame endeavoured to be fixed 
 upon any individual. We find only general re- 
 flections upon the venality, extortion, and wicked- 
 ness of mankind, and upon the dissipation and 
 follies of women ; and the same remarks might be 
 made on every country, without giving just cause 
 of offence to a single individual. 
 
 It was on the return of Camoens from Macao, 
 after his exile, that the vessel in which he 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 jjoem 
 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 
 m a paraphrase of the ia7th Psalm : Jh/ the rivers 
 of lialn/lmi, thirc ur sat dmcn. This is rendered 
 in the l*ortuguese in the form of redondilhas, 
 which enjoy a high reputation : 
 
 Bohidc tlic streams of Hahylon, 
 Tin worn niid wiary exile wept ; 
 lie thoii^lu on Sion's ^TaiuKur gone, 
 Ami all the lofty state she kept 
 When 'neulh her high-arch'd j,'oUkii (loims he slept. 

 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 441 
 
 Near him a fountain springing fresh, 
 With tears for Babylon seeni'tl to flow ; 
 In hers he mouru'd his own distress, 
 While Sion like past scenes of woe 
 Came o'er his soul, bidding fresh sorrows flow. 
 
 There, too, the memory of delights 
 Mingled with tears return'd again ; 
 Sweet social days, and pleasant nights, 
 Warm as ere yet they turn'd to pain, 
 And all their music fled, and all their love was vain ! 
 
 The version of Camoens, however, appears 
 very inferior, on the whole, to the lofty poetry 
 of the Hebrew hymn. It is much too long : 
 thirty-seven strophes, of ten lines each, are ill 
 suited to the expression of one simple sentiment; 
 and many general ideas are required to fill up 
 the intervals between those strophes in which 
 the tears shed by the rivers of Babylon are best 
 described. I select some lines of a very pleasing- 
 character, on the influence of music : 
 
 * All sing ; the joyous traveller, 
 Along his morning way. 
 Through painful paths and forests, sings 
 A merry roundelay. 
 
 Canta o caminhante ledo 
 No caminho trabalhoso, 
 Por entrc o espesso arvorcdo : 
 E de noite o temeroso 
 Cantando refrca o mcdo. 
 Canta o preso docemente.
 
 442 ON llIK LlTiiltA TUKt 
 
 Ami when at iii<^lil bi-noaih tlic btar 
 
 His lonely way he weiuls, 
 To banish fear and care, he sings 
 
 Aloud till darkness ends. 
 
 More lowly the poor prisoner 
 
 Attunes his voice, to try 
 'I'o drown the sound of bars and chains, 
 
 In hymns of liberty. 
 
 And when the mellow seasons call 
 
 The reaper to the field, 
 With happy songs his toil he cheers ; 
 
 To song the wretched yield. 
 
 Bulli the Portuguese and the Spaniards sonic- 
 times exhibited in their poetry the pedantic spirit 
 of the schools; and whilst the para])hrase was 
 the favourite task imjioscd upon them by tiic 
 masters of their colleges, they contrived at the 
 same time to produce their vnltas, their wotcs, 
 and motes trlosado.s ; 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 
 attectation in tluir pedantic turn, and in their 
 attempted wit. Our |)o('t has, besides, left a 
 
 Os duros grilhocs tocando ; 
 Caiita o segador contentc, 
 I', o tral>alha(lor coiilando 
 () irahalho tnenos sente. 
 
 ,
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 443 
 
 considerable 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 composition of his eclogues, of which he com- 
 posed a considerable number, though only eight 
 have fallen into my hands. Perhaps none of his 
 poems exhibit more ease and smoothness of ver- 
 sification. 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 conventional kind. 
 The first of these consists of a lament on the de- 
 cease 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. 
 Tw^o shepherds, Umbrano and Frondelio, are in- 
 troduced, lamenting the changes in the face of 
 nature every where taking place around them, 
 from which they are led to predict still more fatal 
 revolutions, and even the return of the Moors 
 among the pleasant fields whence the valour of 
 
 * They are given in his works with no other title than 
 that of Rcdundilhus or Endcchas. The Spanish word rcdondiUa 
 is the rcdonddha of the l*ortuguese ; the h being always added 
 after the / or the /», in order to give the language a softer tone.
 
 444 ON TML LITF-RATUUE 
 
 tlieir ancestors had driven them. Undjranu 
 speaks : 
 
 From tills 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 Fron- 
 deho 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 
 rustic 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, in- 
 troduced by Camoens under the name of Aonia, 
 who is weeping for the death of her lord ; and her 
 lament, forming a part of a Portuguese eclogue, 
 is expressed in Castilian verse : 
 
 Sole lite and love of my unwidow'd breast, 
 Frc yet thy spirit soiiglit yon realms above; 
 
 Light of my days, while Ili'aven shone on us ; best, 
 Noblest of hearts! this heart's first, latest love ! 
 
 I would not weep now thy blest shade is gone 
 'i'o seek its native home, wheiice first it sprung! 
 
 \ii, if soiiu- rarthly memories there of one 
 Long loved avail, these tears to thee belong.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 445 
 
 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 ; 
 
 Vet may my memory live with thine : those weeds 
 On earth you wore, my highest boast and care 
 
 To cherish in my thoughts through after years, 
 
 Unchang'd as when those mortal spoils were bright 
 
 With the full soul ; and pour unceasing tears 
 While life endures, o'er Love's long faded light. 
 
 For thee Heaven's azure fields are open'd wide, 
 Blest spirit ranging other scenes ! where spring 
 
 Flowers for thy feet, of other fragrant pride 
 
 Than these on earth ; where other minstrels siner : 
 
 There shalt thou see that virgin Queen supremo, 
 Who reigns on earth, in the dear might of Him 
 
 Who bade the great sun shed 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, O come with saint-like grace; 
 
 See all my love, in faitli 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 Heav.en grant death, to mourners seeking God. 
 
 And last of all, Camoens, who seems to have 
 essayed his talents in almost every species of 
 poetical composition, in order to complete the 
 national literature, produced likewise several dra-
 
 44G ON THE LITER ATI! UF, 
 
 matic i)ieces. Three oi' tlicsr, in all njipenrance 
 written at an early period of life, before his de- 
 parture to the East Indies, are still in existence. 
 One of them, entitled the Amphitryuus, a piece 
 in imitation of I*lautiis, is executed with con- 
 siderable wit and spirit. The Stlcucus is ratiier 
 a farce of the mock-heroic stamp, the subject 
 of which turns upon the sovereign yieldin*^ liis 
 own consort to his son. Filodcmo is a little 
 drama of a mixed pastoral and romantic cha- 
 racter. V>\\i none of these can be |)ronounced wor- 
 thy of the genius and reputation of their author; 
 nor is it just to attract longer attention to the 
 imperfect attem})ts of a ])oet who produced 
 masterpieces of another kind. 
 
 In his dramatic attempts, Camoens followed 
 the example of his contemporary Gil Vicente, 
 who, during the time the former was em|)loyed 
 upon liis 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 critical rules which 
 he followed. But I have thought it unnecessary 
 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 Vicenti' may be allowed to 
 stand alone, removed trom his rank, without 
 causing any confusion.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUKSE. 447 
 
 We are not acquainted with the exact period 
 of the birth of Gil Vicente, who is considered 
 the Plautus of the Portuguese ; 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 he soon abandoned, in order to give 
 his whole attention to the theatre. He appears 
 likewise to have attached himself to the court, 
 for which he laboured with great assiduity, in 
 providing occasional pieces suitable to civil and 
 religious solemnities. His earliest dramas were 
 represented at the court of the great Emmanuel; 
 but he enjoyed a still higher degree of reputation 
 in the reign of John HI., who even insisted upon 
 performing a part in one of his best come- 
 dies. In all probability Vicente was also an 
 actor ; and he is known to have educated for 
 the theatre his own daughter Paula, who was 
 one of the ladies of honour to the Princess 
 Maria, and who obtained equal celebrity as an 
 actress, a poetess, and a musician. But though 
 Gil Vicente preceded the great dramatic })oets 
 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 Portu- 
 guese 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
 
 448 t)V TMF LITF.UATURE 
 
 comedies of a man so eiitluisiastically 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, hi> 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 S|)anish theatre, and the 
 earliest model upon which Lope de Vega and 
 Calderon ])roceeded 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 
 111. 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 (lil 
 Vicente almost all the defects and peculiarities, 
 which are so strikingly exemplified in the roman- 
 tic drama of the Castilians, though it is rarely that 
 tlie former is redeemed by those beauties which 
 aboimd in llie latter. The Portuguese author 
 did nut possess the same fertility ot" invention. He 
 could not pursue the thread of his romantic adven- 
 tures into its minutest windings, exciting interest 
 and awakening; curiosity by a crowd of incidents; 
 nor did his muse revel in the li.Lcht of those bril- 
 liant images and sparkling fancies, which, though 
 charged with exuberance, never fail to livet
 
 OF THE PORTUGUl'.SE. 449' 
 
 the attention of readers of Lojie and Calderon. 
 His religion 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 
 autos, comedies, tragi-comedies, and farces. The 
 autos, or religious pieces, amount in number to 
 sixteen, and were chiefly written ibr the i)ur- 
 pose. of solemnizing the Christmas festival, as 
 those of Spain celebrated the feast of the Holy 
 Sacrament. The shepherds had always an im- 
 portant 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 fa- 
 miliar scenes arc frequently interrupted by the 
 appearances of spirits, of angels, of the devil, and 
 of the Holy Virgin, besides several allegorical 
 
 VOL. IV. 2 G
 
 4 .00 ON' r 1 1 1: r. i t r. u a t r ii e 
 
 personages. The mysteries of faith form the 
 great bond of union between all celestial and 
 terrestrial things, and the intended etiect 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 super- 
 natural events. 
 
 The following is an extract given by Boutter- 
 wek from one of these autos, which may be con- 
 sidered sufficiently characteristic of its kind. 
 During the first scene, Mercury, who is the 
 representative of the planet of the same name, is 
 introduced; and he explains, agreeably to the 
 authority of Johannes Regiomontanus, the theory 
 of the system of the planets, and the circles of 
 the sphere, in a long discourse, written in re- 
 doudillias. Next appears a seraph sent by the 
 Deity, at the request of Time, down to earth ; 
 who announces, as a |)ul)lic crier, a grand fair to 
 l)c luld in honour of the Holy Virgin, and invites 
 all who hear to hasten thither to obtain bargains. 
 The i)roclamation is expressed in verse of the 
 dactyl measure : 
 
 • To the fair, to tlic fair ! now, good priests, all repair ; 
 IMump pastors of souls, drowsy popes, bishops all ; 
 
 • A a f«'yrn, aa feyra, ygrejns, mosteyros, 
 I'astores das alinus, p.ipas adoniiidos,
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 451 
 
 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 — O 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 Leauties 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 mer- 
 
 Compray aqui panos, muday os vestidos, 
 
 Buscay as camarras dos outros primeyros : 
 
 Os antecessores, 
 
 Feiray o carani que trazeis dourado. 
 
 Oo presidentes do crucificado, 
 
 Lembray vos da vida dos sanctos pastores. 
 
 Do tempo passado. 
 
 Oo principes altos, imperio facundo, 
 
 Guardayvos da yra do Senhor dos ceos, 
 
 Compray grande soma do temor de Deos, 
 
 Na feyra da Virgem senhora do mundo, 
 
 Exemplo da paz, 
 
 Pastora dos anjos, e luz das estrelas. 
 
 Aa feyra da Virgem, donas et donzellas, 
 
 Porque cste mercado sabey que aqui tras 
 
 As cousas mais bclas. 
 
 2g2
 
 452 ON TMF. I IT ERA T UK E 
 
 clmiulize amons: mankind much better than his 
 opponent, in the following words : 
 
 Hon;iu<s, yoii see, there are more tl»an good imn by the score 
 Who will l)iiy my choice wares, glad lo learn all my skill ; 
 How tliey best may forget what their duty has set, 
 And juggle witli justice and truth as they will. 
 
 Tor 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, 
 ottering various precious merchandizes, among 
 which is to be found the peace of the soul. 15ut 
 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, appear; 
 and one of them advances very amusing com- 
 jilaints against her husband, u ho. it seems, only 
 attends market to sell j^ears and cherries, and 
 then returns home to sleep till he sets out again. 
 These are, in fact, the tuo complaining spouses, 
 who immediately recognise each other. Lucifer 
 proceeds to oWw his merchandize to the country- 
 women ; tlie most pious of whom, doubtless sus- 
 pecting some kind of sorcery in the case, cries, 
 " .lesus ! Jesus! true (iud and true Man!" at 
 which words tli. dovil takes wiuL;:, J^'i<^ returns
 
 OF THE POKTUOUESE. 453 
 
 no moie. 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 pur- 
 chaser. 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 plea- 
 sure in coming to the fair, because it was the 
 festival of the Mother of God ; and that she, in- 
 stead 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 indiflferent 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 con- 
 nected 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 few of them are not destitute of pathetic scenes, 
 but not a single one is historical. Decidedly the 
 best portion of the collection consists of some 
 pieces given under the name of farces, but which, 
 in fact, ai)proach much nearer to the style of the
 
 454 ON THK LITEUATLMIE 
 
 true comedy tliaii such i)lav.s as Gil Vicente 
 published under that name. There are eleven of 
 tlicse in the whole collection ; and they exhibit 
 much spirit, much discrimination of character, 
 but no invention iu the plot. It is, indeed, not 
 a little singular, that while the intrigue was con- 
 sidered as the very soul of the Spanish drama, 
 the Portuguese should have totally neglected it. 
 However rude and imperfect were these first 
 attempts to form the national drama, no nation 
 ever set out with greater advantages than the Por- 
 tuguese. 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 invention, a greater de- 
 gree of nature, or more splendour of colouring. 
 The loss of the independence of Portugal, during 
 sixty years of Sjiiinish domination, had probably 
 great influence in producing a neglect of the dra- 
 matic art ; though it may be also in part ac- 
 counted for by the introduction of a false taste 
 in literature, which, owing to its long conti- 
 nuance, seems to form a permanent ieature in the 
 character of the peo|)h'. The Portuguese were de- 
 sirous of cultivatinur only two species of poetical 
 composition, the epic and the pastoral; and 
 ihey attached themselves to the lust of these
 
 OK THE POHTIJGI ESE. 455 
 
 with remarkable pertinacity. In order to give 
 a poetical colouring to human life, they con- 
 ceived 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 Ca- 
 moens, 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 composi- 
 tion became still more prevalent ; and a poet 
 whom the Portuguese place in a degree of com- 
 petition 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 Estramadura. 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
 
 4r>G c).\ I mi: litkuatuke 
 
 eftusions. lie was iintortunately drowned ii» 
 ])assin'j over tlic Tajj:us, whose waters he had so 
 often celebrated in l\is verses. 
 
 His works are distributed into three separate 
 classes, consisting? of a book on philosophy, of 
 pastoral romances, and of fugitive ])oems. The 
 first of these, entitled Cortc mi AliUa, c Xoites de 
 I/ivcrno: the Court in the Vilhiire, or Winter 
 Nijrhts; had a marked intluence on the prose 
 compositions of the Portuguese, by introducing 
 the Ciceronian style, and a taste for long and 
 measured ))eriods. Like his contemporary Pietro 
 Bcmbo 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 ca- 
 dence, and even ilu- inversions, of the ancient lan- 
 guages. He resembles the Italian, likewise, in the 
 light and elegant, though somewhat pedantic turn 
 of his writings, as well as in attempting to ditluse 
 a similar taste amongst his contemporaries. His 
 Winter \iu;/it.s are ])hilosophical conversations, 
 much in the same taste as the Tusculan dia- 
 logues ot Cicero, the Cort'ii^^idno of Count Cas- 
 tiglione, or the Axolaui of lUiubo. i^acli dialogue 
 is preceded hv an historical preface ; the charac- 
 ters of the speakers are will drawn; and the 
 conversation on subjects ot lih rature, fashion, 
 elegance, and good manners, is eMreniely lively
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 457 
 
 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 observations ; 
 though if we recur to the state of the sixteenth 
 century, we shall find sufficient reason to admire 
 the elegance of manner, the polish, and the li- 
 terary research, necessary to the composition of 
 a work of this nature. In consequence 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 produc- 
 tions. The rage, indeed, for this last species of 
 composition had arrived at such a height in Por- 
 tugal, 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 Ro- 
 driguez Lobo. No reader of the present age 
 will have the resolution, we think, to wade 
 through one-fourth part of the mass ; more parti- 
 cularly when we add, that the only variety of 
 action they afford consists in the arrival of one 
 shepherd, who departs to make room for another- 
 and of one or sometimes two shepherdesses, who 
 meet each other on their entrance, converse or
 
 458 ox THE LITKUATUUE 
 
 sing for a tew moments, and separate as before. 
 No degree of interest is felt in the opening of 
 the plut, and not a single character leaves an 
 impression on the mind ; yet the elegance of the 
 language, the retincment of sentiment, and the 
 smoothness of the verse, are no less striking than 
 in the D'hina of Montemayor. The first of these 
 romances, entitled Prnnavera, 8j)ring, is some- 
 what 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 Peregrhw, 
 is distributed miojornadas, or days, as is custom- 
 ary in the Spanish comedy. The third, which is 
 a further continuation of the two preceding, 
 is called O Dcsc)i^j;umtdo, the Disenchanted Lover, 
 and is arranged in the form of dialogues. Per- 
 haps the most remarkable portions of these com- 
 positions are the poetic effusions 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 disj)lays that intimate acquaintance 
 with nature, which is one of the characteristics 
 of Portu'j^uesc poetry*. Several of the ca?izoni 
 
 • .la iiaacc o bcllo dia, 
 
 I'rincipio do vcrao (crnioso t- bruiulo,
 
 OF THE PORtUGUESE. 459 
 
 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 poetry, and 
 would be apt to render its version too fatiguing 
 to the ear. I shall, therefore, merely attempt to 
 give a single example, contained in a sonnet 
 written upon a waterfall, which to me appears 
 to possess considerable beauty. 
 
 Que com nova alegria 
 
 Estao denuiiciando 
 
 As aves nanioradas, 
 
 Dos floridos raminhos pendiiradas. 
 
 Ja abre a bella Aurora, 
 Com nova luz, as portas do Oriente ; 
 E mostra a linda Flora 
 O prado mais contente, 
 Vestido de boninas 
 Aljofradas de gotas cristalinas. 
 
 Ja o sol mais fermoso 
 Esta ferindo as agoas prateadas, 
 E Zefiro queyxoso, 
 Hora as mostra encrespadas 
 A vista dos penedos, 
 Hora sobre ellas move os arvorcdos. 
 
 De reluzente area 
 Se mostra mais fermosa a rica praya, 
 Cuja riba se arrea 
 De alenco e da faya, 
 Do freyxo, et do salgueyro, 
 Do ulmo, do aveleyra, ct do lourcyro.
 
 '^(*0 o\ THE LnKHATL-IlE 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 • Ye waves, that from yon steep o'crlianjjiiig lieight 
 Plunge in wild falls to seek the clifls below, 
 Dashing in whirling eddies as ye flow, 
 
 Most beauteous in your strange aerial flight. 
 
 And never weary of your stern delight. 
 Waking eternal music as ye go, 
 Raving from rock to rock! Yet why bestow 
 
 Tliese 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 wisli'd sea-nymph's caves? 
 
 IJut, ah, your wanderings, like mine own, betray 
 Love's mysteries sad. Our hapless fate is one; 
 
 Unchang'd flow on my thoughts, and headlong rusli your 
 waves. 
 
 Many romantic effusions, indeed, are inter- 
 spersed throughout this production, a few speci- 
 
 • Agoas (jue penduradas desla altura, 
 
 Cahis sobre os pcnedos descuydadas, 
 Aonde em branca escuma levantadas, 
 Oflindidas, mostrais mais fermosura, 
 
 Se achais essa dureza tam segura. 
 Para que porfiais, agoas cansadas ? 
 I la tantos annos ja descnganadas, 
 E csta rocha mais aspera e mais dura. 
 
 Voltay atraz, por entrc os arvoredos, 
 Aonde os caminhareis com libcrtade. 
 Ate ehcgar ao fun tam desejado. 
 
 Mas ay que sao de amor estes segredos, 
 Que \os nno valcra ])ri>pria vontade, 
 Como a mini nau valeo, no meu cuidado.
 
 OF THE PORTUCJUF.se. 461 
 
 mens of which nuiy be found subjoined.* They 
 will serve to shew that the incomplete rhymes, or 
 
 * The romance of Lereno is here given entire : Primavcra, 
 Flor. 3, p. 279. Edit, de Lisboa, 12mo. 1G51. 
 
 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 for^a o vento 
 Pera atalhar muitas obras, 
 Me representa a vcntiua 
 Quao pouco contra clla nionta, 
 Firmeza, vontade c ^L', 
 Desejo esperenfa e for9as. 
 Por hum mar tao sem caminho, 
 Morada tam pcrigosa, 
 Pera as mudancas do tempo, 
 Dando sempre a vella toda 
 O leme na mao de hum cego. 
 Que quando vai vento a popa 
 Da sempre em baixos d'area, 
 Aonde em vivas pedras toca. 
 Que farei pera valcrme ? 
 Pois a terra venturosa 
 Aonde aspira meu desejo 
 He cabo que nao se dobra. 
 Se quero voltar ao porto, 
 Nao ha vento pera a volta, 
 Em fim, que o fim da Jornada 
 He dar no fundo ou na costa.
 
 402 OV THE LITERATURE 
 
 tlic verses termed assotiuncias, hitherto supposed 
 both by Boutterwck and Schlegel to be the pe- 
 
 Pensamcntos c esperanfas, 
 Jul<,'ay quanto melhor fora 
 Nao vos ter para pcrdervos, 
 (iue sustentarvo3 agora. 
 Pois nao casta tanto a pena, 
 Como doe pcrder a gloria ; 
 E he mais sustcntar cuidados, 
 Do que he conquistar viiorias. 
 So males sao verdadciros, 
 Porquc OS h^% todos sao sombras 
 Koprcsentadas na terra, 
 Que abarcadas nao se tomao. 
 Mar empe^ado e revolto, 
 Navegafao perigosa, 
 Porto que nunca se alcanfa, 
 Agoa que scmprc v'o^obra ; 
 Estreitos nao navegados, 
 Bayxos, ilhas, syrtcs, rocas, 
 Scrcas que em mous ouvidos 
 Sempre achaslcs livrcs portas. 
 A Deos que aqui lanyo ferro ; 
 E por mais que o veiito corra, 
 Para saber da ventura, 
 Nao quero fazer mais provas. 
 
 Tlic following is the beginning of another romance, in (he 
 I'liAtor I'lngriiioj Jornad. viii. p. 1 i;i. 
 
 Enganadas espcrantas, 
 Qnantos dias ha (|ue cspero 
 \'cr o lim dc nieus cuidados, 
 E sempre paro em comedos.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 4G3 
 
 culiar distinction 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 vi^hich have the greatest apparent re- 
 semblance. The imaginative faculty of the Cas- 
 tilian requires the excitement of incidents, and the 
 glow of active life ; while that of the Portuguese 
 seeks its sweetest solace and support in contem- 
 plation alone. In the former, romance has been 
 principally directed to the task of engraving the 
 characters of the national annals upon the me- 
 
 Nacendo crecestes logo, 
 E veo o fruito nacendo 
 Na flor, que de anticipado 
 Conheci que era imperfeito. 
 De principio tarn ditoso 
 Tornastes logo a ser mcnos, 
 Que bem se engana com o fim 
 Quern tem principio d'estremos. 
 Confuse contemplo agora 
 Desde vosso nacimento, 
 Quantas mudanfas fizestes 
 Em pouco espafo de tempo. 
 Pouco ha que me vi sem vida, 
 E nesta que agora vejo, 
 Perdido o medo das oudas 
 Me parece que vos perdo. 
 Se agora determinais 
 Rebentar de lium tronco seco, 
 Sobre ao qual ao descngano 
 Lcvautai ja mcus trofeos, &c.
 
 4(J4 OV THE LITKUATURK 
 
 niory of a whole people, of celebrating its real 
 or fictitious heroes, and of reviving the recollec- 
 tion ofit-i greatest sufferings and of its proudest 
 exploits; while in the same form of verse and 
 imperfect rhymes, and with the same ease and 
 simplicity of language, that of l\)rtugal has been 
 sim|)ly devoted to soothing pleasures, and to 
 dreams of amorous delight, such as we may feel 
 in dwelling on the invariable motion of the bil- 
 lows breaking against the shore, where we see 
 shepherds with their Hocks leading a life nearly 
 as monotonous as the waves. The images of 
 Portuguese poetry are almost wholly borrowed 
 from this brilliant pastoral picture ; \2nd the shep- 
 herds are su))j)oscd to be as much f^imiliarized 
 with all tlu- pcriU 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 overhangimi the 
 waves, while tluir eyes wander on all sides; by 
 turns over tfie smiling and verdant shore where 
 their sheep lie scattered abroad, and over the 
 watery waste where the boat lies anchoreil at 
 their feet, tossed to and iVo by the surges of the 
 deep." 
 
 It was the anibiti(»n of i.obo to extend his 
 genius beyond the Innils <»f pasiorai composition, 
 to which it was alone adaj)led, by j)resenting his 
 country with an epic poem, founded on the 
 achievements of its hero Nnno Alvarez. I*ereira
 
 OF THE POKTUGUESE. 405 
 
 grand constable of Portugal, for whom the people 
 evince the same degree of enthusiasm as is shewn 
 by the Castilians tow^ards 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, pro- 
 duced an immense work consisting of twenty can- 
 tos, divided into octave verse. But the author so 
 completely failed in attaining 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 chronological account in rhyme. 
 
 In the opinion of Rodriguez Lobo, there was 
 no kind of poetry that might not with propriety 
 enter into pastoral composition. He viewed rural 
 life and scenery as the source of those poetic 
 images and ornaments which the imagination 
 delights to employ. He produced a variety of 
 eclogues solely with this view, in which he 
 treated of morality, of philosophy, and of other 
 important subjects, rendered by no means more 
 attractive by being exhibited in this affected and 
 unsuitable dress. To these we must add about a 
 hundred romances, the greatest part written in 
 Spanish. The Portuguese writers appear to have 
 considered their own language as little adapted 
 to compositions of a nature at once simple and 
 heroic; a species of writinn" in whicii their Cas- 
 
 voL. IV. 2 n
 
 400 ON nil i.rnuATruF. 
 
 tiliau neighbours ari'orded so many specimens, 
 and took so much delight. 
 
 Among the most distinguished of the contem- 
 poraries or immediate followers of Camoens, after 
 Rodriguez Lobo, is Jcronymo Cortereal, who 
 flourished indeed during the same period, but 
 whose literary career may be said to have com- 
 menced only towards llic close of that of the 
 poet of the Lusiad. Like all the great ])oets of 
 Spain, he was desirous of combining the pro- 
 fession of arms with that of letters, and liad sjient 
 some of his early years in India, engaged in com- 
 batinyr ajiainst the infidels. On his return to Por- 
 tugal, he followed Don Sebastian in his fatal 
 expedition to Africa, in which he was made pri- 
 soner at the battle of Alcacer ; and was deprived, 
 bv tlie same event, of his sovereign, and of his 
 house's heir, who fell under the victorious arms 
 of the Moors. \\ hen he again recovered his 
 liberty, after long and extreme sufferings, he 
 found the independence of his country over- 
 thrown, and Philip 11. of Spain occupying the 
 throne of l^ortugal. On this he immediately 
 retired to his family estate, and sought to relieve 
 his disappointment by engaging in the composi- 
 tion of historical epics, consecrated to the glory 
 of his country, and animated with a fine ])oetic 
 spirit, although they are not to be placed in com- 
 petition with the jiroductions of the first mas- 
 ters. We shall not here dwell upon his poem
 
 OF THE POKTUGUESE. 4G7 
 
 written in the Spanish 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 CortereaFs object in this poem to re- 
 late the tragical adventures and death of this un- 
 fortunate Portuguese, with that of his lady, Leo- 
 nora de S^, 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 
 reach some other of the Portuguese establish- 
 ments along the coast. This occurrence, though 
 destitute of the importance and heroic grandeur 
 required in a national epic, afforded room for inte- 
 rest of a very touching and romantic kind. There 
 is something in the efforts of this band of unfor- 
 tunates to proceed 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 hang- 
 ing over a cherished wife, and infants perishing 
 from want ; a picture of such a heart-rending 
 nature, that a simple description of this terrific 
 journey must necessarily be highly intcrcstin 
 
 2 II 2 
 
 or 
 
 O
 
 408 ON I III MTF.HATUUE 
 
 from its mere truth, independent oT the genius ol 
 the historian or of the poet. 
 
 In conunon with all his contemporaries, Corte- 
 real liad imlMl)ed the mistaken opinion that there 
 coidd 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 ima- 
 gination sublimed by the grand poetic landscapes 
 tliat surrounded hiiu, and gifted with talent to 
 depict them wiiii a degree of local truth and 
 beauty ecpialled 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 (irecian fable. 
 
 Manuel de Sousa became attached to Leonora 
 de S;\, but was unable to obtain the consent of 
 lur father, wluj had already promised her hand 
 to Luis Falcad, captain of Diu, lie is sup- 
 posed to invoke the God of Love, who at the 
 request of Venus, effects the destruction of Fal- 
 cao, ill or(l( r to deliver Sousa from a hated rival. 
 We are next introduced into the palace ol" Venus, 
 and into that of \'engeance, and we behold tlie 
 triumphant march of the gods of I'^urope towards 
 India; all described with much poetic power. 
 Hut the intervention of Love, for the sole purpose
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 4G9 
 
 of committing a murder, is far too revolting to 
 our feelings. It is a poor and palpable allegory, 
 intended to conceal the real assassination of 
 which Sousa was himself guilty. The father 
 of Leonora being released 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 re- 
 joicings of the Portuguese and the Malabars 
 on the occasion, occupy the space of nearly 
 two cantos *. After a period of four years, em- 
 bellished 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 de- 
 scribes the appearance of Proteus: 
 
 t Such was the season Proteus chose to lead 
 
 His dripping flocks, a thousand monstrous forms, 
 
 * These are the fourth and fifth cantos of the poem. 
 
 t Andava cm tal sazao I'rothco pastando 
 AUi rebanhus mil de humcdo gado,
 
 470 ON I II I I III KATl'KF. 
 
 To pasture forth, when siulilenly shone out 
 
 The glorious vessel, sailing in lu-r pomp ; 
 
 And starting hack, he view'd with glad surprise 
 
 The chiefs of Portugal ; from out the wave 
 
 He raised his rude and hoary head deform, 
 
 Crown'd with green limes. He shook his flowing beard 
 
 And savage tresses, white as mountain snow. 
 
 The ancient nmn 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. 
 
 Hut Leonora, as she heard the shout. 
 
 All faint and weary from her late long voyage, 
 
 E vendo a podcrosa nao, parouse, 
 Alegre, por ver gente Portuguesa. 
 A dis forme cabe^a sobre as ondas 
 Al\a, de vordes limos abrayada ; 
 Sacode a barba inculta, c os cabcUos 
 Irtos e duros, mais que a neve brancos. 
 OIha o antigo velho, como as ondas 
 Arrebentao na nao alta e soberba ; 
 Olha OS diversos trajos, olha e gente. 
 Que pcllo ver, a bordo se ajuntava. 
 Alyao da poilerosa nao aos ares 
 Iluma grita, ipie chega as alias nuvcs : 
 Nail se espaiita o marinho fero monstro, 
 Nem deixa de mostrar ledo sembrante. 
 Lianor, que ja do n>ar vai enfadada. 
 Do prolixo caniinho avorrecida.
 
 OF THE PORTUCiUESE. 471 
 
 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, far 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. 
 
 The surprise of Proteus is supposed to be suc- 
 ceeded by the most violent passion for the beau- 
 tiful Leonora, which he expresses in very tender 
 and harmonious verses. The work is chiefly 
 composed in blank verse, interspersed with oc- 
 casional 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 character so very prevalent in descriptions 
 of the passion of love, 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 
 
 O supito alvoro90 et grita ouvindo 
 Assomase por ver o que os espanta. 
 O velho Protheo vio, que em duas asas 
 Espinhosas et grandes se sustenta, 
 Atonito et pasmado. Mas de vello 
 Ela fria ficou, et quasi muda. 
 
 Nuttfragio ilt Scpuheda, Canto vi.
 
 472 C)\ THl I.I TKUATl'UK 
 
 we should naturally attribute to the most for- 
 niidable monster of the deep : 
 
 * All I who vMthliolils tluc Iroin my loiiji;ing arms, 
 Sole hopo and solace of my anxious breast ? 
 Is there a wretch one touch of pity feels, 
 Would snatch thee from my love ? Canst thou forget, 
 And canst thou see thy I'roteus' wild alarms? 
 Bright Leonora, hasten to my arms ! 
 O come to one who will adore, obey, 
 And love thee ever! Wilt thou then reward 
 Such love with frowns ? 'I'hink of some happier way ! 
 Approach, approach, and soon the placid deep 
 With brighter charms and lovelier hues shall glow : 
 Here shah thou sec the beauteous nymphs that sleep 
 In coral caves, and our rich realms l)elow ; 
 
 • 
 
 Hemedio de men mal, quem te detem ? 
 Quern tc faz que nao venhas darme vida? 
 (iueni e o que me atalha tanto hem? 
 Como estas do teu Protheo assi esquecida ? 
 Vem fermosa Lianor, ah Lianor vem! 
 Alegra est' alma triste a ti rendida, 
 Nao pages tanto amor com crueldade, 
 (Juc nao se espcra tal, tie tal l)iltade. 
 
 Chega, vcras o mar assossegado, 
 Ornado dc l)elissima pinturn ; 
 De Neptuno veras tao celebrado 
 A cscnmosa et horrida figura; 
 Veras do reino lirpiido, salgado, 
 () bando da mnrinha fermosura, 
 (iue toda junta vem ol)edecerie, 
 V. arpii nguarda toda, so por v»'rte.
 
 OF THE PORTU(;Ui:SE. 473 
 
 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 bovvers ! 
 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 seize 
 His breast ; while in each thought, still link'd to pain, 
 He lives his love and torment o'er again. 
 
 *»' 
 
 Proteus might certainly have employed more 
 persuasive entreaties, and a language somewhat 
 more in character than this. But whilst he thus 
 tills the air with his lamentations, Amphitrite, 
 accompanied by all the nymphs of the ocean, 
 jealous of the surpassing beauty of the lady, ex- 
 cites 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 
 
 Veras arder huma alma em triste peito, 
 No meyo deste mar, por ti gritando ; 
 Veras hum cora^ao todo desfeito 
 Em lagrimas mil vas, nada esperando ; 
 Veras varies effeitos num sogeito, 
 Veras amor, cada liora acrecentando 
 A minha grave dor, novo tormento 
 Fiado a penas so do pcnsamento.
 
 474 ov rn i: i in: it ait in: 
 
 upon the province of nature and of tlie human 
 heart ; and the reader feels interested as the story 
 proceeds. N\'e behold about one hundred and 
 fifty-four Portuguese, capable of bearing arms, 
 and two hundred and thirty slaves, carrying 
 some sick and wounded, landing from the ship 
 Saint John. They arc unfortunately enabled 
 to save only a very small portion of provisions, 
 and they find tliemsclves cast away ui)on a 
 shore with no appearance of jiroduce or cul- 
 tivation. Some Caffres are observed at a dis- 
 tance, who refuse, however, to engage in any 
 kind of traffic with them ; and hasten, on the con- 
 trary, from their huts to despatch tiic arrow, their 
 symbol of war, from tribe to tribe, calling the 
 hordes of the desert to their assistance. 
 
 Keduced to this extremity, Manuel de Sousa 
 hastily summons his companions in arms to 
 counsel, and addresses them in a confident tone 
 in the following language : 
 
 Dear friends and comrades of iny toils ! too well 
 
 You sec the peril, the approaching fate 
 
 That threats us; yet my trust is still in Heaven : 
 
 For Heaven alone can aid us ; and \vu sulfer 
 
 Hut what the all-powerful Will on high permits. 
 
 Yet, thou Omniscient Ruler of the skies, 
 
 Let thy just vengeance full where it should fall, 
 
 Only on me ; and spare these little ones, 
 
 Guiltless of all ! lie raised his eldest horn, 
 
 A lovely hoy, whose beauty won all eyes. 
 
 In his foiitl arms among his sorrowing friemls,
 
 OF TH1-: PORTUGUESE. 475 
 
 And turn'd his eyes, fill'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. 
 
 O 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 accommodate their 
 progress to the strength of their sick and wound- 
 ed companions, and of his Leonora and her in- 
 fants. 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, tra- 
 velled about eighty leagues, though they had 
 proceeded scarcely thirty in a direct line parallel 
 with the shore. Their small stock of provisions 
 was gone, and the earth offered little to supply 
 the cravings of hunger: many, overpowered by the
 
 470 ON nit LITKUATUKE 
 
 Ijurning siui, by cluiuls ul" sand, and by luinger, 
 thirst, and sickness, throw themselves upon the 
 ground ; and i)crniitting their companions to pass 
 on, await thuir destiny from the jaws of savage 
 beasts that sliortly 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 unhaj)py end ; 
 And soon the fainish'd monsters of the woods. 
 Fierce wolves and tigers, rush upon their prey. 
 And rend their reckinif limbs. 
 
 But hunger does not continue h)ng their only 
 foe. After fourteen days' i)aiurul march, worn 
 down by so many suflerings, tlie l\)rtuguese have 
 to encounter tlie CattVes, whom they repulse with 
 tlieir accustomed vah)ur, tiujugh not without the 
 lo.ss of several of their brave com[)anions. They 
 
 • Alguns sc rendem ja, jk de can^ados 
 Sc deixao ser de tigres manlimcnto. 
 Os olhos nos tpie vao, gemem sospirao, 
 Km lagrimas banhados se despedeni, 
 Dizendo : ivos, amigos, Deos vos livrc 
 Dcstp passo cspantoso ein (pie ficanios. 
 AjK)s estas palavras, rcclinando 
 ()» lassos in« ndjros, ehorao sen fiin trisie 
 Alii de bravos tigres, et outras feras 
 Fin brcvc espavo sao feitos peda^os.
 
 OF TIIF. rORTUOUESK. 477 
 
 afterwards resume their unfortunate march, per- 
 severing during more than three months to con- 
 tend with the various evils of their fate. The 
 tender Leonora and her babes traversed a tract 
 of more than three liundred leagues, supported 
 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, Corte- 
 real has again recourse to the mythology of the 
 ancients, occasionally exhibiting to our view 
 the god Pan, sporting in one of his consecrated 
 valleys, through which the Portuguese are to 
 pass. We hear him sighing for the beautiful 
 Leonora ; and, dazzled by her charms, he pours 
 forth ])laintive strains of love. Again, he intro- 
 duces us, in one of his hero's dreams, into the 
 palace of Truth, and afterwards into that of 
 Falsehood ; one of these he fills with the pa- 
 triarchs 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 celebrated characters of Portugal, from 
 the very commencement to the close of the
 
 4 7 S ON r H r i . n i: u a t u u F- 
 
 monarchy ; for Cortcrcal, having survived tlio 
 fatal defeat of Kini( 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 ens^aj^ement. 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 cap- 
 tive with the wreck of his countrymen: 
 
 neliold ! (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 ! w hat streams of blood imbrue 
 
 The glutted plains, where, 'mid the di'cj) rank grass, 
 
 Moulders th'unburiid corpse, o'er which the living pass. 
 
 See where, borne down the whirlj)ool of the war, 
 
 Sink man and horse, whclm'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 darken'd with the bird that craves 
 
 Its human feast, shrouding with dismal wings 
 
 The warrior's corpse; and hark! the hateful <lir(r,. it sin"-s ! 
 
 This long episode is jjere, perhajjs, somewhat 
 out of |)lace ; neither is it introduced in a suf- 
 ficiently easy and natural manner. It diverts the
 
 OF 'J HE PORTUGUESE',. 479 
 
 attention from the principal topic at tlic very 
 instant of the catastrophe, to create an interest 
 wholly new. But the subject here was the fu- 
 nereal pomp of the Portuguese power ; and the 
 fall of a great nation, that had so rapidly ad- 
 vanced 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 territories of one of the Negro kings, who had 
 received him with generous kindness and hos- 
 pitality, the Portuguese having rendered im- 
 portant 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 sol- 
 diers in his service; but, notwithstanding the fa- 
 tigues and perils they had encountered, the weary 
 travellers longed for nothing so much as to return 
 to their native land. They were not without 
 hopes of meeting with some vessels belonging to 
 their own nation, if they could reach the mouth 
 of the river Laurence Marquez. They were al- 
 ready 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 tlie midst of dangers, and 
 nearly overpowered with toil, that they arrive at
 
 480 ON THE LITERATURE 
 
 the second branch of the same river, which tlirows 
 itself by three large mouths into the adjacent 
 sea of Mozanibii[ue. The fortitude of Sousa 
 at length yields at the sight of his wife's and 
 children's sutl'erings ; terrific jircsentiinents now 
 haunt his iniairination ; and the shade of Luis 
 Falcao, his murdered rival, rises before him, 
 crying for retribution on the heads of the Por- 
 tuguese, whose reason Heaven has already per- 
 mitted it to disturb. The Caftre king, into whose 
 dominions they have just entered, though he 
 orters them an asylum and provisions, refuses 
 to j)ermit a foreign army to traverse the country, 
 insisting that the Portuguese shall deliver up their 
 arms and divide their company. After having 
 braved a thousand perils, l^antaleon de Sii has 
 the good fortune to reach a Christian vessel, and 
 is restored to his country ; but the greater jiart 
 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 seventeen 
 of iiis own slaves, until, having consumed the 
 whole of his resources, he is compelled by tlie 
 ('atlVe king to resume his journey at all hazards. 
 He again |)repares to enter the desert with his 
 little band of followers, reduced to a few indi. 
 viduals, uiij)rovide(l with arms, and etjually des- 
 titute ol hoj)e and courage. He hail just arrived, 
 however, at the borders of tlic ocean, wiicn.
 
 OF THE POICJL'GUKSF.. 481 
 
 about sunset, he is suddenly attacked by a tioop 
 of Caffres, who deprive the wanderers, without 
 pity, even of their wretched habiliments. But 
 liere again the author unfortunately destroys the 
 interest which so deplorable a situation was cal- 
 culated to excite, by recurring to the mytholo- 
 gical loves of the ancients. On this occasion, 
 Phoebus, returning along the edge of the horizon, 
 observes with surprise the beautiful Leonora 
 seated upon the sands, with her fine tresses 
 thrown loose, the only veil she had left to con- 
 ceal her naked charms. He immediately ap- 
 proaches her in the disguise of a shepherd, and 
 addresses her in some very tender and flattering 
 verses, which, contrasted with the surround ins: 
 images of desolation and death, leave by no 
 means an agreeable impression on tiie mind. 
 
 We are soon, however, carried back to the 
 dreadful realities 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 nourish- 
 ment he could find to support his wife and in- 
 fants. Thither he is still pursued 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 : 
 
 VOL. IV. 2 I
 
 4S2 OV THI I ITFJl ATIIU: 
 
 * Willi feeble step hv labours to approach 
 
 The scene of all his fears, and trembling thinks 
 He finds them true ; 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 
 NN liere 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 iix'd on his, 
 ^he would have said, " Adieu, my only friend !" 
 
 • Com trabalho se apprcssa, por acharse 
 Presente ao mal, (jue temc, et ja ve eerio ; 
 E da penosa dor aflfadigado, 
 Quasi arrastando vay os lassos mcmbros. 
 Hum ditlicil hanelito Ihe scca 
 A boca ju mortal, et os tristrs olhos 
 Suinidos de fracpieza, cm vivas fontes 
 l)e lagrimas piedosas sc convcrteni. 
 Chcga a donde Liauor ao passo forte 
 E termo tao temido estava entrcgue ; 
 Ve (|ue a turvada vista rodeando, 
 A elle so demanda, a ellc so busca ; 
 E v»-ndo (pic he chegado, esforja hum pouco 
 O aninio, ct procura dcspedirse ; 
 Levanta com trabalho os mortaes olhos ; 
 (iuer Ihe fallar, a nu>rte a lingua impide. 
 Firmaos cada vez mais no iriste rosto
 
 OF THE PORTUCrrSK. 4^13 
 
 But as she strove to speak in vain, despairing, 
 She fell in mortal swoon upon the earth. 
 Smit with fierce anguish loii;,^ Do Sousa stood ; 
 With tears and throl)bing 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 
 
 Daquelle unico amigo, que jii deixa; 
 Trabalha agasalhalo, c nao podendo. 
 Com dor mortal, na terra se reclina. 
 
 Despois que hum grande espafo esta pasmado, 
 Opprimido de dor o peito enfermo, 
 Alevantase, e vay mudo et choroso, 
 Ondc a praya se v6 mais opportuna. 
 Apartando coas maos a branca area, 
 Abre nellahuma estreita sepultura. 
 Tornase atras, alcando nos cansados 
 Brazos, aquelle corpo lasso et frio. 
 Ajudao as criadas as funestas 
 Derradeiras exequias, com mil gritos. 
 
 Na perpelua niorada tenebrosa 
 A deixao, levantando alto allarido. 
 Com salgudo liquor banhando a terra, 
 Aquelle ultimo vale todas dizcm. 
 Nao fica so Lianor na casa Tnfausta, 
 Que do hum tenro filhinho se acompanha, 
 
 2 I 2
 
 484 ON tml: i.iteratukf. 
 
 Alonp ; for near her lies lier beauteous boy, 
 Who hath not play'd five seasons in the sun. 
 
 As soon as Sousa had thus rendered the 
 last offices to the imhiii)i)y j^artner of his toils, 
 seizint^ his second son \\\ his arms, he plunged 
 into the thickest forests tliat surrounded him. A 
 holy resignation still supported him, sufficient to 
 prevent an attempt upon his own life; but the 
 wild beasts of Africa in a short time delivered 
 him from the torments he endured. 
 
 This extensive work, richly imbued with a 
 romantic interest, which the subject very fully 
 supj)lied, and displaying beauties of a superior 
 order, obscured by as great defects, is not, 
 however, the only epic poem wTitten by Corte- 
 real in Portuguese. There exists another speci- 
 men of his genius in this species of com])osition, 
 founded upon the sie2:e of Diu, a place very va- 
 liantly defended by the governor Mascarenhas. 
 Indeed it would a|)|)ear 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 importance of 
 the events, and the chivalric character of the 
 heroes who directed them, added to the national 
 pride of combining the rpialities of the warrior and 
 
 Que a hiz vital gozou (juatro pcrfcitos 
 Annns, licando o quinto interronipido. 
 
 Cdtifo xvii.
 
 OF THt POKTUGUESi:. 485 
 
 the poet, gave a glowing spirit and a vivacity to 
 their compositions, whicii 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 composed in iambic mea- 
 sure 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 Liberata. We feel 
 that his heart is always in unison with the ex- 
 ercise of his talents, while the emotions of Tris- 
 sino were never awakened 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, con- 
 sisting of descriptions of battle scenes, in the 
 midst of which the poet passed his life, and which 
 give an air of fearful reality to the whole. Of 
 this we have an instance in the sixteenth canto ; 
 where, after having recounted the fall and 
 sacking of Ancote, upon the gulf of Cambay, 
 he depicts in a very striking manner the dis- 
 turbed slumbers of the victorious Portuguese, 
 and the recollection of the recent scenes of
 
 48() ON TIM. Ill !• U A I I kj: I 
 
 carnage in wliicli ihcy liacl been engaged, still 
 haunting them in their dreams : 
 
 '   Now from iljcir many toils of the past day, 
 The soldiers stretch themselves upon the docks, 
 With welcome sleep renewing their worn irumes. 
 Some, as they shmiher, raise their brawny arms. 
 Striking the empty air with idle blows ; 
 (Others are heard murmuring wild words and threats : 
 " Forward! — no ipiarter ! — 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 oft' slumbers nursed in blood ; 
 Their souls being steep'd in the fierce dream of death, 
 And haunted with the phantoms of past deeds 
 or strife and terror. Soon the drowsy god 
 
 • Todos tomam rcpouso do continho 
 Trabalho, emque o passado dia andaram. 
 Estendemsc pos bancos, pos convezcs ; 
 Dam repouso aos can^ados lassos meujbros, 
 Entregando os a hum brando e doce sonho. 
 Dormindo movem hums os fortes brayos, 
 Dando com muita for\a mil vaos golpcs. 
 Outros com vozes mal distintas nuirnniram : 
 " Aqui ; matemos estes (pie nos fogem I 
 Sus! sus a estes abominavcis Mouros ! 
 Fogo ! fogo ! sangue! sangue! criiina!"... 
 C murmurando assim, levam pe/adas 
 A« cabt-^as, em sonho sepidtadas ; 
 Mostrandd coni sinaes de furor grandt-, 
 Que de imagens c esjH-ctros i-ram envolto.s. 
 Vf aa o jirofondo sonho torna logo,
 
 OF THE POllTUGUESi;. '»°' 
 
 Lulling them to frosl, sleep, .hey s.re.ch'd their limbs, 
 O'erpower'd with recent earnage, and each sense 
 Was closed ; a fearful picture of that mute ^ 
 And solemn death themselves were born to act . 
 
 Among those specimens of the Portt^uese 
 epic which still retain a degree of celebrity, it 
 would be unfair not to mentton the W,,« of 
 C stro, and the Malacca Co,u,uista,a of Francsco 
 de Sa y Menesez. In the opinion of the na 
 Uves, these are the two poems which approach 
 Lar;st to the elevated character ascribed to 
 
 "Zr -epics had lt.ewise the mertt of being 
 founded on the national history, and of mv.tmfc 
 Portuguese to the study of the glorious anna 
 o thetr country, as well as to the art of narrat ng 
 Imo others. Thus Lobo. Cortereal, and a 
 var^ty of other distinguished names, availed 
 hm elves of the most poetical portions o^Po - 
 uguese history ; though by his romances Rodr. 
 Inez Lobo contributed sttU more essentially to 
 ?he formation of the historians of Portugal He 
 was thTfirst to shew to what a degree ol ele- 
 r„ee of harmony, and of refinement the prose 
 romp;sitions of the Portuguese might be^arned. 
 
 Render os corpos da carnagem fera; 
 Liga OS sei.tidos, e enfim representa 
 
 Em todos Innna imagem muda c tnstc 
 
 Da misma raorte inunovel.
 
 4Sy 
 
 UN- THK i.lTKRATUUK 
 
 and they who were engaged in applying the hm- 
 gnage to subjects of a more serious nature, learned 
 <roni 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 
 ^v^ters who flourished during the times of Fer- 
 reira, of Camoens, and of Lobo, that Portugal 
 IS indebted for a new branch of her literature. 
 1 lay were the first who made the exploits and 
 conquests of their fellow-countrymen in the In- 
 dies the subject of history. The' talents peculiar 
 to the writer of travels and to the geographical 
 inquirer were not unfrequently found united with 
 tiiose of the historian; and an interest is produced 
 of a kmd altogether unique, by the recital of 
 events with which nothing on record can be placed 
 in competition, and which have no points of re- 
 semblance with any contained in ancient history. 
 At the head of these historians must be ranked 
 John de Barros, esteemed by his fellow-country- 
 "icn the Livy of Portugal. He sprang from a 
 noble family, and was born in the year 1496. 
 ^Vhile yet of very tender years, he was placed 
 among the king's pages at the court of Don 
 Kmmanuel; or rather in the school for the young 
 nobility, which the P.,rtuguesc princes were 
 desirous of forming in their own palace. He 
 early distinguished himself there by his taste for 
 Nvorks of history, and m i)articular by his assi-
 
 OF THE POKTUGt'ESE. 489 
 
 duous 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 ro- 
 mance entitled The Emperor Clarimond ; which, 
 though it discovers little interest or invention, is 
 at the same time remarkable for the beauty and 
 perspicuity of its style. This work has nothing 
 of an imaginative or romantic character attached 
 to it, although it is founded upon fictitious events, 
 and has little title to our regard, beyond that of 
 having exercised the author in the art of narration, 
 and of animating him to the nobler task of record- 
 ing the discoveries and conquests of Portugal in 
 the res^ions of the East. When he succeeded to the 
 throne, John III. advanced Barros to the gover- 
 norship of the Portuguese establishments situated 
 on the coast of Guinea. On his return thence, 
 he was made treasurer- general of the colonies, 
 and subsequently agent-general of the same 
 countries; an important post, nearly equivalent to 
 that of minister of state, which Barros preserved 
 for a period of eight-and-thirty years. While these 
 public employments engaged the time and atten- 
 tion of the historian, they provided him, at the 
 same time, with the most effectual means of ob- 
 taining an intimate knowledge of the countries 
 he had undertaken to describe ; and, in truth, he 
 devoted himself with equal diligence to fulfil his
 
 400 ON THE LITERATUKE 
 
 othcial duties, and to complete the important 
 work which lias been consigned to })Osterity. 
 His design, in the outset, appears to have been 
 to preserve and to commemorate, for the glory of 
 his countrymen, all the heroic exploits achieved 
 by them in different parts of the world. With 
 this view, his labours were intended to be com- 
 pleted in four several j)ortions. Under the title 
 of Portui,''uese 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 kingdoms 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, how- 
 ever, far from reaping any advantage, he lost a 
 considerable portion of his wealth. But thougii 
 Ikirros makes frecpicnt allusion to these three 
 j)roposed works Mhich have no existence, a long 
 life was barely sufhcient for the completion of his 
 J'orlu<riu'.sc A.sid ; a work divided into four de- 
 cades, or forty books, c(jmprehending the history 
 of the Portuguese contpiests, not only in the 
 Indies, but in the African seas, which first led 
 to their discovery. Tin- fust |)ortion of this 
 work a|)pcarc(l in ]r,r>2, one year previous to the
 
 OF THE POHTUGUESE. 491 
 
 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 Asia of John de Barros is the first great work 
 which contains authentic information relating 
 to those rich and extensive countries, separated 
 from Europe by such an immense expanse of 
 waters, and of which, previous to the inquiries 
 of our author, we possessed such very vague and 
 contradictory accounts. He is still considered as 
 the chief authority and foundation for subsequent 
 writers, not only in their history of all Portuguese 
 discoveries and of the earliest communications of 
 Europe with the East, but in all geographical and 
 statistical knowledge relative to the Indies. Long 
 and indefatigable labours, united to earnest inqui- 
 ries to ascertain the truth, and extensive credit 
 and authority continued during forty years, in 
 the countries m hicii were the object of his re- 
 searches, had indeed fully enabled him to acquire 
 the most accurate information regarding the 
 events, the inhabitants, 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
 
 492 ox THE LITEUATURE 
 
 country. What motive, it may be asked, could 
 have induced him to undertake the task, liad 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 iiave 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 vir- 
 tuous deeds ; if he had extinguished our emo- 
 tions by doubts ; and if he had communicated 
 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 Dpposite 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, de- 
 prived of the very source whence they spring, are 
 incapable of appreciating any events with justness 
 and precision. To Barros, even in his partia- 
 lity, 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 
 whieh he delightn to commemorate, it is thus
 
 OF THE POKTUGUESE. 493 
 
 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 courage, their ardour for heroic enter- 
 prise, for novelty, and even for perils, are no 
 less strikingly displayed, than are their insatiable 
 cupidity, their ferocity, and their blind fana- 
 ticism. If any individual, or any commander, 
 commits a base or perfidious action, he is con- 
 demned without hesitation ; but if the crime is 
 of a public nature, and approved in the eyes of 
 his nation, the author likewise records it with 
 exultation. Negroes torn from the bosom of their 
 family, and from their peaceful labours, enslaved, 
 or massacred without provocation ; the distant 
 Moors pursued into the interior of unknown re- 
 gions, 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 Burros and his countrymen towards
 
 4ii4 ON I HI. IlTF.IlATrRE 
 
 the Pa.i^ans and towards tlic Mahometans ; the 
 former of whom frequently ehalleng^e the author's 
 regard, on aceount of their being only idolaters, 
 lu)\vever various the o])jects of their adoration 
 may be. Of this we may judge from the discourse 
 of Vasco de Gama. delivered to the Zamorim of 
 Calicut, to the foUu^ving cHects : * 
 
 " Throughout the four thousand eight hundretl 
 leagues of coast discovered by iiis 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 re- 
 {juired of them \\ as, 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. \\ hdin he confessed and 
 adored as the true God, and for whose glory and 
 service he had undertaken these distant enter- 
 prises. Hi'sidcs the beneht of the salvation of 
 souls, which the king Don Manuel procured for 
 these sovereigns, and for their people whom lie 
 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, 
 stutis, and other mercluindise : in exchange for 
 which his caj)tains obtained other articles in 
 which the country abounded ; as ivory, gold, 
 
 • \ ilk- Dcciul. I. Book iv. Chap. y.
 
 OF THE POUTUCUESE. 49,') 
 
 and peppers ; a kind of spice as valuable and useful 
 to Europe, as was the pepper itself in the king- 
 dom of Calicut. It was by this traffic that the 
 kingdoms which accepted his friendship became 
 civilized instead of barbarous ; the weak power- 
 ful, 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 accom- 
 plishing 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 de- 
 prived 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 defamed the name of the Portu- 
 guese, but, by their intrigues, they endeavoured 
 to compass their death; not daring to meet them 
 face to face, because they had learned by expe- 
 rience the power of their swords. Proofs of this 
 might be seen in what had taken place at Mo- 
 zambique and at Mombaca, 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 disco- 
 vered. For these were naturally very friendly 
 to the Christian people, as being descended 
 from tile same race, with great resemblance in
 
 49G <)\ rUF. LITKRATUKK 
 
 muny of tlicir customs; especially in their temples, 
 as far as he had already seen them in this kingdom 
 of Calicut. In their religion, likewise, they resem- 
 bled the liramins, who worshipped a Trinity of 
 three j)ersons in one God ; a circumstance which 
 among Christians is the foundation of their whole 
 faith, however ditlerciitly 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 sus- 
 pected in the mind of his Uoyal Highness." 
 
 The above speech will serve as a fair specimen 
 of the manner in wliich Barros occasionally in- 
 tersperses the course of his narrative with 
 harangues; a method which he derived from his 
 admiration of Livy, his favourite author and his 
 model. lie makes use of it, however, very 
 sparingly, with great regard to truth of eharae- 
 ter and sentiment; and most probably on the 
 authority of original documents, though, at the 
 same time, with too little real eloquence. \Vc find 
 a constant attbctation of eniploying long periods, 
 which he attempts to render harmonious; and 
 of connecting them with each other, 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 fre(jUontly ditiieult and obscure. 
 The respective relations of the person who speaks.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESF,. 4()7 
 
 of him to whom the speech is addressed, 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 
 occasionally 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 after- 
 wards continued by Couto. In the original edi- 
 tion of the Asia Portu<rueza, between 1552 and 
 1615, in fourteen volumes, folio, they were in 
 fact published together. Fernand Lopez de 
 Castenheda and Antonio Bocarro likewise pro- 
 duced their respective histories of the Portu- 
 guese conquests in India. One of the most dis- 
 tinguished characters of that astonishing age, 
 Alfonso d'Albuquerque, also wrote his Comment- 
 arks, 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 Emanuel ; 
 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 
 
 VOL. IV. 2 K
 
 4[)ii OS I UK i-niUAiiuK 
 
 memory of their deeds to posterity. It was to- 
 wards the close of this heroic age that Bernardo 
 de Hrito, horn in 1570, undertook the task of 
 givin«^ us an universal history of Portugal. Ke- 
 ceiving his education at Rome, where he acquired 
 many of tiic modern languages, he entered early 
 into a monastery ; and it was there that he 
 composed, as chronicler of his own religious 
 body, the A/ofuirc/iiu Lusita/ia, to which he is 
 indebted for his reputation. From the title 
 which this very voluminous history bears, the 
 author was bound to have commenced his work 
 only from the epoch at which his country was 
 elevated to the rank of an independent state ; 
 but he was ambitious, on the contrary, of com- 
 ])rehending in his account the history of Por- 
 tugal from the creation of the world. The first 
 folio volume brings him down only to the Christian 
 era; the second concludes with the rise of the Por- 
 tuguese monarchy ; and the death of the author, 
 which li;i|)j)ened in the forty-seventh year of his 
 age, in H\\7, actually surprised him before he 
 had reached the ej)och where he ought to have 
 commenced his labours. 
 
 The work of Bnto is necessarily deticient in 
 unity iind interest of subject ; his country not 
 being yet advanced to the dignity of an European 
 power, and ap|)earing only incidentally in the 
 relatujn of foreign affairs, during the whole pe- 
 riod of whirh he treats. In othrr respects.
 
 OF THE POUTliGUESE. 491) 
 
 the boldness and dignity of his style, his free- 
 dom from all studied ornament and affecta- 
 tion, 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 in- 
 terest 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 arrange- 
 ment 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 Visi- 
 goths. 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 re- 
 newed difficulties : for the monks, alarmed by the 
 tidings they had received a few days before, and 
 eager to save the sacred vessels and other orna- 
 ments of the church, had already fled ; some into 
 
 2 K 2
 
 ;>0(J ON TUF. LlTKUATl'RF. 
 
 Mcrida. and others into the interior of the coun- 
 try, .seeking: an asylum in distant monasteries. 
 The small remaininc: 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 en- 
 tered the church, and beholding it despoiled of all 
 its ornaments and deserted by its priests, he pro- 
 strated himself in prayer in such grief and anguish 
 of spirit, that bursting into tears, he forgot he 
 mii^iit chance to be overheard by some one to 
 whom the very excess of his despair might be- 
 tray his name. AVorn 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 Bar- 
 ros, Bernard de Brito, and Jerome Osorio, of 
 whom we shall make mention in the following 
 chai)ter, 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 thi- lifetime (jf the existing generation. 
 Kings began to conceive fresh views of aggran-
 
 or THE PORTUGUESE. 501 
 
 tlisement ; 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 de- 
 ceived the general expectations of the world, than 
 the more confident views and penetration of or- 
 dinary 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 se- 
 parated 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 be- 
 lieve 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 ra- 
 pidly 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 poli- 
 tical events, for the most part, only reaches 
 them to inure them to suffering ; as their for- 
 tunes, their hopes, and their domestic rela- 
 tions, are alternately torn asunder, either by 
 treaties, by wars, or by revolutions, they 
 most frequently endeavour to banish un- 
 happy reflections ; and shunning tiicni with a
 
 502 O.V THE LITKK AIIKE 
 
 sort of alarm, prefer submission to |>ublic ealu- 
 mities of whatever kind, yielding as if to an irre- 
 sistible 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 historians. To give birth to 
 such, it is requisite either that a country should 
 be in possession of liberty sutiicient to 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 suttering, 
 from anxiety and fear, if nut 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 fer- 
 tile in revolutions; whilst those of Rome did not 
 become celebrated until the more advanced 
 epoch, when the lioman empire, under its despot- 
 ism, was already tottering to its fall. But the 
 ()j)pression of the human race, under a few san- 
 guinary monsters, compelled people at that 
 period to reflect upon the strange destiny of in- 
 dividuals and of nations. The chief historians of 
 Italy, all of whom were contemporary with Ma- 
 chiavelli, lived to witness the ruin of their coun- 
 try, dating its ori^nn from the invasion of Charles 
 \'ni. Those of Portu^^d ou;^dit to be referred, 
 as ill truth thcv d'» all of (luni belong, to the
 
 OF THif- POUTUGUKSi:. 503 
 
 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 scries of calamities unheard 
 of before.
 
 CIlAiaER XL. 
 
 Coniinuation of the Literature of Portugal. Conchisioii. 
 
 The various eras that distinguish the literature 
 of the Portuguese are by no means of so marked 
 a tluiracter as those belonging to the Spanish. 
 The progress of the former was extremely uni- 
 lurm ; and innovations were introduced into it 
 very gradually, extending rarely beyond mere 
 forms, and producing no revolution in taste. ISot- 
 withstanding the influence of ages, traces of the 
 same spirit which breathed in the poetry of the 
 earliest Troubadours of ]^)rtugal may yet be dis- 
 covered in the pastoral ))()ets of the present day. 
 Hut in common with the literature of all other 
 countries, it has not escaped the etl'ect of ])oli- 
 tical changes, and the influence of" the govern- 
 ment ; insomuch, llial to ai)j)rc(iate truly its 
 elevation anil its decline, we must keep in view, 
 as we have done on other occasions, the suc- 
 cessive revolutions of the state. With the Por- 
 tuguese, as with other nations, we shall have oc- 
 casion to observe the s;nne ])hcnomenon to which
 
 LlTEllATUllt or TIIK POKTL'G f l-.Sl.. o()5 
 
 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 wis- 
 dom and virtue of a preceding government ; 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 re- 
 ward the efforts of the human intellect, than or- 
 der 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 of giants. 
 
 One great change, and of a fatal tendency to 
 the religious liberties of the country, was intro- 
 duced into the Portuguese laws and manners 
 as early as the reign of the great Emanuel. We 
 have noticed the light in which the inhabitants of 
 all the provinces of Spain had been accustomed
 
 500) ON Tin: LirKliAMUK 
 
 to consider the Moors durinfj the j)eriod of 
 their protracted wars ; tliat in the event of their 
 conciuest they had retained them as tributaries 
 and subjects; and that, accustomed to render obe- 
 dience to the same laws, they had uniformly re- 
 garded with indulgence their differences of reli- 
 gions opinions. The same toleration was extended 
 also to the Jews, who were very numerous in the 
 several kingdoms of Sj^iin. These Jews main- 
 tained that they were the genuine children of the 
 tribe of Judah; and their descendants still consi- 
 der themselves very superior to the rest of that 
 jHMjple 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 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 banislnncnt 
 fV(jin tlu'ir territories of all those who refused to 
 [)rofess the Christian religion. It was they who 
 estal)lishe(l, upon |)rineiplcs of legislation un- 
 known before, the tribunal of the Inquisition, 
 wid( ly ditlering from th;it formerly instituted by 
 the I'opes against the Albigenses. They perse- 
 cuted the Moors, and in I IS'2 thev exiled all the 
 Jews from their dominions, with the exception of 
 those tliMl chose or that feigned to ( inbrace the
 
 Ol' THE POKTUGULSt. 507 
 
 Christian religion. But the greater number pre- 
 ferring their religion to their country, their pro- 
 perty, and all the enjoyments of life, arrived 
 by thousands upon the frontiers of Portugal, 
 bearing with them the little money and effects 
 they had been enabled to snatch out of the ruin 
 of their fortunes. King* John II., who then oc- 
 cupied the throne, was induced, less from hu- 
 manity 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 se- 
 parate themselves from the people in the midst 
 of whom they resided, soon awakened the super- 
 stitious 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 lor the
 
 50b ON Tllis: LlIi.UAlLUL 
 
 sole purpose of rousing the lanaticisni of the 
 people. The Jews, in the mean time, eager to 
 profit by tlic ten years' residence which had been 
 accorded them, witli the view of afterwards trans- 
 porting their families and property, witli the 
 least possible loss, into some more friendly asy- 
 lum, had the misfortune to find Europe closed 
 against them, and saw tliemselves reduced, in 
 order to avoid the persecutions of the priests, to 
 submit to the milder o|)j)ression and spoliations 
 of the l^achas of Turkey. They successively 
 entered into terms witli 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 ami unjust to- 
 wards the uniortunate refugees. So I'ar from re- 
 flecting thai every man, wlio submits to the dic- 
 tates of his conscience in preference to all worldly 
 advantages, deserves our respect, they despised 
 and hated the Jews, lur the very reason of their 
 remaining faithful to the religion under which 
 they were b(jrn. Thus, after demanding an un- 
 reasonable price for their passage, they detained 
 them prisoners on board their vessels until their 
 provisions were consumed, in order to sell them 
 more at the most extravagant rate, and until 
 they had succeeded in extorting their last crown. 
 They even cairieil oil their wives and daughters, 
 believing they were merely fulfilling the duties of 
 their fanatic al religion when ihey ."subjected them
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 509 
 
 to the worst of outrages. Far from repenting 
 afterwards of the extent to which they had 
 carried their violence and extortions, they re- 
 counted them with pride, and exhorted each 
 other to still more outrageous 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 subjec- 
 tion. But Emanuel, on ascending the throne, 
 considered himself free from engagements en- 
 tered into by his father. Ferdinand and Isabella 
 eagerly interfered, to excite his animosity against 
 a people whom they had made their perpetual 
 enemies. In 149G, Emanuel 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
 
 r, lO 0\ THK I.irr I{A TURF. 
 
 tliis took place, the kiug, if we are to believe 
 the l*ortiii^uese historian Osorio, " unwillinir to 
 behold so many niillions of souls precipitated 
 into eternal punishment, in order to save at least 
 the children of the Jews, fixed upon an expe- 
 dient, which, however harsh and unjust it might 
 ap|)car 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 yet reached their fourteenth 
 year should be taken from their parents, and 
 never allowed to see them more, in order that 
 they miL,dit be educated in the Christian faith. 
 Hut this could not be eftected without much 
 trouble; for it was a piteous sight to see these 
 children torn from the l)osom of their mothers ; 
 ])ulling along thiMr fathers, who hehl them fast 
 ill tliiir 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, 
 transjn)rt{'d with rage, j)ut them to death with 
 tlieir (jwii hands. To add to the dreadful sutter- 
 ings of this nuliaiipy |)cople, after having been 
 thus outraged, tliey were not ])ermitted to em- 
 bark for Africa; as the king had such a desire to 
 eonveit tlie .leus to Christ iauit v. that he believed
 
 OF THE PORl'UGUESE. / 511 
 
 it to be incumbent upon him to effect his object 
 partly by kindness, and partly by force. Thus, 
 though according to his declaration, the Jews 
 ought to have been permitted to embark, it was 
 delayed from day to day, in order to give them 
 time to change their opinions. In the same man- 
 ner, 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 
 been unable to take to flight \vere immediately 
 led away into captivity."* 
 
 We may gather from this extract, and more 
 particularly from the reflections which follow it, 
 that the virtuous historian of the reign of Ema- 
 nuel, Jerome Osorio, did not partake the preju- 
 dices of his countrymen, and that he was disgusted 
 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. It is 
 nevertheless to this very violence and persecu- 
 tion that the Portuguese trace the singular mix- 
 ture of the Jewish blood with that of their chief 
 
 • See Jerome Osorio's History of King Emanuel, Book I. 
 chap. viii.
 
 ')\'2 OS THE I.ITr.KATl'RE 
 
 nobilitv. The greater numl)er of the cajUivcs 
 recovered their liberty by a sinuihited conversion 
 to the faith of tlieir persecutors. To these their 
 cliihlren were restored, and some were even adopt- 
 ed into the families which had presented them at 
 the baptismal fount, and were permitted at the 
 same time to assume their name. Those ^vho re- 
 fused to adnj>t this j)lan ))erished wntchedly at 
 the stake or by tamine, and the very name of such 
 among the Jews entirely disapj^eared. The for- 
 mer, 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 continue 
 to bring up their children in the tenets of the 
 Catholic iaith, wilhuut acquainting them with 
 their real origin; but as soon as they have at- 
 tained the age of fourteen years, the age fixed 
 \\\u)n ill the barbarous edict of Emanuel, 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 Ciod (.r tlieir fathers and that of their per- 
 secutors; a sword is placed in their hands; and 
 in case of their remaining Catholics, the sole 
 favour and ngard ixpected from them towards the 
 blood from which they sj^rang is to sacrifice their 
 fathers on the sj)ot with their own hands, rather 
 thnn deliver them over, as their faith exacts, to the
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 513 
 
 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 pa- 
 triarchs, the pristine fathers of the human race ; 
 and we are informed, there has not been a single 
 example, in this impressive ceremony, in which 
 the young man has not embraced the most gene- 
 rous alternative. 
 
 It is painful to contemplate with what ra- 
 pidity fanaticism and intolerance, when once 
 excited amongst the people, exceed 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 
 with so slight 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! 
 exterminate !" 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 
 palpitating, burnt in the public places of the city. 
 
 V(JL. IV. 2 [.
 
 514 ON THE r.ITFRATURE 
 
 Tlie same fanaticism extending to the armies, 
 converted Portuguese soldiers into the execu- 
 tioners of infidels and the tyrants of the East. 
 At length, in the year 1540, John 111. succeeded 
 in establishing the Inquisition, which the pro- 
 gress 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 accidental occurrence; but the 
 submission of the Portuguese to the loss of their 
 independence, under the yoke of Spain, was the 
 conse(pience of the degradation of the old na- 
 tional spirit of the people. They had formerly 
 shewn on many occasions, but in particular 
 under Alfonso 1. and .lohn I. that they scorned to 
 trust their national existence to the rights or 
 pretended rights of a woman ; and that they 
 preferred a bastard, their own countryman, for 
 a sovereign, rather than a foreign legitimate 
 king. The two ancient heroes of Portugal, 
 Egaz Moniz, and the constable Pereira, had ren- 
 dered themselves dear t(^ the nation for having 
 suj)portcd this very cause at two distinct periods. 
 Hut on the death of the cardinal Henry, in 1580, 
 the Portuguese submitted, without making any 
 resistance, to the arms of Philip II ; and the na- 
 tion was shortly after oppressed with the weight 
 of a two-fold despotism, both civil and religious. 
 During a space of sixty years, Portugal con-
 
 OF TllF. FORTUGUESE. 515 
 
 tinued thus subjected to a foreign yoke. The 
 three Philips (II. III. IV.) who succeeded each 
 other on the throne, and whose characters we 
 have already described, in reference both to the 
 kingdom of Naples and the Spains, treated with 
 a still greater degree of harshness and negligence 
 their Portuguese subjects, whom they were led 
 to consider as their former rivals. The latter 
 were afflicted with all the calamities which over- 
 took the Spanish monarchy. The Dutch gra- 
 dually deprived them of the largest portion of 
 their East-Indian possessions, and the sources of 
 their riches became thus dried up. The same 
 nation erased the monuments of their glory, and 
 made them doubly feel their own weakness and 
 degeneracy, and that of their monarch. The re- 
 volution of 1640, which advanced John IV. of the 
 house of Braganza to the throne, was less a proof 
 of the energies of the Portuguese, than of the ex- 
 treme feebleness of the Spaniards. The former 
 sustained, during twenty-eight years, a war in sup- 
 port of their independence, but without recover- 
 ing the character which had constituted the glory 
 and the power of their ancestors. John IV. Mas 
 a prince of very indifferent talents ; and his son 
 Alfonso VI. was an extravagant madman, and was 
 deposed by means of an intrigue carried on be- 
 tween his queen and his own brother. After the 
 peace concluded with the Spanish in 1G68, the na- 
 tion again sunk into abject sloth and superstition. 
 
 2 l2
 
 51G ON lilt: LITF.RATUUE 
 
 Tlie profligacy of private manners, and the in- 
 (lirt'i-rcnce of the citizens, were in exact relation 
 with this corruption of the public character. 
 Labour was esteemed a disgrace, commerce a 
 slate lA' degradation, and agriculture too fa- 
 tiguing an eniplovnient for the indolence of the 
 peasants. The Portuguese of the i)resent age, 
 who fi)rin a large portion of the population of the 
 Indies, pass their lives in a state of utter useless- 
 ness, equally despising the natives of the coun- 
 try and the' Europeans, and fearful of debasing 
 themselves by labour, but not by mendicity. It 
 is thus they have dispossessed themselves of their 
 noblest establishments ; and thus ISIacao, a Por- 
 tULTuese town in China, is now nothing more than 
 an EnLflish factory. It is of no avail that itssove- 
 reignty belongs to Portugal ; that its isthmus is 
 impri'gnable, its climate delicious, and its situation 
 une(|uallcd for the advantages of commerce. There 
 is no instance there of a Portuguese exercising 
 any professiiJii, or entering into tiic public otiices. 
 This state of aj)athy, and these absurd preju- 
 dices fostered against industry, have altogether 
 de]>rived the people of Portugal of their former 
 commerce, ot their poj)\ilation, and of their glory; 
 yet these consequences are not to be attributed to 
 their relations or treaties with foreign states. 'I'he 
 Incpiisition. and the apathy by wiiich it is fol- 
 lowed, have thus consigned them over to poverty. 
 Ill t!i(^ midsl of the national decline, the Por-
 
 OK I HE l»OUrUGU£SE. 517 
 
 tuguese 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 in- 
 variably dull, and more affected and insipid than 
 those that preceded them, vied with, without 
 excelling- each other; and the most tedious mo- 
 notony 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 re2:ard to the 
 ancient literature, the history, and the statistics of 
 Portugal. His taste, however, was much inferior 
 to his industry ; and his poetry scarcely possesses 
 any attractions to reward the reader for its pe- 
 rusal. 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 
 iTiodels in their style. The influence which he 
 ixercised over the taste of the age was consi- 
 derable. He was born in the year 1590; and at 
 so early an age as fifteen, he was introduced into 
 public atiairs by one of his relations, who retained
 
 518 ON' Tnr iiikhatuue 
 
 him as secretary in the ottice to which he him- 
 self belonged. In fact, Manuel de Faria shortly 
 discovered great capacity and facility in conduct- 
 ing business ; though his talents were of little 
 use in advancing his fortune. He repaired to 
 the court of Madrid, whose sovereignty at that 
 time extended likewise over Portugal, and af- 
 terwards passed to Rome in the suite of some 
 embassy, but without rea|)ing- the reward due to 
 his exertions, or improving his situation in life. 
 On his return to Madrid, he renounced his en- 
 gagements with public affairs, in order to devote 
 himself altogether to composition ; and he ap- 
 plied himself with extreme diligence to the com- 
 pletion 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 ])aper, each j^age consisting of thirty 
 lines, until the time of his death ; which hap- 
 pening in the year 1G49, put a period to his un- 
 paralleled industry. 
 
 The chief part of Manuel de Faria's produc- 
 tions are written in the (^astilian tongue, and 
 cannot correctly be said to be exclusively of a 
 literary nature. His Portuguese Europe is never- 
 theless more deserving of attention with regard to 
 its style, and the talent which it displays for nar- 
 rative ;iii(l oratorical composition, than for its his-
 
 OF THK PORTUGUESE. 519 
 
 torical merits, the exactness of its researches, 
 or the soundness of its criticism. In combinins: 
 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 de- 
 sign of Faria to preserve the interest of his sub- 
 ject by brilliancy of idea and by the charm of lan- 
 guage, 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. Be- 
 sides, the Portuguese Europe, being written in 
 Castilian, is altogether to be referred to the Span- 
 ish school. We should doubtless consider history 
 in a very mistaken point of view, if we should sup- 
 pose with our author, that the serious and dig- 
 nified tone, together with the lucid order and sim- 
 plicity, which it requires, are to be made subser- 
 vient 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, Me cannot help re- 
 gretting, at every line, the unfortunate misappli- 
 cation of the talents with which he was endowed. 
 1 shall here endeavour to convey an example of 
 his style of composition, taken at hazard from
 
 r,'20 0\ TIIF. MTEIIATUUE 
 
 the work;* ;is liir, at least, as its peculiarities 
 can be transmitted into another tongue. The 
 subject turns ui)on the continual wars carried 
 on between Castile and Portugal, which fatigue 
 the liistorian by their monotony, and escape 
 the most tenacious memory. Faria, however, 
 constantly relieves their tcdiousness, no less by 
 the strikiui^ turn w hicii he gives to his narrative, 
 than by the choice of his expressions : 
 
 " Perpetual struggles for superiority," he ob- 
 serves, " the most grasj)ing avarice, the desire of 
 depriving each other ui what in fact belonged to 
 both, and the fully of never being satisfied with 
 what they possessed, jilunged Portugal and Cas- 
 tile into fresh wars, during the reign of the Em- 
 peror Don Alonzo, in the year 1135. Discord 
 led to spoliation^;, 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 u|)()n its rival. 
 To |)roduee evil, though without reaping any 
 advantage from it, was pronounced a victory; 
 and blood inundated, and fire devoured the vil- 
 lages of the two nations, each of whom escaped 
 from the recollection of their own extended 
 sufferings and ruin, in the reflection that they had 
 subjected their enemy to the same calamities." 
 
 • Sec vt.l. II. jMit i. ,aj). iii. |>. .;!», of ih,- Euiopa Vortii-
 
 OF THE POllTUGUESIi. 521 
 
 In such detached passages as these, per- 
 haps, little can be perceived except the force 
 and vivacity of their style ; but when such c[ua- 
 lities as these are continued throughout three 
 folio volumes, we become wearied with the con- 
 tinual display of antithesis and research, and 
 we recognise in this misapplication 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 ex- 
 presses the strongest admiration for that great 
 poet, is remarkable 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, refinement, 
 are all equally wanting ; and the commentary is 
 valuable only inasmuch as it contains particulars 
 relative to the lives of Camoens, and of the Portu- 
 guese navigators. The same author likewise under- 
 took to write the life of the poet of the Lusiad ; 
 to put it into the shape of an eclogue ; and to 
 comj)ilc that eclogue from various scattered lines 
 of the poet himself. It would be difficult to
 
 522 0\ THE MTIRATIMIE 
 
 point out a work more truly tedious, more 
 destitute of interest and of poetry, and com- 
 prehending so much long- and jnierilc h\bour. 
 A large body of notes serve to exhibit the li- 
 cences which the author permitted himself in 
 this species of mosaic work, changing some- 
 times a word and sometimes a syllable in the 
 verse on which hv was employc^d ; yet, after all, 
 he was perhaps right in these alterations, 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 composed, Faria selected only six hun- 
 dred to present to the pul)lic, four hundred of 
 which are in Castilian, and the rest in Portu- 
 guese. In these we may observe, in general, 
 most of the defects of Marini, of Lope de Vega, 
 and of Gongora, exemplified by turns; a singular 
 degree of atfectation and research, forced and 
 inHated images, besides considerable hyperbole 
 and pedantry of style. There are, however, a 
 few exceptions ; and these arc by no means de- 
 ficient in real feeling and grace. The ideas are 
 not sufficiently striking to call for translation 
 into another tongue, but I shall sul))oin in a 
 note two poems which Houtterwek has already 
 pointed out.* 
 
 Niiiliis, ninfas »l«) jirado, tani Icrniosas, 
 Que itcUc cuda (juui mil (lorcb gora.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 523 
 
 Both ill his eclogues, and in his discourse 
 upon pastoral poetry, it was the object of this 
 author to shew, from examples and arguments 
 
 De que se tece a humana primavera, 
 Com cores, como bellas, deleitosas ; 
 
 Bellezas, o bellezas luminosas, 
 Que sois abono da constante esfera ; 
 Que todas me acudisseys, bem quisera, 
 Com vossas luzes, e com vossas rosas. 
 
 De todas me trazey macs abundantes, 
 Porque me importa, neste bello dia, 
 A porta ornar da minha Albania bella. 
 
 Mas vos, de vosso culto vigilantes, 
 O adorno me negays, que eu pretendia, 
 Porque bellas nam soys diante della. 
 
 Sempre que torno a vcr o bello prado 
 Onde, primeira vez, a soberana 
 Divindade encontrey, con forma humana, 
 Ou humano esplendor deificado : 
 
 E me acordo do talhe delicado, 
 Do riso donde ambrosia e nectar mana, 
 Da fala, que da vida quando engana, 
 Da branca mao, e do cristal rosado. 
 
 Do meneo soave, que fazia 
 Crer, que de brando zefiro tocada, 
 A primavera toda se movia, 
 
 De novo torno a ver a alma abrazada, 
 E cm desejar somente aquelle dia, 
 Vejo a gloria real toda cifrada.
 
 524 <'N Till; in lit A J I'll E 
 
 wliich he adduced, that all the passions, and all 
 the occupations of mankind, could only be 
 treated poetically in proportion as they took a 
 pastoral form, lie himself arranged his bucolics 
 in the following order : viz. amatory eclogues, 
 those on the chase, piscatory, rural, funereal, 
 judiciary, monastic, critical, genealogical, and 
 fantastic. \N'e 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 do Faria y Sousa, the first 
 rank among the Portuguese poets of this age 
 must be awarded to Antonio Barbosa Bacellar, 
 who lived between the years IGIO and 1GG3, 
 and who, by a somewhat rare choice among men 
 of letters, forsook the regions of j^oetry, where 
 lie liad distinguished himsell', for the courts 
 of jurisprudence. His poems w^ere published 
 before he had reached his twenty-tilth year; but 
 the rejjutation which lie acquired by his de- 
 fence of the rights ol' the house of Jiraganza to 
 the throne, at the period of the revolution, in- 
 duced him to abandon the Muses for a more lu- 
 crative career. lie was the first, however, who 
 conferred on the poetry of Portugal that kind of 
 elegy wiiich is distinguished by the name of 
 SaiulatUs ; verses intended to convey amorous 
 complaints and wishes expressed in solitude. 
 ()ur iiiodciii l;istc will no longer countenance 
 these love-sick lamentations, eternally repeated
 
 OF TFIK PORTUGUESE. 525 
 
 with scarcely any variation of sentiments, not- 
 withstanding their graceful and harmonious lan- 
 guage, and the beauty and variety of their imagery. 
 Jacinto 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 Gon- 
 gora ; of those who flattered themselves that they 
 were giving proofs of their poetic genius, in the 
 pomp of their tiresome mythology and of their 
 disproportioned imagery. With this view, An- 
 drade produced a short poem upon The Loves of 
 Poli/phenius ami Galatea, which may be consi- 
 dered in the light of a parody on that of Gon- 
 gora. But the ridicule which it was his object 
 to throw on this composition did not discourage 
 his countrymen ; for at no distant period, several 
 more poems of Polyphemus, no less absurd than 
 that which he had thus exposed, made their ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 But Andrade acquired still more reputation by 
 his Life of Don Juan de Castro, fourth Viceroy of 
 the Indies. This was, at one time, esteemed a 
 masterpiece of biographical composition, and was 
 translated into several languages. The Portu- 
 guese themselves held it up as their model of ele- 
 gance and purity in historical narration ; not 
 oftended, as we now are, by the laborious and stu-
 
 52G ON THF. LITEKATUUF. 
 
 (lied conceit of tlie thoughts, and by the affectation 
 with which they are expressed. Juan de Castro 
 flourished at llie epoch so glorious for the Por- 
 tuguese arms, when they founded that extensive 
 empire which soon traced its ruin to the sloth and 
 luxury of its conquerors in the following age. An- 
 drade, however, aj^pears 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 Dii'i 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 pre- 
 pare himself for another siege. Unfortunately, 
 the royal finances were exhausted ; there were 
 no jirecious articles, nor any means of paying the 
 labourers and soldiers em])loye(l. Tiie Portu- 
 guese merchants at (loa having been frccjuently 
 deceived by the promises formerly made, were 
 no longer willing to give credit to De Castro. His 
 son Ferdinand had been killed during the siege. 
 lie was desirous of disinterring his bones, to 
 send them as a i)ledge to the merchants of (u)a, 
 that he would |)erform his engagements with them, 
 for the money wlii( h he wished them to advance. 
 Hut they wtrc im longer to bt- found; the fiery 
 climate having already reduced them to dust. He
 
 OF THE PORTUOUESE. 527 
 
 then cut off one of his mustachios, which he sent 
 as a gage of honour that he would fulfil the con- 
 ditions. " I have no pledge which 1 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 confi- 
 dence, except a short and dry sincerity, which 
 the Lord my God has given me." Upon this 
 glorious gage, Juan de Castro in fact obtained 
 the money of which he was in want ; and his 
 mustachio, afterwards redeemed by his family 
 from the hands of his creditors, is still preserved 
 as a monument of his loyalty and devotion to the 
 interests of his country. 
 
 Among the imitators of Gongora, in the se- 
 venteenth century, are reckoned Simao Torezao 
 Coelho, Doctor of Laws, attached to the Inqui- 
 sition, who likewise produced some Saudadcs ; 
 Duarte Ribeiro de Macedo; Fernam Correa de la 
 Cerda, who died Bishop of Oporto ; and a lady 
 who had taken the veil. Sister Violante do Ceo. 
 We shall give one sonnet from the pen of the last 
 of these writers, were it only to afford a single 
 specimen from the Portuguese, of that affecta- 
 tion and research, arising from a desire of exhibit- 
 ing brilliancy of talent, which we have observed 
 at particular periods more or less infesting the 
 literature of every people ; when poets, finding
 
 52'^ ON TIIF. LITKUATUIIE 
 
 the various departments uf tlieir art already filled 
 by their predecessors, are desirous of opening an 
 original career for themselves, and of giving a 
 new direction to the art, though destitute of that 
 vigour of imagination and true feeling which can 
 alone give fresh existence to poetry. The sister 
 Violantc do Ceo was a Dominican recluse, and 
 esteemed, in her own time, a model of piety as 
 well as of poetic taste. She lived between the 
 years IGOl and 1(>93, and left bcliind her a very 
 considerable number of poems, both upon sacred 
 and j)rofane subjects. The sonnet of which 
 we subjoin a version, as far as such atibcted 
 phraseology is capable of translation, was ad- 
 dressed to her friend Mariana de Luna, and u])on 
 that name the equivoque turns : 
 
 80SNKT. 
 
 • Miiscs, that 'mid Apollo's jfardcns straying, 
 
 Willi yf»ir sweet voices catch the enainour'ci airs! 
 
 Muses divine, sweet solacers of cares I 
 Nurses of tender thoughts! fresh flowers displaying 
 Most sweet to the young god of day, dilaying 
 
 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 : 
 
 • Musns i|ue no jardin do rey do dia, 
 
 Soltando a doce voz, prendeis o vento ; 
 Deidadcs rpie adniirantlo o pensamcnto. 
 As floroR augmontuis «pie Apollo eria;
 
 LITERATURE OF THE PORTUGUESE. 529 
 
 She will prepare a garden fairer far, 
 
 Full of harmonious sweets ; and should you doubt 
 Lest such delights lose by inconstancy, 
 Their pure light drawn from Luna's waning star — 
 
 Know, Grace divine that garden fenced about 
 With the eternal walls of immortality. 
 
 Those who may be more expert than I dare ven- 
 ture to profess myself at similar interpretations, 
 will decide whether Mariana de Luna was in pos- 
 session of a beautiful garden, or was preparing to 
 give a concert, which Violante addresses as the 
 garden of harmony, or had really written a poem. 
 Strange infatuation of the human mind, which 
 could be led to believe that any real ingenuity 
 and fancy is displayed in the expression of ab- 
 surdities like these ! 
 
 Another poet belonging to the same age and 
 school is Jeronymo Baliia, who once enjoyed 
 a considerable degree of reputation, which now 
 
 Deixai deixai do sol a companhia, 
 Que fazendo inveioso o firmamento, 
 Huma Lua que he sol, e que he portento, 
 Hum jardin vos fabrica de harmonia. 
 
 E porque nao cuideis que tal ventura 
 Pode pagar tributo a variedade, 
 Pelo que tern de Lua a luz mais pura, 
 
 Sabey, que por merce da Divindade, 
 Este jardin canoro se assegura 
 Com o muro immortal da eternidade. 
 
 VOL. IV. 2 M
 
 5;jO ON THE LITEIIATUUE 
 
 no longer exists. He is the aiitlior of one of the 
 numerous poems on the Loves of Polyphemus and 
 Galatea, and opens his colossal eclogue in the fol- 
 lowing stanza full of antitheses, which may enable 
 us to form a pretty accurate idea of the rest. 
 
 • Where Liljbanis* giant-foot is \)o»n(l 
 
 By the siirroiuulinK Neptune's silver chain, 
 
 Pride of the sky, the torment of the ground 
 
 On which he rests, Jove's glory, Typhon's i>ain ; 
 
 Within a plain upon that mountain found, 
 (Colossal mount and Colyssoal plain) 
 
 To a cold cave a rock obstructs the way, 
 
 Where dwells old Night, nor over enters Day. 
 
 Among the poems of the same author, we meet 
 with a romance addressed to Alfonso VI. con- 
 gratulating both that monarch and the country 
 on having devised an expedient to consolidate the 
 independence of the Portuguese monarchy, and 
 to insuri- victory to his arms. Saint Anthony of 
 Padua, born at Lisbon in 1105, and regarded as 
 the patron saint of the Portuguese, had just been 
 
 Dondc Neptuno co grilliocs do argcnto 
 I'rcnde o robusto pi' do Lilibeo, 
 Que ao ceo d^i gosto, a terra da tormento, 
 Gloria de Jove, inferno de Tyfco, 
 Entre hum campo (pie tern no monte asscnto, 
 Colosso o nionle, o campo Colysseo, 
 Ccrra hum penhasco huma caverna fria, 
 Dondc a noiie n»o sahe, nem entra o dia.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 531 
 
 solicited by the most solemn prayers and suppli- 
 cations to accept a rank in the army ; and the 
 priests assured the people that the celestial inha- 
 bitant had signified his consent. From that time 
 the Saint enjoyed the elevated rank, though the 
 church in his name received the pay, of Genera- 
 lissimo of the Portuguese armies: "Hencefor- 
 ward," exclaims Bahia to the King, " cease to en- 
 rol your subjects in the army ; Saint Anthony 
 himself has assumed a command in your ranks, 
 and he who delivered his father will likewise in- 
 sure 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 imita- 
 tion of Gongora, the old fable of Polyphemus 
 and Galatea, so constant a favourite with the 
 Spanish and Portuguese poets. Andrea Nufiez 
 de Sylva was a poet of the Brazils, where he 
 was born and educated, though he died in Por- 
 tugal, in the order of theTheatine monks. His de- 
 votional pieces may be reckoned among the best 
 
 * Deixai mais listas, pois ja 
 Santo Antonio se alistou, 
 Que como suo pay livrou 
 Sua patria livrara. 
 
 2 m2
 
 •032 ON' rilK IirilUATLUE 
 
 productions of the age. It is thus tliat a new na- 
 tion, apjiarcntly destined to inherit the genius of 
 the ancient Portuguese, already commenced its 
 career, and prepared the elements of a mighty 
 cm|)ire beyond the European seas. The i)r()duc- 
 tions of these tlitlcrent pods of tiie 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 these is entitled 
 The Pha/iii Revived; another, 'The Postilion of 
 Apollo; both of which titles prepare us for the 
 degree of critical discretion exercised in the 
 selecti<ui of the contents,* 
 
 The i)olitical state of Portugal during the se- 
 venteenth 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, lint the court of Lisbon ceased 
 
 • Tlicsc, however, are merely an abritl<,Mncnt of the fantastic 
 titles of the originals. The first and the least despicable is 
 perhaps the work of Mathias Pereira da Silva, entitled, A 
 Fcnix irna.sciilii, or ()hi(n I'oitiius iIds Mcllions ciigcn/ios I'or- 
 tuguetrx. LiHboa, 1740. 5 vols. Kvo. ; and the other, Eccos que 
 n clanm tin Fania da. Pusli/ftao dc Apollo, &c. JJ vols. Lisboa, 
 17G1.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUKSE. 5^^3 
 
 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 Portu- 
 guese theatre. The high reputation of Spanish 
 literature 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 independence of Portugal was recognized, 
 that it was perceived how far tlie 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 mili- 
 tary and naval energies of the state, wliich were 
 equally destroyed. The national industry and 
 finances declined together ; while a weak and 
 imbecile government 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 m ishes 
 and intentions; sometimes joining the French and 
 .sometimes the English party, as circumstances
 
 5."i4 ON Mil-. LlTLlUATLUr. 
 
 seemed to direct, l^ortiigal tlicnccforward, in 
 its literary no less than in its politieal 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 am- 
 bitious. The Portuguese Academy of Languages 
 was thus formed in 1714; that of History in 
 1720; hut neither of these establishments have 
 fulfilled the expectations generally entertained of 
 them. 'I'he strict relations maintained by the 
 government with England was the only circum- 
 stance that diminished in some measure the 
 violence of its persecuting sj)irit. 
 
 The rtii;ii of Joseph Emanuel, which con- 
 tinued from the year 1750 until 1777, appears to 
 have been more favourable to the national cha- 
 racter. The savage despotism of his minister 
 the .Marijuis of Pombal, though it j)robably 
 stifled the rising talents of individuals, roused the 
 nation at length from its j)rotracted slumbers. 
 TIk- reform oftlK administration and the progress 
 of knowledge were fortunately cond)ined with 
 the other views of this formidable tyrant. He 
 loosened the yoke of superstition ; he expel letl 
 the Jesuits, who Ik Id the minds of the people in
 
 OF THE POKTUGUESE. 535 
 
 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 im- 
 posed, were alike broken. It was during- the 
 short reign of Peter III, between 1777 and 178G, 
 that Portugal reaped the fruits of this newly ac- 
 quired liberty ; nor were all the efforts made by 
 the last queen, Mary, to restore sujierstition and 
 the priests to their former influence, successful in 
 impeding the new impulse which the nation had 
 received, and which a more frequent intercourse 
 with the rest of Europe was calculated to pro- 
 mote. A Royal Academy of Sciences was 
 founded by the Prince Regent ; and, since 1792, 
 it has published its memoirs, relating as well to 
 literature as to science ; annual prizes are distri- 
 buted ; 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 cha- 
 racter of the eighteenth century in Portugal, is 
 Francisco Xavier de Meneses, Count of Ericeyra. 
 He was born in 1673, and had already distin- 
 guished 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 campaigns, and attained the 
 rank of general, and of mestre do campo. In the 
 year 1714, he was chosen patron and secretary
 
 53C ON THL LITEKATUKK 
 
 of the Portuguese Academy; and in 1721, one of 
 the directors of the Academy of History. His re- 
 putation liad then extended througliout Europe ; 
 and he preserved a reguhir correspondence with 
 the most distini,aiished men of letters of his time. 
 Boileau, whose Art of Poetry he had rendered 
 into Portuguese verse at a very early age, main- 
 tained an ej)istolary intercourse with him un- 
 til the time of his death. Ericeyra, a true dis- 
 ciple uf the father of French criticism, exerted 
 himself to introduce his principles into Portugal. 
 He died in 1744, two years after having pub- 
 lished his IIcnri<]ii^idc, 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 imagination, a tenderness and a 
 vivacity, together with a richness of colouring in 
 their poetry, beyond the sphere of lioileau's art. 
 yet, perhaps, for this very reason, a perusal of 
 his works would have been attended with greater 
 advantage to them than to the French them- 
 selves. In general, his criticism is wholly of a 
 negative cast : he detects faults, he prohibits 
 licences; but ho conceives nothing deeply and 
 vividly; Ik inspires neither elevation nor enthu- 
 siasm, riii(l he ncvir dreams of rousing the ima- 
 gination. Ills writings are by no means adapted 
 to insj)irc tin Frtnch nation with that |)oetic fire
 
 OF TllK PORTUGUESE. 537 
 
 which is found in the productions of other nations, 
 and in which the French are certainly deficient. 
 Possessing a singular degree of judgment and dis- 
 crimination, he is an author, nevertheless, whose 
 rules, applied to the literature of other nations, 
 might teach their writers Avhat to avoid, and 
 how to retrench what is superfluous. In 
 fact it was French 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 cor- 
 rect, 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 principles was not fol- 
 lowed 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 composition derived from France, 
 but to the exhaustion of the nation, which, after 
 the destruction of its hopes and the loss of its 
 glory, was divested of all originality. 
 
 The promoters of French taste in Italy, in Spain, 
 and in Portugal, were far however from confining 
 themselves, in a strict sense, to the exactness, tJie 
 sobriety of ornament, and the somewhat prosaic 
 good sense, which arc the characteristics of
 
 53S ON lilt. r.rriuA I Li{E 
 
 the authors whom they took for their model. 
 Vet those, we imasxine, who embraced with so 
 much ardour a poetical creed foreign to the pre- 
 judices and education of tiieir country, could not 
 be very deeply penetrated with a feeling of the 
 national character, nor very susceptible of the 
 influence of the national ])oetry. Their literary 
 attempts must have been pretty strongly tinc- 
 tured with the individual character which led 
 them to make choice of such a system ; and we 
 must attril)ute the friii^id character of their com- 
 positions 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, 
 wlion the spirit of controversy has died away, 
 and its most essential ])rinci])les are no longer 
 contested, before its influence can be fairly 
 felt and appreciated. It will then serve to re- 
 strain the ardour of those who at its first intro- 
 duction woidd 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 without its assistance have carried them 
 beyond the proper bounds. 
 
 The Count d'Kriceyra was ambitious of pre- 
 Hcnting his country with a national epic on a 
 more c(»rrect and rcLTular plan th.m that of Ca- 
 moens. It was i-asy to j»(>iiit out m the latter the
 
 or THE PORTUGUESE. 539 
 
 impropriety and perpetual contradiction which 
 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 direc- 
 tions of Boileau failed to inspire Ericeyra with 
 that national fervour which was felt by the soldier- 
 poet, to endow him with the same dreaming me- 
 lancholy, 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 Henrujueide 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, 
 son-in-law of Alfonso VI. of Castile, and the 
 father of Alfonso Henriquez. The action is 
 founded on the Portuguese conquests over the 
 Moors, which are recounted throughout twelve 
 cantos in stanzas of octave verse. All the 
 poetical rules are carefully observed, as well as 
 the historical probability of the work. A slight 
 mixture of the marvellous is borrowed from the 
 Sibyls and from magic, and the interest is tolera- 
 bly well sustained. 
 
 On the opening of the poem, the Christian 
 army is discovered in presence of the Moors, 
 commaudcd by their sovereign Muley. Henry
 
 540 ox Tin: MTtUATUKE 
 
 is informed that a Sibyl, possessing the gift of pro- 
 phecy, dwells in a cavern in tlie neighbourhood, 
 and he secretly quits his troops to discover her 
 residence, \n Inch he reaches after ])assing through 
 a series of appalling dangers. The Sibyl is, 
 however, a Christian, and warmly interests her- 
 self in the fate of his armies : she directs him how 
 to proceed, reveals the future, and jiermits him 
 to contemplate the approaching grandeur of his 
 country. The Christian army is attacked in the 
 mean time by Muley ; the soldiers are thunder- 
 struck at the absence of their chief; they begin 
 to despair, they falter, and are about to take 
 to ilight, when the arrival of Henry changes the 
 fortune of the day. After this event, which at- 
 taches the epic interest of the poem entirely to 
 his hero, follow a series of battles, duels, sieges, 
 and victories, intermingled with a few love ad- 
 ventures, and lastly, the capture of Lisbon, whicii 
 completes the work. 
 
 We arc informed by Ericeyra himself, in his 
 preface, that he sought to avail himself of the 
 beauties of all the epic })oets, of Homer, Virgil, 
 Ariosto, Tasso, Lucan, and Silius Italicus. And, 
 in truth, we very frecpiently meet with classical 
 imitations in his lines ; but, unfortunately, the 
 fire and feeling which dictated those exquisite 
 works, and which render them so worthy of imi- 
 tation, are not discoverable in his conqxjsition. 
 The whole poem is ni fact chilletl with an intole-
 
 OF THE POUTUGUESE. 541 
 
 rable coldness ; and the beauty of the versifica- 
 tion and of the narratives is not sufficient to 
 atone for the absence of the living soul and fire 
 of the genuine poet.* 
 
 * The ensuing stanzas from the Henriqueide, are given as 
 a specimen of its style : tlie manner in which tlie poem opens 
 is as follows : 
 
 Eu canto as armas, e o varao famoso, 
 
 Que deo a Portugal principio regio ; 
 
 Conseguindo por forte e generoso 
 
 Em guerra c paz, o nome mais egregio ; 
 
 E animado de cspirito glorioso, 
 
 Castigou dos infieis o sacrilegio, 
 
 Dcixando por prudente, e por ousado 
 
 Nas virtudes, o imperio cternizado. 
 
 Europa foy da espada fulminante 
 Teatro illustre, victima gloriosa, 
 Asia vio no seu bra90 a cruz brilhante, 
 E ficou do seu nome temerosa, 
 De Africa a gente barbara, e triumfante, 
 Se Ihe postrou rendida e receosa, 
 Para ser fundador de hum quinto imperio 
 Que do mundo domine outro Emisferio. 
 
 The arrival of Henry at the grot of the Sibyl: 
 
 Da horrenda gruta a entrada defendiao 
 Agudas follias da arvore do Averno, 
 E enlafadas raizes, que se uniao 
 Mais que de Gordio no embara90 eterno : 
 Penhascos desde a terra ao ceo sobiao, 
 Lubricos os fez tanto o frio inverno, 
 Que Henrique vio, subindo resolutos 
 Precipitarse os ninis velozcs brutos.
 
 542 ON Tin: LITF.UATUKK 
 
 About the epoch of Kriceyra, some promise of 
 a l*ortii^uese drama began to daw n in Lisbon. 
 During tlie whole seventeenth century that city 
 had to boast only of a Spanish theatre; and 
 such of the Portuguese as cultivated the drama- 
 tic art adopted the Castilian tongue. Added to 
 whicli, .lolui V, jiatronized an Italian opera in 
 
 () marc a terra em liorrida dispiita 
 Gritavao, com clamores tlcsmedidos : 
 Que nau entrossem na funesta griita 
 ()s que assim o intcntavao, prcsumidos ; 
 A constancia mais forte, e resoluta, 
 De ondas et rochas tragicos bramidos, 
 'I'einia vendo unirsc em dura guerra 
 Contra hum so corayao o mar e a terra. 
 
 .\nd lastly, the combat between Henry and Ali. 
 
 Torrcnte do cristal (jue arrcbatada 
 Inunda os valles, e suj)t>ra os moiites, 
 Exhalayao sulfurca, (jue iiiflamada 
 ruhiiina as torres, rasga os orizontes, 
 Vonto setentrtonal, que em furia irada 
 Agita OS mares, e congelu as fontcs, 
 I)e Deucalion o rapido diluvio, 
 Cliamas do Kthna, ardores do Vesuvio, 
 
 Ainda que com seus rapidos cH'eitos 
 Causem no mundo cstragos c terrores, 
 .\ lanto impulso de cair dcsfeitos 
 Toda a i/eu^ao dos globos superiores, 
 Nao sey se cxccdem dos valcntes peitos 
 As nobres iras, «• inclitos ardores, 
 C(»in e|uc sc vio ao impelo iraciindo 
 I'arar o ( ro, nirrmecerse o inuiulo. 
 
 I'tiiil I xii.
 
 OF THli: PORTUGUESE. 54'i 
 
 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 re- 
 citative, and composed probably with borrowed 
 music, in the manner of the French vaudtvillcs, 
 accompanied at the same time with all the at- 
 tractions 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 style and imagination 
 betrayed the vulgar rank to which he had be- 
 longed. 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-je, which 
 took place in the year 1745. The managers were 
 then, perhaps, alarmed lest their faith should 
 become suspected by continuing the representa- 
 tion of the unfortunate Jew's productions, and 
 the theatre was in consequence closed. There 
 are extant two collections of these Portuguese 
 operas, dated 1746 and 1787, in two volumes oc- 
 tavo, which appeared without the author's name. 
 The eight or ten pieces which they contain are all
 
 r>4.4 0\ 1 H L IIIKUATLUL 
 
 equally rude in poiht of language and construc- 
 tion, but are by no means deficient in sprightli- 
 ness and originality. One of these, of which 
 Esoj) is made the hero, and in which the brilliant 
 exploits 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.* 
 
 15 ut though Portugal was in possession of no 
 real theatre, many highly gifted characters at- 
 tempted, from time to time, to fill up this vacancy 
 in their national literature, by devoting them- 
 selves to the only branch of poetry in which it 
 appeared to be deficient. Antonio Correa Garcao, 
 
 • A Portuguese poet of our own clay has addressed some 
 lines to the memory of this victim of tlie Inquisition, in a style 
 of extreme boldness and severity. After passing in review 
 several other liuman sacrifices, no less disgraceful and atrocious 
 than those whicli bathed the altars of Mexico in blood, he cx- 
 rlainis : 
 
 ()' Antonio Jose doce e faceto, 
 Tu <|uc fostes o primciro que pizastc 
 Com mais regular sono a sccna luza ! 
 O povo da Lisboa mais scnsivcl 
 Foi no Thcatro aos tens jocosos ditos 
 (iue no K(jcio Ji voz de humanidade. 
 Que infnme horrcnda pompa, (|ue fogueiro 
 I'c vcjo prcparada ! 
 
 The Knrio is the piibhc place in Lisl)on provided for tli.' 
 exhibition of the initits-da-fr.
 
 OF THE POllTUCUESE. 545 
 
 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 Te- 
 rence. The first of these, entitled Tlitatro Novo, 
 is rather a sketch of his principles on the dra- 
 matic art, and a critical account of such works 
 as had till then appeared, than a comedy intended 
 to rest upon its own merits. Another specimen 
 of his pen, under the title oi Assembled, or PcirtidUy 
 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 Osmia should prove successful, to devote 
 the proceeds to the cultivation of olives, a 
 species of fruit from which Portugal might derive 
 great advantages. It was with some difficulty 
 that the name of the modest writer of this work, 
 published in 1795, in quarto, was made known 
 to the world. Boutterwek has erroneously 
 
 VOL. IV. 2 N
 
 546 ON THE r.ITFUATURE 
 
 attributed it to anotlier lady, very justly cele- 
 brated in Portugal, Catharinade Sousa, the same 
 who singly ventured to oppose the violence of 
 the Marquis de Ponibal, whose son she refused 
 in marriage. From the family of this illustrious 
 lady, I learned that the tragedy of Oamia was 
 not really the production of her pen. 
 
 In this line of composition, so rarely attempted 
 by female genius, the Countess de Vimieiro dis- 
 plays a singular purity of taste, an exquisite 
 delicacy of feeling, and an interest derived 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 existence of the monarchy, 
 about the time of the Turditani; when that ]ieo- 
 ple, then inhabiting the country, revolted against 
 the Romans. Rindacus, their prince, had es- 
 poused the heroine, Osmia, wIid had never been 
 really attached to him. The Turditani, however, 
 are beaten, Rindacus is wounded, and the fair 
 Osmia made a prisoner. Lalius, the Roman 
 ])r;etor, conceives the most violent passion for his 
 beautiful captive, to which she is far from being 
 insensible; and the whole interest of the piece 
 depends upon the ensuing struggle between 
 love and duty in the soul of Osmia. She is de- 
 sirous of shewing herself worthy of her high 
 birth and name; the pride of her country shares 
 lier heart witli the victorious Roman's love; and
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 547 
 
 while she strives to hate him, liis noble generosity- 
 makes a powerful impression on her mind. Her 
 character assumes a tinge of softness mingled with 
 her heroism, which renders her more and more 
 interesting as the scene draws to a close. The 
 beauty of her character is heightened by the con- 
 trast 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, in- 
 deed, lead to the events which prepare the cata- 
 strophe of the action, and the tragic interest is so 
 contrived as to increase as it approaches 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 per- 
 haps justified in asserting that this tragedy is 
 the only one which the Portuguese 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 
 
 2 N 2
 
 549 ON THE LITERATUUK 
 
 for his lyric effusions. Claud io Manuel da Costa 
 was born in the department of Minas Geraes 
 at the Brazils. He received, however, an Euro- 
 pean education, during five years, at Coimbra, 
 where the school of Gongora was still in repute ; 
 and it was Da Costa's own taste whicii led him 
 to ad()j)t, as hi^ models, the ancient Italian 
 j)oet8 and Metastasio. On his return to the 
 Brazils, lie pursued his poetical studies in the 
 gold and diamond mines, whose sj^lendid wealth 
 apj)ears, 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 treasures, stains and pollutes their waves. 
 
 His sonnets, which betray the follower of Pe- 
 trarch, are extremely easy and harmonious, and 
 there is a |)i(|nancy in their turn of exjiression 
 which we do not often meet with in romantic 
 ])oetry*. Da Costa j)roduced also several ele- 
 
 • The following arc the two sonnets of Da Costa mentioned 
 by IJouttcrwi k : 
 
 Onde cHloii? eBte aitio clesconhevo : 
 
 (iiirm f«/. l.To difrcronte af|nrlle prado ! 
 Tudo oiitra natiire^a teni toinado, 
 1'. cm ronfcmi)lullo tiniido e.scuore\o.
 
 OF THE POKTUGUKSE. o49 
 
 gies ill 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 
 
 Huma fonte aqui liouvc ; eii nao tne esque^-o 
 De estar a ella hum dia reclinado ; 
 Alii em valle hum monte esta mudado, 
 Quanto pode dos annos o progresso ! 
 
 Arvores aqui vi tao florescentes 
 Que faziao perpetua a primavera : 
 Nem troncos vejo agora decadentes. 
 
 Eu me engano ; a regiao esta nao era. 
 
 Mas que venho a estranhar, se estao presentes 
 Meus males, com que tudo degenera. 
 
 Nize, Nize? onde estas ? Aonde espera 
 Achar-te huma alma, que por ti suspira? 
 Se quanto a vista se dilata e gira, 
 Tanto mais de encontrar-tc dezespera ! 
 
 Ah se ao menos teu nome ouvir pudera, 
 Entre esta aura suave que respira ! 
 Nize, cuido que diz ; mas he mentira; 
 Nize, cuidei que ouvia ; e tal nao era. 
 
 Grutas, troncos, penhascos da espesura, 
 
 Se o meu bem, se a minha alma em vos se esconde, 
 Mostray, mostray-me a sua fermozura, 
 
 Nem ao menos o ecco me responde ! 
 Ah como he certa a minha desventura ! 
 Nize, Nize ? onde estas ? Aonde ? aonde ?
 
 550 ON THt L1TKUATUK£ 
 
 more rich and Howinj,^ languajjes of the South 
 always required the a«_^rceable addition of rhyme 
 to engage tlie ear. lie conferred upon these the 
 singular title of Kpicalius. He produced likewise 
 about twenty eclogues, written almost entirely 
 upon occasional subjects, in wiiieh pastoral 
 j)hrases 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 child- 
 i>h and aft'ected monotony. There is a higher de- 
 gree of merit, as it appears to me, in a few of Da 
 Costa's other effusions, in imitation of Metasta- 
 sio, 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 w liich he takes a 
 farewell of his lyre; and they are such as lead us 
 to wish we could hear more of its plaintive tones*. 
 
 • Amc'i-te, eu o confcsso, 
 E fosse noitc ou dia, 
 Junmi tua liarmonia 
 Me viste nbnndunar. 
 
 (^iiahjiier peiiozo excesso 
 Que uturinentassc vsla alma,
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 551 
 
 Yes ! I have loved thee, O my lyre ! 
 My day, my night-dream, loved thee long! 
 When 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, 
 To calm again my feverish blood, 
 Till peace resumes her sway. 
 
 A teu obsequio em calma 
 Eu pude serenar. 
 
 Ah quantas vezes, quantas 
 Do somno despertando, 
 Doce instrumento brando 
 Te pude temperar ! 
 
 So tu, disse, me encantas, 
 Tu so, bello instrumento, 
 Tu es o meu alento, 
 Tu o meu bem seras. 
 
 Ve, de meu fogo ardente, 
 Qual he o activo imperio ; 
 Que em todo este emisferio 
 Se attende respirar. 
 
 O cora^ao que sente 
 Aquelle incendio antigo. 
 No mesmo mal que sigo 
 Todo o favor me da. 
 
 I shall here also extract, as given by Boutterwek, two other 
 fragments from the works of Da Costa. The first is taken 
 from a little canzone, entitled The Farewell, (I'iIciki a Nizc,
 
 552 O.N TML Lll KUATL'UJ-: 
 
 How olt with Ibiul and Mattering tone 
 I wooed thee throu<>;h the still midnight, 
 And chasing slumbers with delight, 
 Would vigils hold with thee; 
 
 Would tell thee I am all thine own. 
 That thou, sweet lyre, slialt rule me still ; 
 My love, my pride through every ill. 
 My world of bliss to me. 
 
 (lespfdula,) which he most probably wrote on quitting Europe for 
 the Brazils : 
 
 Scntado junto ao lio. 
 
 Me lembro, fiel pastora. 
 
 Da cjuella feliz hora 
 
 Que u'alnia impressa estu. 
 
 (iiie trislc eu tinlia estado, 
 Ao vcr ten rosto irado ! 
 Mas ({uando he, (|ue tu viste 
 I Itiin triste 
 Hcspirar! 
 
 I)c Filis, de Lizarda, 
 Aqui entre desvelos, 
 Me pedc amantes zelos, 
 A cau^a de men mal. 
 
 Alegrc o sen semblante 
 Se nuida a cada instante : 
 Mas (juando he, que tu viste 
 Hum triste 
 Uespirar ! 
 
 \(|ui loihcndo Mores 
 Mnnosa a nmfa cara, 
 Hum ramo me prepnra 
 Talvez jKjr me agradar.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 553 
 
 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. 
 
 Anarda alii se afjasta 
 Dalizo aqui se afl'asta, 
 Mas quando he, que tu viste 
 Hum triste 
 Kespirar ! 
 
 The last is one of the shortest airs of Da Costa : 
 
 Nao vejas, Nize amada, 
 A tua gentileza 
 
 No cristal dessa fonte. Ella te engana, 
 Pois retrata o suave 
 E encobre o rigorozo ; os olhos bellos 
 Volta, volta a meu peito : 
 Veras, tyranna, em mil pedafos feito, 
 Gemer hum cora^ao : veras huma alma 
 Anciosa suspirar : veras hum rosto 
 Chego de pena, chego de desgosto. 
 Observa bem, contempla 
 Toda a misera cstampa, retratada 
 Eui huma copia viva ; 
 Veras distincta e pura 
 Nize cruel, a tua fermosura. 
 
 Nao te engane, 6 bella Nizc, 
 O cristal da fonte amena 
 Que essa fonte he muy serena, 
 He muy brando esse cristal.
 
 554 ON THi: LITEHATUUE 
 
 Tlie more recent poets of Portugal, belonging 
 to the conclusion of the last and the beginning 
 of the present century, are but slightly noticed 
 by IJoutterwck ; 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 1 have heard highly commended by 
 their countrymen, and of whom the German writer 
 makes no mention. Among these, Francisco Ma- 
 noel, whose lyric productions were printed at Paris 
 in 1^08, 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 corre- 
 spondence with French and English individuals, 
 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, 
 177s, when, by his courage and his presence of 
 mind, lie contrived to elude the visit of the fa- 
 miliar 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 
 
 Sc asniin coino vcz lou rosto, 
 Viras Nizc, os sous cffeitos, 
 I'odf scr, que cm nossns pcitos 
 O lorim-nto fosse igiial .
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 555 
 
 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 expression, and the thoughts have 
 more boldness and freedom than we are accus- 
 tomed to meet with in the writers of the South.* 
 
 —   — . fc —       , -   , I ... - — * . —   — 
 
 * 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 honours of the 
 order : 
 
 For feitos de valor, duras fadigas, 
 
 Se ganha a fama honrada, 
 Nao por branduras vis, do ocio amigas. 
 
 Zonas fria e queimada 
 Virao do Cancro, a ursa de Calixto, 
 Cavalleros da roxa cruz de Christo. 
 
 Eu ja a Fc, e os teus reis, e a patria amada, 
 
 Na guerra te ensinei 
 A defender, com a tingida espada. 
 
 Co a morte me affrontei 
 Pela fe, pelo rey, e patria. A vida 
 Se assim se perde — A vida c bem perdida. 
 
 Ja com esta, (e arrancou a espada inteira) 
 
 Ao reino vindiquei 
 A croa, que usurpou mao estrangeira. 
 
 Fiz ser rei o meu rei. 
 Com accoes de valor, feitos preclaros, 
 Nas linhas d'Elvas, e nos Montes-Clarosf. 
 
 t These are the places where De Silva twice triumphed over tlie 
 Spaniards, and by that means insured the independence of Por- 
 tugal and the succession of the house of Braganza to the throne.
 
 55G 0\ IHh 1.1 I EKAl L'UE 
 
 Another of the most clistingiiishcd among the 
 living' poets is Antoiii" Dini/ da Cruz e Silva, 
 whose works were |)iil)lishe(l at Lisbon in the 
 year K^()7. One vohime eonsists of imitations of 
 English poetry, whieh would appear to be gain- 
 ing numerous admirer> 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 preserved an oriental 
 cast. Amongst other pieces imitated by Diniz 
 is Pope's Rape of l/tc Luck, a poem which has 
 met with equal success in Italy. In his light 
 satires uj)on the j)olitc 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 de- 
 gree from their merit iu the eyes of foreigners. 
 They are, indeed, too faithfully drawn to be 
 fully appreciated by those who are unacquainted 
 with the originals, and the great number of allu- 
 sions renders them difficult to be understood. 
 The other volume, winch is ihc hrst, is written, 
 on the contrary, in the ancient style of the 
 Italian school, and contains three hundred son- 
 nets, throughout niiich Diniz, under the Arca- 
 dian name of El|)ino, deplores the cruelty of the 
 bcautilul Ionia, and the torments of love, with a 
 languor and monotony which have deservedly 
 lost much of their charm iu tlu- present day. It 
 almost exceeds belief, that a man of real talent 
 should venture to publish together three hundred
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 557 
 
 sonnets, on the most exhausted subject imagina- 
 ble; 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 throughout all the South, 
 from the days of Petrarch to our own, I shall 
 venture to extract one of his sonnets, which ap- 
 pears to me to be one of the most striking, inas- 
 much as it contains a pleasing fiction, in the man- 
 ner 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 ? Those arrows, once his pride. 
 Fall from his golden quiver, that remains 
 Unheeded, while witli 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!" 
 
 * Da bella mai, perdido amor errava, 
 
 Pelos campos que corta o Tejo brando, 
 E a todos quantos via, suspirando, 
 Sem descan90 por ella procurava. 
 
 Os farpoes Ihe cahiao de aurea aljava ; 
 Mas elle de arco e setas nao curando, 
 Mil glorias promeitia, solu^ando, 
 A quern a Deosa o leve que buscava.
 
 558 ON' TlIK LITKllATrUF. 
 
 The odes acUlrcsscd by Antonio Diniz to the 
 prrandees of Portuj^^al are esteemed above the rest. 
 I have likewise in my possession a little poem, 
 entitled O IIi/ssopc: 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 s])rinklin«j^ the holy water. Like Boileau 
 in his Lutrin, the poet turns into ridicule the ec- 
 clesiastical absurdities and the animosities to 
 which they ^nvo rise among the priests, which he 
 touches with a freedom of remark little ajTree- 
 able, we should conceive, to the Inquisition. 
 The prelates, who are represented as almost 
 wholly devoted to the ])h'asurcs 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 audacity : yet 
 this satire appeared for the first time in Portugal 
 in tlie year 1802.* 
 
 Qiianilo Ionia que alii sen ^ndo passe 
 Hnxugandn-lhc as la^^rimas que chora, 
 A \ onus Ihe mostrar Irda se oflTiTecc, 
 
 MnH amor dnndo liuin \!>o n linda face, 
 Hfijaiulo a llic tornou ; " Gcntil pnsfora, 
 (Jinin OH t<Mis olhos vi"* Venus cscpicce." 
 • I*nr the bcnrfit of lliose who road Portufi[iioso, I shall here
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 559 
 
 An eminent place is also accorded among 
 the poets of the age to J. A. Da Cunha, whose 
 
 extract a few passages, in order to give an idea of the author's 
 manner in this httle work : 
 
 Tu, jocosa Thah'a, agora diza 
 Qual sen espanto foi, sue surpresa 
 Quando a porta chegando costumada, 
 Nella o Deao no viu, nao viu o hyssope. 
 Tanto foi da discordia o fero influxo ! 
 Caminhante que ve subito rayo, 
 Ante seus pes cahir, ferindo a terra, 
 Tao suspenso nao fica, tao confuso, 
 Como o grave Prelado : a c6r mudando, 
 Um tempo immovel fica; mas a raiva 
 Succedendo ao desmaio, entra escumando 
 Na grande sacrestia, e d'alH passa 
 Para o Ahar mor, aonde se reveste, 
 Onde como costuma, em contrabaixo, 
 Sem saber o que diz, a missa canta. 
 To da aquella manhaa, uma so benjao 
 Sobre o Povo nao lan^a, antes confuso 
 Em profundo silencio h. casa torna. 
 
 Canto iii. v. 12. 
 
 We have a very amusing account in the seventh canto, of the 
 resuscitation of an ohl cock, after it had been roasted for the 
 Dean's table, to make him predict the future to the Chapter as- 
 sembled at dinner : 
 
 O v61ho Gallo que n'um prato estava 
 Entre frangaos e pombos lardcado, 
 Em pc se levantou, e as nuiis azas 
 Tres vezes sacudindo, estas palavras 
 Em voz articulou triste mas clara.
 
 500 OV THE LITF.HATUKE 
 
 mathematical Ial)oiirs would equally have en- 
 titled him to distinction, and who is remembered 
 with the most grateful feelings by the distinguished 
 scholars whom he formed and left behind him. 
 His ])oetical productions, collected in 1778, have 
 never, it aj)pears, boon yet presented to the pub- 
 lic. The manuscripts have been in my posses- 
 sion ; and so far Irom detecting in them any traces 
 of that tameness or want of vigour and imagina- 
 tion which miirht l)e supposed to result from a 
 long application to the exact sciences, I was sur- 
 prised by their tender and imaginative character, 
 and in jiarticular 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 strug- 
 gling was of a fatal nature, are perhaj)s equally 
 characteristic- ut his talents and of his sensibility: 
 
 • Oil ! grief, beyond all other grief, 
 
 Com'st thou the messenger of death ? 
 Then come! I court tijy wish'd rehcf, 
 And pour uiih joy this painful breath. 
 
 Hut thou, my soul, what art thou? Where 
 Wing'st thou thy (light, innnortal flame ? 
 
 (^r fadest thou into empty air, 
 
 A lamp burnt out, a sigh, a name ? 
 
 * I'csado alfange, golpc fero, 
 E» da docn^a, ou es da niorlc ? 
 ICu me resigno, e lirme espero 
 ( ) <lrrrn(l( irr) fata! rorte.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESE. 5G I 
 
 I reck not life, nor that with life 
 
 The world and the world's toys are o'er : 
 
 But, ah ! 'tis more than mortal strife 
 To leave the loved, and love no more. 
 
 To leave her thus ! — my fond soul torn 
 
 From hers, without e'en time to tell 
 Hers are these tears and sighs that hurn, 
 
 And hers this last and wild farewell. 
 
 Yes! while upon the awful brink 
 
 Of fate, I look to worlds above, 
 How happy, did I dare to think 
 
 These lust faint words might greet my love ! 
 
 " Oh ! ever loved, though loved in vain, 
 With such a pure and ardent truth 
 As grows but once, and ne'er again 
 Renews the blossom of its youth! 
 
 Tu leve sopro, entendimento, 
 
 Alma immortal, por onde andavas ? 
 Qual luz de vela exposta ao vento, 
 Mc pareceu que te apagavas. 
 
 Se a vida so vira extinguir — ! 
 
 Ah, que he a vida e o mundo? nada. 
 Mas verse huma alma dividir, 
 Mais que de si, da sua amada ! 
 
 Morrer, e sem ao meu cncanto 
 Poder mostrar o affecto meu ! 
 Ah sem poder mostrarlhe, o quanto 
 Son todo inteiramente seu ! 
 
 Ah Ceos ! . . . porem, — eu me resigno ; 
 Mas se aqui findo os dias mens. 
 Oh ! algum Zefiro benigno 
 Ao meu amor leve este adeus ! 
 
 VOf.. I\-. '?, {)
 
 ,j(j2 ON iiiL i.i 1 h u Ai lul: 
 
 To breathe the oft repeated vow, 
 To say my soul was always thine, 
 
 Were idle here. Live happy tlioii, 
 
 As I had been, hadst thou been mine." 
 
 Now grief and anguish drown my voice, 
 Fresh pangs invade my breast ; more dim 
 
 I'arth's objects on my senses rise, 
 And ft)rni.s receding round me swim. 
 
 Shroud me with thy dear guardian wings, 
 
 Fatlicr of universal love ! 
 Be near me now, with faith that springs 
 
 And joys that bloom in worlds above ! 
 
 A mourner at thine aufid throne, 
 I bring the sacrifice retpiircd, 
 
 A laden heart, its duties done, 
 
 By simple truth and love inspired : 
 
 Adeus objccto idolatrado 
 
 Do mais intenso e puro amor. 
 De amor tao doce, acerbo fado 
 A gintil ])lanta srga i iii flor. 
 
 Adeus, adeus ! salie que em tpianto 
 O esprito ou corpo exisle, he ten ; 
 Vive fcliz, tao feliz (pinnto, 
 Sc foras minha ou fora ou. 
 
 .Mas para mini o agudo estocpie 
 Furiosa a d(')r torna a apontar, 
 Dcsfeito cm sombra ao lino to(pu», 
 Tudo dc mini vejo ail'astar. 
 
 v. lu essencia incomprehensivel, 
 Tu do uni verso ou alma ou rcy, 
 Patente em tiulo c invisivel, 
 E cm queni hum pai, crcio, acharci.
 
 OF THE PORTUGUESi:. />(j3 
 
 Love, such as Heaven may well approve, 
 
 Delighting most in others' joy, 
 Though niix'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. 
 
 And thou, whose name is mingled thus 
 
 With these last trembling thoughts and .si<'hs. 
 
 Though love his fond regrets refuse, 
 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 
 
 Levo a teus pes, qual me entregastc, 
 Simples e humano o coragao. 
 Amor ao bera, qual me inspiraste; 
 Fraquezas e erros, crimes nao, 
 
 Pia a amizade acaba em tanto 
 O triste officio derradeiro ; 
 E as liba^oes me faz de pranto 
 Na pedra rasa e sem letreiro. 
 
 Torna a amizadc (se sentido 
 O nad tiver no peito amor) 
 Te hira dizer nianso ao ouvido ; 
 la nao he vivo o teu pastor. 
 
 E quando a praia e a espessura 
 Que absorto ao pe de ti me via, 
 Minhaafteirao tao terna e pura, 
 Te dibuxar na fantesia. 
 
 2o2
 
 CC)4 «»\ III K I n r u Air i< k 
 
 'I"lic secrets of ni\ glowiiijr breast, 
 
 1 led tliec to the shadiest bower, 
 And at thy feet, absorb'd, oppress'd, 
 
 With falterinj; ton;;ue confess'd thy power, 
 
 Tlion own no truer, holier vow 
 
 Was ever breathed in womans ear ; 
 And let one gush of tears avow 
 
 That he who loved thee once was dear. 
 
 \ et weep not bitterly, but say, 
 
 ** He loved me not as others love ; 
 Mine, only mine, ere call'd away, 
 
 Mine, only mine in heaven above." 
 
 Ainonu: the other poets o\' Portugal of the same 
 time, is cited bv Boiitterwek, the minister tor 
 foreign affairs, Araujo de Azavcdo, who has pre- 
 scntetl his countrymen with a version of several 
 of the productions of Gray, Dryden, and other 
 Hnglisli poets, and who was one of the first of 
 those u ho hrokc ihrougli the tedious monotony 
 of pnsti)ral c(>m|)osition. To the name of tliis 
 minisur wi- have to athl tliose of Manuel de 
 l^ubosa (111 Boeeagc, Francisco Diaz Gomez, 
 I'rancisco Cardoso, Alvarez de liohrega, Xa- 
 
 Hrandos suspiros nao engeito 
 Nem gcntil lagrima, que amor 
 Vertcrdo mais que amado peito, 
 Com saudade, mas sem dor. 
 
 l\ dize enlao mnTiosamcnte : 
 " llaro e h-al foi o amor seu, 
 " Men foi, men fodo, inteiranu-nte : 
 '* E «e inda cxiste, a inda he men.
 
 OF THE POliTUGUESE. 565 
 
 vier de Matos, Valladarcs, 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 Indies have al- 
 ready disappeared ; and out of all her tributary 
 states there remain only tw^o half-deserted cities, 
 where a lan<'uishin2: conniierce is carried on. 
 The extensive kingdoms of Africa, of Congo, of 
 Loango, of Angora, and of Benin, in the West; 
 those of Mombaza, of Quiloa, and of Mozam- 
 bique, 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 
 
 * [This 'is no longer the case. That great colony has de- 
 clared itself independent under a prince of the house of Portugal. 
 At this moment its obedience is reclaimed by the mother-coun- 
 try, under the government of the absolute King, and the 
 balance yet trembles with the fate of this constitutional empire, 
 and of all the republics of the West, against which it is but 
 too probable that the united violence and intrigues of the 
 despots of Europe will soon be directed. 7'/.]
 
 506 ON THE LI IKKAl UUE 
 
 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 tlie army ; while events which could 
 not possibly have been predicted are producing a 
 fresh youth and frcsli 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 
 inheritors of his fame. 
 
 We have thus far completed our view of the 
 semicircle which we originally traced out, con- 
 sidering France as the centre ; and we have wit- 
 nessed 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 with the Goths, of the nations 
 of the North with those of the South. The Ita- 
 lian, the Froven^al, the Spanish, and the Portu- 
 guese, have not only been considered as several 
 dialects of the same tongue, but have appeared 
 to us likewise, in many respects, as mere mo- 
 difications of the same character and spirit. 
 We have found occasion thrf)ughoiit all the South 
 of Europe to notice the mixture of love, of 
 chivalry, and of religion, whieh led to the for- 
 mation of wliMt are termed the roinantie man- 
 ners, aiul which '^ave to jxiutry a ciiararter 
 wholly new. It may probably occur that, in 
 order to complete the object of lliis work, we
 
 OF THE PoujuGUESJi:. 567 
 
 ought here to comprise a view of French li- 
 terature, and trace the manner in which the 
 most distinguished of all the Romance tongues, 
 taking altogether an opposite direction, repro- 
 duced the classic literature of Greece and Rome, 
 and voluntarily submitted to regulations with 
 which other nations of the same origin were un- 
 acquainted, 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 reading, 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 displaying the merit of that correct- 
 ness of design, that accuracy of expression, that 
 precision of ideas, and that skilful proportion of 
 the whole work, which will be found to consti- 
 tute the excellence of French poetry. The poeti- 
 cal beauties, which we have had occasion to 
 submit to the judgment and examination of the 
 reader in the course of the present work, are 
 quite of an opposite character, and the author 
 would esteem himself happy if he has succeeded 
 in conveying a proper feeling of their excellence. 
 Imagination and harmony are the two leading
 
 5GS ()\ Mil: Lni:iiATL'iiE 
 
 qualities of romantic poetry ; ^nd it has been 
 my lot to present the reader, in tiie least im- 
 passioned of the modern langua*]fes, with a sketch 
 of the l)oldcst Uij^hts of the imaginative faculty, 
 and to discourse in prose, and in a language that 
 cannot boast (jf possessing a prosody, of the 
 highe^t effects of harmony. 1 have frequently 
 directed his attention to the construction of such 
 verses as were brought under my view, much 
 with the same result as if, in order to give a 
 deaf man an iilea of musif , 1 were to exhibit a 
 piano-foite to his view, and point out the in- 
 genious construction by which each touch draws 
 from the strings tones of which he can form no 
 conception. Then 1 might address him in the 
 words which 1 now address to the French 
 reader: "You ought to believe that when men 
 of superior talent emi)lo\' means so ingenious to 
 arrive- at some imknow n 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 recpiiring the intellect to 
 account for the sensations of tlie heart, believe 
 that i\\\< harmony, whose mechanism you perceive 
 \vitho\it recognising its power, is a wf)nderful 
 revelation of the secrets of nature, a mysterious 
 association of the soul with its Creator."
 
 OF Till- POUTUGUESE. 5C9 
 
 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 incapable of 
 forming any idea. Monotonous and dead, without 
 dignity in its consonants, as without melody in 
 its vowels, the French language appeals power- 
 fully only to the understanding. 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 Provencal 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 delight- 
 ful impression of its tones but the tones them- 
 selves. We yield ourselves to its charm before 
 we can comprehend it ; we listen, and the plea- 
 sure is in the voice, and in the order of the 
 words, and not in the meaning they may con- 
 tain. 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 suspend our very 
 existence, and we feel as if we were borne into 
 the precincts of a happier world. 
 
 Approaching the close of our enquiries into the 
 beautiful language of the South, we must like- 
 wise bid farewell to its rich and bright imagi-
 
 570 ON' Tilt. Lii LUA 11 ut: 
 
 nations. We rind music and painting every 
 wilt' re combined in romantic ])oetry. Its writers 
 do not attempt to engage our attention with 
 ideas, but m ith images richly coloured, which in- 
 cessantly j)ass before our view. Neither do they 
 ever name any object that they do not paint to 
 the eye. The whole creation seems to grow 
 brighter around us, and the world always ap- 
 pears to us through the medium of this poetry as 
 when we gaze on it near the beautiful water- 
 falls 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 inijiossible 
 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 lull meaning, ])rovided it glows brightly in 
 his verse. In order to translate^ il into another 
 language, it would first of all be reciuisite to 
 soften it down, in order that it might not stand 
 forward out of ail proportion with the other 
 figures ; to combine it with what j)reccdes and 
 follows, that it might neither strike the reader 
 unexpectedly, nor throw the least obscurity 
 over the style; ahd to express, perhaps, by a 
 perij)hrasis, the happiest and most striking word, 
 because the French language, abounding in ex- 
 pressions adapt! d ior ideas, is but scantily fur- 
 nished \\ ith such :is arc projier for imagery. At
 
 OF TMI-: i'()RTU(;utsi:;. 571 
 
 every word we must study to change, to cor- 
 rect, to curtail ; the rich and glowing imagi- 
 nation of the South is no longer an object of in- 
 terest, and may be compared to an artificial fire- 
 work, of which we are permitted to see the pre- 
 paration, 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 dis- 
 tance the extent of their riches, enclosed within 
 a sanctuary into which we have not as yet been 
 permitted to penetrate ; and it henceforward re- 
 mains with himself to initiate himself further into 
 its secrets, if he resolve to pursue the task. Let 
 me exhort him not to be daunted. These southern 
 languages, embracing such a variety of treasures, 
 will not long delay his progress by their trifling 
 difficulties. They are all sisters of the same fa- 
 mily, and he may easily vary his employment by- 
 passing successively from one to the other. The 
 application of a very few months will be found 
 sufficient to acquire a knowledge of the Spanish 
 or the Italian ; and after a short period, the perusal 
 of them will be attended only with pleasure. 
 Should I be permitted at some future time to 
 complete a M'ork similar to the present, relating to 
 the literature of the North, it will then become 
 my duty to bring into view poetical beauties of
 
 572 LiTtllATL'IlK 0|- I hi: POUTUGUESE. 
 
 a severer character, of a nature more foreign to 
 our own, and the knowledge of wliich is not to 
 be attained, without i'ar more painful and assi- 
 duous study. Yet in this pursuit the recom- 
 pense will be proportioned to the sacrifices made ; 
 and the Muses of other lands have always shewn 
 themselves grateful for the worship which stran- 
 gers have ortered uj) at their shrine.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Alarcon, Don Juan Ruys de, 207. 
 
 Albuquerque, Alfonso d', 414. his Commentaries, 497. 
 
 Aleman Matteo, author of Gusman d'A/Jarache, 9J. 
 
 Alfonso IV. of Portugal, his poems, 263. 
 
 Almeida, Nicolas Tolentino de, 565. 
 
 Andrade Caminlia, Pedro de, 310. 
 
 Andrade, Jacinto Freirc de, his burlesque poems, 525. his Life 
 
 of Don Juan de Castro, 526. 
 Apontes, Fernandez de, his edition of the playsof Calderon, 18S. 
 Argensola, Lupercio Leonardo de, 57. 
 
   , Bartolomeo Leonardo de, ibid. 
 
 Argote y Molina, Gonzales de, 71. 
 
 Armesto, Don Manuel Francisco de, his two religious plays, 212. 
 
 Arteaga, Felix, 61. 
 
 Autos-da-fe, the last celebrated, 213. 
 
 Azavedo, Araujo de, his translations from English poetry, 564. 
 
 Bacellar, Antonio Barbosa, 524. 
 
 Bahia, Jeronymo, 5:2'). Translation from, 530. 
 
 Barros, John de, 488. His Romance T/ic Emperor Claritmmd, 
 
 489. His Portuguese Asia, 490. 
 Bernardes, Diego, 311. His Eclogues, 312. 
 Bocarro, Antonio, his History of the Portuguese Conquests in 
 
 India, 497. 
 Boccage, Manuel de Barbosa du, 564. 
 Borja, Francisco de. Prince of Esquillace, 95. 
 Brilo, Bernardo de, his History of Portugal, 49S. 
 
 Calderon de la Barca, Don Pedro de, 102. Estimate of Ins 
 genius, 115. His plays, Nadic Jie su secreto, \IS. /I mar 
 despues de la Muerte, 119, 178. Coriotanus, 123. The Poet 
 of the Inquisition, 125. His fanaticism ; play of T/ie De- 
 votion of the Cross, 125. Analysis of El secrelo a vo:es, 
 127. of T/ie Injlexible Prince, 138. Play of La Aurora 
 en Copacarana, 155. of Tlic Origin, Loss, and Ilcsloration 
 of the Virgin of the Sane t nan/, 159. Eur gat or ii of Saint 
 Patricias, 163. L'AUaide dc si mismo ; La Dama Duende ;
 
 074 INDEX. 
 
 Lances dc Amur y Fort una, 1 7^. Alcunlc de Zamulva ; El 
 Medico de su llouru, 173. Editions ol" his Works, by Vil- 
 laroel, lOi. by Apontes, 188. l\[& Autos Sacramcittu/a ; 
 A Dios fur razuii dc Kstddu, 181). 
 
 Cainoens, Luis tie, 317. His Lusiail, 3'2i. Episode of Inez de 
 Castro, 357. ICpisode of Atlanuistur, 37!). Kpisode and 
 Allcirorv of tlic Island of Jov, -105. Conclusion of the 
 Lusiad, 131. His miscellaneous poems, \'Zl. His Son- 
 nets, 4ii7. Translations of, 428, -^^O, 431. Translations 
 from his cuncuns or canzoni, •1-3..', 1-3G. His odes, •1'38. His 
 cle^'ies and satirical pieces, 43i). His paraphrase of the 
 137th Psalm, 440. His eclogues, 443. Translations from, 
 144, 44j. His dramatic works, IKi. 
 
 Cancioneiro, Portuguese, written in the fifteenth century, ZIO. 
 of Kevsende, more frecpiently met with, i270. 
 
 Cancer, Don Hieronymo, )i07. 
 
 Caiiizarez, Don Joseph, his plays, 200. Hia Picarilln en lis- 
 l"iitn, ^'()7. 
 
 Cardoso, Trancisco, .564. 
 
 Castenheda, Fernand Lopez de ; his History of the Portuguese 
 Conquests in India, 497. 
 
 Castro, Guillen de, 'J07. 
 
 Castro, Estevan Rodriguez de, 314. 
 
 Ceo, \'iolante de, .127. Translation of soimct from, ,')28. 
 
 Cerda, IVrnam Correa dc la, 527. 
 
 Charles H., reign of, epoch of the last decline of Spain, 209. 
 
 Charles III. prohibits religious plays, 212. 
 
 CoL-lho, Siniao Torezao, 527. 
 
 Cotnella, Don Luciano Francisco, 234. 
 
 Cortereal, Jeronymo, 1G(). His poem on the misfortunes of 
 Manuel de Sousa, 1<>7. Translation from, !()!', vVe. His 
 poem on the Siege of Dili, 181. 
 
 Costa, Claudio Manuel da, 518. His sonnets, il>. His lipiccdios, 
 550. Translation from, 5.')1. 
 
 Couto, continues the work of de Barros, 497. 
 
 Cruz e Sylva, Antonio Diniz da, 556. His imitations of English 
 poetry, il>. 'I'ranslation of sonnet from, 5.">7. His odes, 558. 
 
 Cruzycano, Don Hamon de la, an author of the new school, his 
 comedies and other works, 234. Ei sarao and El dixorzio 
 fcltx, 23G. 
 
 Cnbillo, I)(.n Alvaro, 207. 
 
 Cindia, .1. .\. da, 55'.). 'I'ranslation from, 560. 
 
 Dionysiiis, King of Portugal, his poems, 202. 
 
 Drama, conclusion of the Spanish, 1!I5. Its decline ami ob- 
 livion, !!)(!. Encoura-ed l-y Piiilij) IV. 103. 199. Of 
 Portugal, 123.
 
 INDEX. 57 O 
 
 Ericeyra, Francisco Xavier tie Meneses, Count of, 535. IVa 
 llerinqueide, an epic poem, 53G, 539. Extracts from, 541. 
 
 Espincl, Vmcenzio, 71. His Life of the Squire Marco de Obrc- 
 gon, 96. 
 
 Falfavn, Christoval, 279. His Eclogues, extract from, 280. 
 Faria y Sousa, Manuel de, 517. His Portuguese Europe, 518. 
 
 His commentary on Camoens, 521. His sonnets, 522. His 
 
 Bucolics, 52-t. 
 Ferreira, Antonio, 296. His sonnets, 298. His tragedy of 
 
 Inez de Castro, 300. 
 Figueroa, the three lyric poets, 71. 
 Don Lope de, 173. 
 
 Gar9ao, Antonio Correa, 544. His Tcatru novo, and his As- 
 
 scmhlca, 5i-5. 
 Gerund, Friar, Life of, 218. 
 Goez, Damiao de, 497. 
 Gomez, Francisco Diaz, 564. 
 Gongora, Luis, 52. His sonnets, 53. His soledadcs, 5'). 
 
 His Polyphemus, !)G. 
 Gracian, Balthasar, 101. 
 
 Ilermiguez, Gonzalo, an early Portuguese poet, 262. 
 
 Hoz, Don Juan de, his play of El Ca.stigo de la Miseria, 206, 
 
 Huerta, Vincent Garcias de la, attacks the French style, 2.'30. 
 
 His poems and tragedy of Rav/tf/, 231. His Tcatro Es- 
 
 paJiul, 233. 
 
 Inquisition, Calderon the poet of the, 125. No longer allowed 
 to destroy its victims in puhlic, 213. 
 
 , Spanish, introduced into Portugal, 282, 514. 
 
 Jose, Antonio, his dramatic works, 5 13. Is burnt by tlie In- 
 quisitors, ib. 
 
 Isla, Father de r, his Life of Friar Gerund, 218. Is discovered 
 under his assumed name of Lobon de Salazar, and perse- 
 cuted by the Clergy, 239. 
 
 Leyra, Don Francisco de, 207. 
 
 Literature of Spain, estimate of, 242. 
 
 of Portugal, state of, until the middle of tlic six- 
 teenth century, 249. 
 
 Lobo, Rodriguez, 455. His Winter Nights, 456. His pasto- 
 ral romances, 457. His canzoni, 458. Translation of 
 sonnet from, 460. His epic poem, 464. His eclogues, 465. 
 
 Lodesma, Alonzo de, 61. 
 
 Luzan, Ignazio de, 213. His celebrated treatise on poetry, 214.
 
 .076 1 N m \. 
 
 Macfdo, Duarte Hibeiro i.\o, 527. 
 
 Macias, called L'Knaiiiorado, 265. His adventures and sin;,Mi- 
 lar death, 2G(3. Stanzas bv bini, 207. His numerous 
 followers, 2G9. 
 
 Manocl, Krancisco, 554. Extract from, 55.5. 
 
 Mariana, Juan de, 97. Ills History of Stain, 98. 
 
 Matos Frayoso, Don Juan dy, 207. 
 
 Mates, Xaviur de, 5(55. 
 
 Mesa, Cliristoval de, 71. 
 
 Miranda, .Saa de, account of, 28.'i. His Portu<?uese composi- 
 tions, 285. Sonnets by him, 281), 287. His ecloi,'ues, 288. 
 His epistles, 2!)0, His two comedies, 2i>i. 
 
 Moniz, Ejjaz, an early l*ortuguese poet, 262. * 
 
 Monroy y ."^ylva. Don Cliristoval de, 207. 
 
 Montalvan, Juan Perez de, \5. 
 
 Montemayor, his Portuguese poetry in the Diana, 295. 
 
 Montiano y Liiyando, Augustin de, his two tragedies of Vir- 
 ginia and Aiaulpho, 215. 
 
 Morales, Juan de, 71. 
 
 Moratin, Leandro Eernandez de, a comic author, 2"i. 
 
 Moral in, Nicolas rernandez de. a tragic author, 2i{l. 
 
 Morelo, Augustin, the rival of Calderon, 201. His play of El 
 Martjuesd el Cigarral. His comedy of Noptteite scr, 202 ; 
 imitated hy Moliere, 203. 
 
 Morillo, Gregorio, 71. 
 
 Oratory, Spanish, confined to the pulpit, 21(5. The first jmh- 
 lic sermon of IViar (lerund, 225. Sermons composed for 
 the .Monks l»y an Italian barber, 228. 
 
 Osorio, Jerome, tiis historical work, 511. 
 
 Philip IV. King, his encoiirageine-.it of Calderon, 103. His 
 supposed dramatic works, under the title of J)i un Ingcnio 
 di i:\ta curtc, 103, 199. Comedy of El Diablo prctitcat or, y 
 waijor contrario ami'^o, 200. 
 
 Philip \'., his influence on the literature of Spain, 210. 
 
 Poetry, lyric, of Spain, 17. 
 
 of Spain, under the three Philips, 207. Under Charles 
 
 H. 2ii;». Under Philip V. 210. 
 
 Portugal, literature of, 2i:>. Its character distinct from the 
 Castilian, 251. 
 
 — langiuige of, a sort of contracted Spanish, 252. In- 
 quiry into the early origin of, 25.J. I'ragment of an early 
 poem, 2.Vi. Eaily history of Portugal, 25G. View of 
 an history as contained in the l.usiad, 35 1. Poetry of, 
 262. niitorian.'< of, 188. Admission of the Jews into, bv
 
 INDEX. 577 
 
 John II. 507. Their persecution, 510. The Inquisition 
 established in, 514. Its subjection to Spain, 515. Its 
 apathy and degradation, attributed to the Inquisition, 510. 
 Foundation of Academies of Languages and of History, 
 534. Of Sciences, 535. 
 
 Quevcdo y ViHogas, Francisco de, 72. His Ki/ig(hm uf God, 
 and guicr/ifiient of C/irisc, 77. His treatises on moral phi- 
 losophy, 81. His Visions, 83. His poems, 8(). His life, 
 by the Abbe de Tarsia, 100. 
 
 llebolledo, Bernardino. Count de, 96. 
 
 Keynoso y Quiiiones, Don Bernard Joseph de, 211. His two 
 religious plays, T/ie Sun of Faith at Marseilles, and The Sun 
 <)f the Magdalen, ib. 
 
 Ribeyro, Bernardim, one of the earliest and best poets of Por- 
 tugal, 271. His eclogues, 272. Extract from his third 
 eclogue, 271-. from one of his Cantigas, 27(5. His Me- 
 nina c Moza, 278. 
 
 Robrega, Alvarez de, 564. 
 
 Roxas, Don Francisco de, 205. Imitated by the French ; his 
 Entie bohos anda cljuego, 205. His play, entitled The Pa- 
 troness of Madrid, our Ladij of Atocha, 206. 
 
 .Sa y Menesez, Francisco de, his Malacca Conquistada, 487. 
 Salazar, Don Francisco Lobon de, (Father de I'lsla,) his Life 
 
 of Friar Gerund, 218. 
 Schickel, Ausjustus William, his strictures on Calderon, 104. 
 Sedano, Don Juan Joseph Lopez de, his Parnaso Espanol, 2Pj3. 
 Solis, Antonio de, his History of the conquest of Mexico, 98. 
 Soropita, Fernando Rodriguez Lobo de, 314. 
 Soto, Luis Barahona de, a rival of Garcilaso, 71. 
 Sylva, Andrea Nunez de, 531. 
 
 Tarsia, Paul- Antonio de, his Life of Quevedo, 100, 
 Texada, Augustino de, 71. 
 
 Valdez, Juan Melendes, his poems, 2M. Idyl and sonnet by 
 
 him, 241, 243. 
 Valladarez, 565. 
 
 Vasconcellos, Jorge Ferreira de, 314. 
 Vasconcellos, Miguel de Cabedo de, 314. 
 Vasconcellos, Francisco de, 531. 
 Vega, Lope de, (continued,) 1. His play of the Life of the 
 
 valiant Cespedes, 8. His Arauco domado, 18. His sacred 
 
 comedies, 33 ; and Autos Hacranientales, 39. His epic 
 
 poems, 44. 
 
 VOL. IV. 2 P
 
 .37 H ivni:.x. 
 
 \'elasqiu'Z, Luis Josipli, the historian of S|)anish poriry, 2\5. 
 Vera Tassis y Villarot'l, Juan tie, his edition of CaUleron's 
 
 works. 101. 
 Vicente. Gil, Uti. The founder of the Spanish theatre, 4kS. 
 
 Division of his works, 4i9. Translations from, 450, 4r5'2. 
 Villegas, Estevan Manuel de, the Anacreon of Spain, 1)2. His 
 
 poem of 'J'/tc Xif;/itin<;aU-, Ui. 
 Vimieiro, Countess de, her tragedy of Os/wjV/, 545. 
 
 Xauregui, Juan de, translation of the I'harsalia of Lucan, [)5. 
 
 Vriartc, 'I'unias de, his FabuUis J.tttenirias, S.'iG. Fable of Ei 
 Uonico y la Fhnitd, 237. L'Oso y /,i Moria, 23!). Ilisdi- 
 dactie poem on music. i?41. 
 
 Zala/ar y Forres, Don Augustino de, 207. 
 
 Zaniora, Loren/o do, his M>/.stic Montiri/ti/ nf thi Churchy G2. 
 
 Rcdundilla.s in honour of St. Joseph, G3. 
 Zarate, Don Fernando dc, his piece of Lu I'raumitla if la llir- 
 
 tnuiti, 203. 
 
 'IHt L\l'. 
 
 5 ;eo 
 
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