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 (op ITALY SPAIN AND PORTUGAL ) 
 
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 ARD JOUN 1'
 
 FN 
 
 JL 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 INTRODUCTION: Page 
 
 MoSE5 JOKDI - - . - 6 
 
 The Cancioneros - - . - 9 
 
 AlPHONSO X. AND HIS CoURT - - - 11 
 
 Alphonso XI. ANi> HIS Court - - - 11 
 
 JUAX DE MeNA ... - .14 
 
 Juan dk Enzina - - - - - 17 
 
 BOSCAN - - - - - - 21 
 
 GARCILASO DE LA VEGA - - . 36 
 
 DIEGO HURTADO DE MENDOZA - - 5S 
 
 LUIS DE LEON - ... 70 
 
 MERRERA - - ... 83 
 
 Jorge ije ISIontemayob - - - - 80 
 
 Castillkjo - - - - . 92 
 
 The Early Dramatists - - - - 95 
 
 ERCILLA - - - - - 103 
 
 CERVANTES - - - - - 120 
 
 LOl'E DE VEGA - - - - 1H9 
 
 VICENTE ESPINEL — ESl'ERAN DEVIL- 
 LEG AS '■- - ... OOR 
 
 ^ O'^O'^^O 4
 
 VI CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 GONGORA - . - - - 24a 
 
 QUKVEDO - - - - - 255 
 
 CALDEIION - - - - 278 
 
 EARLY rOETS OF PORTUGAL - - 288 
 
 RlUEVRA - - - - 290 
 
 Saa de Miranda - ... 291 
 
 Gil Vicente ... . . 292 
 
 Ferreira .... 292 
 
 (AMOENS - - - - - 295
 
 THE 
 
 CABINET CYCLOPEDIA.
 
 LoNrxjv : 
 
 Printed by A SiHirnswooDt, 
 
 New-Stret't. Square.
 
 THE 
 
 CABINET CYCLOPEDIA. 
 
 CONDUCTED BY THE 
 
 REV. DIONYSIUS LARDNER, LL.U. F.R.S. L. &E. 
 
 M.K.l.A. F.R.A.S. KLS. F.Z.S. Hon. F.C.P.S. &c. &c. 
 
 ASSISTED BY 
 
 EMINENT LITEKARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 ll5iogcap5p. 
 
 EMINENT 
 
 LITKRARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN 
 
 OF ITALY, Sl'AI.V, AND HORTUOAL. 
 VOL. Ill 
 
 LONDON 
 
 I'RIMKII FOR 
 
 LONOMAN, OHMK, ItKOWN, (JKEKN, .1 I,ON(iMANS, 
 
 i'Art:KMwllR-iio\v ; 
 
 AND lOIIN TAVI.OI!, 
 
 |;PI'ER (iOWKH STHP.KT. 
 
 IKM7.
 
 ath 

 
 LIVES 
 
 OF 
 
 EMINENT 
 
 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 MOSEN JORDI. CANCIONERO. ALPHON'SO X. AND HIS 
 
 COURT. ALPHONSO XI. AND HIS COURT. JUAN DE 
 
 UE.NA. 
 
 In every other country, to treat of its literary men is 
 at the same time to give a history of its literature. In 
 Spain it is otherwise. We liave no trace of who the 
 poets were who produced that vast collection of ballads 
 and romances, which, full of chivalry and adventure, 
 love and war, fascinate the imagination, and bestow im- 
 mortality on heroes — some real, some fictitious — who 
 otherwise had never been known. To understand the 
 merits of the later writers, to know on what their 
 style and spirit was formed, it is necessary to give 
 some account of the early, and also of the anonymous, 
 poetry of Spain. Nor will it be foreign to the subject, 
 nor uninteresting, slightly to trace the progress of litera- 
 ture in the Peninsula from its earliest date. From a 
 thousand causes Spain is the land of romance. There 
 never was any one who has travelled in that country, 
 whatever might be lus political opinions, or his view 
 of human nature and society, but admired and loved 
 the SpaJiiards. There is an originality, an indopcn- 
 
 VOL. III. B 
 
 <
 
 2 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 dence, an enthusiasm, in the Spanish character that 
 distinguishes tlieni from every other people. Des- 
 potism and tlie Inquisition, ignorance and supersti- 
 tion, have been unable to level the noble altitude of 
 their souls; and even while the manifestations of genius 
 have been crushed, genius has survived. 
 
 From early times Spain was the birthplace of men 
 of eminence in literature. We know httle of the 
 aborigines, and nothing of their language, except that 
 from the earliest times they appear to have been gifted 
 with that love of song that survives to this day. 
 Silius Italicus bears testimony to this taste, when with 
 all the arrogance of assumed superiority he speaks of 
 the verses sung by the Gallicians in their native dialect, 
 "barbara nunc patriis ululantem carmina Unguis," 
 and Strabo alludes to immemorial ballads sung by 
 the inhabitants of Betica. When the Spaniards 
 shared the refinements and learning of the capital, 
 several names became distinguished. Lucan was a 
 native of Cordova. We can fancy that we trace the 
 genuine Spanish spirit in this poet — earnestness, en- 
 thusiasm, gaudiness, and an inveterate tendency to 
 diffuseness. The two Senecas were natives, also, of the 
 same town.* The Spaniards with fond pride collect 
 other names which the tide of time sweeping by, has 
 cast on the shore, too obscure for fame, but sufficiently 
 known to prove that the Spanish nation was always 
 prolific in men who sought to distinguish themselves in 
 literature. 
 
 These recollections, however, belong to another race. 
 
 • " Duosque Sonoi-as, iinicumque Liicanum, 
 
 Facunda loquitur Coiduba." Martial, ep. Ixii. lib. i. 
 
 And Statius records the same fact : — 
 
 " Lucanum potes imputare terris. 
 Hoc plus quam Sciircam dedisse roundo, 
 Aiit (lulcem geiierisF.e Oallioncm. 
 Ut tollat rcfluos in antra fontes 
 Grajo nobilior Melcte BiEtis." Genelhliacon, 
 
 — Retrospective Review, vol. iii.
 
 INTRODUCTION. O 
 
 The Visigoths swept over the land, annihilated the 
 Roman power, and, as far as any traces that have come 
 down to us avouch, absorbed the aboriginal Iberian 
 in their invasion. Yet, though they conquered and 
 reigned over the land, it is to be doubted how far they 
 actually amalgamated with the natives. And it is con- 
 jectured that one of the causes why the Moors, after 
 conquering Don Roderic in battle, so soon possessed 
 themselves of city and district, and founded what at 
 first was a sway as peaceful as universal, was occasioned 
 by the distinction still subsisting between Iberian and 
 Goth, which led the former the more readily to submit 
 to new masters. 
 
 The Goths were an illiterate people. There is an 
 anecdote recorded in proof of their barbarism on this 
 point. Queen Amalasunta, who appears to have pos- 
 sessed a more refined and exalted mind than the men 
 of her time, was eager to confer on her son Alaric the 
 graces and accomphshments of literature. The warriors 
 of the land opposed her purpose, — " No," they cried, 
 " the idleness of study is unworthy of the Goth : high 
 thoughts of glory are not fed by books, but by deeds 
 of valour. He is to be a king whom all should dread. 
 He shall not be compelled to fear his instructors." * 
 
 Another proof of the ignorance and small influence 
 of the Goths is their having adopted the language of 
 the conijucred country. All that has come down to us 
 from them, with the exception of a few inscriptions, 
 is in the Latin language, and several poems were 
 written in that tongue. Still the. Goths loved warlike 
 songs and music. To their days some would trace 
 the redondilla, while it has also been conjectured that 
 the peculiar rhythm of tliese national ballads had its 
 origin in the camp songs of the Roman soldiers.t 
 
 At length the (Jolhic power fell — the Moors <'ntered, 
 overran, and conquered Spain. At first the resistance 
 they met was not at all proportionate to what we 
 
 • RctrMpoctivG Review, vol. 111. + noutcrvck. 
 
 B 2
 
 4 l,rn:ilAKY ASU SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 should consider to liavo been the resources of the 
 Spanisli nation. IJut a noble spirit of resistance was 
 awakened. Difference of religion kept alive what 
 difference of language and habits originated. The 
 enthusiastic patriotism which had gathered as waters in 
 a mountain tarn, overflowed from the heights to which 
 it had retreated, and finally poured over the whole land. 
 From the struggle that ensued a thousand deeds of 
 heroism had birth, and those circumstances were de- 
 veloped, which became the subjects to be consecrated 
 by those beautiful ballads and songs, " in which," to 
 use the appropriate language of a modern critic, 
 " truth wears the graceful garb of romance, and ro- 
 mance appears the honest handmaid of tmth." 
 
 Spain owed much to the Moor, however, from other 
 causes. The Arabs were a learned and refined race. 
 They built cities, palaces, and mosques ; they founded 
 universities, they encouraged learning. The most emi- 
 nent scholars came from the East to grace their schools, 
 and introduced a spirit of inquiry and a love of know- 
 ledge which survived their power. Abdorrhaman III. 
 founded the university at Cordova. He established 
 schools and collected a library, it is said, to the extent 
 of six hundred thousand volumes. The blessings 
 of civilisation was fostered by the Omajad dynasty. Ma- 
 hometanism never flourished with such true glory as 
 under the Spanish caliphs. 
 
 One of the most remarkable circumstances of this 
 era is, the prosperity and learning of the Jews settled in 
 Spain. Persecuted by the Goths *, this hapless nation 
 
 * "Through the decree of the fifth council of Toledo, each Gothic king 
 swore, before he was crowned, to extirpate the Jews. Ferdinand and 
 Isabella renewed the nefarious oath, and thus generated the spirit which 
 caused Lope de Vega to recur with satisfaction to the old Gothic law: — 
 
 " The sceptre was denied of yore, " Vedando el consilio Toledano, 
 
 To the elected king, until he swore tomar el cetroal rey sinque primcro 
 
 With his own royal hand limpiase el verdadero 
 
 To purge the fertile land trigo con propria mano. 
 
 Of the vile tares that choke the ile la cizana \il cjue le suprime 
 
 genuine grain, la Santa Ley en la corona inprime." 
 And write the holy law upon the 
 
 crown ol Spain. " Retrospective Review, vol iii.
 
 IXTRODUCTION. 5 
 
 doubtless welcomed the Moors gladly; and finding toler- 
 ation under their rule, and their schools open to them, 
 they flocked to the universities of Cordova and Toledo 
 in such numbers, that one Jewish writer tells us that 
 there were twelve thousand Israelitish students at 
 Toledo ; and they gave evidence of the perseverance, 
 sagacity, and talent which belong to that people, and 
 which, fostered by the blessed spirit of toleration, bore 
 worthy fruit. 
 
 A succession of Hebrew scholars may be traced from 
 the tenth to the fifteenth centuries. De Castro gives 
 an account of seven hundred different works. Every 
 Jew could read. The higher classes flourished in 
 glory and prosperity, so that many of the noblest 
 Spanish families include Jewish sprouts in the tree of 
 their genealogy. Even to this day the Jews' sons of 
 those driven from Spain to this country remember 
 their Spanish renown, and have preserved a recollection 
 of its language. 
 
 Of the Arabic authors of Spain the greater portion 
 were natives of Andalusia. The number of their 
 poets was very considerable. Of the Romances Moriscoa 
 doubtless many originated in Arabic poetry. The 
 old Roman rhythm, the Gothic love of music, the 
 Arab chivalry, and the noble spirit generated by a 
 generous love of freedom, were the sources of these ro- 
 mances. Before we recur to them however, we%vi!l men- 
 tion tlie connection l)etwcen the troubadour and Provencal 
 poetry with the Valentian. It is a singular anomaly, 
 we may almost call it, in literature, that a dialect 
 become a written one, adorned by poets and spoken 
 through extensive provinces, should have become tiie 
 dead tongue of modern times. The French, Itahan, 
 and Castillian absorbed the genius that once took form 
 in a tongue which, whether it be called Proven<^al, 
 Limousin, or Valentian, is still the same, and in it 
 were written tlie earliest modern verses. Petrarch and 
 Dante raised their native tonL:ue in opposition ; but the 
 poetry they studied as anterior to their own was the 
 
 n 3
 
 LlTERAnV AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 Provencal. The peculiar tone of troubadour poetry; 
 the refined and somewhat abstract mode in which 
 love is treated, was adopted by Petrarch^ and by ])aiite 
 also, in his sonnets and canzoni. The rhythm and 
 the subjects were more artful and scientific than the 
 songs of Castille, and thus at one time it was held 
 in higher regard by the Spanish sovereigns who wished 
 to introduce learning and poetry among their subjects. 
 John I. of Arragon invited many Provencal and 
 Narbonne poets to settle at Barcelona and Tortosa. 
 He established an academy in the former city for the 
 cultivation of poetry. The Spanish troulKKlours be- 
 came celebrated ; Mosen Jordi de Sant Jordi is one 
 of the first and best-known. Petrarch read and, per- 
 haps, imitated him.* 
 
 Though protected and encouraged by the sovereigns 
 of Arragon, and read and lauded, and even imitated, by 
 the nobles of their courts, the Valentian never became 
 
 * In the Ketrospoctive Review, vol. iii., in the article on the poetical 
 literature of Spain, the whole of Sant Jordi's Song of Contraries (Cancion 
 de Opositos), is given, from which Petrarch adopted, it is allcgeil, whole 
 lines. Nothing is less derogatory to a poet of the highest genius than the 
 fact that he i>icked up here and there hncs and ideas, amalgamating them 
 with his own, and adorning them with alien splendour. It is honourable, 
 however, to .Sant Jordi, to be stolen from ; the spirit of the two poems is 
 different and the lines scattered and disconnected. Those of Petrarch arc 
 — and they are some of his linest — 
 
 " Pace non trovo e non ho da far guerra, 
 
 K volo sopra '1 cielo, e giaccio in terra, 
 
 K nulla stringo c tutto il mondo abraccio, 
 
 E ho in odio me stesso e amo altrui., 
 
 Se non e amor, cose dunque ch'io sento ? " 
 
 Sant Jordi, describing the struggles of his mind, has these similar lines : — 
 " E no strench res, e tot lo mon abras, 
 vol sovel eel, e nom movi de terra." 
 
 And both Italian and Proven<;al bear the same translation. 
 I nothing grasp — and yet the world embrace: 
 I fly o'er highest heaven, though bound to earth. 
 As also — 
 
 " Hoy he de mi, e vull altra gran he." 
 I hate myself — others are dear to me. 
 And 
 
 " E no he pace — e no tench gium ganeig." 
 I'm not at peace, but cannot war declare. 
 
 Petrarch's poem descriljcs a lover's struggles ; Sant Jordi's, the combats of 
 an inquisitive, tronhloH mind — something of a Kaustus spirit, though he 
 sums up alt, not by selling himself to the devil, but concluiliiig piously, — 
 I5ut right oft flows from darkness-covered wrong. 
 And good may spring from seeming evil here.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 7 
 
 the national poetry of Spain, and we turn from poets 
 who will find Ixtter place among the early French 
 writers to the genuine productions of Castille. 
 
 We have seen that it was during the Moorish wars, 
 under the successors of Don Pelayo, that these romances 
 had birth. The kings of the various provinces of 
 Spain, ever at war with the Moors, were, of course, in 
 a state of great dependence on their warrior nobles. 
 They needed their subjects to form expeditions against 
 the enemy or to resist their encroachments. Often, 
 also, the Spanish princes were at enmity with each 
 other; and civil discord, or the war of one Christian 
 kingdom against the other, caused temporary alliance 
 with the Mahometans. This brought the chivalry of 
 the two nations into contact. The Spaniards learned 
 the arts of civilisation from their conquerors — they 
 learned also the language of love. 
 
 In the midst of these romantic wars, there sprung up 
 a species of poetry which in its simplicity and truth 
 resembles the old Enghsh ballads, but which, from the 
 nature of the events it commemorates, is conceived in a 
 loftier and more chivalrous tone. The most ancient of 
 these is a poem on the Cid, written an hundred and 
 fifty years before the time of Dante: its versification is 
 barbarous. It was written in the infancy of language ; 
 but it displays touches of nature, and a vivacity of 
 action, that show it to have been the work of men of an 
 heroic and virile age. 
 
 By degrees the romances or ballads of Spain assumed 
 a lighter and more tripping rhythm, fitter to be easily 
 rememl)crcd and to be accompanied by music. These 
 metrical compositions were called redondillas,* Bou- 
 
 •"All vcr»cf conBiBting of four trochaic feet appear to liave been origin- 
 ally comprehended under the name of rcdimdilla, which, however, came 
 at length to lie in preference unually applied to one particular species of 
 thif docription of ver«e. It is ditncult to suppose that (he reilnndi'los 
 have lK!fn formed in imitation of bioecteil hexameters, as sumic Sjianish 
 auihori have imaK<nod; they may with more probaliility lie considered 
 a fplic of the snii|;>i of the K'unan soldiers. In such verses every individual 
 could, without restraint, |>fiiir forth the feelings which love or Kil'axtry 
 dictateil, nccomp.inird t)y hi» Kuitar, a» little attention w is paid to cor- 
 rc4Ttnn< in the distinction of Idiik or short syllables, as in the rhyme. 
 When one of tfle poetic narratives, dislinguiahed by the name of runianccs 
 
 It 4
 
 8 LITEUAnV AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 tcrvek imagines tluit tluy may bo considered as a relic 
 of the songs of the Roman soldiers. 'I'here was something 
 
 M'as siiDd, line rollowcd line without constraint, the expression .lowinf; 
 with c;ireless iVcetloin, as feeling gave it birth. When, however, romantic 
 sentiments were to l)e clothed in a iiopiilar lyric dress, to cxiiihit the 
 playful turns of ideas under still more pleasing forms, it was found ad- 
 vantageous to introduce divisions and periods, wliich gave rise to regular 
 strophes (rxtancids and cop/as). Lines, for the sake of variety, were short- 
 ened by halving them ; and thus the tender and impressive melody of the 
 rhythm was sometimes considerably heightened. Seduced by the example of 
 the Arabs, something excellent was supposed to be accomplishe<l when a 
 single sonorous ami unvarying rhyme was rendered prominent throughout 
 all the verses of a long romance. Through other romances, however, pairs of 
 ihymelcss verses were allowed to glide amidst a variety of rhymed ones. 
 At length, at a later jieriod, it was observed that, in point of elegance, the 
 rcdnntlilla was improved by the change, when, instead of perfect rhymes, 
 imperfect ones, or soumls echoing vowels but not consonants, were lieard 
 in the terminating syllables. Hence arose the distinction between con- 
 sonant and assonant verses, which has been converted into a rhythmical 
 beauty unknown to other nations. The period of the invention of the 
 redondillas was also nearly that of the dactylic stanzas called versos de 
 arte mayor, because their composition was considered an art of a superior 
 order. As the inventors of these stanzas were ignorant of the true prin. 
 ciples of prosody, the attention paid to jiurity in the rhythm ol the 
 dactylcs was even less than in the rhymes of the redondillas. This may 
 account for these verses falling into disuse, as the i)rogressive improve- 
 ment of taste, which allowed the redondillas to maintain their original 
 consideration, was not reconcileable with the half-dancing half-hobbling 
 rhymed lines of the versos de arte mayor." — Boutcrvck, Introduction. 
 (Translation.) 
 
 Lord Holland observes, in the Appendix No. 3. to his " Life of Lope 
 de Vega:" — "Of rhymes the Spaniards have two sorts; the conso- 
 nante or full rhyme, which is nearly the same as the Italian; and the 
 asonante, which the ear of a foreigner would not immediately distinguish 
 Irom a blank termination. An asonante is a word that resembles another 
 in the vowel on which the last accent falls, as well as the vowel or 
 vowels that follow ; but every consonant alter the accented vowel must 
 be ditTerent from that in the corresponding syllable. Thus, tbs and amor, 
 pi'cho; fuego, aliivio, paxaro, are all asonantes. In modern compositions, 
 where the asonante is used, every alternate verse is blank, but the poet 
 is not allowed to change the asonante till the poem is concluded. The 
 old writers, 1 believe, were no such restriction." 
 
 M. Gunins, a German annotator, followed by Mr. Loekhart, expresses 
 his opinion tliat " the stanza was composed in reality of two long lines, 
 and that these have been subsequently cut in four, exactly as we know to 
 have been the case in regard to another old English ballad stanza." See 
 Mr. Lockhart's Introduction to his Ancient Spanish Ballads. 
 
 Thus, instead of printing it, as is usual, — 
 
 " Fizo hazer al Key Alfonso 
 el cid un solenc juro, 
 delante de muchos grandes, 
 que te hallaron en lirugos " — 
 this ought to run — 
 
 " Fizn hazer al Key Alfonso, el cid un solene juro, 
 delante de muchos grandes, que se hallaron en Brugos." 
 
 The u, in the penultimate syllable of juro, and in Brugos, makes the 
 assonance of the redondilla. We need not mention to the Spanish reader 
 the peculiar mode of printing Spanish poetry without the distinction of 
 capitals at the beginning of lines; nor the peculiar ptnict nation — a note of 
 interrogation reversed invariably being placed at the beginning of the sen- 
 tence that ends with one ; neces.-ary to the otherwise obscure construc- 
 tion of the Si>anish : as for instance, — 
 
 "i Buelas al fin, y al fin te vas Ilorandoi"'
 
 INTKODUCTION. 9 
 
 singularly popular in tlieir freedom from constraint, 
 and catching in their effect on the ear. The sonorous 
 harmony of the Spanish language gave them dignity ; 
 they were easy to compose, easy to remember ; they 
 required only a subject, and the words flowed, as it were, 
 with the facility of a running stream. 
 
 There are several volumes, called the Cancionero 
 general and Romancero general, filled with these com- 
 positions. The most singular circumstance is, that they 
 are nearly all anonymous. No doubt, as language im- 
 proved, they were altered and amended from oral tra- 
 dition, and no one had a right to claim undivided 
 authorship. Their subjects were love and war, and 
 came home to the heart of every Spaniard: the senti- 
 ments were simple, yet heroic ; the action was always 
 impassioned, and sometimes tragic. 
 
 Doctor Bowring, who has a happy facility in ren- 
 dering the poetry of foreign nations into our own, 
 has been more felicitous than any other author in trans- 
 lating these compositions. His volume is well known, 
 and we will not quote largely from it, as we are tempted. 
 One poem, which Boutervek pronounces to be untrans- 
 lateable through its airiness and lightness, we present 
 as a specimen of that talent, so peculiar to the redondilla, 
 of catching and portraying a sentiment, as it were, by 
 sketclies and hints, where the reader fills up the picture 
 from his own imagination, and is pleased by the very 
 vagueness which incites him to exert that facility. 
 
 " ' lively flow'rct, lovely flow'rct — 
 
 Oh ! what thoughts yniir beauties move '. 
 When I |)reii8c<l thee to my bosom. 
 Little did I know ofJovc; 
 Now that I have learnt to love thcc, 
 Seeking thee in vain I rove.' 
 ' But the fault waii thine, young warrior, 
 Thine it was — it was nut mine; 
 He who brought thy earlii'st letter, 
 Wx a mcMcnger of thine ; 
 And he t/)ld me — gracelcm traitor.— 
 Yc» ! he told me — lying one — 
 That thou wert already married 
 In the province of I.con ; 
 Where thou hadit a lovely lady. 
 And, like flowert too, many a ion.'
 
 10 LITERAnV AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 •Lady ! lie was but n traitor, 
 Aixi Ills tale was all untrue, 
 In Castille 1 never eiilered — 
 From Ia'oh too, I withdri'W 
 When 1 was in early lioyhood. 
 And of love I nothing knew.' " • 
 
 In addition to these ballads we must mention the 
 romances of chivalry. There is an undying iliscussion 
 as to the nation in which these works originated. Ac- 
 cording to Spanish writers, the real author of the first 
 or genuine Amadis was Vasco Lobeira, a native of 
 Portugal, who flourished at the end of the thirteenth 
 century, and lived till the year 1^25. Perverted as 
 history and geography are in this and other similar 
 works^ they are full of invention, and alive with human 
 feeling. Heroic deeds are blended with fairy machinery, 
 borrowed from Arabian tales; every thing is brought in 
 to adorn and to exalt the character of the knight, in war 
 and in love. Even now Amadis preserves its charm ; how 
 great must have been its influence among nobles whose 
 lives were dedicated to the hardships of war, and whose 
 own hearts were the birthplace of passion, as sincere 
 and vehement as any that warmed the heart of fic- 
 titious cavalier. 
 
 Already, however, had various kings and nobles of 
 Spain cultivated letters. The first authors whose names 
 
 ♦ " * Rosa fresca, Rosa fresca, 
 tan garrida y con amor, 
 cuandu os tienc en mis brazos 
 no vos sabia servir no, 
 y agora que vos serviria 
 no vos pucdo yo haber no.* 
 
 Vuestra fue la culpa, amigo 
 vuestra lue, que mia no, 
 enviastes nic una carta 
 con un vuistro servidor, 
 y en lugar de recaudar 
 el digera otra razon, 
 que crades casado, amigo, 
 alia en ticrras de Leon, 
 <jue teneis niujjcr hermosa 
 y hijos coino una flor.' 
 
 ' Quien os lo dijo, Sefiora, 
 no vos dija verdad, no — 
 que yo nunca entr*'- in Castilla 
 ni en las tierra.- de Leon, 
 sino cuanilo era pequciio 
 que no sabia de amor.' "
 
 INTRODUCTION. 1 1 
 
 appear were less of poets than many whose works 
 appear in the various Cancioneros. Elevated in rank, 
 they addicted themselves to study from a love of know- 
 ledge. Eagerly curious about the secrets of nature, 
 or observant of the philosophy of life, they were desirous 
 of instructing their countrymen. They deserve infinite 
 praise for their exertions, and the motives that animated 
 them ; but their productions cannot have the same in- 
 terest for us as the genuine emanations of the feelings. 
 The heart of man, its passions and its emotions, endures 
 for ever the same, and the poet who touches with truth the 
 simplest of its chords remains immortal; but our heads 
 change their fashion and furniture. We disregard ob- 
 solete knowledge as a ruin, out of proportion and fallen to 
 pieces; while the language of the passions, like vegetation 
 for ever growing, is always fresh, Alphonso X.,surnamed 
 the A Vise, loved learning. He rendered a great service 
 to his country by the cultivation he bestowed on the 
 Castilhan language. His verses bear the marks of the 
 attention he paid to correctness, and by his command 
 the Spanish language was substituted for Latin in pub- 
 lic instruments. Through him the Bible was translated 
 into Castillian, and a Chronicle of Spain was commenced 
 under his directions. He favoured the troubadours, and 
 himself aspired to write verses. There is an entire book 
 of Cantigas or Letras, composed in the GaUician dialect, 
 by him. El Teroso is his principal work ; it detailed 
 his alchymical secrets, and is written in Castillian, in 
 versos de arte mayor : much of this work remains 
 still undecii)hered. To him also is attributed a poem 
 called Las Querellas, of which two stanzas only are 
 preserved, and those so superior in versification to the 
 Tc'soro, that it is doubted wliotlier they can bo the pro- 
 duction of the same man and age. The most useful work 
 that owed its existence to his superintendence was the 
 Alplionsine Tables, containing calculations truly extra- 
 ordinary for that period. 
 
 Alphonso XI. followt'd in his footsteps in the culti- 
 vation of the Castillian language. He is said to have
 
 12 MTKRAllY AND SCIENTIFIC WEN. 
 
 composed a General Chronicle of lledondillas, which is 
 lost. 
 
 It was in the time of Aljihonso XI. that Don Juan 
 IMannel wrote his Count Lucanor, a series of tales put 
 together somewhat in the style of the " Seven Wise 
 Masters." An inexperienced prince, when in any difficulty, 
 applies to his minister for advice, who replies by relating 
 some tale or fable, concluded by a maxim in verse, as 
 the moral of the story. These show his knowledge of 
 tlie world; and one, in opposition to that of the Grecian 
 sage, who said, men were to treat their friends as if they 
 were one day to become their enemies, deserves to be 
 recorded in honour of the more noble-minded Castilian ; 
 
 " Quicn te conscja Cncobrir <le tus amigos, 
 cngaiiarte quiera assaz, y sin testigos." 
 
 " Whoever counsels you to be reserved with your 
 friends, wishes to betray you without witnesses." Count 
 Lucanor is praised for the artless simplicity of its style, 
 joined to acuteness of observation. In addition, Manuel 
 composed a Chronicle of Spain, and other prose works, 
 as well as several poems. 
 
 The civil wars and rebellions that desolated Spain at 
 this time checked the literary spirit, and prevented the 
 cultivation of learning. Juan Ruiz, arch-priest of Hita, 
 and Ayala, the historiographer, are almost the only 
 names we find in addition to those ' already mentioned. 
 Juan Ruiz wrote an allegorical satire in Castillian 
 Alexandrines. 
 
 With John II., who reigned from 1407 to 1454, 
 began a brighter sera. Politically, his reign was disastrous 
 and stormy. The monarchy was threatened with de- 
 struction, and the king had not sufficient firmness to 
 make himself respected. His love of poetry and learn- 
 ing, sympathised in by many of his nobles, secured him, 
 however, the affections of his adherents; and in the 
 midst of civil commotion, despite his deficiency of reso- 
 lution, there gathered round him a court faithful to his 
 cause, and civilised by its love of letters. The marquess 
 of Vi lien a had already distinguished himself; he was
 
 INTRODUCTION. 13 
 
 SO celebrated for his acquirements in natural and me- 
 taphysical knowledge that he came to be looked on as 
 a magician. He was admired also as a poet. He wrote 
 an allegorical drama, whicli was represented at court. 
 He translated the ^neid, and extended his patronage 
 and protection to other poets by instituting floral games. 
 To instruct them, he wrote a sort of Art of Poetry, 
 termed La Gaya Ciencia, In it he praises, as Petrarch 
 had done at the Neapolitan court, the uses of poetry. 
 " So great," he says, " are the benefits derived from 
 this science on civil hfe, banishing indolence and 
 employing noble minds in useful inquiries, that other 
 nations have sought and established among themselves 
 schools for this art, so that it became spread through 
 various parts of the world." The zeal of this noble 
 elevated the art he protected ; he inspired others, as well 
 born as himself, with equal enthusiasm, and was the 
 patron of those less fortunate in worldly advantages. 
 He died at Madrid in 1434. 
 
 His friend and pupil, the marquess of Santillana, was 
 a better poet. Quintana remarks of him that " he 
 was one of the most generous and valiant knights that 
 adorned his age. A learned man, an easy and sweet 
 love poet, just and serious in sentiment." His elegy 
 on the death of the marquess of Villena is the most 
 celebrated of his poems. Other names occur of less 
 note. Jorge Manrique, who has left a fragment of poetry 
 more purely written than belongs to liis age. Garci 
 Sanchez of Badajos, and Marcias. This last is less 
 known for his ])octry, of wliich we possess only four 
 songs, than for his melancholy death. He loved one 
 who refused to, or, disdaining, him, married another. 
 But still he was unable to conquer his fatal attachment. 
 The husband obtained that he should be thrown into 
 prison ; but this did not suffice for his vengeance, nor 
 are we surprised when we know the delicate sense of 
 connubial honour entertained by tlie Spaniards. He, 
 the l.usban<l, concerted with the alcaide of the tower in 
 which Marcias was imprisoned, and found means to
 
 l-t LITEUAHY ANO SCIKNTIFIC MEN. 
 
 throw his hiiico at him as ho stood at a window. Mar- 
 cias was at tliis moment singing one of the songs he 
 had composed upon the lady of his love ; the lance 
 pierced him to the heart, and he died with the tale of 
 passion still hovering on his Jips. These circumstances, 
 and probably the enthusiasMc and amiable qualities of 
 the poet, rendered him an object of reverence and regret to 
 his countrymen. He was surnamed the Enemorado, and 
 his name, grown into a proverb, is still the synonyme in 
 Spain for a martyr to devoted love. His contemporary, 
 Juan de Mena, has commemorated his death in some 
 of the sweetest and most poetic verses of his Labyrinto. 
 Juan de Mena is often called the Ennius of Spain. 
 He is the most renowned of the writers of that early 
 age. He was born at Cordova in about the year 1412. 
 Cordova, the seat of the most famous Moorish uni- 
 versity, had just been recovered by the Christians. 
 Juan de Mena was sprung from a respectable though not 
 noble family ; at the age of twenty-three he fulfilled 
 some civil office in his native city, of which in after 
 times he spoke with affection, as we find these lines in 
 one of his poems : — 
 
 " Thou flo'verot wisdom and of chivalry, 
 Cordova, mother mine! forgive thy son, 
 If in the music o( my lyre, no tone 
 Be sweet and loud enough to honour thee. 
 Mo<lels of w'Siiom and of bravery 
 I see reflected through thy annals bright. 
 1 will not praise thee, praise thee tliough I might, 
 Lest I of flattery should suspected be."* 
 
 Juan de Mena studied, however, at the university of 
 Salamanca, and, induced by a love of inquiry and desire 
 to gain knowledge, made a journey to Rome. Sis- 
 mondi says, " On becoming acquainted with the poetry 
 of Dante, his imagination received no inspiration, and 
 his taste was spoilt. His greatest work is called El 
 
 « 
 
 ' O flor de saber y cabelleria, 
 Cordoba madre, tu hijo perdona, 
 si en los cantares, que agora pregona 
 no divulgr(; tu saliiduria. 
 De sabioii, valientcs loarte podria 
 qui fucron cspejo muy maravilloso; 
 por ser de ti mismn, sere sopcchoso, 
 diran que los pinto mejor que debia." 
 
 Wiffen's Life of Garcilaso.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 15 
 
 Labyrinto, or Las Trescients Coplas ; it is an allegory, 
 in tetradactyls, of human life." A man is more likely 
 to be incited by the spirit of his age than a single poem. 
 Dante and his contemporaries had most at heart the in- 
 structing of their fellow-creatures. The great Tuscan 
 poet, in his Divina Commedia, had the design of compre- 
 hending all human knowledge ; and the Hterary men of 
 those days considered visions the proper poetical mode 
 of conveying the secrets of nature and of morals. It is 
 no wonder that Juan de Mena, whose poetic genius was 
 certainly not of the highest description (it might be 
 compared to that of Bruno Latini, the master of Dante), 
 was more led away by the theories and tenets he must 
 have heard continually discussed in conversation in 
 Italy, and endeavoured, as his highest aim, rather to 
 instruct his countrymen in the mysteries of life and 
 death, nature and philosophy, than to express actions 
 and feelings in such harmonious numbers as he heard 
 frequently carolled among the hills, or sung at night 
 beneath some beauty's window. The romances we now 
 prize, as the genuine and poetic expression of the passions 
 Of man, could not in his eyes aspire to the height of the 
 muse, whom he sought to gift with the power of pene- 
 trating and explaining the mysteries of hfe and death — 
 the globe and all that it contains. 
 
 In this manner, however, he excited the respect of the 
 patronsof learning. King John and the marquess of San- 
 tillana both honoured and loved him ; he was named one 
 of the king's historiographers, an institution originating 
 with AiphonsoX., and those appointed to it were expected 
 to continue the national chronicles down to their own 
 time. Juan de Mena lived in high favour at the court 
 of John II., and constantly adhered to him. He died in 
 145f), at Guadalaxara in New Castille, and the marquess 
 of Santillana erected a moiuiment to him. 
 
 Quintana speaks of tlie Luhi/rinto as " the most inter- 
 esting monument of Spanish poetry in that age, which 
 left all contemporary writers far behind him." Hut after 
 all, it is a mere specimen of tiie poetic art of those days :
 
 16 
 
 MTEUAKY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 not like Dante, could he put a human soul into his 
 allegory, vhich wins and enchants with ever renewing 
 interest, nor adorn visible objects with that truth and 
 delicacy, and vividness of description, in which art 
 Dante has been unsurpassed by any poet of any age or 
 country. Juan de Mena's allegory is heavy, his details 
 tiresome, the interest absolutely null, and his poetical 
 invention, such as it was, subordinate to false learning. 
 He intends to sing of the vicissitudes of fortune, 
 ruled, as they are, by the seven planets, to whom Pro- 
 vidence gives such power. He invokes Apollo and 
 Calliope, and then apostrophises Fortune, asking leave to 
 blame her when she may deserve censure. He then, 
 in imitation of all vision-writers, loses himself, when a 
 lady of wonderful beauty appears, and presents herself 
 to him as his guide. The lady is Providence : she bids 
 him look, and he goes on to describe what he saw : — 
 
 Turning my eyes to where she bade me gazpy 
 
 Behold, three ponderous wheels I saw within ; 
 And two were still — nor even moved their place ; 
 
 The other swiftly, round and round, did spin. 
 Below them on the ground 1 saw the space 
 
 O'ersprcad by nations vast, who once had been. 
 And each upon the brow engraven wore 
 
 The name and fate the which on earth they bore. 
 
 And in one wheel that stood immoveable 
 
 I saw the gatherings of a future race ; 
 And that, which to the ground was doomed to fall, 
 
 A dark veil cast upon the hideous place. 
 Covered with all her dead. — I was not able 
 
 The meaning of the sight I saw to trace ; 
 So I implored my guide that she would show 
 
 The meaning of [he vision there below. * 
 
 * " Bolviendo los ojos a do me mandava, 
 
 vi mas adentro muy grandes trcs ruedas, 
 las dos gran firmes, immotas y quedas 
 
 mas la del medio boltar no ce^sava. 
 Vi que debaxo de todos cttava 
 
 caida por ticrra grand gente infinita, 
 que avia en la froiite cada qual escrita, 
 
 el mombre y la suerte por donde passava. 
 
 y vi que en la una que no sc movia, 
 
 la gente que en ella avia de ser, 
 y la que debaxo esperava caer 
 
 con turbi<lo velo suinorte cubria. 
 Y yo que de aqiiello niuy poco sontia, 
 
 fiz de mi dubda coiiipli.ia palahra ; 
 a mi guiadora, rogan<lo que me aiira 
 
 aquesta figura que yo no entendia."
 
 lyXRODUCTION. 17 
 
 The wheels of course represent the past^ present, and 
 future, each governed by the seven planets. Providence 
 points out the various personages distinguished in the 
 wheel of the past and the present; and the poet has thus 
 occasion to make great display of knowledge on every 
 subject, and deduces from time to time maxims upon 
 the conduct of hfe and the government of nations ; and 
 thus, as Dante intended in his Commedia, does Juan 
 de Mena introduce instruction on all the sciences then 
 known. In common Avith every writer of his class, he 
 thinks more of what he has to say, than of the melody 
 of his versification ; sometimes his subject suggests lines 
 at once animated and sonorous ; at other times they are 
 tame or turgid. He is not backward in giving moral 
 lessons, either to prince or people ; yet Quintana regards 
 this work probably with too much partiality when he 
 says that we shall always dip into it with pleasure. We 
 regard it with some curiosity, and more respect, and with 
 but little liking. 
 
 One other name we will mention, since it is connected 
 with the Spanish theatre ; and dramatic writing became 
 in progress of time the most truly national as well as 
 original and perfect form in which the genius of Spanish 
 poetry embodied itself. Juan de Enzina wrote the first 
 Spanish plays. It is true that Villena wrote an alle- 
 gorical drama, which is lost, and other compositions took 
 the form of dialogue ; but Enzina, who was a musical 
 composer, converted mere pastoral eclogues into real 
 dramas. lie was born at Salamanca, in the reign of 
 IsalK'Ua. He travelled to Jerusalem, in company with 
 the marquis de Tarifa, and he lived some time at Rome, 
 as maestro da capclla, or director of music, to pojio Loo X. 
 The.se travels and residences at a distance from liis native 
 country, must have stored his mind with ideas; but though 
 Italy had reached the zenith of her poetic glory at that 
 time, he became no pu|)il of hers. Perhaps he found 
 Spanish metres, and the Spanish poetic diction did notlend 
 itw'If to any but tlie Spanish style; and he never dreamt, 
 as Roseau afterwards so admirably .succeeded m doing, of 
 
 VOL. III. C
 
 18 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 enlarging the sphere of Spanish poetry by introducing 
 Italian modes of rhythm : his songs and lyrics are in 
 the style of the cancioneros ; and the very (juips and 
 cranks in which he indulged have the rough humour 
 and extravagant imagination of Castile, not the pointed 
 wit or airy lightness of Italy. Among other things, 
 he published a song of contraries, or absurdities, 
 (disparates,) which has made his name proverbial in 
 Spain. He converted Virgil's eclogues into ballads, 
 and applied to the sovereigns and nobles of Spain the 
 compliments Virgil addressed to the emperor Augustus. 
 His sacred and profane eclogues were acted at court at 
 Christmas-eve and carnival : these are lost. Some of 
 his songs, calculated to become popular from their 
 spirit, and the tone they seized, which was suited to the 
 hour, remain. There is one translated by Dr. Bowring, 
 which is a Farewell to the Carnival (Antruejo), which, in 
 the Spanish at least, has all the zest and animation of a 
 drinking song : — 
 
 " Come let us eat and drink to-day, 
 
 And sing, and laugh, and banish sorrow. 
 For we must part to-morrow. 
 
 In Antrucjo's honour — fill 
 The laughing cii]! with wine and glee, 
 And feast and dance with eager will, 
 And crowd the hours with revelry. 
 For that is wisdom's counsel still — 
 To day be gay, and banish sorrow, 
 For we must part to-morrow. 
 
 Honour the saint — the morning ray 
 Will introduce the monster death ; 
 There 's breathing space for joy to-day, 
 To-morrow ye shall gasp for breath ; 
 So now be frolicsome and gay. 
 And tread joy's rounil and bani.sh sorrow, 
 ♦ For we must part to-morrow." • 
 
 que todo hoy nos hartemos, 
 •" Hoy comamos y bobamos, pues manaiia ayunaremos. 
 
 V cantcmos y holguemos 
 oue mafiana ayunaremos. Honremos a tan buen santo 
 
 que mafiana viene la mnerte, 
 Por honra de San Antruejo comamos, bebemos huerte 
 
 paremoEios lioy bien anchos, que niaiiana habra qiiebranto 
 
 cmbutamos estos panchos, comamos, bebamos tanto 
 
 recal'juemos el pellejo hasta que nos reventemos, 
 
 que costurabre es de concejo pues maCana ayunaremos."
 
 INTRODUCTION. 1 9 
 
 Meanwhile the state of Spain had wholly changed. The 
 struggle with the Moors had ended, and its civil dissen- 
 tions were no more. The union of the crowns of 
 Aragon and Castile under Ferdinand and Isabella 
 placed the country under one sovereign ; and the con- 
 quest of Granada put an end to the last jMoorish 
 kingdom. The Spaniards, with their constitutional 
 Cortes, made a noble struggle for civil liberty at the 
 beginning of the reign of Charles V. ; but they failed, 
 and an absohite monarchy, guarded by the most nefarious 
 of all institutions, the inquisition, was established ; 
 the vaunted privileges of the grandees of Spain became 
 matters of court etiquette, instead of lofty mani 
 festations of their equality with their sovereign ; the 
 conquest of America brought money to the country, 
 which was quickly drained from it by the wars in 
 Italy ; while the Lutheran heresy again set alight those 
 cruel fires which were at first destined for ahens, — such 
 Jews and Moors miglit be termed. Liberty of thought, 
 as well as of action, was destroyed ; and though the 
 terrors of the inquisition were displayed more in Flanders 
 than in the Peninsula itself, that arose from the circum- 
 stance that in the one country it was resisted, while in 
 the other it was submitted to with a prostration of soul 
 unknown to any other country or age 
 
 For a time, however, the energies of the nation were 
 rather turned aside than checked by these events. The 
 noble spirit of I'adilla existed in the Spanish bosom, 
 though turned from its elevated patriotism. The achieve- 
 ments of Charles V. awoke enthusiastic loyalty ; while 
 his enterprises gave birth to a scries of warriors and 
 licroes. Their vast acijuisitions in what they named the 
 Indies, added to the splendour of tlie Spanish name. 
 Glory, if not liberty ; pride, though not independence, 
 awoke in them a courageous and daring, though stern 
 and cruel spirit, which led to those successes which spread 
 a lustre over their name and age. But at the same lime 
 it must be observed, that these very wars and conquests 
 drainidSpainof those ardent and eiiterjirising spirits, who, 
 
 c 2
 
 20 LITERAKY AND SCIENTIFIC MFN. 
 
 if they had not been so employed^ had probably exerted 
 tliemsclves to free their country, and to withstand those 
 encroachments of royalty, and the church, which, after 
 the lapse of a few years, acted so detrimentally on the 
 prosperity of Spain. 
 
 The crown of Castile also rose in eminence over that 
 of Aragon, and the Castilian became the language of 
 the court. AV^riters, in whatever province their birth- 
 place might be cast, adopted Castilian as the classic 
 language of the country. 
 
 Juan de Enzina, though he had sojourned in Italy, 
 became imbued by none of its spirit. It could not always 
 be thus. The Neapolitan wars in the time of Ferdinand 
 caused numbers of Spaniards to visit Italy. From the 
 very beginning of the reign of Charles V., these wars 
 increased in importance, and the intercourse between 
 the two countries became more frequent and intimate. 
 The time therefore was at hand when Spain would learn 
 from Italy that poetic art in Avhich she was yet a chUd, 
 though a child of genius. At this epoch we commence 
 the lives of the literary men of Spain. They came out 
 many at once, like a constellation. The first in the list 
 were born either quite at the end of the fifteenth, or at 
 the very commencement of the sixteenth century, and 
 accordingly were contemporaries of Charles V.
 
 21 
 
 BOSCAN. 
 
 1500 — 1543. 
 
 The first Spanish poet who introduced the Italian style 
 was Mosen Juan Boscan Almogaver. He was a man of 
 mild and contemplative disposition, and thus fitted to 
 receive the shackles of rules of taste from others, at 
 the same time that, being a genuine poet, he could ani- 
 mate the harmony and grace of his versification with 
 earnest sentiments and original thought. Restrain him- 
 self as he would, the genius of the Spanish language 
 and early association, forced him into greater vividness 
 and simplicity of expression than his Italian prototypes ; 
 and at the same time, being a Catalonian, the very lan- 
 guage of Castile, which, as h>-ving become the classic 
 language of his country, he adopted, was to a certain de- 
 gree a foreign tongue, and he could more easily abandon 
 the peculiar rhythm of its national poetry for versifi- 
 cation, such as was to be found in the productions of 
 the Provencal poets, to which his native country and 
 dialect were akin. 
 
 Little is known of the life of Boscan beyond its 
 mere outline. He was born at Barcelona at the 
 close of the fifteenth century, of a noble and ancient 
 family. He followed the career of arms in his 
 youth, and travelled during a few years. He married 
 donna Ana Giron de llcbolledo, a lady of distinguished 
 birth ; and he commemorates their domestic happiness 
 in his verses, dwelling on the detail with all the fond- 
 ness and pride that springs from a thankful enjoyment 
 of a tranquil life. After his marriage he resided 
 almost constantly at his native town of Barcelona, 
 though sometimes he attended the court of the emperor 
 Charles V., where he was liild in high consideration. At 
 one time, strange to say, he filled the office of governor 
 Ui the youthful duke of Alva, whose cruelties have 
 
 o3
 
 22 LITEHAllY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 gained for him such ill renown. 'I'liat he vas so, is 
 rather a blot in his character with us ; among his 
 countrymen it is otherwise. Spanish writers regard the 
 duke of Alva as a hero. His crimes had place in a 
 distant land — in his own he was distinguished f )r his 
 magnificence and his talents, while his very bigotry was 
 considered a virtue. M'^hen, therefore, Sedano men- 
 tions this circumstance, he speaks of it with pride, 
 saying, " Boscan's rank, joined to his blameless man- 
 ners and his talents, caused him to be chosen governor 
 to the great duke of Alva, don Fernando, which office 
 he filled with success, as is proved by the heroic virtues 
 that adorned the soul of his pupil, which were the result 
 of Boscan's education." 
 
 From early youth Boscan was a poet ; at first he 
 wrote in the old Spanish style ; but he was still young 
 when his attention was called to the classic productions 
 of Italy, and he was incited to adopt the Italian versifi- 
 cation and elegiac style, so to enlarge the sphere of Spanish 
 poetry. It was in the pear 1525 that Andrea Navagero 
 came as ambassador from Venice to the court of the 
 emperor Charles V. at Toledo. The Venetian was of 
 noble birth, and so addicted to study as to injure his 
 health by the severity of his application.* A state of 
 melancholy ensued, only to be alleviated by travel. He 
 was familiar with Greek and Latin literature, and cul- 
 tivated a refined taste that could scarcely be satisfied by 
 the most finished productions of his native lanfl, while 
 he exercised the severest judgment, even to the destruc- 
 tion of his own. At Toledo he fell in with Boscan 
 and Garcilaso. Their tastes, their love of poetry and 
 of the classics, were the same ; and the superior learning 
 of the Italian led him to act the preceptor to his younger 
 friends. Through his arguments they were led to quit the 
 composition of their national redondillas, and to aspire 
 to introduce more elegance and a wider scope of ideas into 
 their native poetry. Boscan, in his dedication of a volume 
 
 » WifTen's Life of Garcilaso de la Vegu . who gives us traiislationt of 
 tome very pleasing Latin verses by Navagero.
 
 BOSCAN. 23 
 
 of his poems, wliich included several of Garcilaso's, to 
 the duchess of Soma, thus mentions the circumstances 
 that led tliem to contemplate this change : " Con- 
 versing one day on literary subjects with Navagero 
 the Venetian ambassador (whom I wish to men- 
 tion to your ladyship as a man of great celebrity in 
 these days), and particularly upon the different genius 
 of various languages, he inquired of me why, in Cas- 
 tilian, we never attempted sonnets and other kinds of 
 composition used by the best writers in Italy ; he not 
 only said this, but urged me to set the example. A 
 few days after I departed home, and musing on a variety 
 of things during a long and solitary journey, frequently 
 reflected on Navagero's advice, and thus at length began 
 the attempt. I found at first some difficulty, as this 
 kind of versification is extremely complex, and has 
 many peculiarities different from ours ; but afterwards, 
 from the partiality we naturally entertain towards our own 
 productions, I thought I had succeeded well, and gra- 
 dually grew warm and eager in the pursuit. Thisj 
 however, would not have been sufficient to stimulate me 
 to proceed, had not Garcilaso encouraged me, whose 
 judgment, not only in my opinion, but in that of the 
 whole world, is esteemed a certain rule. Praising 
 uniforiTily my essays, and giving me the highest possible 
 mark of approbation in following himself my example, 
 he induced me to devote myself exclusively to the under- 
 takmg.'' 
 
 p]very thing combines to give us the idea of Boscan 
 as a good and a happy man, enjoying so much of pro- 
 sperity and rank as would make him fi'ol satisfied and 
 complacent, and endowed with such talents as rendered 
 poetry a pleasing occupation, and the fame he acquired 
 dt'lightfid. Blessed with a mild and affectionate disposi- 
 tion, liiippiiy married, living contented, he posscs-^cd ad- 
 vantages that must have added greatly to his hap|)iness, 
 through the good fortune which gave him accomplished 
 and nohlc friends, addicted to the same studies, delight- 
 ing in the same pursuits, sympathising in his views, and 
 
 c 4
 
 24' LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC BIICN. 
 
 affording him the assistance of their applause and imi- 
 tation. What we know of Boscan, indeed, is princi- 
 pally through the mention made of him by his friends. 
 Garcilaso de la Vega, superior to his friend as a poet, 
 was one of those gallant spirits whose existence is a poem, 
 and was closely allied to him in friendship. It was through 
 Garcilaso's advice and encouragement that Boscan 
 translated Castiglione's Libra del Cortigiano, — a book 
 then just published, and which enjoyed the highest re- 
 pute in Italy. The translation was accompanied by 
 a dedication written by Garcilaso, which Sedano praises 
 as " an exquisite piece of eloquence," in which he 
 speaks of his friend with the fond praise which genuine 
 affection inspires. Several of Garcilaso's sonnets, an 
 epistle, and an elegy, are addressed to Boscan, and all 
 breathe a mixture of friendship and esteem delightful to 
 contemplate. He mentions him also in his second ec- 
 logue. When describing the sculpture on a vase of the 
 God of the river Tonnes, he describes don Fernando, duke 
 of Alva, as being depicted among other heroes of the age, 
 and Boscan, in attendance, as his preceptor. It must be 
 remembered, that when this elegy was written, the duke 
 was in the bloom of youth, and regarded as the man 
 of promise of his age ; %vhile his life was yet unstained 
 by the crimes that render him hateful in our eyes. It 
 is a sage named Severo who is gazing on the ixrn of 
 old Tormes. 
 
 " Next as his lonks along the sculptures glanced, 
 A youth with Pha-bus hand in hand advanced ; 
 Courteous his air, from his ingenuous face, 
 Inform'd with wisdom, modesty, and grace. 
 And every mild att'ection, at a scan 
 The i)asser-l)y would mark him for a man. 
 Perfect in all gentilities of mind 
 That sweeten life and harmonise mankind. 
 The form which lively thus the sculptor drew. 
 Assured Severo in an instant knew, 
 For him who had hy careful culture shown 
 Fernando's spirit, lovely as his own ; 
 Had given him grace, sincerity, and case, 
 The pure politeness ttiat Jispires to please. 
 The candid virtues that disdain pretence. 
 And martial manliness, and sprightly sense, 
 With all the generous courtesies enshrined 
 In the fair temple of Fernando's mind.
 
 BOSCAN. S5 
 
 When well surveyed his name Severo read, 
 
 • BcMCAN I* whose genius o'er the world is spread. 
 
 In whose illumined aspect shines the lire 
 
 That, strcam'd from Delphos, lights him to the lyre. 
 
 And warms those songs which with mankind shall stay 
 
 Whilst endless ages roll untelt away." * 
 
 Besides Garcilaso^ Boscan enjoyed the friendship of a 
 man, far different in the qualities of his mind, but of 
 high powers of intellect, and of a noble though arrogant 
 and proud disposition. The epistles in verse that passed 
 between Boscan and don Diego Uurtado de ]\Iendoza 
 prove the friendship that subsisted between them, and 
 the esteem in which Boscan was held ; at the same 
 time they present a delightful picture of the tranquil 
 happiness which the poet enjoyed, ^lendoza's epistle is 
 imitated from Horace ; it is written in praise of a tran- 
 quil life. At the conclusion it describes the delights of a 
 rural seclusion, ornamented by all the charms of nature ; 
 and he introduces his friend as enjoying these in perfec- 
 tion, attended on by his wife, who plucks for him the rarest 
 grapes and ripe fruit, — the fresh and sweet gifts of sum- 
 mer, — waiting on him with diligence and joy, proud and 
 happy in her task. Boscan, in his reply, dilates on the 
 subject, and fills up the picture with a thousand graces 
 and refinements of feeling drawn from nature, and which 
 coming warm from the heart, reach our own. 
 
 I am tempted to introduce a portion of this epistle. 
 The fault of the Spaniards in their literature is ditfuse- 
 ness ; I have therefore endeavoured in some degree to 
 compress the rambling of the poet, wliile I suppress no 
 sentiment, nor introduce a new idea. Little used to versi- 
 fication, my translation wants smoothness; but present- 
 ing, as it docs, a picture of domestic life, such as was 
 passed at a distant age and in a distant land, yet resem- 
 bling so nearly our own notions of the pleasures of 
 home, I think it cannot fail to interest the reader. 
 
 Boscan commences, in imitation of Horace, by com- 
 mending the tranijuillity enjoyed in a middle station of 
 life. He then goes on to adorn liis canvass with a 
 [licture of conjugal attachment and happiness : — 
 
 • WifTen'i translation of (Jarcilaso's pocnu.
 
 26 LITKUAnV AND SCIKNTIFIO MEN. 
 
 'Tis iH'ai'o tli:it makes a happy life; • 
 AikI tliat is mine tlinniKli mv sweet wife; 
 ijegimiiiiK oliny soul ami eml, 
 I've Kaiii'il new heinR from this friend, — 
 She tills each thoiiRlit. ami each desire, 
 Up to thf height I would aspire. 
 This bliss is never found by rauKing ; 
 Regret still springs from saddest ehan};ing ; 
 Such loves and their beguiling pleasures, 
 Are falser still than magic treasures. 
 Which gleam at eve with golden colour, 
 And change to ashes ere the morrow. 
 But now each good that I possess, 
 Rooted in truth and faithfulness. 
 Imparts delight to every sense ; 
 For erst they were a mere pretence. 
 And long before enjoy'd they were, 
 They changed their smiles to grizly care. 
 Now pleasures please — love being single — 
 Evils with its delights ne'er mingle. 
 My bed's become a place of rest. 
 Two souls repose on one soft breast ; 
 And still in peace my simple board 
 Is spread, and tranquil feasts afford. 
 Before, to eat I scarce was able. 
 Some harpv hover'd o'er my table, 
 Spoiling each dish when I would dine, 
 And mingling gall with gladsome wiiie- 
 
 *" y asi yo por seguir aquesta via, 
 
 heme casado con una muger 
 que es principio y fin del alma mia. 
 
 Esta me ha dado luego un nuevo ser, 
 con tal felicidad que me sostiene 
 
 llena la voluntad y el entcnder. 
 Esta me haee ver que ella conviene 
 
 a mi, y las otras no me convenian ; 
 u esta tengo yo, y ella me liene. 
 
 En Mii las otras iban y venian, 
 y a poder de mudanzas a montones 
 
 de mi puro dolor se mantenian. 
 Eran ya para mi sus galardones 
 
 como tesoros por encantanuentos, 
 que luego se volvian en carbones. 
 
 Ahora son bienes que en mi siento 
 firmes, macizos, con vcrdad fundados, 
 
 y sabrosos en todo el sentimiento. 
 Solian mis placercs darcuidados 
 
 y al tiempo que llegaban a gustarfic 
 ya llegaban a mi casi daiiados. 
 
 Ahora el bien es bien para gozarse, 
 y el placer es lo que es, que siempre i)l.ace, 
 
 y el mal ya con el bien no ha de juntarse. 
 Al satisfecho todo satisface 
 
 y asi tambien a mi por lo que ho hccho 
 quanto ((uiero y deseo .«e me h.ice. 
 
 el cainpo que era de batalla el lecho 
 ya es lecho [i.ira mf de piz durable 
 
 dos almas hay confornies en un necho. 
 La mesa en otro tiempo abominable 
 
 y el tnstc pan (|ue en ella yo coniia, 
 y el vino que bebia lamentable ; 
 
 infestannonie sicmpre algun.. harpia 
 que en miiad del deleyte ini vtanda 
 
 con amargos putages envoi via.
 
 BOSCAN. 27 
 
 Now the content that foolish I 
 
 Still missM in my philosophy. 
 
 My wife with tender smik-s bestows. 
 
 And makes me triumph o'er iny woes; 
 
 While with her finger she eliaces 
 
 Of my past folly all the traces, 
 
 And graving pleasant thoughts instead. 
 
 Bids me rejoice that I am wed. 
 
 » * « 
 
 And thus, by moderation bounded, 
 I live by my own goods surrounded. 
 Among my friends, my table spread 
 With viands we may eat nor dread; 
 And at my siile my sweetest wife. 
 Whose gentleness admits no strife,— 
 Except of jealousy the fear. 
 Whose soft reproaches more endear. 
 Our darling children round us gather, 
 Children who will make me grandfather. 
 And thus we pass in town our days. 
 Till the confinement something weighs; 
 Then to our village haunt we Hy, 
 Taking some pleasant company — 
 While those we love not never come 
 Anear our rustic leafy home; 
 for better 't is t' philosophise. 
 And learn a lesson truly wise, 
 From lowing herd and bleating flock. 
 Than from 5ome men of vulgar stock ; 
 
 Ahora el casto amor acude y manda 
 
 que todo se rae haga muy sabroao, 
 andando sicmpre todo como aiula. 
 
 De manera, Seflor, que aqut-l reposo 
 que nunra alcance yo por mi vcntura 
 
 con mi filosofar triste y penoso, 
 Una sola muger me le asegura, 
 
 y en perfcta sazon me da en las manos 
 vitoria general de mi tristura. 
 
 y aquellos pensamientos mios tan vanos 
 ella los va borrandb con el dedo, 
 
 y escribe en lugar de ellos otros sanos. 
 ♦ • * 
 
 Dcjenme estar contento entrc mis co^as 
 
 comicndo en compafiia mait<amentc 
 comidas que no sean sospechnsas. 
 
 Conmigo y mi iiiuger eabrosainentc 
 e*tc, y al^'Uiia vez me pida celos 
 
 con tal que me loit pida blandamcnte. 
 Comamot y belinmos din recelos 
 
 la me»a de muchachos ro<lcada ; 
 murhachos che iios hagan ser abuclos. 
 
 I'asaremos asi iiuetira Jornada 
 ahora en la ciudad, ahora en la Alden, 
 
 (Kirquc la vida cst^ mas desi^aiitadu. 
 Qiiando |H-4.'ida la Ciudad nonisea 
 
 ir<'-ino« al I>iigar con la compaiia 
 A donde el irnpi>rtuno no noa vca. 
 
 Alii KC viviracon menr>!i m.ifi.i, 
 y no halir'i el hiiinlire taiito guardarce 
 
 del malo o ilil grnnero que o» cngafio. 
 Alii po<lra mejor filonaranic, 
 
 con l'» hueyet y rabran y ovcju 
 que con lot que del vulgo han de tratar^o.
 
 28 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 And rustics, as flipy hold the plough, 
 May olteii good advicu ticstow. 
 Ol love, too, wc may have tlie joy — 
 For PhaH)U8 as a shopherd boy 
 Wandcr'd oiuf among the cU)ver, 
 Of some lair shepherdess the lover; 
 And Venus wept in rustic bower, 
 Adonis turn'd to purple (lower ; 
 And Bacchus midst the mountains dcrar, 
 Forgot the pangs of jealous fear ; 
 And nymphs that in the waters play, 
 ('T)S thus that ancient fables say), 
 And dryads fair among the trees. 
 Fain the sprightly fawns would please, 
 So in their footsteps follow we. 
 My wife and I, — as fond and free, — 
 Love in uur thoughts and in our talk, 
 Direct we slow our saunt'ring walk. 
 To some near murm'ring rivulet ; 
 Where 'neath a shady beech we sit, 
 Hand clasp'd in hand, and side by side. 
 With some sweet kisses too beside. 
 Contending there, in combat kind, 
 Which best can love with constant mind. 
 As the stream flows among the grass. 
 Thus life's clear stream with us does pass : 
 We take no count of day nor night, 
 While, minist'ring to our delight, 
 Nightingales all sweetly sing. 
 And loving doves, with folded wing. 
 Above our heads are heard to coo; 
 And far's the ill-betiding crow. 
 We do not think of cities then. 
 Nor envj- the resorts of men, — 
 
 Alii no seran roalas las coneejas 
 que contaran los simples labradores 
 
 viniendo de arrastrar las duras rejas. 
 cSerii pues malo alii tratar de amores 
 
 Vicndo que Apolo con su gentilcza 
 Anduvo enamorado entre pastores ? 
 
 i y Venus no se vii'. en grandc ostrecheza 
 por Adonis vagando entre los prados ? 
 
 segun la antiguedad asi lo roza ? 
 j y IJaco no sintio fucrtes cuidados 
 
 por la cuitada que quedo durniiendo 
 en mitad de los moiites duspolilaiios? 
 
 Las ninas por las aguas parcciendo, 
 y entre las arboledas las Driadas 
 
 se ven con los l'"aunos rebullendo. 
 Nosotros seguiremos sus pisadas ; 
 
 digo yo y mi muger, nos andaremos 
 tratando alii las co^as namoradas. 
 
 A docorra algun rio nos iremos, 
 y a la sombra de alguna verde haya 
 
 a do estcmos mejor nos sentaremos. 
 Tenderme ha alii la alda de su saya 
 
 y en regalos de amor habra porfia 
 qual de entrambos hara mas alta raya. 
 
 El rio correra por do es su via 
 nosotros correremos jior la nuestra 
 
 sin pensar en el nocne ni en la ilia. 
 El ruisefior nos cantara a la diestra 
 
 y vendra sin el cuerbo la paluina 
 baciei'ido a su venida alegre muestra.
 
 BOSCAN. 29 
 
 Of Italy, the softer pleasures. 
 Of Asia too, the golden treasures. 
 All these are nothing in our eyes ; 
 The'while a book beside us lies. 
 Which tells the tales of olden time, 
 Of gods and men the bests subhme,— 
 Eneas' voyage by Virgil told, 
 Or song divine of Homer old, 
 Achilles' wrath and all his glory. 
 Or wandering Ulysses' story, 
 Propcrtius too, who well indites. 
 And the soft plaints Catullus writes ; 
 These will remind me of past grief. 
 Till, thinking of the sweet relief 
 My wedded state confers on me. 
 My bygone 'scapes I careless eye. 
 
 what are all those struggles past. 
 The fiery pangs which did not last. 
 Now that I live secure for aye. 
 
 In my dear wife's sweet company ? 
 
 1 have no reason to repine — 
 
 My joys are her's, and her's are mine; 
 Our tranquil hearts their feelings share, 
 And all our pleasures mutual are. 
 Our eyes drink in the shady light 
 Of wood, and vale, and grassy height ; 
 
 No tendremos cnvidia al que esta en Roma 
 ni a los tesoros de los Asianos, 
 
 ni a quaiito por aca de la India asoma. 
 Tendrt'nios nucstros libros en las manos 
 
 y no »e cansaran do andar contando 
 los hechos celcstiales y mundanos 
 
 Virgilio a Eneas estara cantando, 
 y Homeroel corazon de Aquilcs fieTO, 
 
 y el navigar de Ulises rodeando. 
 Propcrcio vendr.i alll por compafiero 
 
 el qual dir& con dulccs armonias 
 del arte que a su {"intia amo primero. 
 
 Catulo acudira por otras vias, 
 y Uorando <Ie Leibia los amores 
 
 sus Irampas llorara y chocarrcrias. 
 Ksto me advertir& de mis dolores — 
 
 pero volvicndo a mi placer prcsente 
 tendri' mis escarmientos por mejores. 
 
 (ianancia sacar£ del accidente 
 que otro ticni|>o mi sentir turbava 
 
 traycndoine perdido entre la gente. 
 ,; yue liar^ de arord.irme qual estaba 
 
 vicndomc qual estoy, que cstny seguro 
 de nunca mas pas:ir lo que pasaba? 
 
 Kn mi fuortc e»tare dentro en mi muro 
 tin locura de amor ni fantasia 
 
 que mi pue<la veneer con su conjure. 
 Corno digo estarfe en mi compaflia 
 
 en (odo mc hnra el camino llano 
 ■u alegria rnezrlando con la mia. 
 
 Su niaiiO me d.ira dentro oil mi mano, 
 y arudiran dilcyteii y blandurat 
 
 de un tano corazon en otro tano. 
 Ix)» ojo« holxaraii con las verdurni 
 
 de Im moiilei y pradoi que veremo* 
 J C'ln la« loinbr.ia ile lai el>pe^urai. 
 
 £1 corrcr de los aguai olremui
 
 so lilTERAKY AND SCIKNTIFIC MEM 
 
 We hear the waters as they stray. 
 
 Ami froin the ininnitaiiis wenil their way, 
 
 I.eapint; all lij!hlly iknvii the stee|>, 
 
 'J'ill at imr Icet they ii\iiriirriiiK erecp ; 
 
 And t'aiiruiiK us, the everniij^ lireezc, 
 
 I'lays ({ainesoinely ainoiij; the trees; 
 
 Wliile hlealing flocks, as day grows cold. 
 
 Gladly seek their shelt'ring i'lild. 
 
 And when the sun is on the hill. 
 
 And shadows vast the valleys fill. 
 
 And waning day, grown near its close,' 
 
 Sends tired itieii to their repose ; 
 
 Wc to our villa saunt'ring walk, 
 
 And of the things we see we talk. 
 
 Our friends come out in gayest cheer, 
 
 To welcome us — and fain would hear. 
 
 If my sweet wife be tired — and smile — 
 
 Inviting us to rest the while. 
 
 Then to sup we take our seat. 
 
 Our table ))lentiful and neat. 
 
 Our viands without sauces drest. 
 
 Good appetite the healthy zest 
 
 To fruits we've pluck'd in our own bowers, 
 
 And gaily deck'd with od'rous flowers. 
 
 And rustic dainties, — many a one. 
 
 When this is o'er and supper done. 
 
 y su blando venir por las montafias 
 
 que a su paso vendran dpnde estarcmos 
 El ayre movera las verdes cauas 
 
 y volveran entomes los ganados 
 balando por llcgar ft sus cabafias. 
 
 En esto ya que el sol por los eollados 
 sus largas sond)ras andara cncumbrando, 
 
 enviando reposo a los cansados, 
 nosotros nos ircmos paseando 
 
 acia al lugar do esta nuestra morada, 
 en cosas que veremos platicando. 
 
 La compaCa saldra regoeijada 
 a tomarnos entonces con gran fiesta 
 
 diciendo a mi niugcr si esta cansada. 
 Veremos al entrar le mesa pucsta, 
 
 y todo en buen concepto aparejado 
 como es uso de casa bien compuesta. 
 
 Despues que un poco habremos reposado 
 Bin ver bullir, andar yendo y viniendo, 
 
 y a cenar non habremos asentado. 
 Nuestros mozos vendran alii trayendo 
 
 viandas naturalcs y gustosas 
 que nutstro gusto esten todo moviendo. 
 
 Frutas pondran maduras y sabrosas 
 por nosotros las mas dc ellas cogidas, 
 
 embueltas en mil flores olorosas. 
 Las natas por los platas estendidas 
 
 acudiran y el bianco requeson, 
 y otras que dan cabras paridas. 
 
 Despues de esto vendra el tierno lechon 
 con el concjo gordo, y gazapito, 
 
 y aqucllos polios que de pasto son. 
 vendra tambien alii el nuevo cabrito 
 
 que a su madre jamas habra seguido 
 por el tieinpo de tierno y de chiquito. 
 
 Despues que todo esto haza vunido,
 
 BOSCAN. 
 
 The evening passes swift along. 
 In converse gay and swt-etest song ; 
 Till slumber, stealing to the eye, 
 Bids us to our couches hie. 
 I will not tell what there we do. 
 Even, dearest friend, to you ; 
 Enough that lovers ever share 
 Delights when they together are. 
 
 Thus our village life we live, 
 
 And day by day such joys receive; 
 
 Till, to change the homely scene. 
 
 Lest it pall while too serene, 
 
 To the gay city we remove. 
 
 Where other things there are to love ; 
 
 And graced by novelty we find 
 
 The city's concourse to our mind. 
 
 While our new coming gives a joy. 
 
 Which ever staying might destroy. 
 
 We spare all tedious compliment — 
 
 Yet courtesy with kind intent. 
 
 Which savage tongues alone abuse. 
 
 Will often the same language use. 
 
 Thus in content we thankful live, 
 
 And for one ill for which we grieve. 
 
 How much of good our dear home blessfs ; 
 
 Mortals must ever find di>tresses, 
 
 But sorrow loses half its weight — 
 
 And every moment has its freight 
 
 31 
 
 y que nosotros descanfadamente 
 
 en nuestra cena hayamos bien comido, 
 pasaremos la noche dulcemeiite 
 
 hasta venir el tiempo que la gana 
 del dormir toma al hombre comunmentc. 
 
 Lo que desde este tiempo alia mailana 
 pas&re, pase ahora sin contarse, 
 
 pueg no cura mi pluma de ser vana : 
 basta saver que dns que tanto amarse 
 
 pudieron, no podran hallar momento 
 en que puedan dejar siempre de holgarse. 
 
 Pero tornando a proseguir el cuento, 
 nucitro vivir sera de vida cntera 
 
 viviendo en el aldca como cuento. 
 Trail csto ya que el corazon se quicra 
 
 desenfadar con variar la vida 
 tornando nuevo gusto en su niancra, 
 
 a la ciudail sera nuestra partida 
 a donde todo nos ser.'i placiente 
 
 con el nuevo placer <ie la venida. 
 Holgaremos enloiies con la gente, 
 
 y con la noveilad de lialior llegado 
 tratarcmoH con todos blandaniente. 
 
 Y el cumplimiento iiue e« siempre pesaap 
 a lo mcnna aquel que dc ser vano, 
 
 no e» nuTiO* enujo.to que cscusado ; 
 Alaballc putorft muy en la rnano, 
 
 y decir que por »olo el cumplimiento 
 •c conferva en el inundo el Irato humano. 
 
 Nucitro vivir a<i ertnrA contento, 
 y alcanz.iremoH mil ratoA gozo«f>s 
 
 en reeompnisa di* on ileitahnniicnto. 
 Y aunque n veccs no faltan enojon, 
 
 tmlavia entre nueotroo conncidoa 
 •lulr.it 'crfin mu y loi labrotoi.
 
 32 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MKN. 
 
 Of joy — which our dear friends impart. 
 And with (hoir kindness chuor my heart. 
 While, never weary us to visit, 
 They s-eek iiur house wlien we are in it : 
 If we are out it ^ives tlieni pain, 
 And on the ni(>rrow come ajjani. 
 Noble Dura! can cure our .»ailnes8. 
 With the infection of liis gladness: 
 AUKUslin loo — well read in pages, 
 Proiluoliiins ol the ancient sages, 
 Anil the romances ol our Spain— 
 Wdl give us hack our smiles again ; 
 While lie with a noble gravity, 
 Adorned by the gentlest suavity, 
 Kccounis us many a talc or fable. 
 Which well to tell he is most able; 
 Serious, mingled with jokes and glee. 
 The which as light and shade agree. 
 And Monleon, our dearest guest, 
 Will raise our mirth by many a jest; 
 For while his laughter rings again. 
 Can we to echo it refrain ? 
 And other merriment is ours. 
 To gild with joy the lightsome hours. 
 Hut all too trivial would it look, 
 Written down gravely in a book : 
 And it is time to say adieu. 
 Though more I have to write to you. 
 Another letter this shall tell, 
 So now, my dearest friend, farewell ! 
 
 Puds ya con los amigos mas queridos 
 que sera el alborozo y el placer 
 
 y el bullicio de ser recien venidos. 
 Que sera el nunca hartarnos de nos ver, 
 
 y el buscarnos cada hora y cada punto 
 y el pcsar de bnscarse sin se ver. 
 
 Mosen Dural alii estera muy junto, 
 haciendo con su trato y su nobleza 
 
 sobre nuestro placer el contrapunto. 
 Y con su bucn burlar y su llaneza 
 
 no sufriril un niomento tan ruin 
 que en nuestro gran placer muestre tristeza. 
 
 No (altera Geronimo Augustin 
 con su saber sahroso y agradable, 
 
 no menos que en romance en el latin : 
 el qual con gravidad mansa y tratable 
 
 Contando cosa bien por el notadas, 
 nuestro buen conversar hara durable. 
 
 Las burlas andaran por el mezeladas 
 con las veras asi con tal razon 
 
 que iinas de otras seran bien ayudadas. 
 En esto acudira el buen Monleon 
 
 con el qual todos mucho holgarfimos, 
 y nosotros y quantos con el son. 
 
 El nos dira, y nosotros gustaremos, 
 el reira, y hara que nos riamos, 
 
 Y en esto enfadarse ha de quanto haremof. 
 Otras cosa habra que las callamos, 
 
 porque tan bucnas son para haccrse 
 que pierden el valor si las hablamos. 
 Pero tiempo es en fin de recogerse, 
 porque haya mas para otro mensagero, 
 
 que si mi cuenta no ha de deshacerse 
 no sera, y os prometo, este el postrero."
 
 BOSCAN. 38 
 
 Thus lived Boscan, enjoying all that human nature 
 can conceive of happiness. One of his tasks, after the 
 lamented death of Garcilaso, was to collect his poems, 
 and to publish several in a volume with his own. The 
 date of his death is uncertain : it took place, however, 
 before the year 1 SiS ; so that he died comparatively 
 young. In person he was handsome ; his physiognomy 
 attractive from the mildness and benevolence it expressed; 
 and his manners distinguished by courtly urbanity and 
 elegance. 
 
 As a poet, he does not rank so high as his friend 
 Garcilaso ; he is less of a poet, less ideal, less harmonious. 
 His chief praise results from his coming forward as the 
 reformer of Spanish poetry : yet he cannot be con- 
 sidered an imitator of the Italian style which he intro- 
 duced. It is true he adopted from the Italians their versi- 
 fication and subjects; but nothing can l)e more essentially 
 different in character and genius. The tender flow of 
 Petrarch, the inimitable mode in which he concentrates 
 his ideas, and presents them to us with a precision yet 
 with grace and ideahty, find no competition in Boscan's 
 poems. But there is more simplicity, more of the 
 nerve of a man ; less enthusiasm but a plainer and com- 
 pleter meaning in the Spaniard. He is less dreamy — to a 
 certain degree, more common place; but then all is true, 
 heartfelt, and living. We have not Petrarch's diction. 
 Garcilaso de la Vega approached that more nearly; but 
 we have a full and earnest truth that carries us along 
 with it. Take for instance the most perfect of Petrarch's 
 canzone^ 
 
 " Chiarc, frciche e dolci acque," 
 
 and compare it with Boscan's 
 
 " Claroi )• frescon rio«," 
 
 written in imitation. The Italian poet invests his love 
 with ideal imagery that elevates its object into some- 
 thing ethereal and goddess-like. How graceful, how full 
 of true poetic fire and love's enthusiasm is that inimi- 
 table stanza ! — 
 
 VOL. III. o
 
 34 LITKIIARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 Still dear to Memory ! when, in odoroui (howcn, 
 
 Scafioniig their balmy fluwi-r* 
 
 To lummcr airii, tir u'ershadouing branchci lx>w'd, 
 
 The while, willi humble state, 
 
 In all the |>om|> of tribute awcets she tate, 
 
 \S'ra|it in the ro»cate cloud! 
 
 Now clu^tering blosvims deck her vciture's hem. 
 
 Now her britiht trciise* gem 
 
 (In all that bli!>!>rul day, 
 
 Like burnish'd gold, with orient pearla inwrought) : 
 
 .Some strew the turl, some on the waters Boat . 
 
 Some, fluttering, stem to say, 
 
 In wanton circlets tost, " iierc Lore holdi sovereign tway." 
 
 Boscan's poem has nothing of the ideal creativeness 
 which sheds a halo round its object, making one feel as 
 if Laura fed upon different food, and had limbs of more 
 celestial texture than other women : but Boscan's sen- 
 timents are true to nature. His tenderness is that of 
 a real and fervent lover ; without raising her whom he 
 loves into an angel, he gives us a lively and most sweet 
 picture of how his lieart was spent upon thoughts of her; 
 and when he tells us that during absence he meditates on 
 what she is doing, and whether she thinks of him, pic- 
 turing her gesture as she laughs, thinking her thought, 
 while his heart tells him how she may change from gay 
 to sad, now sleeping and now awake, there is, in the 
 place of the ideal, sincerity, — in place of the wanderings 
 of fancy, the fixed earnestness of a fond and manly 
 heart. 
 
 Boscan imitated Horace as well as Petrarch. In the 
 epistle from which a passape has been quoted, he abides 
 by the unornamented style of the Latin poet; but he wants 
 his terseness, his epigrammatic turns, his keen observation. 
 His poem is descriptive, and sweetly so, of the best state 
 of man, — that of a happy marriage ; but while he pre- 
 sents a faithful ])icture of its tranquil virtuous j)leasures, 
 and imparts the deep serene joy of his own heart, his 
 hues are not stolen from the rainbow, nor his music 
 from the spheres : it is all calm, earthly, unideaUsed, 
 though not unimpassioned. 
 
 One fault Boscan possesses in common with almost all 
 otlier Spamsh poets — he cannot compress : he runs on, 
 one idea suggesting another, one line the one to follow
 
 BOSCAN. 35 
 
 in artless unconstrained flow ; but his poetry wants 
 concentration and energy. You read with pleasure^ and 
 follow the meanders of his thoughts ; they are not wild, 
 but they are desultory ; and we are never startled as 
 when reading Petrarch, by the rising, as it were, amidst 
 melodious sounds, of some structure of ideal and sur- 
 passing beauty, which makes you pause, imbibe the 
 whole conception of the poet, and exclaim. This is 
 perfection !
 
 36 
 
 GARCILASO DE LA VEGA. 
 
 1503—1536. 
 
 A POET of higher merit, a more interesting man, a hero, 
 both in love and war, whose name seems to embody the 
 perfect idea of Spanish chivalry, was Boscan's friend, 
 Garcilaso de la Vega. We possess a translation of his 
 poetry by Mr. AVifFen, who has appended an elaborate 
 life, as elaborate at least as the scanty materials that 
 remain could afford ; for these are slight, and rather to 
 be guessed at from slight allusions made by historians, 
 and expressions in his poems, than from certain know- 
 ledge ; as all that we really learn concerning him is, 
 that he was a gallant soldier and a poet, devoting the 
 leisure he could snatch from the hurry and alarm of war, 
 to the study and composition of poetry, in which art he 
 attained the name of prince, and is, indeed, superior to 
 all the writers of his age in elegance, sweetness, and 
 pathos. 
 
 Garcilaso de la Vega was sprung from one of the 
 noblest families of Toledo. His ancestry is illustrious 
 in Spanish chronicles. They were originally natives of 
 the Asturias, and, possessing great wealth, arrived at 
 high honours under various sovereigns. One of them, 
 by name also Garcilaso, received the name of De la Vega, 
 in commemoration of his having slain a gigantic Moor on 
 the Vega or plain of Granada.* The miscreant having 
 attached the Ave Maria to his horse's tail, all the 
 knights of Spain were eager to avenge the injury done 
 
 ♦ This anecdote is usually told as appertaining to the father of the poet; 
 but the name was assumed liy the family at an earlier date. There is a 
 romance introduced in the Guerra* Civiles de Granada, conimembrating 
 this action. Sedano and Wiften are the authorities on which this biography 
 is grounded. Bouterwck tells only what Sed.ino had done before him; in 
 the earlier portion of his work, Simondi is scarcely more than a rifacciamento 
 of Boutcrv/ek.
 
 GARCILASO nE LA VEGA. S? 
 
 to our lady. Although a mere youth^ Garcilaso tri- 
 umphed, and was surnamud in conseeiuence De la Vega, 
 and adopted for his device the Ave jMaria in a field d'or. 
 The father of the poet, named also Garcilaso, was fourth 
 lord of Los Anos, grand commendary of Leon, a knight 
 of the order of St. James, one of the most distingmshed 
 gentlemen of the court of Ferdinand and Isabella. His 
 mother was donna Sancha de Toral, an heiress of a large 
 estate in Leon, — a demesne, it would seem, where 
 the poet passed his earlier days; for the fountain which 
 ornaments it stiU goes by his name, and is supposed to 
 be described in his second eclogue.* These eclogues 
 were ^vritten at Naples ; it may, therefore, be a piece 
 of fond patriotism in the Spaniard, that attributes 
 this description to a fountain in his native woods ; but 
 there is a pleasure in figuring the boy-poet loitering 
 beside its pure waters, and so filling his imagination 
 with images presented by its limpid waves and the sur- 
 rounding scenery, that, in after years and in a foreign 
 country, he could fondly dwell upon and reproduce them 
 in his verse. 
 
 Garcilaso was bom at Toledo in 1503, being a few 
 years younger than the emperor Charles V. When, on 
 his accession to the throne, that prince visited tlie Spain 
 he was called by right of birth to reign over, Garcilaso 
 was only fifteen. We are told, however, that his skiU 
 in martial and gymnastic exercises made him early a 
 favourite with his sovereign, and he soon entered on 
 that warlike career destined to prove fatal to him. Hit 
 
 * " Temperate, when winter waves its snowy wing. 
 It the sweet water of this sylvan spring ; 
 And when the heats of Huinincr scorch the grass, 
 More cold than snow : in your clear looking-glass. 
 Fair waves! the memory of that day returns, 
 With which my kouI still shivers, melts, and burnb ; 
 Gazing on your clear depth and lu'.tre pure. 
 My peace grows troubled and my joys obscure. 
 • • • • 
 
 Tliis lucid fount, whose murmurs fill the mind. 
 The verflant turchtH waviTig with the wind. 
 The odours wafte<l from the mcail, the flowers 
 In which the wild liee sits and sings for hours, 
 These might the moodiest misanthrope employ. 
 Make found the tick, and tura diitrcis tu Joy." 
 
 V 3
 
 .'j'8 LITEIIARY AND SCIENTIFIC MKN. 
 
 poetic tastes, also, were (levelo])ctl while still a youth. 
 He was i)assionatcIy fond of music, and played with 
 extreme sweetness on the harp and guitar. 
 
 The accession of Charles V. was signalised in Spain by 
 disaster. The death of cardinal Ximenes deprived the 
 youthful sovereign of his most illustrious counsellor, 
 though perliaps of one he would have neglected. His Fle- 
 mish courtiers attained undue influence, and a nefarious 
 system of peculation was carried on, — the treasures of 
 Spain being exported to Flanders, which the Spaniards 
 regarded with alarm and indignation. The election of 
 Charles to the imperial crown and his intended departure 
 for Germany was the signal of resistance. This is the 
 more deserving of commemoration in these pages, as the 
 elder brother of Garcilaso took a distinguished part on 
 the popular side.* He was candidate for the distinc- 
 tion of captain-general of the Germanada or Brother- 
 hood (an association, at first sanctioned by Charles, for 
 the purpose of maintaining the privileges of the people), 
 and even elected such, till a popular revolt reversed his 
 nomination in favour of the heroic Padilla. Not less 
 heroic, however, was don Pedro, and in the cortes he 
 boldly confronted the king, and declared that he would 
 sooner be cut in pieces, sooner lose his head, than yield 
 the good of his country to the sovereign's arbitrary will. 
 Of such gallant stuff ivas the Spanish courtier made, 
 till Charles's wars drained the country of her most 
 valiant spirits, and the cruel share of the Inquisition 
 ploughed up, and as it were sowed with salt, the soil, 
 originally so fertile in genius and heroism. Don Pedro 
 remained true to his cause to the last, though he did 
 not carry his views so far as Padilla ; and thus escaped 
 the martyrdom of this generous patriot. The conduct 
 of Charles in publishing a general pardon, on his return 
 to Spain, is among the few instances he has given of 
 magnanimity. His reply to a courtier who offered to 
 inform him where one of the rebels lay concealed, 
 deserves repetition from the grandeur of soul it expressed. 
 
 • Wiffcn.
 
 GARCILASO DE I.A VEGA. 39 
 
 " I have now no reason," he said, " to be afraid of 
 that man, but he has cause to shun me ; you would do 
 better, therefore, in telling him that I am here, than in 
 informing me of the place of his retreat." 
 
 War being soon after declared against France, Italy 
 became the seat of the struggle. Garcilaso, though 
 httle more than eighteen, commenced his career of arms 
 in this campaign. He was present at the battle of 
 Pavia, and so distinguislied himself, that he shortly after 
 received the cross of St. Jago from the emperor in 
 reward of his valour. 
 
 It would appear, that after this battle Garcilaso re- 
 turned for a time to his native country. Since it was 
 soon after, that Boscan, falling in with Andrea Navagero, 
 ambassador from Venice to the Spanish court, in 1525, 
 resolved on imitating the Italian poetry — as is recorded 
 in his life, — and Garcilaso was his adviser and sup- 
 porter. At the age of four-and-twenty, in the year 
 1528, he married Doua Elena de Zuniga, a lady of 
 Arragon, maid of honour to Leonora, queen of France, 
 — a happy marriage — from which sprung three sons. 
 
 On the invasion of Hungary by Solyman, in 1532, 
 the emperor repaired to Vienna to undertake the war in 
 person. The campaign was carried on without any 
 action of moment ; but Garcilaso was engaged iti va- 
 rious skirmishes, and saw enough of %var to fill him with 
 horror at its results. 
 
 At this time, however, he fell into disgrace at court. 
 One of his cousins, a son of don Pedro Lasso, aspired 
 clandestinely to the hand of ilonna Isabel, daughter of 
 (Ion Luis de la Cueva, maid of honour to the empress. 
 AVe are ignorant of the reason wherefore Charles was 
 opposed to this marriage, and the consequent necessity 
 of carrymg on the amoiir secretly. Garcilaso be- 
 friended the lovers. The intrigue being discovered, the 
 emperor was highly incensi'd ; he banished the cousin, 
 and exiled Garcilaso to an island of the Danulx?, an im- 
 priBonment which he connnemorates in an ode, of wliich 
 we may quote some stanzas from Mr. Wittcn's transla- 
 
 u 4
 
 40 LITEKARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 lion, which characterise the disposition of the man ; no 
 courtier or man of the world lie, repining at disgrace 
 and disappointment ; but a poet, ready to find joy in 
 solitude, and to adorn adversity with the rainbow hues 
 of the imagination. 
 
 " TO THE DANUBE. 
 
 With the milil sound of clear swift waves, the Danuhe's arms of foam 
 
 Circle a verdant isle which i)eace has made her chosen home; 
 
 VVhere the fond jioet might repair from wcrariness and strife, 
 
 And in the sunsliine of sweet song consume his happy life. 
 
 Here evermore the smilinfc spring goes scattering odorou'- flowers. 
 
 And nightingales and turtle doves, in depth of myrtle bowers. 
 
 Turn disappointment into hope, turn sadness to delight, 
 
 With magic of their fond laments, which cease not day nor night. 
 
 Here am i placed, or sooth to say, alone, 'neath foreign skies, 
 
 Forced in arrest, and easy 'tis in such a paradise 
 
 To force a meditative man, whose own desires would doom 
 
 Himself with pleasure to a world all redolence and bloom. 
 
 One thought alone distresses me, if I whilst banished sink 
 
 'Midst such misfortunes to the grave, lest haply they should think 
 
 It was my complicated ills that caused my death, while I 
 
 Know well that if I die 'twill be because I wish to die. 
 
 » » • * * 
 
 River divine, rich Danube! thou the bountiful and strong, 
 That through fierce nations roll'st thy waves rejoicingly along, 
 Since only but by rushing through thy drowning billows deep. 
 These scrolls can hence escape to tell the noble words I weep. 
 If wrecked in undeciphered loss on some far foreign land. 
 They should by any chance he found upon the desert sand. 
 Since they upon thy willowed shore must drift, where'er they are. 
 Their relics let the kind blue waves with murmured hymna inter. 
 Ode of my melancholy hours ! last infant of my lyre! 
 Although in booming waves it be thy fortune to expire. 
 Grieve not, since 1, liowe'er from holy rites debarred. 
 Have seen to all that touches thee with catholic regard. 
 Less, less had been thy life, if thou hadst been but ranked among 
 Those without record, that have risen and died upon my tongue ; 
 Whose utter want of sympathy, and haughtiness austere. 
 Has been the cause of this — from me thou very soon shalt hear." 
 
 It is not known how long his exile endured, but 
 certainly not long ; he was recalled, and attended the 
 emperor in his expedition against Tunis. 
 
 The son of a potter of Lesbos, turning corsair, raised 
 himself to notice and power under the name of Barba- 
 rossa. He possessed himself of Algiers by treachery, 
 and then, protected by the grand signer, he attacked 
 Tunis, and drove out the king Muley Hassan. Muley 
 solicited the aid of the emperor, and Charles, animated 
 by a desire to punish a pirate whose cruelties had deso- 
 lated many a Christian family, put himself at the head 
 of an armament to invade Tunis. Barbarossa exerted
 
 GAHCILASO DE LA VEGA. 41 
 
 himself to defend the city, and, in particular, fortified 
 the citadel, named Goletta, and garrisoned it with 6000 
 Turks. Immediately on landing, the emperor invested 
 the city ; sallies and skirmishes became frequent, in one 
 of which Garcilaso was wounded in the face and hand. 
 Goletta fell, despite the ^"igorous defence ; but Barba- 
 rossa did not despair : he assembled an army of 150,000 
 men, and, confiding in numbers, resolved to offer battle 
 to the Christians. Garcilaso served on this occasion in 
 a division of the imperial army, commanded by the mar- 
 quis de Mondejar, a division at first left as a rear 
 guard, but ordered afterwards to advance to support 
 some newly raised Spanish regiments commanded by 
 the duke of Alva. The marquis de Mondejar was 
 badly wounded and carried from the field ; Garcilaso, 
 seeing the danger to which the troops were exposed in the 
 absence of the general, rushed forward to support them 
 by the example of his valour. His gallantry had nearly 
 proved fatal : he was wounded and surrounded, and must 
 have been slain, but for a Neapolitan noble, Federigo 
 Carafa, who rescued him at the peril of his life. By 
 great efforts he succeeded in dispersing the multitude, 
 and bore him back in safety, half spent with toil, thirst, 
 and loss of blood.* The day ended in the defeat of 
 Barbarossa ; Muley Hassan was restored to his throne ; 
 and Charles returned to Italy in triumph. 
 
 After this expedition, Garcilaso spent some time at 
 Naples and Sicily. During his residence there, he is 
 said to have written his eclogues and elegies, which are 
 the most beautiful of his poems. There is something 
 so truly poetic in the site, the clime, the atmosphere of 
 Naples, that the most prosaic spirit must feel its in- 
 fluence. There Petrarch was examined by king U()l)ert, 
 and declared wortiiy of iIk; laurel crown ; there he de- 
 livered that oration on poetry that won the king to 
 admire the heretofore neglected art, and inspired the 
 young IJocca'^ciowith that enthusiastic love for tlie .Muses, 
 which lasted to his dying day. There (and Garcilaso 
 
 • Wiffen,
 
 42 LITERARY AND SCIENTIPIO MKW. 
 
 seems to have felt deeply the influence of these poets) 
 Virgil and Sannazar wrote. The Spanish poet particu- 
 larly loved and admired Virgil. Imbued by his spirit, 
 he emulated his elegance and harmony, while he sur- 
 passed him in tender pathos. 
 
 One of his elegies to Boscan is dated from the foot of 
 Etna. It does not rank among the best of his poems ; 
 but it is agreeable to preserve proofs of friendship be- 
 tween these gifted men. It a little jars, however, with 
 our feelings, that he in it alludes to some lady of his 
 love, though he was now married ; however, there is a 
 sort of poetic imaginative hue thrown over this elegy, 
 which permits us to attribute his love complaints rather 
 to the memory of past times and the poetic temperament, 
 than to- inconstancy of disposition. Garcilaso's poetry 
 is refined and pure in all its sentiments, though full, at 
 the same time, of tenderness. I subjoin a few stanzas 
 from the elegy in question, such as give individuahty 
 and interest to the character of the poet : — 
 
 " Boscan ! here where the Mantuan has inurned 
 Anchises' ashes to eternal fame. 
 We, Ca;sar's hosts, from conquests are returneii ; 
 
 Some of their toils the promised fruit to claim — 
 Some to make virtue both the end and aim 
 
 Of action, — or would have the world suppose 
 And say so, loud in public to declaim 
 Against such selfishness; whilst yet heaven knows 
 They act in secret all the meanness they oppose. 
 
 For me, a happy medium I observe. 
 
 For never has it entered in my scheme, 
 To strive for much more silver than may serve 
 
 To lift me gracefully from each extreme 
 Of thrifty meanness, thriftless pride; I deem 
 
 The men contemptible that stoop to use 
 The one or other, that delight to seem 
 
 Too close, or inconsiderate in their views : 
 In error's moonlight raaie their way both worthies find. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Yet leave I not the Muses, but the more 
 
 For this perplexity with them commune. 
 And with the charm of their delicious love 
 
 Vary my life, and waste the sumiticr noon ; 
 Thus pass my hours beguiled ; but out of tune 
 
 The lyre will sometimes be, when trials prove 
 The anxious lyrist : to the country soon 
 
 Of the sweet Siren shall I hence remove. 
 Yet, as of yore, the land of idlesae, ease, and love. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 But how, O how shall I be sure, that here 
 My evil genius, in the change I suek,
 
 GARCILASO DE LA VEGA. 43 
 
 Is not still sworn ajrainst me ? this strong foar 
 
 It is that chills my heart, and renders weak 
 The wish I feel to visit that antique 
 
 Italian city, whence my eyes derive 
 Such exquisite delight, with tears they speak 
 
 Of the contrasting griefs my heart that rive ; 
 And with them up in arms against me here I ftrive. 
 
 O fierce — O rigorous — O remorseless Mars I 
 
 In diamond tunic garmented, and so 
 Steeled always in the harshness that debars 
 
 The soul from feeling! wherefore as a foe 
 Force the fond lover evermore to go 
 
 Onward from strife to strife, o'er land and sea ? 
 Exerting all thy power to work me woe, 
 
 I am so far reduced, that death would be 
 At length a blessed boon, my refuge, fiend, from thee ! 
 
 But my hard fate this blessing does deny ; 
 
 I meet it not in battle ; the strong spear. 
 Sharp sword, and piercing arrow pass me by. 
 
 Vet strike down others in their young career. 
 That I might pine away to sec my dear 
 
 Sweet fruit engrossed by aliens, who deride 
 My vain distress ; but whither does my fear 
 
 And grief transport me, without shame or pride? 
 Whither I dread to think, and grieve to have descried. 
 
 » * * * ' 
 
 But thou who in thy villa, blest with all 
 
 That heart can wish, look'st on the sweet sea-shore ; 
 And, undistracted, listening to the fall 
 
 And swell of the loud waves that round thee roar, 
 Gathcrest to thy already rich scrutoire 
 
 Fresh living verses for perpetual fame. 
 Rejoice! for fires more lieauteous than of yore 
 
 Were kindled by the Danian prince, inflame 
 Thy philosophic heart, and light thy laurelled name." 
 
 It may be supposed^ that the learned Italians of those 
 days welcomed a spirit congenial to their own, and were 
 jiroud of a poet who transferred to another language that 
 elegance of style and elevated purity of thought, the 
 original growth of their native land. Cardinal IJembo 
 thus writes of him to a friend, in a letter dated 15th 
 of August, 1535: — " Signor Garcilaso is indeed a 
 graceful poet, and his odes are all in the highest degree 
 pleasing to me, and merit peculiar admiration and praise. 
 In fine spirit he has far excelled all the writers of his 
 nation ; and if he be not wanting to himself in diligent 
 study, he will no less'excel other nations who are con- 
 sidered masters of j)oetry. I am not surprised that the 
 marquis d(' Vastn has wished to have him witli him, 
 and that he holds iiim in great .affection." 
 
 Among cardinal Bembo's Latin letters, there is one to 
 Garcilaso, full of compliments, which show llie high
 
 44 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 esteem in which he was held. " From the verses 
 which you have sent me, I am liappy to perceive, first, 
 how much you love me, since you are not one who 
 would else flatter with encomiums, nor call one dear to 
 you whom you have never seen ; and, secondly, how 
 much you excel in lyric compositions, in splendour of 
 genius, and sweetness of expression. — You have not 
 only surpassed all your fellow Spaniards, who have de- 
 voted themselves to Parnassus and the Muses, but you 
 supply incentives even to the Italians, and again and 
 again invite them to endeavour to be overcome in this 
 contest and in these studies by no one but yourself; 
 Avhich judgment of mine some other of your writings 
 sent to me from Najjles have confirmed. For it is im- 
 possible to meet in this age with compositions more 
 classically pure, more dignified in sentiment, or more 
 elegant in style. In that you love me, therefore, I most 
 justly and sincerely rejoice; and that you are a great 
 and good man, I congratulate in the first place yourself, 
 but most of aU, your country, in that she is thus about 
 to receive so great an increase of honour and glory. 
 
 "There is, however, another circumstance which greatly 
 increases the honour 1 have received ; for lately, when 
 the monk Onorato, whom I perceive you know by 
 reputation, entered into conversation with me, and, 
 amongst other topics, asked me what I thought of your 
 poems, the opinion I gave happened to coincide exactly 
 with his own ; and he is a man of very acute percep- 
 tion, and extremely well versed in poetical pursuits. 
 He told me that his friends had written to him of your 
 very many and great virtues, of the urbanity of your 
 manners, the integrity of your life, and accomplishments 
 of your mind ; adding that it was a fact confirmed 
 by aU Neapolitans that knew you, that no one had 
 come from Spain to their city in these times, wherein 
 the greatest resort has been made by your nation to 
 Italy, whom tliey loved more affectionately than your- 
 self, or one on whom they would confer superior be- 
 nefits."
 
 GARCILASO DE LA VEGA. 45 
 
 Garcilaso did not, however, long enjoy the leisure that 
 he so well employed. Charles V., whose great ambition 
 was to crush the power of France, and to possess him- 
 self of a portion of that kingdom, was resolved to take 
 advantage of the disastrous issue of Francis I.'s attempt 
 upon the duchy of Milan, and rashly determined to in- 
 vade a country whose armies, however he might meet 
 victoriously in other fields, he could not hope to van- 
 quish in their own. He entered France from the south ; 
 and recalling Garcilaso, conferred on him an honourable 
 command over eleven companies of infantry. Leaving 
 Naples to join this expedition, he traversed Italy, and 
 from Vaucluse wrote an epistle to Boscan in a lighter 
 and gayer style than is usual with him ; while he dwells 
 with affectionate pleasure on the tie of friendship that 
 united them, saying, among other things, — 
 
 *' Whilst much reflecting on the sacred tie 
 Ot'our afllction, wliich I hold so high. 
 The exchange of talent, taste, intelligence, 
 Shared gifts and multiplied delights which tliencc 
 Refresh our souls in their perpetual flow — 
 There nothing is that makes me value so 
 The sweetness of this compact of the heart. 
 Than the aUection on my own warm part. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Such were my thoughts. But oh ! how shall I set 
 fully to view my shame and my regret, 
 I'or having praised so at a single glat\,ce, 
 'i'he roads, the dealings, and hotels of France. 
 Shame, that with reason thou may'st now pronounce 
 Myself a fabler, and my praise a bounce; 
 Regret, my time so much to have misused. 
 In rashly lauding what were best abused ; 
 For here, all fibs apart, you find but jades 
 Of hacks, sour wines, and pilfering chambermaids, 
 Long ways, long bills, no silver, fleecing hosts. 
 And all (he luxury ot'lumbering posts. 
 Arriving too from Najjles by the way — 
 Naplcji — llie choice, the brilliant, and the gay! 
 Kinbrace Rural for mo — nor rate my mixse ; 
 October twelttb, given forth from sweet Vaucluse, 
 Whi-re the fine flame of I'etrarch had its birth. 
 And where its ashes yet irradiate earth." 
 
 To the period of this campaign Wiffen is inclined to 
 attribute the conij)osition of his third eclogue which, in 
 point of merit, is tlie second, and wliich was avowedly 
 written during a war — for, as he says, — 
 
 " 'Midnt armn — with scarce one pause from liloody toil, 
 VNlien wnr'« hoarse (rumjiet breaks the |>oi't'» dream, 
 Have I there munientt ttolen, oft claimed. "
 
 46 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 This expedition was disastrous in itself and fatal to 
 the ])oet. An invading army is necessarily abhorred 
 by all ; and while it inflicts, also suffers the utmost 
 horrors of war. The French general wisely acted on 
 the defensive, and, having laid the country waste, left 
 famine and disease to win the game. The emperor, 
 unsuccessful in his attempts upon Marseilles and Aries, 
 was obliged to retreat through a country roused to ex- 
 asperation by the ills it had endured. His army, in 
 consequence, was exposed to a thousand disasters, while 
 the very peasants, hanging on its rear, or lying in 
 ambush, cut off the stragglers, and disputed the pas- 
 sage of every defile. On one occasion, at Muy near 
 Frejus, the imperialists were held in check by a party 
 of fifty rustics, who, armed with muskets, had thrown 
 themselves into a tower, and harassed them on their 
 passage. The emperor ordered Garcilaso to attack and 
 carry it with his battalion. Eager in his obedience, 
 Garcilaso led the way to scale the tower. The peasants 
 observing that he wore a gaily embroidered dress over 
 his armour, fancied that it was the emperor himself, and 
 marked him out for destruction.' He was the first to 
 mount the ladder ; a block of stone rolled from the 
 battlements, struck him on the head and beat him to the 
 ground. He was carried to Nice ; but no care could 
 avail to save him : he lingered for twenty days, and then 
 died, November, 1 536, at the age only of thirty-three. 
 He showed, we are told, no less the spirit of a Chris- 
 tian in his death, than of a soldier in the hour of peril 
 His death was universally lamented ; and the emperor 
 displayed his sense of the loss he had sustained, by 
 causing all the peasants who survived the taking of the 
 tower, twenty-eight in number, to be hanged. Such a 
 token of respect would scarcely soothe the ghost of the 
 gentle poet ; but it was in accordance with the spirit of 
 the times. The body was interred at first in the church 
 of Saint Dominique at Nice ; but two years afterwards 
 was removed to the tomb of his ancestors in a chapel of 
 the church of San Pedro Martyr de Toledo.
 
 GARCILASO DE LA VEGA. 47 
 
 Garcilaso is always represented as the model of a 
 young and gallant soldier, adorning his knightly accom- 
 plishments with the softer graces of a poet ; as an ima- 
 ginative enthusiast, joining sentiment to passion, and 
 softening both by the elegancies of refinement. His 
 taU figure was symmetrical in its proportions, and his 
 mien was dignified. There was a mingled seriousness 
 and mildness in the expression of his face, enhvened by 
 sparkling eyes, and dignified by an expansive forehead. 
 He was a favourite with the ladies, while he enjoyed 
 the friendship and esteem of many excellent men. \Vif- 
 fen takes pleasure in adopting the idea of doctor Nott, 
 and likening him to our noble poet, lord Surrey. He 
 left, orphaned by liis death, three sons and a daughter. 
 His eldest son incurred a similar fate with himself. He 
 enjoyed the favour of the emperor, but fell at the battle 
 of Ulpiano, at the early age of twenty-four. His se- 
 cond son, Francisco de Guzman, became a monk, and 
 enjoyed a reputation as a great theologian. The youngest 
 Lorenzo de Guzman, inherited a portion of his father's 
 genius, and was esteemed for his talent. He scarcely 
 made a good use o€ it, since he was banished to Oran 
 for a lampoon, and died on the passage. The only 
 daughter of the poet, donna Sancha de Guzman, mar., 
 ried I). Antonio I'ortocarrero de Vega. 
 
 ^V"e turn, however, to Garcilaso'a poetry as his l)est 
 memorial and highest merit, at least that merit which 
 gives him a place in these pages. When we remember 
 that he died at tliirty-three, we must regard his produc- 
 tions rather in the light of promise, than of performance. 
 His muse might have soared higher, and taken some new 
 path : as it is, he ranks liigh as an elegiac poet, and the 
 first that Spiin has produced. 'Ihe most perfect of his 
 poems is his second eclogue. Mr. Wiffen has succeeded 
 admirably in transfusing, in some of the stanzas, a 
 portion of the pathos and softness of the original. Kinu- 
 lating Virgil in his retincment and dignity, (larcila-so 
 surpassed him in tcnderncKR ; and certainly the ex- 
 pression of regret and ;.Mi('f waw never more affectingly
 
 48 LITEIIARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 and sweetly expressed than in the laments that com- 
 pose this eclogue. 
 
 The poem commences with the poet speaking in his 
 own person. He introduces the personages of the eclogue: 
 Salicio, who laments the infidelity of his lady ; and Ne- 
 meroso, who mourns the death of his. It is supposed 
 that, under the name of Salicio, Garcilaso personifies 
 himself, and commemorates the feelings which he ex- 
 perienced, when suffering from the inconstancy of a lady 
 whom he loved in his youth. 
 
 Nothing can exceed the living tenderness of the de- 
 serted shepherd's complaints ; and we feel as if the 
 tone of fond grief could go no further, till the interest 
 becomes heightened by the more touching nature of 
 Nemoroso's laments : under this name it is said that 
 Garcilaso introduced Boscan. Boscan was a happy 
 husband and father. In his epistle to Mendoza, he 
 mentions his former passions as a troubled dream, where 
 all seemed love, but was really hate ; and he does 
 not allude to the death of any object of his affections. 
 Mr. Wiffen, with the natural fondness of a translator 
 and an antiquarian, delights in putting together the 
 scattered and half lost fragments of his poet's life, and 
 to eke out the history of his mind by probable conjecture, 
 and is inclined to believe that Boscan was intended, and 
 that being dear friends, Garcilaso pleased his imagination 
 and heart, in making them brother shepherds in his 
 verses. It is an agreeable idea, and not improbable : the 
 reader may believe according as his inclinations leads 
 him. 
 
 But not to linger longer on preliminary matter, we 
 select the most beautiful stanzas of the eclogue, which 
 will confirm to the Spanish reader the opinion that 
 Garcilaso is the most harmonious, easy, elegant, and 
 tender poet Spain ever produced : soft and melancholy, 
 he never errs, except in sometimes following the fashion 
 of his country in reasoning on his feelings, instead of 
 simply declaring them. Such fault, however, is not to 
 be found in the following verses, wherein Salicio com-
 
 GARCILASO I)E LA VEGA. 49 
 
 plains of his Galatea's inconstancy, recalling the while 
 the dear images of her former tenderness. 
 
 " Through thee the silence of the shaded glen, * 
 Through thee the horror of the lonely mountain. 
 Pleased me no less than the resort of men : 
 The breeze, the summer wood, the lucid fountain, 
 The purple rose, white lily of the lake, 
 Were sweet for thy sweet sake ; 
 For thee, the fragrant primrose, dropt with dew. 
 Was wished when first it blew. 
 
 how completely was I in all this 
 Myself deceiving! O the different part 
 That thou wert acting, covering with a kiss 
 Of seeming love, the traitor in thy heart! 
 This my severe misfortune, long ago. 
 
 Did the soothsaying raven, sailing by 
 
 On the black storm, with hoarse sinister cry, 
 
 Clearly presage : in gentleness of woe 
 
 Flow forth, my tears ! 'tis meet that ye should flow. 
 
 How oft when slumbering in the forest brown, 
 (Deeming it fancy's mystical deceit) 
 Have I beheld my fate in dreams foreshown ! 
 One day, methought that from the noontide heat 
 
 1 drove my flocks to drink of Tagus' flood. 
 And, under the curtain of its bordering wood 
 Take iny cool ^lesta ; but, arrived, the stream, 
 I know not by what magic, changed its track. 
 And in new channels, by an unused way, 
 Rolled its warped waters back ; 
 
 Whilst I, scorched, melting with the heat extreme. 
 
 Went ever following in their flight astray, 
 
 The wizard waves : in gentleness of woe. 
 
 Flow forth, my tears ! 't is meet that ye should flow. 
 
 • " Por ti el silencio dc la sclva umbrosa, 
 por ti la esquividad y apartamiento 
 del solitario monte me agradava : 
 por ti la verde hierba, el fresco viento, 
 el bianco lirio y colorada rosa 
 y dulce primavera dcseaba. 
 I Ay quanto me engafiaba ! 
 
 ; Ay quan difcrente era, I 
 
 Tquan dentra manera 
 lo que en tu falso pccho cscondia ! 
 bien claro con su voz me lo decia 
 la siniestra corneja, repitiendo 
 la doTentura mia. 
 Salid ain duelo lAgrimas corricndo. 
 
 j Quantan vcccs durmiemln en laflorcsta 
 (rejiutandolo yo por deavarlo) 
 vi mi inal entrc nueflos dexlichado! 
 Sofiaba, ijuc en el tirnipo del cstio 
 lleraha, ]xjr iia/iar alii la kieita. 
 i iK'ver en el 'I'ajo rni ganado ; 
 y dr«pues dc llcgacio, 
 fin uberde qu6l arte, 
 jKir dcaUK.ida parte 
 y \x>r nuevo camino el .igiin ne iba. 
 Ardicnild \o con la r.ilor cKlivn, 
 el runocnaKciia/lo ilia siguicndu 
 del agua fiigiliva. 
 Salid im duelo ligrima* corricndo. 
 vol,, in. B
 
 50 LITEBAKY AND SCIENTIFIC MKN. 
 
 In thp charmed ear of what beloved youth, 
 
 Siiuiuls thyswi'ct voice ? On wliiini rcvolvest thou 
 
 Thy iH'autiriil blue eyos 'i On whose proved truth 
 
 Anchors thy l)rokcn laith ? Who presses now 
 
 Thy laiiKhiii}; lip, and takes thy heaven of charms 
 
 Locked in tlie einl)races of thy two white arms? 
 
 Say thou, for whom h.ist thou so rudely left 
 
 My love, or stolen, who triumphs in the theft? 
 
 1 have not got a bosom so untrue 
 
 To feeliiiji, nor a heart of stone, to view 
 
 My darling ivy, toruifrom me, take root 
 
 Against another wall, or prosperous pine, — 
 
 To see my virgin vine 
 
 Around another elm in marriage hang 
 
 Its curling tendrils and empurpled fruit, 
 
 Without the torture of a jealous pang, 
 
 Kv'n to the loss of life : in gentle woe, 
 
 Flow forth, my tears ; 't is meet that ye should flow. 
 
 * • « ♦ 
 
 Over my griefs the mossy stones relent 
 Their natural durity, and break ; the trees 
 Bend down their weeping boughs without a breeze; 
 And full of tenderness the listening birds, 
 Warbling in different notes, with me lament. 
 And warbling i)rophesy my death ; the herds 
 * That in the green meads hang their heads at eve. 
 
 Wearied, and worn, and faint. 
 The necessary sweets of slumber leave, 
 And low, and listen to my wild complaint. 
 Thou only steel'st thy bosom to my cries. 
 Not even once turning thy angelic eyes 
 On him thy harshness kills : in gentle woe 
 Flow forth, my tears! 'tis meet that ye should flow. 
 
 ,; Tu dulce habla en cuya orcja suena ? 
 
 ,; Tus claros ojos a quien los volvistc ? 
 
 6 For quien tan sin restxto me trocaste ? 
 
 (, Tu quebrantada fe do la pusiste ? 
 
 i Quul es el cuello, que como en cadena 
 
 de tus herraosos brazos afiudaste ? 
 
 No hay corazon que baste, 
 
 aunque fucse dcpicdra, 
 
 viendo ml amada yedra, 
 
 de mi arrancada, en otro muroasida, 
 
 y mi parra en otro olmo entrctcgida, 
 
 que no se eslfe con llanto deshaciendo 
 
 hasta acabar la vida. 
 
 Salid sin duelo lagrimascorricndo. 
 
 ♦ * * 
 
 Con mi llorar las piedras enternecen 
 su natural dureza, y la quebrantan : 
 los arboles parece que se inclinan : 
 las aves, que me escuchan, quando cantan, 
 con diferente voz se condolecen, 
 y mi niorir cantando me adivinan : 
 las fieras, que rcclinan 
 in cuerpo fatigado, 
 dejan el soscgado 
 
 suefio por escuchar mi llanto triste. 
 Tu sola contra rai te endurciste, 
 los ojos aun siquiera no volvicndo 
 i, lo que tu hiciste. 
 Salid sin duelos ISgrimas corriendo.
 
 GARCILASO DE LA VEGA. 51 
 
 But though thou wilt not come for my sad sake. 
 
 Leave not the landscape thou hast held so dear, 
 
 Thou may'st come freely now, without the fear 
 
 Of meeting me, for though my heart should break. 
 
 Where late forsaken, I will now forsake. 
 
 Come then, if this alone detain thee, here 
 
 Are meadows full of verdure, myrtles, bays, 
 
 'Wo<xilands and lawns, and running waters clear. 
 
 Beloved in other days. 
 
 To which, bedewed with many a bitter tear, 
 
 I sing my last of lays. 
 
 These scenes, perhaps, when I am far removed. 
 
 At ease thou wilt frequent 
 
 With him who rifled me of all I loved : 
 
 Enough, my strength is spent ; 
 
 And leaving thee in his desired embrace, 
 
 It is not much to leave him this sweet place." 
 
 The impatience natural to the resentment of in- 
 constancy ruflBes though it does not distort these sweet 
 stanzas. But there is more of soft melancholy in Ne- 
 moroso, more of the entire melting of the heart in sad 
 unavaiUng regret. 
 
 " Smooth, sliding waters, pure and crystalline, * 
 Tree-* that reflect your image in their breast 
 Green pastures, full of fountains and fresh shades, 
 Birds, that here scatter your sweet serenades ; 
 Mosses and reverend ivies sen'cntine. 
 That wreath your verdurous arms round beech and pine. 
 And, climbing, crown their crest! 
 Can I forget, ere grief my spirit changed. 
 
 ' Mas ya que a soccorrerme aqui no viencs, 
 no dejcs el lugar que tanto amaste ; 
 que bien podras venir de mi scgura 
 yo dcxarc el lugar do me dcjaste : 
 vcn.si poT solo estc le deticncs. 
 Yen aqui un prado llcnode verdura, 
 ves aqui unaespesura, 
 ves aqui una aj^ua clara, 
 en otro tiemm cara, 
 i quien dc li con lagrimas me qucjo, 
 quiz<'iaqui hallarrts, pues yo me al ejo, 
 al que todo mi bien quitarme puede: 
 que pucs I'l bicn le ilcjo, 
 no e.H mucho que el lugar tarnbien le quedc. 
 Cornentcit aguas, puras, crislalinat : 
 Arb»le«, que os eklais nnraiulo en cllas : 
 vcrdo prailo, dc fri-sc.i honilira llciio : 
 avcs, que nqui sernbraih viu'^iruH (jiierellas: 
 ycdra, que |>or los iirboles caniinas, 
 torcicndo el pa>i> pur tu vcrdc scno ; 
 yn me vi tan agciio 
 del grave m.il que sicnto, 
 que dc puro contento 
 
 E 2
 
 LITJERART AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 Willi wliat delicious case and pure content. 
 
 Your peace I wooed, your solitudes 1 ranged, 
 
 Eiioliaiitcd and rcfreslied where'er I went! 
 
 How many blissful noons here I have spent 
 
 In luxury of slumber, couched on flowers, 
 
 And with my own fond fancies, from a boy, 
 
 l)i6eoursc<l away the hours, 
 
 Discovering nought in your deliRhtful bowers, 
 
 B«t golden dreams, and memories fraught with joy. 
 
 * * • 
 
 Where arc those eloquent mild eyes, which drew 
 My heart where'er it wandered ? where the hand. 
 White, delicate, and pure as mcllin)? dew, 
 Killed with the spoils, that proud of thy command,, 
 My feelings paid in tribute ? the bright hair 
 That paled the shining gold, that did contemn 
 The glorious opal as a meaner gem, 
 The bosom's ivory apples, where, ah ! where? 
 Where now the neck to whiteness overwrought. 
 That like a column with genteclcst scorn 
 Sustained the golden dome of virtuous thought? 
 Gone! ah, for ever gone. 
 To the chill desolate and dreary pall. 
 And mine the grief — the wormwood and the gall ! 
 
 » • • 
 
 Poor, lost Eliza ! of thy locks of gold. 
 One treasured ringlet in white silk I keep 
 For ever at my heart, which, when unrolled. 
 Fresh grief and pity o'er my spirit creep ; 
 And my insatiate eyes, for hours untold. 
 O'er the dear pledge, will like an infant's, weep. 
 
 con vuestra soledad me recreaba, 
 donde con dulce suefio reposaba : 
 6 con el pensamiento discurria, 
 por donde no hallaba 
 sino memorias llenas de alegria. 
 « * * 
 
 r, Do estan agora aquellos claros oj08, 
 que lleveban tras sf como colgada 
 mi anima, d6 quier que se volvian ? 
 f, Do esta la blanca mano delicada, 
 Uena de vencimientos y despojos 
 que de ml mis sentidos la ofrecian ? 
 Los cabellos, que vian 
 con gran desprecio al oro, 
 como a menor tesoro. 
 
 r, Adondc e.-tan ? ,; Adonde el bianco pecbo ? 
 do la coluna, que el dorado techo 
 con presuncion graciosa sostenia ? 
 aquesto todo agora ya se encierra 
 por desventura mia, 
 en la friadesierta ydura tierra. 
 
 • * • 
 
 Una parte guards de tus cabellos, 
 Elisa, envueltos en un bianco paiTo, 
 
 3ue nunca de mi seno se me apartan ; 
 escojolos, y de un dolor tamaHo 
 enternecerme siento, que sobre ellos 
 nunca mis ojos de llorar se hartan. 
 Sin que alii se partan
 
 GARCILASO DE LA VEGA. 53 
 
 With sighs more warm than fire anon I dry 
 The tears from off' it, number one by one 
 The radiant hairs, and with a love-knot tie; 
 Mine eyes, this duty done. 
 Give over weeping, and with slight relief 
 I taste a short forgetfulness of grief." 
 
 Although this quotation has run to a great lengthy I 
 cannot refrain from adding the ode to the Flower of 
 Gnido. It is more fancifxil and airy, more original, yet 
 more classic. Mr. Wiffen's translation also is very correct 
 and beautiful, failing only in not preserving all the ex- 
 quisite simplicity of the original ; but that is a charm 
 difficult indeed to transfer from one language to another. 
 Of the subject of the ode we receive the following ac- 
 count from the commentators. " The title of this ode 
 is derived from a quarter of a city of Naples called 11 
 Seggio di Gnido, or the seat of Gnido, the favourite 
 abode then of the people of fashion, in which also the 
 lady lived, to whom the ode was addressed. This lady, 
 \'iolante San Scverino, a daughter of the duke of Soma, 
 was courted by Fabio Galeota, a friend of Garcilaso in 
 whose behalf the poem was written." 
 
 " TO THE FLOWER OF GNIDO. • 
 
 I. 
 
 Had 1 the sweet resounding lyre, 
 
 Whose voice could in a moment chain 
 
 The howling wind's ungoverned ire. 
 And movement of the raging main, 
 On savage hills the leopard rein. 
 
 con iuspiros calientes, 
 
 mas que la llama ardentes. 
 
 Ids enjugo del llanto, ye de consuno 
 
 casi los paso, y cuento uno i uiio : 
 
 juntandolos con un cordon los ato : 
 
 tras c»to el importurio 
 
 dolor me deja dctcansar un rato." 
 
 •"A LA FLOR DI GNIDO. 
 
 81 de mi baja Lira 
 tanto pudieii- el Don, (|uc en un momenta 
 
 aplacAie la ira 
 
 del aniuKMO vientn, 
 J cl furia del mar, y el movimicnto: 
 E 3
 
 54 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC HEN. 
 
 The lion's fiery soul entrance, 
 And lead aloni; with golden tones 
 'I'he IViscinated trees and stones 
 
 In voluntary dance ; 
 
 II. 
 Think not, think not, fair Flower of Gniiie, 
 
 It e'er should celebrate the sears, 
 Dust raised, blood shed, and laurels dyed 
 
 lieneath the gonfalon of Mars ; 
 
 Or, borne sublime on festal cars, 
 The chiefs who to submission sank 
 
 The rebel German's soul of soul. 
 
 And forged the chains that now control 
 The Irenzy of the Frank. 
 
 III. 
 
 No, no! its harmonies should ring, 
 
 In vaunt of glories all thine own, 
 A discord sometimes from the string' 
 
 Struck forth to make thy harshness known. 
 
 The lingered chords should speak alone 
 Of Beauty's triumphs, Love's alarms, 
 
 And one who, made by thy disdain 
 
 Palo as a lily dipt in twain. 
 Bewails thy fatal charms. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Of that poor captive, too contemned, 
 I speak, — his doom you might deplore — 
 
 In Venus' galliot shell condemned 
 To strain for life the heavy oar. 
 Through thee, no longer as of yore, 
 
 y en asperas montafias, 
 con el suave canto enterneciese 
 
 las fier.is alimaSas, 
 
 los arboles moviese, 
 y al son confusamcnte los truxese : 
 
 No pienses que cantando 
 seria de mi, hermosa !■ lor de Gnido. 
 
 el fiero Marte ayrado, 
 
 a muerte convertido, 
 de polvo, y sangrc, y de sudor tefiido : 
 
 ni aquellos capitanes, 
 en la sublime rueda colocados, 
 
 por quen los Alamanes 
 
 el fiero cuello atados, 
 ylos Franceses van domesticados. 
 
 Mas solamente aquella 
 fuerza de tu beldad seria cantada, 
 
 y alguna vez con ella 
 
 tambien seria notada 
 el aspereza de que estas armada. 
 
 Y como pro tl sola 
 y por tu gran valor, y hermosura, 
 
 convertida in viola, 
 
 llora Eu desventur.i 
 cl miserable amante en tu figura. 
 
 Hablo de aquel cautivo 
 de quien tcner sc deve mas cuidado, 
 
 que est/i muriendo vivo 
 
 al remo condenado, 
 cn la concha de Venus amarrada.
 
 GARCILASO DE LA VEGA. 55 
 
 He tames the unmanageable steed. 
 
 With curb of gold his pride restrains. 
 
 Or with pressed spurs and shaken renis 
 Torments him into speed. 
 
 V. 
 
 Not now he wields, for thy sweet sake, 
 
 The sword in his accomplished hand ; 
 Nor grapples like a poisonous snake. 
 
 The wrestler on the yellow sand : 
 
 The old heroic harp his hand 
 Consults not now ; it can but kiss 
 
 The amorous lute's dissolving strings. 
 
 Which murmur forth a thousand things 
 Of banishment from bliss. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Through thee, my dearest friend and best 
 
 Grows harsh, importunate, and grave j 
 Myself have been his port of rest. 
 
 From shipwreck on the yawning wave ; 
 
 Yet now so high his passions rave 
 Above lost reason's conqueretl laws. 
 
 That not the traveller ere he slays 
 
 The asp, its sling, as he my face 
 So dreads, and so abhors. 
 
 VII. 
 
 In snows on rocks, sweet Flower of Gnide, 
 
 Thou wert not cradle<l, wert not born ; 
 She who has not a fault beside, 
 
 Should ne'er be signalised for scorn ; 
 
 Else tremble at the fate forlorn 
 
 For ti como, solia, 
 del aspcro caballo no corrigc 
 
 la furia y gallardia 
 
 ni con freno le rige, 
 ni con vivas cspuclas ya Ic aSige. 
 
 For tl, con diestra mano, 
 no revuelve la espada presurosa, 
 
 y en el dudoso llano 
 
 huye la polvorosa 
 palestra, come sierne ponzoBosa. 
 
 For t( su blanda Musa, 
 en lugar de la citara soiiante, 
 
 tristes querellas u>a, 
 
 que con llanto obundantc 
 hacen baiiar cl rostro del ainantc. 
 
 For ti el mayor amigo 
 to c« importuno, grave, y cnojoso ; 
 
 y puc<lo «i'r tt'stigo 
 
 que ya del peiigroso 
 naufragio fui su piierto, y >u reposo. 
 
 Y agora en tal inancra 
 Tcnce el dolor i la razon |>crdlda 
 
 que poijziiflo<a liera 
 
 nuca fuc aborrrcida 
 tanto com-) yo del, ni Lin temida. 
 
 No fuin'c lu engendrada, 
 ni priKlucida dr la dura (icrra : 
 
 no deU.' »er notad-i, 
 
 que ingr,itain<-iite yerra 
 quien ttxlo el otro error de il denticm 
 
 B 4
 
 56 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 Of Anax.iroto, who spurned 
 
 I'lio wei'pini,' Ipliis Irom her Rate ; 
 Who, s(-i>tliM|? li)ii({, relenting late. 
 
 Was to a statue turned. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Whilst yet soft pity she repelled; 
 
 Whilst yet she steeled her heart in pride. 
 From her I'riezed window she beheld. 
 
 Aghast, the lifeless suicide. 
 
 Around his lily neck was tied, 
 What freed his spirit from her chains. 
 
 And purchased with a few short sighs. 
 
 For her immortal agonies. 
 Imperishable pains. 
 
 IX 
 
 Tlien first she felt her bosom bleed 
 With love and pity — vain distress ! 
 
 O, what dee|) rigours must succeed 
 This first sole touch of tenderness ! 
 Her eyes grow glazed and motionless, 
 
 Nailed on his wavering corse ; each bone 
 Hardening in growth, invades her flesh. 
 Which late so rosy, warm, and fresh. 
 
 Now stagnates into stone. 
 
 X. 
 
 From limb to limb the frosts aspire. 
 Her vitals curdle with the cold ; 
 
 The blood forgets its crimson fire. 
 The veins that e'er its motion rolled ; 
 Till now the virgin's glorious mould 
 
 Hagate temerosa 
 El caso de Anaxarcte, y cobarde, 
 
 que de ser desdefiosa 
 
 se arrepintiu muy tarde, 
 y asi su alma con su inarmol arde. 
 
 Estabase alegrando 
 del mal ageno el pecho cmpcdernido, 
 
 quando abajo mirando, 
 
 el cuerpo muerto vido 
 del miserable amante alii tendido, 
 
 y al cucllo el lazo alado, 
 con que desenlazo de la cadena 
 
 el corazon cuitado, 
 
 que con su breve i)cna 
 compi6 la eterna punicion agena. 
 
 Sinti6 alii convertirse 
 en piedad amorosa el aspereza. 
 
 i O tarde aricpentirse ! 
 
 ;0, ultima terneza ! 
 c como te sucedio mayor dureza? 
 
 Los ojos se enclavaron 
 en eJ tendido cucrjjo, que alii vieron, 
 
 los huesos se tornaron 
 
 mas duros, y crecieron, 
 y en s( toda la came convirtieron. 
 
 Las entrafias eladas 
 tornaron poco a poco en piedradura : 
 
 por las venas cuitadae 
 
 la sangre, ^u figura 
 iba desconocicndo, y su natura.
 
 GARCILASO DE LA VEGA. 57 
 
 Was wholly into marble changed ; 
 
 On which the Salaniiiiians gazed. 
 
 Less at the prodigy amazed. 
 Than of the crime avenged. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Then tempt not thou Fate's angry arms, 
 
 By cruel frown, or icy taunt ; 
 But let thy perfect deeds and charms 
 
 To poets' harps, Divinest, grant 
 
 Themes worthy their immortal vaunt ; 
 Else must our weeping strings presume 
 
 To celebrate in strains of woe. 
 
 The justice of some signal blow. 
 That strikes thee to the tomb." 
 
 We have no room to multiply passages, and with this 
 ode must conclude our specimens. Garcilaso is a happy 
 type of a Spanish poet ; and when we think that such 
 men were the children of the old liberty of Spain, how 
 deeply we must regret the worse than iron rule that 
 blasted the race ; while we view in any attempt to regain 
 her ancient freedom, a promise of a new people, to adorn 
 the annals of mankind with all the virtues of heroism 
 and all the elevation of genius. 
 
 Hasta que, finalmcntc 
 en dure mannol vuelta, y transformada, 
 
 hizo de 8( la gentc 
 
 no tan maravillada, 
 quanto dc aquella ingratitud vengada. 
 
 No quieras tu, Sciiora, 
 dc Nemesis ayrada las saetas 
 
 probar por Dios agora; 
 
 baste que tus pcrfetas 
 obras, y hermosura a lo< Poetas 
 
 den inmortal materia, 
 •in que tambicn en verso lamentable 
 
 celehren la misoria 
 
 dc algun caso notable, 
 que por tl pasc triste y miserable."
 
 58 
 
 MENDOZA. 
 
 1500—1575. 
 
 The third in this trio of friendly poets was of a very 
 different character. ]\Iendoza was gifted neither with 
 Boscan's mild benevolence nor Garcilaso's tenderness. 
 That he was the friend of these men, and addicted to 
 literature, is his chief praise. Endowed with talents, 
 of a high and haughty disposition, his firmness degene- 
 rated into severity, and his valour into vehemence of 
 temper. He was shrewd, worldly and arrogant, but im- 
 passioned and resolute. He possessed many of those 
 high qualities, redeeming, while they were stained by 
 pride, which in that age distinguished the Spanish 
 cavalier; for in those days, the freedom enjoyed by 
 the Castilian nobility Avas but lately crushed, and its 
 generous influence still survived in their manners and 
 domestic habits. It was characteristic of that class of 
 men, that, when Charles V. asked a distinguished one 
 among them to receive the Constable Bourbon in his 
 house, the noble acquiesced in the commands of his 
 sovereign, but announced at the same time, his intention 
 of razing his house to the ground, as soon as the traitor 
 had quitted it. 
 
 Don Diego Hurtado de Mendoza (and to give him all 
 the titles enumerated by his Spanish biographer), Knight 
 Commander of the Houses of Calatrava and Badajoz, 
 in the order of Alcantara, of the council of Charles V., 
 and his ambassador to Venice, Rome, England, and the 
 council of Trent, captain-general of Siena, and gon- 
 falonier of the holy Roman church, %vas born in the 
 city of Granada, about the year 1500. He was of 
 noble extraction on both sides, — his father being second 
 count of Tendilla, and first marquis of Moiulojar ; his 
 mother, donna Francisca Pacheco, daughter of don Juan 
 Pacheco, marquis of Villena. Being the fifth son, Diego
 
 MENDOZA. 5g 
 
 was destined for the churchy and from his most ten- 
 der years received a literary education. He was sent 
 to the university of Salamanca, where he studied theo- 
 logy, and became a proficient in the Latin, Greek, He- 
 brew, and Arabic languages, to which he applied him- 
 self with diligence. Yet, though a laborious student, 
 gayer literature engaged his attention ; and while still 
 at Salamanca, he wrote Lazarillo de Tormes, a tale at 
 once declaratory of the originality of his genius. The 
 graphic descriptions, the penetration into character, the 
 worldly knowledge, the vivacity and humour, bespeak 
 an author of more advanced years. ^\'ho that has read 
 it, can forget the proud and poor hidalgo, who shared 
 with Lazarillo his dry crusts ; or the seven ladies who 
 had one esquire between them ; or the silent and som- 
 bre master whose actions were all mysteries, and whose 
 locked-up wealth, used with so much secrecy and dis- 
 cretion, yet brings on him the notice of the inquisition ? 
 It is strange that, in after life, Mendoza did not, fidl of 
 experience and observation, revert to this species of 
 writing. As it is, it stands a curious specimen of the 
 manners of his times, and as the origin of Gil Bias ; 
 almost we had said of Don Quixote, and is the more 
 admirable, as being the production of a mere youth. 
 
 Mendoza probal)ly found the clerical profession ill- 
 suited to his tastes ; he became a soldier and a states- 
 man ; and particularly in the latter capacity his talents 
 were appreciated by the emperor Charles V, He was 
 appointed ambassador* to Venice ; and, in the year 
 
 • The penetration with which Mendoza saw through the Ipfty pre- 
 fcnsioru of diplomacy, and the kccnncds of his observation, which strip- 
 ped thin science of all \U finery, is forcihly expressed in one of his epistles. 
 He cxclaimi — 
 
 "O cmbaxadorel, piiros inajaderos, 
 que »] lo» regen (juicri'n iiiKailar, 
 comiengafi pdr nrcotnw Ion primero6. 
 Nupntro major ne^ocio e», no daflar, 
 y jamas hacir cl)^a, ni rfezilla, 
 que no corrainot rw»Ko de enseiiar." 
 
 O ye amhaMadora I yp »impl<tfini. I \Vhcn king* wish to dereive they begin 
 fimt with ii». — Our chief biifintm \i to dii no harm, ami ijrvcr lo do or 
 tay aiiyihiiig, that we may not run the ri»k of makmg utlicrs as wise a» 
 ourtelve*.
 
 l>0 LITEUAUY AND SCIKNTIKIO MEN. 
 
 1545, was deputed by his sovereign to attend the coun. 
 cil of Trent, where he made a learned and elegant 
 oration, which was universally admired, and confirmed 
 the opinion already entertained of his talents, so that lie 
 was first promoted ambassador to Rome, and in ] 547, 
 he was named governor and captain-general of Siena. 
 This was a difficult post ; and JNIendoza unfortunately 
 acquitted himself neither with credit nor success. 
 
 Before the imperial and French arms had found in 
 Italy a lists in which to contend, this country had been 
 torn by the Ghibeline and Guelphic factions ; and these 
 names remained as watch wards after the spirit of them 
 had passed away. ^V^hen the French and Spaniards 
 struggled for pre-eminence, the Spaniards, as imperialists, 
 naturally espoused the interests of the Ghibeline cause, 
 to which Siena was invariably a partisan. The Spaniards 
 prevailed. At the treaty of Cambria, the emperor be- 
 came possessed of acknowledged sway over a large por- 
 tion of that fair land : over the remainder he exercised 
 an influence scarcely less despotic. Florence, adhering 
 with tenacious fondness to her ancient repubHcan insti- 
 tutions, was besieged : it capitulated, and, after some 
 faint show of temporising on the part of Charles, the 
 chief of the Medici family was made sovereign with 
 the title grand duke. 
 
 Siena, Ghibeline from ancient association, and always 
 adhering to the imperial party, was not the less enslaved. 
 Without openly interfering in its institutions, the em- 
 peror used his influence for the election of the duke of 
 Amalfi as chief of the republic. The duke, a man of 
 small capacity, was entirely led by Giulio Salvi and his 
 six brothers. This family, thus exalted, displayed 
 intolerable arrogance : it placed itself above the law ; 
 and the fortunes, the wives and children, of their fellow- 
 citizens, became the victims. 
 
 'J'he Sienese made their complaints to the emperor, 
 on his return from his expedition against Algiers ; 
 while, at the same time, Cosmo I., whose favourite 
 object was to possess himself of Siena, declared that the
 
 MENDOZA. 61 
 
 Salvi were conspiring to deliver that town into the hands 
 of the French, and so once more to give tliat power 
 a footing in Italy. The emperor, roused by an intim- 
 ation of this design, deputed an officer to reform the 
 government of Siena. A new oligarchy was erected, and 
 the republic was brought into absolute dependence on 
 the commands of the emperor. 
 
 Siena was quieted, but not satisfied^ while a new 
 treaty between Charles V. and France took from them 
 their hope of recurring to the assistance of the latter. 
 After the peace, don Juan de Luna commanded at 
 Siena, with a small Spanish garrison. But still the 
 seeds of discontent and of revolt, fostered by an ardent 
 attachment to their ancient institutions, lay germinating 
 in the hearts of the citizens. Charles never sent pay 
 to his soldiers : during time of war they lived by booty, 
 in time of peace, by extortion ; love of liberty, and 
 hatred of their oppressors, joined to cause them to en- 
 deavour to throw off the foreign yoke. On the 6th of 
 February 1 545, the people rose in tumult ; about 
 thirty nobles were killed, the rest took refuge in the 
 palace with don Juan de Luna. The troops of Cosmo I. 
 hovered on the frontier. He, perhaps, fostered the 
 revolt fo- his own ends ; at least, he was eager to take 
 advantage of it, and wished the Spanish governor to 
 call in his aid to quell it. But don Juan wanted 
 either resolution or foresight ; he allowed the Spanish 
 garrison to be dismissed, and, finally, a month after- 
 wards, was forced to quit the town, accompanied by the 
 obnoxious members of the aristocracy. 
 
 For sometime Siena enjoyed the popular liberty which 
 they had attained, till circumstances led the emperor to 
 fear that the French would gain power there ; and he re- 
 Sfdved to reduce the city to unqualified submission. Mcn- 
 do7,a was tlun ambassador at Rome. Charles named him 
 captain-general of Siena, and gave him orders to intro- 
 duce a Spanish garrison, and even to build a citadel for 
 its protection. Miiido/a obeyed : as the subject of a des- 
 potic sovereign, lie felt no remorse in cruhhing the
 
 62 LITEKAUY AND SCIKNTIFIC WEN. 
 
 lihcrtk's of a republic. He tlid not endeavour to con- 
 ciliate, nor to enforce respect by the justice of his mea- 
 sures. He held the discontented and outraged citizens 
 in check by force of arms only ; disarming them, and 
 delivering them up to the insolence and extortion of the 
 Spanish soldiery. They could obtain no protection 
 against all the thousand injuries, thefts, and murders 
 to which they were subjected. Mendoza, haughty and 
 unfeeling, became the object of universal hatred. Com- 
 plaints against him were carried to the emperor, and, 
 when these remained without effect, his life Avas at- 
 tempted by assassination : on one occasion his horse 
 was killed under him by a musket shot, aimed at him- 
 self. But Mendoza was as personally fearless as he 
 was proud; and the sternness that humanity could 
 not mitigate, was not softened by the suggestions of 
 caution. 
 
 Affairs of import called him away from his government. 
 On the death of Paul III. his presence was required at 
 Rome to influence the election of a new pope. He left 
 Siena, together with the unfinished citadel and itsgarrison, 
 under the command of don Juan Franzesi, and repaired to 
 watch the progress of the conclave. Through his in- 
 trigues the cardinal del Monte was elected, who took 
 the name of Julian III. The new pope, elected through 
 Spanish influence, adhered to the emperor's interests. 
 He instantly yielded the great point of contention be- 
 tween Paul III. and Charles V., and consented to the 
 restitution of the general council to Trent. Mendoza 
 twice attended this council for the purpose of bringing 
 the cardinals and prelates to a better understanding. 
 On his return the pope named him gonfaloniere of the 
 church; and in this character he subdued Orazio Farnese, 
 who had rebelled. Besides these necessary causes of 
 absence from his government, he was accused of pro- 
 tracting his stay in Rome on account of an amorous 
 intrigue in which he was engaged, and which occasioned 
 a great deal of scajidal. 
 
 The Sienese were on the alert to take advantage of
 
 MENDOZA. 6S 
 
 his absence. The rapacity and ill faith displayed by 
 Mendoza effectually weaned them from all attachment 
 to the imperial cause ; and when fresh war broke out 
 between Charles and the French king, the Sienese so- 
 licited the aid of the latter to deliver them from a 
 tyranny they were unable any longer to endiu-e. The 
 grand duke of Florence had reason to complain of the 
 Spaniards, and especially of Mendoza, who treated him 
 as the vassal of the emperor ; yet he was unwilling that 
 the French should gain footing in Tuscany, and be- 
 sides hoped to advance his own interests, and to add 
 Siena to his dukedom. He discovered a correspondence 
 between that town and the French, and revealed it to 
 Mendoza, offering the aid of an armed force in the em- 
 peror's favour. Mendoza, distrusting the motive of his 
 offers, rejected them. He apphed to the pope for as- 
 sistance ; but Juhan, offended by his conduct on various 
 occasions, evaded the request and remained neutral. 
 Meanwhile, Mendoza, either ignorant of the imminence 
 of the danger, or despising the power of the enemy, took 
 no active measures to prevent the mischief which menaced 
 his government. 
 
 The Sienese exiles assembled together, and put them- 
 selves under the command of a leader in the French pay. 
 They marched towards Siena ,and arriving before the 
 gates on the evening of the SGth of July 1552, pro- 
 claimed Liberty J The people, tliough unarmed, rose 
 at the cry. They admitted the exiles, and drove the 
 garrison, which merely consisted of 400 soldiers, from 
 the convent of San Domenico, in which they had fortified 
 themselves, and pursued them to the citadel, which was 
 badly fortified and badly victualled. After a few days 
 Franzesi capitulateil, and Siena w;is lost to the emperor. 
 Mendoza was accused of various faults on this occasion; 
 of weakening the garrison, and of not putting, through 
 avarice, the citadel in a state of defence; and, above all, 
 of delay, when he had lx.'en warned by Cosmo, and 
 not Ix'ing on the spot liiinwlf to Mcure tlic jjower of his 
 master in the town. These faults, joined to the hatred
 
 64' LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 in which he was held, caused the emperor not long after 
 (1551-) to recall him to Spain. 
 
 While thus employed in Italy as a statesman and a 
 soldier, his active mind led him also to other pursuits. 
 Many incditcd philosophical works of his are to he found 
 in Spanish libraries. He wrote a paraphrase of Aristotle, 
 and a translation into Spanish of the Mechanics of that 
 philosopher ; he composed Political Commentaries, and a 
 history of the taking of Tunis. In the library of ma- 
 nuscripts at Florence, Sedano tells us there exists a 
 volume in quarto entitled, " Various Works of D. Diego 
 de Mendoza, ambassador of his majesty to Venice, 
 Turkey, and England." On all occasions he showed 
 himself an enthusiastic lover of learning, and a liberal 
 patron of learned men ; as a proof of which the bookseller 
 Paulus Manutius dedicated his edition of Cicero to him. 
 Since the days of Petrarch, no man had heen so eager 
 to collect Greek manuscripts. He sent to Greece and 
 Mount Athos to procure them, and even made their ac- 
 quisition a clause in a political treaty with the Sultan. 
 He thus collected a valuable library, which at his death he 
 bequeathed to Philip II,, and it forms a precious portion 
 of the library of the Escurial. 
 
 It is, however, as a poet that his name is most dis- 
 tinguished in literature. He was a friend of Boscan, and 
 entered into his views for enlarging the sphere of Spanish 
 poetry by the introduction of the Itahan style. Though 
 a bitter enemy to the spirit of liberty in Italy, he could 
 yet appreciate and profit by the highly advanced state of 
 poetry and literature in that country, of which this very 
 spirit was the parent. 
 
 It is mentioned in the record of his employments, 
 that he went ambassador to England and Turkey ; but it 
 is uncertain at what time these journies were performed ; 
 probably before his return to Spain in 1 554. 
 
 Considerable obscurity is thrown over the latter years 
 of his life. That is, no sufficient pains has been taken 
 to throw light upon them. His manuscript works 
 would, doubtless, if consulted,, tell us more about him
 
 MENDOZA. 65 
 
 than is at present known. He devoted a portion of the 
 decUne of his life to study and literature ; but it would 
 seem that on his return from Italy^ he did not immediately 
 retire from active life, as it is mentioned by some 
 of his biographers that he continued member of the 
 council of state under Philip II. and was present at 
 the battle of St. Quentin, fought in 1557. One of the 
 last adventures recorded of him is characteristic of the 
 vehemence of his temper. AVhile at court, he had a 
 quarrel with a noble who was his rival in the affections 
 of a lady. His antagonist, in a fit of exasperation, 
 unsheathed a dagger ; but before he could use it, Men- 
 doza seized him and threw him from the balcony 
 where they were standing, into the street below. In all 
 countries in those days, a personal assault within the 
 precincts of a royal court was looked upon as a very seri- 
 ous offence, and Spanish etiquette caused it to be re- 
 garded in a still more heinous liglit. Still Mendoza was 
 not the aggressor : and his punishment was limited to a 
 short imprisonment, where he amused himself by ad- 
 dressing the lady of his love in various redondillas. 
 
 Much of the latter jiart of his life was spent in re- 
 tirement in his native city of Granada, given up to study 
 and literature. He here composed the most esteemed 
 of his prose works — the " History of the War of the 
 Moriscos in Granada." The style of this work is ex- 
 ceedingly pure. He took the Latin authors Sallust and 
 Casar for his models ; and being an eye-witness of the 
 events he records, his narrative is highly interesting. 
 
 ^VTiile in Italy, he harl written a state paper, addressed 
 to the emperor, dissuading him from selling the duchy of 
 Milan to the pope, which was conceived in so free a 
 style, that Sandoval, in quoting it in his history, believed 
 it necessary to soften its expressions. In the same way 
 this acute observer perceived the faults of the Spanish 
 government against the Moriscos, and alluded to, al- 
 though he did not dare blame them. 
 
 I'hilip II., a bigoted tyrant, drove this portion of his 
 Hubjects to despair. Mendoza tells us that just before 
 
 vol,. III. V
 
 06 MTKIIARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 tlieir revolt, " the iiKjuisitioii began to persecute them 
 more than ever. Tlie king ordered them to (juit the 
 Morisco language, and all commerce and communication 
 one with tiie other: he took from them their negro slaves, 
 whom they had brought up with the same kindness as 
 if they had been their children : he forced them to cast 
 off their Arab dress, in which they held invested a large 
 capital, and obliged them, at a great expense, to adopt 
 the Castilian costume. He forced the women to appear 
 with uncovered faces, opening all that portion of their 
 houses which they were accustomed to keep closed ; and 
 both of these orders appeared intolerable to this jealous 
 people. It was spread abroad also that he intended to 
 possess himself of their children, and to educate them in 
 Castile: he forbade the use of baths, which contributed 
 at once to their cleanliness and pleasure. Their music, 
 songs, feasts, and weddings, held according to their 
 manners and customs, and all assemblies of a joyful 
 nature, were already interdicted ; and these new regu- 
 lations were published without augmenting the guards, 
 without sending troops, without reinforcing the garrisons 
 or establishing new ones." * 
 
 The effect of such a system on a proud and valorous 
 people, passionately attached to their religion and 
 customs, might be anticipated. The Moors collected 
 arms secretly, and laid up stores in the rugged moun- 
 
 * Mendoza felt himself obliged in his own person to refrain from all cen- 
 sure on the edicts of his sovereign. Hut in a speech he introduced after the 
 manner of Sallust, as spoken by one of the chiefs, he conveyed, in forcible 
 terms, his sense of the persecution which the unhuppy Moors endured. 
 The conspirator exclaims : " What hinders a man, speaking Castilian, from 
 following the law of the proi)het, or one who speaks Morisco from fol- 
 lowing that r)f Jc5us ? 'J'hcy take our children to their congregations and 
 schools, teaching them arts which our ancestors forbade, that purity of the 
 law might not be disturbed nor its truth disputed. We are tlircatened at 
 every hour that they shall be taken from the arms of their mothers and 
 the bringing up of their fathers, and carried into distant lands, where they 
 will forget our customs, and learn to become the enemies of the fathers 
 who begot them, and the mothers who bore them. We are ordered to cast 
 oR' our national dress, and to adopt the Castilian. Germans dress after 
 one manner, the French after another, the fireeks after another. The 
 clergy have a peculiar garb — youths one .sort of dress — old men another.— 
 each nation, and each pro(es^i(>n, and each rank, adojits its own style of 
 dress. Yet all are Christians. .Vnd wo Moors — why do we dress in the 
 Morisco, as if our faith liung in our garb — not in our hearts 'i "
 
 MENDOZA. 67 
 
 tains of the Alpujarra : they chose for king the young 
 Fernando de Valor, descended from their ancient sove- 
 reigns, Vv-ho assumed the name of Aben Hunieya. The 
 progress of the revolt, however, met with various checks, 
 and they did not receive the aid they expected from the 
 sultan Selim. Instead, therefore, of taking Granada, their 
 war became guerilla ; and the spirit of vengeance incited 
 them to the exercise of frightful cruelties, by way of 
 reprisal, on the Christian prisoners who fell into their 
 hands. An army was sent against them, commanded by 
 don John of Austria, natural son of Charles V. ; Men- 
 doza's nephew, the marquis of Mondejar, was one of 
 the principal generals under him : Mendoza, therefore, 
 had fuU opportunity to learn the details of the war, 
 which terminated in the success of the Spaniards, whose 
 cruelties rivalled those of the unfortunate rebels. The 
 Moriscos were put down by the massacre of several 
 villages, and the selling of the inhabitants of a whole ter- 
 ritory into slavery. This total destruction of the Mo- 
 risco people is described by Mendoza, with a truth that 
 prevented his history from being published until I6IO, 
 and even then with great omissions : a complete edition 
 did not api.3ar till 1776. 
 
 After a retreat of some years, Mendoza appeared 
 at court again in his old age^ at Valladolid : his repu- 
 tation caused him to be admired as an oracle ; his eru- 
 dition and genius commanded universal respect. He 
 enjoyed these honours but a few months, and died in 
 the year 1575. 
 
 There are few men of whoni the Spaniards are more 
 proud than Mendoza, wiiom, to distinguish from other 
 poets of the same name, they usually call the Ambas- 
 sarlor. " Most certain it is," says Sedano, " that 
 from the importance and diversity of his employments, 
 he was considered one of the most famous among the 
 many great men which that age produced. His ardent 
 mind was peqietually eni|)l(tyed in the support of the 
 glory of his sovereign and tlie honour of his country ; 
 and in all the transactions in which he was employed, 
 
 F 2
 
 ()8 MTKrwVUY AND SCIENTIFIC WEN. 
 
 his zeal, his integrity, his deep policy, his penetra- 
 tion, and his understanding shone out ; and the very 
 faults of which he is accused, must be attributed to 
 the envy and hatred of his enemies." 
 
 We may not, perhaps, be ready to echo much of this 
 praise. The oppressor of a free people must always 
 hold an obnoxious position ; and when to the severe 
 and unpitying system he adopted towards others, we 
 find that he indulged his own passions even to the 
 detriment of his sovereign's interests, we feel somewhat of 
 contempt mingled with resentment. We are told that in 
 person he was tall and robust, dignified in his deportment, 
 but ugly in the face. His complexion was singularly 
 dark, and the expression of his countenance haughty ; his 
 eyes were vivacious and sparkling ; and we may believe 
 that his irregular and harsh features were redeemed in 
 some degree by the intellect that informed them. 
 
 In judging of him as a poet, he falls far short of 
 Garcilaso ; but in some respects he may be considered 
 as superior to Boscan. His short and simple poems, 
 named in Spanish vilancicos, are full of life and spirit, 
 and are fitted to become popular from the simplicity 
 and yet vivacity of their sentiments and versification : 
 they are the sparkling emanations of the passions, ex- 
 pressed at the moment, with all the ardour of living 
 emotion. Indeed, he so far indulged in this sort of 
 composition, tempting to one who feels that he can thus 
 impart, and so perhaps obtain sympathy for, the emotions 
 that boil within him, that most of his smaller poems 
 remain inedited as being too free ; the Spanish press 
 never being permitted to put forth works of a li- 
 centious nature. His epistles imitated from Horace, 
 want elegance and harmony ; but they are forcible, and 
 full of excellent sense and good feeling. He could 
 not rise to the sublime. There is a complimentary ode 
 of his addressed to cardinal Espinosa, on his assuming the 
 hat, for the writing of which, we are told by his secretary, 
 that he prepared by three days' study of Pindar ; but it 
 breathes no Pindaric fire ; there is bathes rather than
 
 MENDOZA. 69 
 
 height in the similes he makes, drawn from the purple 
 of the cardinal's new dress, and the crimson colours with 
 which the sun invests the empyreum. Mendoza was 
 not an imaginative poet ; and it is observable, that when 
 a person, not such by nature, deals in the ideal, the result 
 is rather the ridiculous than the sublime. Acute, earnest, 
 playful, passionate, but neither tender nor sublime, if we 
 except a few of his minor love poems, we read Mendoza's 
 verses rather to become acquainted with the man than 
 seek the soul of poetry in his compositions.
 
 70 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 LUIS DE LEON. 
 
 1527—1591. 
 
 There is a variety in the physiognomy and character 
 of the poets whose biography is liere traced^ that renders 
 each in himself higlily interesting; our misfortune is 
 that we know so little of them. Sedano bitterly laments 
 the obscurity which wraps the history of the great li- 
 terary men of Spain, through the neglect of their con- 
 temporaries to transmit the circumstances of their lives. 
 We have but slight sketches ; yet their works^ joined 
 to these, individualise the man, and give animation 
 and interest to very slender details. We image Bos- 
 can in his rural retirement, philosophising, book in hand; 
 — revolving in his thoughts the harmonies of verse, 
 conversing with his friends, enjoying with placid smile 
 the calm content, or rather, may we not say, the perfect 
 home-felt, heart-reaching happiness of his married 
 life, which he felt so truly, and describes in such lively 
 colours. Young still, his affections ardent, but con- 
 centrated, he acknowledges that serenity, confidence, and 
 sweet future hopes ; unreserved sympathy, and entire 
 community of the interests of life, is the real Paradise 
 on earth. Garcilaso, the gallant soldier, the tender 
 poet, the admired and loved of all, is of another cha- 
 racter, more heroic, more soft, more romantic. Men- 
 doza, with his fiery eye, his vehement temper, his 
 untamed passions — and these mingled with respect for 
 learning, friendship for the worthy, and talents that 
 exalted his nature to something noble and immortal, 
 despite his defects, contrasts with his friends : and the 
 fourth now coming, Luis de Leon — more earnest 
 and enthusiastic than Boscan — tender as Garcilaso, but 
 with a soul whose tenderness was engrossed by heavenly
 
 LUIS I>E LEON. 71 
 
 not earthly love — pure and high -hearted, \vith thenohility 
 of genius stamped on his brow, but with religious re- 
 signation calming his heart, — he is different, but more 
 complete — a man Spain only coidd produce ; for in Spain 
 only had religion such sovereign sway as wholly to reduce 
 the rebel inclinationsof man,and, by substituting supernal 
 for terrestrial love, not diminish the fulness and tenderness 
 of passion, but only give it another object. High poetic 
 powers being joined not only to the loftiest religious en- 
 thusiasm, to learning, but also the works of this amiable 
 and highly-gifted man are different from all others, but 
 exquisite in their class. We wish to learn more of his 
 mind : as it is, we know little, except that as his com- 
 positions were characteristic of his virtues, so were the 
 events of his life of his country. 
 
 The family of Luis Ponce de Leon was the noblest in 
 Andalusia. He was born at Granada in the year 1527. 
 It would appear that his childhood was not happy, for 
 in an ode to the Virgin, written when in the dungeons 
 of the inquisition, he touchingly speaks of his abandon- 
 ment in infancy, saying: — 
 
 My mother died as goon as I was born,* 
 
 And I was dedicate to thee, a child. 
 Bequeathed by my poor mother's dying prajer. 
 
 A second parent thou, (> Virgin mild. 
 Father and mother to the babe forlorn ; 
 
 For my own lather made me not his care. 
 
 It was this neglect, probably, that led him to place 
 his affections on religious objects ; and the enthusiasm 
 he felt, he believed to be a vocation for a monastic life. 
 At the age of sixteen, he endued the habit of the order 
 of St. Augustin in the convent of Salamanca, and took 
 the vows during the following year. Enthusiastically 
 pious, but withriut fanaticism, his heart was warmed 
 only by the softer emotions of reUgion ; love, and resig- 
 nation, a taste for retirement, and pleasure in fulfilling 
 
 • " LucKO cnmo naci, murio mi madre: 
 & tl c|uc<le yo nlfio enromcndado : 
 <lcjnic-me mi madre |K>r tulora : 
 del vienire de mi madre en II fue erliado; 
 iniirio mi m.iiire, de«eeh6me mi padre, 
 t(j tola ere« padre y madre ahora." 
 
 F 4
 
 72 LITKnAUY AND SCIENTIFIC MION. 
 
 the duties of his order. His soul was purified, but not 
 narrowed by his piety. He loved learning, and was an 
 elegant classical scholar. Most of his poems were 
 written when young. He translated a great deal from 
 Virgil and Horace, and became imbued by their elegance 
 and correctness. He was celebrated also as a theologian, 
 and he pursued his scholastic studies with an ardour that 
 led him to adorn his religious faith with the imaginative 
 hues of poetry and the earnest sentiments of his heart. He 
 Avas admired for his learning by his contemporaries, and 
 rose high in the estimation of the scholars of Salamanca, 
 where he resided. At the age of thirty-three, he wjismade 
 doctor of theology by the university of that town. In 
 the year 15()1, he was elected to the chair of St. Thomas, 
 over the heads of seven candidates, by a large majority. 
 
 Although his learjiing, his piety, and the austerity of 
 his life, caused him to be regarded with universal re- 
 spect, yet he had enemies, the result, probably, of his 
 very excellencies. These took advantage of a slight 
 imprudence he had committed, to plunge him into the 
 most frightful misfortune. He greatly loved and ad- 
 mired Hebrew poetry ; and, to please a friend, who did 
 not understand the learned languages, he translated into 
 Spanish, and commented upon, the Song of Solomon. 
 His friend was heedless enough to permit copies to be 
 taken, and it thus became spread abroad. Who was 
 the machinator of the disaster that ensued we are not 
 told ; but he was accused liefore the tribunal of the 
 inquisition of heresy, for disobeying the commands of 
 the church, in translating Scripture into the vulgar 
 tongue. He was seized^ and thrown into the prison of 
 the inquisition, at Valladolid, in the year 1572. Here he 
 remained five years, suffering all the hardships of a 
 rigorous and cruel confinement. Confined in a dun- 
 geon, without light or space — cut off from com- 
 munication with his friends — allowed no measures of 
 defence — hope seemed shut out from him, while all 
 means of occupation were denied him. 
 
 His pious mind found consolation m religion. He 
 could turn to the objects of his worship, implore their aid,
 
 LUIS DE LEON, 73 
 
 and trust to the efficacy of their intercession before God. 
 Sometimes, however, his heart failed him, and it was 
 complaints rather than prayers that he preferred. His 
 odes to the Virgin were written during this disastrous 
 period ; and among them that from which we have 
 already quoted, in which he pathetically describes and 
 laments the extremity of adversity to which he was re- 
 duced. The whole ode in Spanish is full of pathos, and 
 gentle, yet deep-felt lamentation: a few stanzas may give 
 some idea of the acuteness of his sufferings. Thus he 
 speaks of the hopeless, lingering evils of his imprison- 
 ment : — 
 
 If I look back, I feel a wild despair — * 
 
 1 shrink with terror from the coming days, 
 
 For they will mirror but the hideous pait; 
 
 While heavy and intolerable weighs 
 
 The evil load of all that now I bear ; 
 
 Korhave I hope but it will ever last — 
 
 The arrows come so fast ; 
 
 I feel a deadly wound, 
 
 And, shudd'ring, look around ; 
 
 And as the blood, rushing all warm, doth flow. 
 
 Behold ! another, and another blow ! 
 
 While they who deal to me such fierce annoy. 
 
 Rejoice to see my woe — 
 
 Lamenting still they do not quite destroy .' 
 
 To what poor wretch did heaven e'er deny 
 Leave to declare the misery he (eels ? 
 Laments can case the weight of heaviest chain ; 
 But cruel fate with me so harshly deals, 
 Stifling within my lips the gushing cry. 
 So that aloud I never may complain : 
 For, could I tell my pain, 
 
 ♦" Se miro lo pasado pierdo el seso, 
 y si lopor venir pierdo el sentido, 
 porque vco sera qua! lo pasado : 
 «i lo presente, hallome oprimido 
 dc tan pesada carga y grave peso, 
 que reeollar apenas no me cs dado : 
 a|>cnn4 ha tirado 
 un enemlgo un tiro, 
 la frcHca llaga miro 
 la langre por las sienct ir corricndo : 
 otro por otra parte me eitft hirlendo, 
 micniras aquol en ver que me maltratan 
 contentus Lit& haciendo, 
 pcro tristci en vcr que no me matan. 
 
 c A' qufti hoinbre jamas le fup negada 
 licenna <l<' <le<"ir el mat (ju<*nien!(' ? 
 Que parcce que alivia ku lormeiito — 
 B mf, jKirqoe mi nial ma» me atonnledtc, 
 la Ixxa fuerteiiK-nto me c* rcrrada, 
 |>ara que no putiliqur el ma! que sicnto ; 
 que ct tal i|ue hi lo cuento,
 
 74« LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 What heart were hard enough, 
 
 Thmn'h made of sternest stufr, 
 
 Titjer or basilisk, or serpent dread. 
 
 That would not gentle tears of pity shed. 
 
 Symbols of tender sorrow for my woes? 
 
 The while l)y hatre.l fed, 
 
 Fate's hostile fury ever fiercer grows. 
 
 From living man no comfort reaches me : 
 From me the dearest and most faithful friend 
 Would fiy beyond Die earth's remotest end. 
 So not to share my hopeless misery ! 
 And my sad eyes, where'er I turn my sight, 
 Are strangers to the light. 
 No man tliat comes anear. 
 My name did ever hear — 
 So I myself almost myself forget ! 
 Nor know if what I was, so am I yet^ 
 Nor why to me this misery befell : 
 Nor can I knowledge get ; 
 For none to me the horrid tale will tell. 
 • » • 
 
 » » • 
 
 Wrcck'd is my vessel on a shoreless sea, 
 Where there is none to help me in my fear, 
 Where none can stretch a friendly saving hand ! 
 I call on men — but there are none to hear ; 
 In the wide world there 's no man thinks of mc ; 
 My failing voice can never reach the land ! 
 But, while I fearful stand, 
 A blessed, heaven-sent thought, 
 By bitter suffering brought, 
 
 t un corazon mas duro 
 
 que una roca, o un muro, 
 
 6 sierpe, <• basilisco, 6tigre hircana, 
 
 sin duda hard ilorar, y muy de gana 
 
 en sefial que mi mal les enternece ; 
 
 pero la furia insana 
 
 de los que rae persiguen siempre crece. 
 
 En ningun hombre hallo ya consuolo : 
 la lumbre de mi ojos no es cnnmigo — 
 el mas estrccho, fiel, y caro amigo 
 huiri la tierra, el mar, el alto cielo, 
 & trueco de se ver de mi apartado. 
 Si mirt) al diestro lado, 
 no hallo solo un hombre 
 que sepa ya mi nombre ; 
 y asi yo mismo di'l tambien me olvido, 
 y nose mas de mi de que hube sido ; 
 si mi troque, si soy quien antes era, 
 aun nunca lo he sahido, 
 que no me da lugar mi suerte fiera. 
 • « « 
 
 • « 
 
 Metido estoy en cste mar profundo, 
 d6 no hay <juien me focorra, quien me ayudc ; 
 d6 no hay quien para mi tienda su mano. 
 Llamo 'i los hombrcs, mas ninguno acude : 
 no tengo hombre algunocn todo el muiido • 
 estoy ronco de dar voces en vano : 
 tome un coiiscjo sano 
 deepueM de tanto acuerdn, 
 que el mal me hizo cuerdo :
 
 LU.IS DE LEON. 75 
 
 Bids mc, O Virgin .' trust to thee alone. 
 Thou never turn'st away from those who cry, 
 Xor wilt thou let thy son, 
 O piteous Mother '. miserably die. 
 
 My mother died as soon as I was bom ; 
 
 And I was dedicate to thee, a little child, 
 
 Bequeath'd by my poor mother's dying prayer ; 
 
 A second parent thou, O Virgin mild 1 — 
 
 Father and mother to the babe forlorn: 
 
 For my own father made me not his care : — 
 
 And, Lady, canst thou bear 
 
 A child of thine thus lost. 
 
 And in such danger tost ? 
 
 To other sorrows art thou not so blind : 
 
 They waken pity in thy gentle mind. 
 
 Thou givest aid to every other. 
 
 To me be also kind ; 
 
 Listen, and save thy son, O piteous' Mother ! 
 
 It could not be, however, but that a heart so truly 
 pious would find relief in prayer, and feel at intervals 
 strong animating confidence in heaven. Thus, in con- 
 trast with these laments, Ave have a description of an- 
 other mood of mind, which he gives in an epistle to a 
 friend on his liberation. " Cut off," he writes, " not 
 only from the conversation and society of men, but 
 even from seeing them, I remained for five years shut 
 up in darkness and a dungeon. I then enjoyed a peace 
 and joy of mind that I often miss, now that I am 
 restored to hght, and the society of my friends." 
 
 He was at length liberated. Sedano tells us, that "at 
 last his trial being over, in virtue of the proofs and 
 
 ft ti tola pcdir nocorro quiero, 
 que dc los que te llaman no tc escondes : 
 puc* me ves que rae muero, 
 i como, piadosa Madre, no rcspondcs ? 
 • • ♦ 
 
 Lucgo como narf muriu mi Madre ; 
 
 ft li qnedi5 yo tiiflo cncomcixlailo : 
 
 dejoteine mi madre \t<)t tiitora ; 
 
 del vicntrc de mi mailrc en ti fuccchado: 
 
 muri/i mi madre, descctn'.me el padre, 
 
 t6 iiola ereii padre y madre ahora ; 
 
 i y pue<le «er, Sefiora, 
 
 ^ue un hijo tuyo muera 
 
 miiortc t-in Umtimcrn, 
 
 ■iendo («or ti mil otron iiororrido.i ? 
 
 i I'orqiic me rierra«, A'lrgen, lo« oido«? 
 
 J. I'orquc no e«rurharmc''' ,; 1)1, fiorquc tc abacondea ? 
 
 Y •! oye« mi ([emido«, 
 
 i como, pladoia Madre, no rcipondci ? "
 
 7t) LITERARY AND SCIKI^TIFIC MEN. 
 
 exculpations whijch he was enabled to brinf? in support of 
 his innocence, he was set at liberty at the end of the 
 year 1 576, and restored to all his honours and employ- 
 ments." It is some consolation to find that his im- 
 prisonment caused great scandal and outcry, and that his 
 liberation was hailed with exultation and delight The 
 university had, from respect, never filled the professor's 
 chair, vacated during his imprisonment ; and, on his 
 return to Salamanca, the most distinguished persons of 
 the town met him on his way, and conducted him thither 
 in triumph. 
 
 Few events after this are recorded of his life. He 
 visited Madrid ; and the royal council confided to him 
 the task of the revision and correction of the works of 
 St. Theresa de Jesu, which were much mutilated, and 
 of preparing them for the press. About the same time, 
 there was attempted the reform of his order in Portugal, 
 a work of importance and difficulty to the catholic 
 church. The assistance of Luis de Leon was required, and 
 it is supposed that he even made a journey to Portugal 
 for that purpose. In 1591, he was named vicar-general 
 of his province, and soon afterward elected provincial ; 
 but he did not long enjoy this honour : nine days after 
 his election he was attacked by some acute malady. The 
 Spanish biographers take pains to assure us of the edify- 
 ing piety of his end ; and we can easily believe that a 
 man who in youth was entirely dedicate to religion, 
 should in the calmness of old age and in the hour of 
 death, reap from his belief the composure of spirit that 
 makes a happy end. He died on the 23d of August 
 15,91, in the sixty-fourth year of his age. 
 
 In person, Luis Ponce de Leon is described as of fair 
 height, well-proportioned in person, vigorous and robust. 
 His countenance was manly, and the expression, de- 
 spite the vivaciousness of his eyes, serious and calm. 
 His mind was ever bent on religious objects : he seems 
 to have forgotten his high birth and the splendour of 
 his name, and to have aspired only to Christian humility. 
 Love of poetry and classical literature were the only
 
 LUIS DE LEON. -T? 
 
 objects that ever called his attention from pious con- 
 templations ; and these he followed chiefly in his vouth. 
 " God gifted him," says Sedano, " with a noble birth : 
 he adorned him with understanding and extraordinary 
 talents ; he made him the son of a house abounding 
 in riches and prosperity, and bestowed on him reli- 
 gious and hterary honours ; and it was necessary, for the 
 sake of proving his virtues and purifying his soul, to 
 visit him with the misfortunes belonging to the age in 
 which he hved, proportionate to the greatness of his 
 gifts." Sad as it is to reflect on an age and country in 
 Avhich virtues so exemplary, and talents so exalted, met 
 with unmerited persecution, we are almost glad to find 
 that one of the pillars of the very institutions that exer- 
 cised such barbarous sway, was visited by its cruelty 
 and injustice, to prove that no obedience and no excel- 
 lence could shelter even the submissive slaves of despotism 
 from its tyranny. Luis de Leon had indeed a soul at 
 once above submission and suffering. He bowed before 
 a higher than earthly power, and was exalted above 
 persecution through his very humility — a proud hu- 
 mility, mixed with a consciousness of strength and 
 worth. On his liberation from prison, and restoration 
 to his professor's chair, all Salamanca flocked to hear 
 his first lecture, drawn thither by reverence and curio- 
 sity. Luis de Leon appeared serene and cheerful, and 
 commenced as if nothing had happened ; nor alluded to 
 the long interval, filled with such misery, that had in- 
 tervened since his last lecture, beginning thus : — " We 
 said yesterday that he liad a willow for his symbol, and 
 ac its foot a hatchet, with this inscription, ' Through 
 injury and death.' Nobleness, virtue, and generosity 
 spring up under the very attacks of adversity and per- 
 secution. A willow the more it is cut, so much the more 
 vigorously does it throw out its shoots ; and for this 
 cause has it its name (^.yitlix) from the vigour with which 
 it sprouts, and the swiftness of its growth."* And thus 
 
 * " Diccbnmua hc»tcmo die : I'ro iiuii intiKnihuii habct naliccm, ad cuju» 
 pcilcm wcuta ct hcc verba: I'cr damna — per ctcdea. VlUuuiuin ciiim
 
 78 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 he adopted for his emblem, a pruned tree with the knife 
 at its foot, and the motto "Ah ipm fvrro." 
 
 As a theologian, his works are held in high repute. 
 It is to his praise that, though austere and regular as a 
 monk, he yet studied the liberal arts with assiduity and 
 success. He was well versed in Hebrew, Greek, and 
 Latin, besides being entire master of his native Casti- 
 lian. His poetry is held in great estimation : the purity 
 and elegance of his style are unsurpassed. Those Spa- 
 niards, who are addicted to the tinsel of versification, 
 accuse him of want of loftiness ; but nothing can exceed 
 the harmony and flow of his verse, the grace and pro- 
 priety of his ideas, and the truth and simplicity — the 
 extreme ease and animation, of his style. It is unorna- 
 mented — but for that very reason, more purely poetic. 
 The most perfect of his compositions is his " Ode to 
 Tranquil Life," in which he dwells with brooding, earnest 
 delight on all the objects, and all the reveries that bless 
 a man, content in solitude. His religious poetry comes 
 less home to our hearts : it is so entirely catholic, but 
 all is marked by enthusiasm and sincerity. 
 
 As a translator, he holds a high place ; though he may 
 be said rather to paraphrase than translate his models. 
 He thus rendered into Spanish jnany of the odes of 
 Horace, and various others selected from Pindar, Ti- 
 buUus, and Theocritus. He translated all the Eclogues 
 of Virgil, and the first book of his Georgics. He tells 
 us, that he endeavoured to make the ancient poets speak 
 as they would have expressed themselves, had they been 
 born in his own age, in Castile, and had written in Casti- 
 lian. In an inferior poet this attempt had been indis- 
 creet and rash, but Luis de Leon was so much master 
 of style and harmony, that it is impossible to regret the 
 new costume with which he invests our old favourites. 
 He is chiefly blamed because the beauty of his para- 
 phrases is so great : and they have taken such hold of 
 
 nol)ilo ac gcnerosum jjcrmcn oritur ex passionilius ct summis cruciatibus. 
 Salix enim quo magis ccditiir, et m.iRis Kcrminans, ramos cxtollifJr; et 
 itleo dicitur : salix, isalicmlo, ct celeritatc crcscetidi."
 
 LUIS DE LEON. 79 
 
 Spanish readers, that they preclude all future attempts 
 at more literal translation. This is of slight import. 
 If the poems he gives us in Castilian are in themselves 
 beautiful, the Spanish reader must be satisfied. A 
 vigorous desire to have a perfect understanding of the 
 originals ought to lead to the study of them in their 
 native language — the only way really to attain it, and, 
 to a Castilian, not a difficult one. 
 
 Were there a good translation of the ode 
 
 " Que descansada vida," 
 
 we should prefer quoting it, as most characteristic of the 
 peculiar imagery and feeling of the poet. As it is, we 
 are tempted to present Mr. AV'iften's spirited translation of 
 his ode on the Moorish invasion : the animation and fire 
 which it breathes has made it a favourite, and shows 
 that Luis de Leon was confined to didactic subjects 
 rather from choice, than by the necessity or narrowness 
 of his genius. 
 
 " As by Tagus' billowy bed, * 
 
 King Rodrigo, safe from sight. 
 With the lady Cava fed 
 
 On the fruit of loose dqlight ; 
 From the river's placid breast. 
 
 Slow its ancient Genius broke; 
 Of the scrolls of fate possess'd, 
 
 Thus the frowning prophet spoke: 
 ' In an evil hour dost thou, 
 
 liuthless spoiler, wanton here! 
 Shouts and clangours even now, 
 
 Kven now assail mine ear — 
 Shout and sounil of clashing^shield, 
 
 Shiver'd sword, and rushing car — 
 All the frenzy of the field I — 
 
 All the anarchy of war ! 
 
 •" Folgabaol rey Ilodrigo, 
 
 con la hermosa ('aba cm la ribcra 
 
 de 'i'ajo sin testigo : 
 Kl pccho •aco fiJiTa, 
 Kl rio, y le hablo de ola manero. 
 
 ' Kn mal puiito te goces, 
 injusto forzador, (|ue ya cl ionldo 
 
 oyo ya y la» vovx-r, 
 Ina nrmaa y el bramido 
 dc Marte, de furor y ardor ccfiido.
 
 80 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC SIEN. 
 
 ' O what wail and weeping spring 
 
 l''urlh IVom this, tliiiic hmir of mirth, 
 From yun fair ami .sniiliiiH 'hiiiK, 
 
 Whi) ill an evil lioiir had birtli 1 
 In nn evil day for .Spain 
 
 Plighted in your guilty troth — 
 Fatal triumph ! costly gain 
 
 To the sceptre of the fioth ! 
 
 ' Flames and furies, griefs and broils, 
 
 Slaughter, ravage, (ieree alarms, 
 Anguish and immortal toils 
 
 'Ihou dost gather to tliine arms, — 
 For thyself and vassals — those 
 
 Who the fertile furrow lireak, 
 Where the statuly Kbro Hows, 
 
 Who their thirst in Douro slake! 
 
 • For the throne — the hall — the bower — 
 
 Murcian lord and Lusian swain — 
 For the chivalry a flower 
 
 Of all sad and spacious Spain ! 
 Prompt for vengeance, not lor fame. 
 
 Even now from Cadiz' halls, 
 On the Moor, in Allah 's.name. 
 
 Hoarse the Count — the Injur'd calls. 
 
 ' Hark, how frightfully forlorn 
 
 Sounds his trumpet to the stars, 
 Citing Afric's desert-born 
 
 To the gonfalon of Mars! 
 Lo ! already loose in air 
 
 Floats the standard — i>cals the gong ; 
 They shall not be slow to dare 
 
 Roderick's wrath for Julian '.s wrong. 
 
 ' i Ay esa tu alegria 
 que llanto acarrea! y esa hermosa, 
 
 que vio el sol en mal dia, 
 a Espafia ay quan llorosa, 
 y al ceptro de los Godos qu&n costosa ! 
 
 ' LIam;is, dolores, guerras, 
 muertob asolamientos, licros males, 
 
 entre tus brazos cicrras, 
 trabajos immortales 
 5 ti y S tus vasallos naturalcs. 
 
 ' A' los que en Constantina 
 rompen el fertil suelo, a los que baCa 
 
 El Ehro, 5 la vecina 
 .Sansuefia, 6 Lusitafia, 
 I toda la especiosa y tristc EspaQa. 
 
 Ya dcsde Cadiz llama 
 el injuriado Condc, a la vcnganza 
 
 atento, y no a la fama, 
 la barbara pujanza 
 en quien, para tu daCo, no hay tarclanza. 
 
 ' Oye que al cielo toca 
 con temeroso son la trompa ficra, 
 
 que en Africa convoca 
 el Moro ;i la vaixlera 
 que el ayre desplegada va ligcra.
 
 LUIS DE LEON. 81 
 
 ' See their spears the Arabs shake, 
 
 Smite the wind, the war demand ; 
 Milhons in a moment wake. 
 
 Join, and swarm o'er all the sand. 
 Underneath their sails, the sea 
 
 Disappears — a hubbub runs 
 Through the sphere of heaven, a-lee. 
 
 Clouds of dust obscure the sun's. 
 
 ' Swift their mighty ships they climb, 
 
 Cut the cables, sUp from shore ; 
 How their sturdy arms keep time 
 
 To the dashing of the oar! 
 Bright the frothy billows burn 
 
 Round their cleaving keels, and gales. 
 Breathed by JEolus astern, 
 
 Fill their deep and daring sails. 
 
 ' Sheer across Alcides' strait. 
 
 He whose voice the floods obey, 
 With the trident of his state. 
 
 Gives the grand armada way. 
 In her sweet subduing arms. 
 
 Sinner ! dost thou slumber still. 
 Dull and deaf to the alarms 
 
 Of this loud inrushing ill ? 
 
 ' In the hallow'd Gadite bay, 
 
 Mark them mooring from the main ; 
 Rise, take horse I — away ! away ! 
 
 Scale the mountain — scour the plain ! 
 Give not pity to thy hand. 
 
 Give not pardon to thy spur ; 
 Dart abroad thy flashing brand. 
 
 Bare thy fatal scimitar. 
 
 ' La lanza ya blandea 
 el Arabe cruel, y hiere al vicnto, 
 
 llamando a la |>elea ; 
 innumerable qucnto 
 de esquadras juntas vide en un momento. 
 
 ' Cubre la gente el suelo, 
 dehajo dc las velas desparcce 
 
 la mar, la voz al cielo 
 confusa y varia crccc, 
 el |)olvo roba el dia y le obscurecc. 
 
 ' ; .Ay que ya presurosos 
 Suben laa largas naves, ay que tiendcn 
 
 los brazos vigorosos 
 & lo« remos, y encienden 
 las mares espumotas |ior d6 hicnden .' 
 
 • El Ef)lo derccho 
 
 hinchc la vela en popa, y largo entrada 
 
 por el Herculeo estrecho 
 con la punta ai'rrada 
 cl gran padre Neptuno da i la Armada. 
 
 • ! Ay trinte y aun tc tienc 
 
 cl mal dulce repazn, ni llamado 
 
 al mal que nolireviine 
 no acorre^ I ;, Orupado 
 no vet ya al puvrto & Hercules laKrado ? 
 
 VOL. III. O
 
 82 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 ' Agony of toil and sweat 
 
 'I'hf sole rcconi|ieiicc must be 
 Of each horse, anil horseman yet, 
 
 I'luniclcss serf, and plumed grandee. 
 Sullied in thy silver flow, 
 
 Stream of proud Scvilla, weep! 
 Many a broken helm shalt thou 
 
 Hurry to the bordering deep. 
 
 ' Many a turhan and tiar, 
 
 Moor, and noble's slaughtered corse, 
 Whilst the furies of the war 
 
 Gore your ranks with equal loss I 
 Five days you dispute the field ; 
 , When 'tis sunrise on the plains, — 
 
 O loved land ! thy doom is seal'd — 
 Madden — madden in thy chains ! ' " 
 
 ' Acude, acorre, buela, 
 trapasa el alta sierra, occupa el llano, 
 
 no perdones la es|)uela, 
 no dcz paz ft la mano, 
 menea fulminando cl hierro insano. 
 
 ' ; Ay quinto de fatiga t 
 ; Ay quanto de dolor est& presente 
 
 al que biste loriga, 
 al Infante valiente, 
 a horabres, y 6 caballos juntamente ! 
 
 • Y, tu, Betis divino, 
 dc saiigre agena y tuya amancillado, 
 
 darfis al mar vccino 
 ; quanto yelmo quehrado ! 
 ; quanto cuerpo de nobles destrozado 
 
 ' EI furibondo Marte 
 cinco luces las haoes desordena, 
 
 igual a cada parte : 
 la sexta ; ay! te condena, 
 6 cara patria, 6 barbara cadena I ' "
 
 S3 
 
 HERRERA, SAA DE MIRANDA, JORGE DE 
 MONTEMAYOR, CASTILLEJO, THE DRA- 
 MATISTS. 
 
 1500—1567. 
 
 There are several other poets whose names belong to 
 this age, of whom very little is known except by their 
 works. Yet to complete the history of Spanish literary 
 men, it will be necessary to mention what has come 
 down to us. 
 
 The first on the list is Herrera. Fernando Herrera 
 was a native of Seville. We learn nothing of his familv, 
 and even the date of his birth is unknown. It is 
 conjectured that he was born at the beginning of 
 the sixteenth century. He was an ecclesiastic ; but 
 it is beheved that he adopted this profession late in 
 life, and we are ignorant of the position he held in 
 the hierarchy, and of all the events of his life. It is 
 believed that he died at a very advanced age ; but when 
 and where we are not told. In the midst of aU these 
 negatives as to events, we get at a few affirmatives with 
 regard to his qualities. There is an inedited work, en- 
 titled " The illustrious Men, Natives of Seville," written 
 by Rodrigo (Jaro, who thus mentions him : — " Herrera 
 was so well known in his native town of Seville, and 
 his memory is so regarded there, that I may be considered 
 in fault if my account of his works is brief: however, I 
 will repeat all I have heard without futile additions, 
 for I knew, though I never spoke to him, — I being a boy 
 when he was an old man; but I rememlxir the reputation 
 he enjoyed. He understood Latin perfectly, and wrote 
 several epigrams in that language, which might rival the 
 I'lOBt famous ancient authors in thought and expression.
 
 84 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 He possessed only a moderate knowledge of Greek. He 
 read the best authors in tlie modern lanj^uages, having 
 studied them with care ; and to this he added a profound 
 knowledge of Castihan, carefully noting its powers of 
 expressing with nobleness and grandeur. He evidently 
 wrote prose with great care, since his prose is the best 
 in our language. As to his Spanish poetry, to which his 
 genius chiefly impelled him, the best critics pronounce his 
 poems correct in their versification, full of poetic colour- 
 ing, powerful and forcible as well as elegant and beauti- 
 ful ; althougli, indeed, as he did not write for every vulgar 
 reader, so that the uneducated are unable to judge of the 
 extent of his erudition. He excelled in the art of selecting 
 epithets and expressions, without affectation. He was 
 naturally grave and severe, and his disposition betrays 
 itself in his verses. He associated with few, leading a 
 retired life, cither alone in his study, or in company, 
 with some friend, who sympathised with him, and to 
 whom he confided his cares. Whether from this cause, 
 or from the merit of his poetry, he was called the ' divine 
 Herrera :' as a satirist of those days mentions : — 
 
 ' Thus a thousand rhymes and sonnets 
 Divine Herrera wrote in vain.' 
 
 " His poems were not printed during his life ; Fran- 
 cisco Pacheco, a celebrated painter of this city, whose 
 studio was the resort of all clever men of Seville and 
 the environs, performed this office. He was a great ad- 
 mirer of his works, and collected them with great care, 
 and printed them under the patronage of the count de 
 Olivarez. Herrera's prose works are the best in our 
 language. They consist of the Life and Martyrdom of 
 Thomas More, president of the English parliament in 
 the time of the unhappy Henry VIII., leader and abettor 
 of the schism of that kingdom (translated from the Latin 
 of Thomas Stapleton) ; the Naval Battle against the 
 Turks at Lepanto ; a Commentary on Garcilaso ; all of 
 which display deep reading in Greek, Latin, and modem 
 languages, and which he published while living. He em- 
 ployed himself on a general History of Spain, to the time
 
 HERRERA. 85 
 
 of the emperor Charles V., which he brought up to the 
 year 1590. He was well versed in philosophy: he 
 studied mathematics, ancient and modern geography, 
 and possessed a chosen library. The reward of all this 
 was only a benefice in the parish church of St. Andres 
 in this city. But he has many associates in the mo- 
 deration of his fortune ; for though every one praises 
 merit, few seek and fewer reward it."* 
 
 The praise of Caro is echoed by others of more note. 
 Cervantes, when he resided at Seville, frequented the 
 society of Herrera; in his "Voyage to Parnassus" he calls 
 him the " Divine," and says that the " ivy of his 
 fame clung to the walls of immortality." Lope deVega 
 in his " Laurel de Apollo," calls him the " learned," 
 and speaks of him with respect and admiration. Sedano 
 tells us that he was a handsome man ; tall, of a maixly 
 and dignified aspect, lively eyes, and thick curled hair 
 and beard. In addition, we learn that the lady of 
 his love, whom he celebrates under the names of Light, 
 Love, Sun, Star — Eliodora, was the Countess of Gelves. 
 He loved iier, it is said, all his life, to the very height 
 of platonic passion, wliich burnt fiery and bright in his 
 own heart, but revealed itself only by manifestations of 
 reverence and self-struggle. This sort of attachment, 
 when true, is certainly of an heroic and sublime nature, 
 and demands our admiration and sympathy ; but we 
 must be convinced of the reality of the sufferings to 
 wliich it gives rise, and of the unlimited nature of its 
 devotion, or it becomes a mere picture wanting warmth 
 and life. Petrarch's letters give a soul to his poetry : 
 the various accounts they contain of his solitary struggles 
 at Vaucluse, make us turn with deeper interest to iiis 
 verses, which, otherwise, might almost be reasoned away 
 into a mere ideal feeling. Knowing nothing of Herrera 
 but that he loved " a Ijrigijl particular star," shining far 
 above, we are willing to find an accord between this love 
 of the elevated and unattainable, and the grandeur of 
 
 ♦ Scdano. 
 
 o 3
 
 86 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 the subjects he celebrates in his poetry, and the dignity 
 of his verse. 
 
 Herrera is a great favourite with those Spanish cri- 
 tics who prefer loftiness to simplicity of style, and the 
 ideas of the head rather than the emotions of the heart: 
 the sublime style at which he aimed gained for liim the 
 surname of Divine. Boscan, Garcilaso, and Luis de Leon, 
 adopted the Italian metres, and with greater difFuseness, 
 and therefore less classical elegance, but with equal truth 
 and poetic verve, and informed the Spanish language with 
 powers unknown to former poets. But this did not 
 suffice for Herrera. He delighted in the grandiose and 
 sonorous. He altered the language, introducing some 
 obsolete and some new words, and, attending with a 
 sensitive ear to the modulations of sound, endeavoured 
 to make harmony between the thought and its oral ex- 
 pression. Lope de Vega held Herrera's versification in 
 high esteem : quoting a passage from his odes, he ex- 
 claims, *' Here, no language exceeds our own — no, not 
 even the Greek nor tiie Latin. Fernando de Herrera is 
 never out of my sight." Quintana, whose criticism 
 is rather founded on artificial, rather than genuine and 
 simple taste, as is apt to be the case with critics, is also 
 his great admirer. He considers that he contributed more 
 than any other to elevate, not only the poetic style 
 of the Spanish language, but the essence of its poetry, 
 in gifting it with more boldness of imagination and fire 
 of expression than any preceding poet. Sedano is less 
 partial : while he praises and admits his right to his 
 name of " divine," he observes, that in endeavouring to 
 purify and elevate his diction, he erred in rendering it 
 harsh and banen, wanting in suavity and flow, and in- 
 j ured it by the affectation of antiquated phrases. His odes 
 are certainly grand : we feel that the poet is full of his 
 subject, and rises with it. It is rash of a foreigner, indeed, 
 to give an opinion ; still, %ve cannot help saying that while 
 we admire the fervour of expression, the grandeur of the 
 ideas, and the harmony of the versification, we miss the 
 while a living grace more charming tiian all. It is the 
 l)oetry of the head rather than the heart. And thus.
 
 HERRERA. 87 
 
 among Herrera's poemSj the one we admire most is his 
 Ode to Sleep ; for, joined to elegant chasteness and 
 great purity of language, we find a pure genuine feel- 
 ing, feeUngly expressed. 
 
 •' Suave guefio, tu que en tarde buelo 
 las alas perezosas blandamente 
 bates, de adormideras coronado, 
 por el puro, adonnido, vago cielo, 
 ven ^ la ultima parte de Ocidente, 
 y de licor sagrado 
 bafla mi ojoj tristes que cansado 
 y rendido al furor de mi tormento, 
 no admito algun sosiego, 
 y el dolor desconorta al infrimiento. 
 Yen a mi humilde rucgo : 
 ven a mi ruego humilde, amor de aquella 
 que Juno te ofrecib, tu Ninfa bella. 
 
 Divino SueSo, gloria de mortales, 
 regalo dulce al misero afligido : 
 Suefio amoroso, ven a quien espera 
 cesar del egercicio de sus males, 
 y al descanso bolver todo el scntido. 
 ^ Como sufrcs que muera 
 lejos de tu poder quien tuyo era ? 
 c No es vilc-za olvidar un solo pecho 
 en vcladora pena, 
 
 3ue sin gozar del bien die al mundo has hecho, 
 e tu vigor sc agcna i 
 Ven, Sucflo alegre : SueSo, von, dichoso : 
 vuelve a mi alma ya, vuelve el reposo. 
 
 Sienta yo en tal estrccho tu grandeza : 
 
 baja, y esparcc liquido el rocio : 
 
 huya la alba, que en torno rcsplandece, 
 
 mira mi ardientc llanto y mi trii^tcza, 
 
 y quanta fuc'rza tiene el {lesar mio : 
 
 y mi frente humidecc, 
 
 que ya de fuegos juntos el Sol crpce. 
 
 Torna, sabroso Suefio, y tus hermosas 
 
 alas auenen aora, 
 
 y huya con sus alaii prcsurosas 
 
 la desabrida Aurora ; 
 
 y Id che en mi falto la noche fria, 
 
 tcrminc la ccrcana luz del dia. 
 
 Una corona, o Suefio, ile tus (lores 
 
 ofrezco : tu produce el lilando efccto 
 
 en lot dcsicrtos ccrcoh de mis ojos, 
 
 que el ayre entrevgido con olore« 
 
 alhagn, y kilo mueve on dulce afecto ; 
 
 y de eitos mis cnnjos 
 
 (lesticrra, manso Sucfin, Ini desiwjoa. 
 
 Ven [>ue», ainado Suefio, ven liviano,' 
 
 que del run Orierite 
 
 Despunta cltieriio I'oliocI rayo caiio, 
 
 Ven ya, Suefio clemente, 
 
 y acaliara el dolor , nsl !<■ vca 
 
 en brazos de tu cara I'asilca." 
 
 O t
 
 88 LITERAUY AND SOIBNTIFIO MEN. 
 
 SAA DE MIRANDA. 
 
 At this same period, so fcrtile^in Spain with poetic ge- 
 nius, there flourished two Poniiguese poets, whose names 
 are introduced here from their connection with Spanish 
 poetry. Saa de Miranda was born In 1494f, and died 
 in 1558. His Spanish poems are bucolic, and more 
 truly imbued with rural imagery than thatof those Avarrior 
 poets, whose love of the country was that of gentlemen 
 who enjoy the beauties of scenery and the blandishments 
 of the odorous breezes, rather than of persons accustomed 
 to the detail of pastoral life. Saa de Miranda some- 
 times mingled a higher tone of description with his rural 
 pictures; thus imitating nature, who associates the terri- 
 ble With the lovely, the storm and the soft breath of 
 evening. At the same time, none excels Saa de Mi- 
 randa in the union of simplicity and grace : some of his 
 verses remind the Italian reader of the odes of Chiabrera, 
 such as these, describing the wanderings of a nymph, 
 with which his fancy adorned a woodland scene: — 
 
 Gently straying, 
 Gontly staying, 
 She breathed the fragrance of the breezy field ; 
 
 And, singing, fill'd her lap with flowers. 
 The which the meadows yield. 
 Painting their verdure with a thousand colours.* 
 
 Nor does his poetry want the charm of melancholy sen- 
 timent, nor the vehemence of passion ; while all that he 
 writes has the peculiar merit of a harmony and grace all 
 his own. 
 
 • " Graciosamente estando, 
 graciosamente andando, 
 blando ayre rcspirava al prado nmcno 
 ella cantava, y juntamente el seno 
 inchiendose yva de diversas flores 
 en que el prado era lleno 
 sobre verde variado en mil colores."
 
 JORGE DE MONTEMAYOB. 89 
 
 JORGE DE MONTEMAYOR. 
 
 JoKGE DE MoNTEMAYOR is another Portuguese poet^ 
 whose name belongs rather to Spain than Portugal. His 
 real appellation is unknown. He adopted that of the 
 place of his birth, Montemor, a town in the jurisdiction 
 of Coimbrain Portugal, which he in a manner translated 
 into Spanish, and called himself Jorge or George de 
 Montemayor. He was born about the year 1520, of 
 humble origin, and slight education. In his youth he 
 entered the military profession. His talent for music 
 first brought him into notice : he emigrated into Castile, 
 and endeavoured to gain his livelihood by music : he 
 succeeded in being incorporated in the band of the Royal 
 Chapel ; and when the Infante don Philip, afterwards 
 Philip 1 1., made his celebrated progress through Ger- 
 many, Italy, and the Low Countries, having in his 
 suitea band of choice musicians and singers, Montemayor 
 made one among them. 
 
 These travels tended to enlarge his mind ; and, 
 although unacquainted with the learned languages, he 
 became a proficient in various foreign ones, and joined 
 to these accomplishments a taste for literature. His 
 love for music was allied closely to a talent for poetry ; 
 and when on his return to Spain, he resided at the city 
 of Leon, he established his fame as an author, by writing 
 his " Diana." The fame of this book spread far and wide : 
 it was imitated by almost every poet that wrote in those 
 days, and the style in which it was composed became 
 the fashion throughout Spain. 
 
 The " Diana" is a pastoral of such an ideal species, that 
 it sets chronology and history at defiance. Of these, 
 our Shakspeare made light, when he wrote " Cymbeline" 
 and the " Winter's Tale ;"' but the "Diana" is even more 
 confused in its costume. The scene of it is placed at 
 the foot of the moimtains of l^con ; and the lieroine is 
 said to be the object of a real attachment of the author.
 
 90 tlTERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 This lady in other poems is called Marfida : he is said 
 to have loved her before he left Spain with tlie court : 
 on his return he found her married ; and his grief and 
 her infidelity he personified in the Sireno and Diana of 
 his pastoral. Thus many modern events are spoken of; 
 and the adventures of Abindarres and Xarifa, contem- 
 poraries of king Ferdinand, are mentioned as of old 
 date, at the same time that Apollo and Diana, nymphs 
 and fauns, are the objects of adoration among the 
 shepherds ; for, indeed, in those days the gods of the 
 Greeks made as it were an integral portion of poetry, 
 and it would have been considered a solecism to have 
 omitted the names and worship of these deities. The 
 story is conceived in the same heterogeneous manner. 
 There is infinite simplicity in all the part that strictly 
 appertains to Diana and her lover ; and much of what 
 is romantic and even supernatural in the other por- 
 tions. 
 
 The first book commences with the return of Sireno 
 to the valleys of the mountains of Leon. He has already 
 heard of the falsehood of his mistress, who is married 
 to another. The romance opens with the songs of his 
 complaints. In one of these he addresses a lock of hair 
 belonging to Diana ; and nothing can be more simple, 
 yet touching and true, and elegant, than the opening of 
 this poem. He is joined by Silvano, another lover of 
 Diana, who has always been disdained ; and his resig- 
 nation is truly exemplary : these two hapless lovers are 
 joined by a shepherdess, who is also suffering the woes 
 of unfortunate passion ; and her history concludes the 
 book. In the second, events of more action are intro- 
 duced : the scene even changes to a sort of i'airy tale ; 
 but though the machinery of the story alters, the sen- 
 timents remain the same, conceived in the language of 
 passion and reality. It is not until the sixth book that 
 Diana herself is introduced, and the canzoni placed in 
 her mouth are among the best in the book : she lays 
 the blame of her infidelity on her parents, who forced 
 her to marry a rich shepherd. The romance concludes
 
 JORGE DE DIONTEMAYOR. 91 
 
 without any change in the situation of the hero and 
 heroine. 
 
 It is singular, that a work founded on such strange 
 and unnatural machinery should have seized on the 
 imagination, we may almost say, of the world, since 
 this sort of pastoral became universally imitated ; but 
 there is something in the rural pictures and out-of- 
 door hfe which composes the scenery of such works, 
 grateful, we know not why, to our hearts. The style 
 of the "Diana" is, indeed, peculiarly beautiful. Nothing 
 can be more correct, yet less labotued ; nothing more 
 elegant, yet less exaggerated. To express vividly and 
 truly, yet gracefully and in harmonious measure, the 
 emotions of the various personages, appears to be the 
 author's chief aim. Thus we read on, attracted by the 
 melody of the style, the heartfelt truth of the senti- 
 ments, and the beauty of the descriptions, even while 
 we are quite careless of the developement of the plot, 
 and tolerably uninterested in any of the personages. 
 To translate the poetry of this book would be difficult, 
 as the style forms its charm ; but it is impossible to 
 read it in the original without being carried away by 
 the flow of the versification, and the unaffected ex- 
 pression of real feeling. 
 
 The " Diana " superseded for a time the books of chi- 
 valry, of which the Spaniards were so fond. Since 
 Amadis first appeared, no work had been so popular. 
 Cervantes, whoimitated it in his "Galatea," thus mentions 
 it in the scrutiny the curate and barber make of Don 
 (Quixote's library. Speaking of pastorals in general, 
 the curate says : " These books do not deserve to be 
 burned with the rest, because they iiave never done nor 
 will do the harm of which tales of chivalry are guilty ; 
 they are mere books of amusement, and hurt no one." 
 nf the pastoral in questiot* itself, he says: " Let us 
 begin by the " Diana " of Montemayor : I am of opinion 
 tliat we tear out all that relates to the wise Felicia 
 and the enchanted watir, and almost all the poems in 
 long measure, and let the prose remain, and the merit 
 of itB being the first of this species of books."
 
 92 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 Such was the reputation that Montemayor acquired 
 by this romance, that the queen of Portugal was de- 
 sirous that he should return to his native country. He 
 was, accordingly, recalled, and nothing more is known of 
 him than that it is supposed that he died a violent 
 death *, — where, even, is not known ; for some say in 
 Portugal, some in Italy : the dates tolerably agree, 
 those named being 156"1 and 1562, so that he was 
 scarcely more than forty at the time of his death. 
 
 CASTILLEJO. 
 
 To give a catalogue raisonnie of all the poets that 
 flourished in Spain in this age would be of little avail, 
 as httle is known of them and their poetry : though 
 much of it is beautiful, and much more of it agreeable, 
 it does not bear the stamp of the originality a.ul genius 
 necessary to form an era in literature. Sedano gives 
 brief notices of some of them. From him we learn 
 that Fernanda de Acuna, a nobleman of Portuguese 
 extraction, a distinguished courtier in the court, a 
 gallant soldier in the camp of Charles V., was also an 
 intimate friend of Garcilaso de la Vega, and imitated 
 him and Boscan in the style of his poetry. He died 
 in Granada about the year 1580. There is elegance, 
 and a certain degree of originality in his poems. 
 Sedano almost places him above his friend Garcilaso. 
 He mingled the Italian and old Spanish styles together, 
 introducing metres more adapted to the Castilian lan- 
 guage than the terzets of his predecessors, being shorter, 
 more airy, and more graceful. 
 
 Gil Polo, a native of Valentia, flourished about the 
 year 1550. He continued the Diana of Montemayor, 
 and called his work " La Diana Enamorada. He is 
 chiefly famous for the praise that Cervantes bestows on 
 
 * Sedano tells us that the queen Catalina of Portugal, on recalling him, 
 conferred on him an honoural)le situation in the royal household. The 
 date of his death is ascertained throuKli an elegy which is))rinted in all the 
 editions of the "Diana ;" and which mentions that he died in 1562.
 
 CASTILLEJO. 93 
 
 him, when in " Don Quixote " the curate says to the 
 barber " Take as much care of Gil Polo's work, as if it 
 were ^vritten by Apollo himself." Posterity has not 
 confirmed this preference, and it is chiefly praised for 
 elegance and purity of style. 
 
 Cetina, an anacreontic poet of merit, also finds a 
 place in the "Parnaso Espanol." The same honour is not 
 bestowed on CastiUejo, who, however, deserves peculiar 
 mention as the great partisan of the old CastiUan style, 
 and the antagonist of Boscan. Cristoval Castillejo 
 flourished also in the time of Charles V., in whose 
 service he went to Vienna, remaining there as secretary 
 to Ferdinand I.; as, notwithstanding, the imperial 
 crown of Germany was separated from the regal one of 
 Spain, on the death of Charles V., there continued to 
 subsist for some years intimate relations between the 
 courts of Vienna and Madrid. The greater part of 
 Castillejo's poems were written at Vienna, and are full 
 of allusions to the gaieties of the court. He admired 
 and celebrates a young German lady, named Schoniburg, 
 whose barbaric appellation he translates into Xomburg. 
 Late in life he returned to Spain, became a Cistercian 
 monk, and died in a convent in 1596'. 
 
 Some Spanish critics raise Castillejo to a high rank 
 among the poets of that nation, while others give him 
 a juster place, and perceive that it was the want of 
 strength to soar beyond, that led him, in his own com- 
 positions, to confine himself to the old coplas, and 
 want of ])enetration that made him so violent an enemy 
 of those whom he named the Petrarcjuistas. His satires 
 against them are witty, and not without some justice ; 
 and certainly prolixity is a fault to be attributed to 
 these poets lie attacks. He begins with the true Spanisli 
 taste for persecution, exclaiming, — 
 
 A( the holy Inquiiition 
 !• apt, witli lUiMtly ililiKrricc, 
 'J*o make vHt^cr jiiTqiiiHitir>ii, 
 And |niiii«li tiKi will) vidlciicp, 
 Kich mivt'l licrojiy and piect, 
 I would that it were found correct
 
 94' LllKUAIlY AND SCIENTIFIC WEN. 
 
 To castigate in native Spain 
 
 A licrosy as bad as any 
 
 That LiilliLT, to our grief and pain, 
 
 lla> iiilrociiueii in Germany. 
 
 Till' Anabaptists' crime they share, 
 
 And well deserve their punishment : 
 
 Petrarchists — the new name they bear, 
 
 Which they assume with bad intent; 
 
 And they are renegades most tierce 
 
 To the old Castilian measure; 
 
 Believing in Italian verse, 
 
 Finding there more grace and pleasure.* 
 
 Upon this, he institutes a ghostly tribunal, presided 
 over by Juan de Mena, Jorge Manrique, and other ancient 
 poets, before whom Boseau and Garcilaso are forced to ap- 
 pear — of course, to their utter discomfiture and disgrace. 
 While it is impossible to accede to this sentence, and 
 while we must look on Castillejo as an inferior poet, 
 he merits great praise within the boundaries which he 
 prescribes himself. His lyrics are light, airy, graceful ; 
 and though they possess a fault little known in Spain — 
 that of levity, — this defect is with him akin to that ani- 
 mation and wit which is the proper charm of poetry of 
 this class. 
 
 ' Pues la santa Inquisicion 
 suele ser tan diligente, 
 en castigar con razon 
 qualijuier secta y opinion 
 levantada nuevamente : 
 resucitese luzero 
 a castigar en Espafia 
 una muy nucva y estraila, 
 como ft quello de Lutero 
 en las paries de Alemaila. 
 Bien se pueden castigar 
 a cucnta de Anabaptistas 
 pues por ley particular 
 se tornan a baptizar 
 y se llaman Pctrarquistas 
 Han remgado la fe 
 de la trobas C'astellanas 
 y tras las Italianas 
 sc pierden, diziendo, que 
 son mas ricas y galanas."
 
 FEKNANDO DE HOXAS. 95 
 
 THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 As in no long process of time, dramatic poetry became 
 the distinctive and national turn of Spanish poetic 
 genius, it would be ungrateful towards the originators of 
 a species of composition imitated all over the world, and 
 extolled by every man of taste, not to make mention 
 of them. The first dawn of the drama has been men- 
 tioned : the representation of mysteries and autos being 
 permitted by the clergy, leave was taken to exchange 
 the purely religious for the pastoral or the moral. Be- 
 sides the pastoral dialogues of Juan de Encina, before 
 mentioned, there existed a moral Spanish play, whose 
 origin is lost in obscurity. It is named, " Celestina, 
 Tragicomedia de Cahsto y Mehbea." The first act 
 is supposed by some to have been the work of an un- 
 known priest or poet of the reign of John II. It was 
 finished in the fifteenth century, by Fernando de Roxas. 
 The drama consists of twenty-one acts, and is rather a 
 long-drawn tale in dialogue than a play. It is more 
 didactic than dramatic; descriptive and moral. Its 
 purpose was to warn youth by displaying the dangers 
 of licentiousness ; and many an odious personage and 
 scene is introduced to conduce to this good end ; Avith 
 considerable disdain, meanwhile, of good taste. The 
 first act, of ancient date, brings forward the storv — 
 the loves of Calisto and Melibea, t%vo young persons 
 nobly bom, divided from each other by their respective 
 families. Melibea is perfectly virtuous and prudent, 
 and submits to the commands that prevent all commu- 
 nication between her and her lover. CaUsto is less 
 patient: he applies to Celestina, an old sort of go- 
 between, such as is frequent in a land of intrigue like 
 Spain. Her artifices, her flatteries, her phihns, are all 
 described and'put in action ; and the act breaks off under 
 the expectation of what may l)e the result of such an 
 engine. Koxas added twenty acts to this one. He in-
 
 96 
 
 lilTKllARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 creascfi the romantic and tragic interest of the tale. Celes- 
 tina introduces lierself into Mehbea's house. She cor- 
 rupts the servants by presents ; deludes the unfortunate 
 girl by incantations, and induces her, at last, to yield to 
 her lover. Her parents discover the intrigue ; Celestina 
 is poisoned ; Calisto stabbed ; and JMelibea throws 
 herself from the top of a tower. According to some 
 writei-s, where crime is punished in the end, the tale is 
 moral : thus, this drama was regarded as a moral com- 
 position ; at all events, it was popular : doubtless^ it 
 pictured the manners of the times, and interested the 
 readers as the novels of the present day do, by shadow- 
 ing forth the passions and events they themselves ex- 
 perienced. 
 
 This was the first genuine Spanish play. In t\\e 
 beginning of the reign of Charles V., the theatre began 
 to interest classic scholars ; and the first step made to- 
 wards improving the drama, was an attempt to in- 
 troduce antique models. Villalobos, a physician of 
 Charles V., translated the Amphitryon of Plautus, 
 which was printed in 1515. Perez de Oliva made a 
 literal translation of the Electra of Sophocles. Oliva 
 was a man of infinite learning and zealous inquiry : 
 passing through the universities of Salamanca and 
 Alcala, he visited first Paris, and afterwards Rome, 
 where he gave himself up to the study of letters. The 
 road of advancement was open to him in the papal 
 palace at Rome, but he renounced it to return to Spain. 
 He became professor of philosophy and theology in the 
 university of Salamanca. One of his chief studies was 
 his own language, and he is much praised for the 
 classical purity of his style. Sedano goes so far as to say 
 that the diction of his translation, which he entitles " La 
 Veganza de Agamemnon," or, Agamemnon Avenged, 
 " is so perfect in all its parts — so full of hamiony, 
 elevation, purity, sweetness, and majesty, that it not 
 only excuses the author for not having written in verse, 
 but rnay rival the most renowned poetry." It seems 
 strange to read this sentence, and to turn to the bald
 
 THE DRASIATISTS. 97 
 
 phraseology of the work itself : we cannot believe that 
 this translation was ever acted. The first original 
 tragedy published in Spain was the work of Geronimo 
 Bermudez, a monk of the order of St. Dominic, a man 
 of austere and pious life; but who joined a love of 
 letters and poetry to his theological studies. He wrote 
 " Nise Lastimosa," and " Nise Laureada." Ines de 
 Castro, of whose name in the title he makes the anagram 
 of Nise, but who is properly named in the play, is the 
 heroine of these dramas. The first is by no means 
 destitute of merit. The tale itself is of such tragic in- 
 terest, that it naturally supports the dialogue, which is 
 too long drawn, and interrupted by choruses. The 
 fourth act, however, rises superior to the rest, and is 
 extremely beautiful. Ines pleads before the king for 
 her life. She uses every argument suggested by jus- 
 tice, mercy, and parental affection to move him. The 
 language is free from extraneous ornament ; tender 
 elevated, and impassioned. It is impossible to read it 
 without being moved by the depth and energy of its 
 pathos. The second play, the subject of which is the 
 vengeance the infante don Pedro took on her mur- 
 derers when he ascended the throne, is a great falling 
 off from the other. The plot is deficient — the dialogue 
 tiresomely long — and the catastrophe, though histori- 
 cally true, at once horrible and unpoetic. 
 
 Besides these more classical productions, there were 
 written various imitations of Celestina. They Averc all 
 moral, for they all displayed in an elaborate manner 
 the course of vice, and its punishment. Long drawn 
 out — too real in their representation of vulgar crime, 
 they neither interested on the stage, nor pleased in the 
 closet. 
 
 'Ihe greatest obscurity has enveloped the earliest 
 regular dramas written in Spanish. They were the 
 work of Bartolome Torres Naharro, a native of Es- 
 tremadura, and a priest. 'J'orrcs Naharro was liorn in 
 the little town of 'I'ore, near Badajos, on the frontiers 
 of Portugal. Little is known of him, except his reput- 
 
 VOL. 111. u
 
 98 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 ation as a man of learning. After a shipwreck, which 
 involved him in various adventures, lie arrived at Rome, 
 during the pontificate of Leo X., and was patronised by 
 that accomplished pope. Naples was then in the hands 
 of the Spaniards, and Naharro's comedies were doubt- 
 less represented in that city, whither Naharro himself 
 removed, driven from Rome by the difficulties in which 
 his satirical works involved him.* 
 
 Cervantes does not mention Naharro in his preface to 
 his comedies, which contains the best account we have 
 of the origin of the Spanish drama. But other writers, 
 and among them the editor of Cervantes's comedies, 
 mention him as the real inventor of the Spanish drama. 
 His plays were written in verse ; there is propriety in 
 his characters and some elegance in his style. He brought 
 in the intrigue of an involved story to support the interest 
 of his plays. They did not, however, obtain possession 
 of the stage in Spain. 
 
 Lope de Rueda followed him. The "great Lope de 
 Rueda" Cervantes calls him, adding that he was an ex- 
 cellent actor and a clever man. " He was born," he 
 continues, " at Seville, and was a goldbeater by trade. 
 He was admirable in pastoral poetry, and no one either 
 before or after excelled him in this species of composition. 
 Although when I saw him I was a child, and could not 
 judge of the excellence of his verses, several have re- 
 mained in my memory, and, recalling them now at a ripe 
 age, I find them worthy their reputation. In the time 
 of this celebrated Spaniard, all the paraphernaha of a 
 dramatic author and manager was contained in a bag : 
 it consisted of four white dresses for shepherds, trimmed 
 with copper gilt, four sets of false beards and wigs, and 
 four crooks, more or less. The comedies were mere con- 
 versations, like eclogues, between two or three shepherds 
 and a shepherdess, adorned and prolonged by two or 
 three interludes of negresses, clowns or Biscayans. Lope 
 performed the various parts with all the truth and 
 excellence in the world. At that time there were no 
 
 * Boutcrwek. Pellicer.
 
 THE DRAMATISTS. 99 
 
 sido scenes, no combats between Moors and Christians 
 on horseback or on foot. There was no figure which arose, 
 or appeared to rise, from the centre of the earth, through 
 a trapdoor in the theatre. His stage was formed of a 
 few planks laid across benches, and so raised about four 
 palms above the ground. Neither angels nor souls 
 descended from the sky : the only theatrical decoration 
 was an old curtain, held up by ropes on each side; it 
 formed the back of the stage, and separated the behind 
 scenes from the front. Behind were placed the mu- 
 sicians, who sang some old romance to the music of a 
 guitar." 
 
 As an actor himself Rueda doubtless could judge best 
 of the public taste. His own parts were those of fools, 
 roguish servants, and Biscayan boors. His plays were 
 collected by Timont'da, a bookseller of Valencia, but, like 
 the witticisms of the masks of the old Italian stage, they 
 lose much iu print. His plots consist of chapters of 
 mistakes : there are a multitude of characters in his 
 dramas, and jests and witticisms abound. These gen- 
 erally consist of ridiculous quarrels, in which a clown 
 ])lays the principal part.* Spanish critics call him the 
 restorer, it would be better to say — the founder of the 
 Spanish theatre. 
 
 After Kueda, Cervantes tells us, came another Naharro, 
 a native of Toledo ; he was also an actor and manager. 
 " He augmented the decorations of the comedies ; he 
 Fubstilutcd trunks and boxes for the old bag. He drew 
 the musicians out from behind the curtain, where they 
 were previously placed. He deprived the actors of their 
 bearrls ; for before him no actor had ever apjieared without 
 a false beard. He desired that all should show an un- 
 masked battery, except those who represented old men, 
 or were disguised. He invented side scenes, clouds, 
 thunder, lightning, challenges, and battles. 
 
 Such were the commencementH of the Spanish theatre, 
 -'tHtined to take so high a place hereafter in the history 
 ut the drama. 
 
 • fSoiitcrwck. 
 B 2
 
 100 LITERAHY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 We now come to a new era, and names more known. 
 We have arrived at the age of Cervantes : these were 
 the men who preceded him. 
 
 Tliere is soinetliing very peculiar in the state of liter- 
 ature at this time. The infancy of Spanish poetry was 
 such as might have been expected from a chivalrous na- 
 tion; its themes were love and war, its heroes national, and 
 itsstyle such as to render it popular. The continued strug- 
 gle with a foreign conqueror gave an ardent and gallant 
 turn to the national character : and while the superior 
 excellence of the enemy in arts and literature imparted 
 some portion of refinement, national enthusiasm inspired 
 independence. But now the enemy was quelled, the 
 country overflowed with money, the harvest of the most 
 nefarious cruelties, and the inquisition was established. 
 Even these circumstances were not enough to subdue the 
 heroism of the Spanish character : they made a stand for 
 freedom against the encroachments of the monarchs; their 
 disjointed councils caused them to fail, and from that 
 moment they sank. The wars of Charles V, drained 
 the country of men and money ; the Lutheran heresy 
 put fresh powers into the hands of the inquisition ; a 
 career of arms in a foreign country was all that was left ; 
 the gates of inquiry and free thought were closed and 
 barred. 
 
 Intercourse with Italy opened fresh fields of poetry, 
 which all other countries have found unlimited in the 
 variety of subjects, and manner of treating them. Not 
 so the Spaniards ; they stopt short at once with elegies, 
 and pastorals, and songs. Boscan, a man of gentle dis- 
 position and retired habits, naturally dwelt with compla- 
 cency on descriptions of rural pleasures, or the sentiments 
 of his own heart. Garcilaso de la Vega, a gallant soldier, 
 found in poetry a recreation, a mode to gratify his taste ; 
 and retired from the world of arms to brood over the 
 graceful and passionate reveries of a young lover. Men- 
 doza, a man of harder temperament, was the servant of 
 a king: a sort of worldly philosophy, Horatian in its 
 expression, or the passion of love, inspired his writings
 
 LITERATURE LNDER CHARLES V. 101 
 
 at first ; and when, later in life, he might be supposed 
 to entertain the design of making his talents subservient 
 to the good of mankind, he found, when he wrote the 
 wars of Granada, the political and inquisitorial yoke so 
 heavy that he could only hint at injuries, and allude to 
 wrongs. The poets who came after were men of an 
 inferior grade ; they wrote in a great measure to please 
 their contemporaries ; they adopted, therefore, pastoral 
 themes, they wrote elegies, sonnets; and love and 
 scenic descriptions were the subjects of their compo- 
 sitions. 
 
 In all this, it is not to be supposed that they were 
 servile imitators of the Italians ; they were at first their 
 pujjils, but nothing more. Originality is the great dis- 
 tinctive of the Spanish character. Every line each author 
 wrote was in its turn of thought and expression national. 
 The conceits resulting from a meeting of ardent imagin- 
 ations with ardent passions, which brought the whole 
 phenomena of nature in the poet's service, — the burning 
 emotions, the very constant brooding on one engrossing 
 subject, — all belonged to a people whose souls were fiery, 
 proud, and concentrated. 
 
 Still the Spaniards had found no peculiar form in 
 which to embody the characteristics of the nation. 
 Perhaps the gay sally of a youthful student, LazariUo 
 de Tormes, of Mendoza, was the most national work yet 
 produced. In Italy the sort of free epic, introduced by 
 Bojardo, became the expression of national tastes and 
 character. This sort of composition never took deep root 
 in Spain. The authors were too circumvented by the 
 infjuisition to dare say much ; thus we shall find in the 
 end, that the tlu-atre became the body informed by Spanish 
 poets with a soul all their own, where passions and ima- 
 ginations, the most ardent and the most wihl, the most 
 true and the most beautiful, found expression. 
 
 All the authors hitherto mentioned were Iwrn at the 
 very rommcncemcnt of the sixteenth century, liy the 
 time they had arrived at the age of manhood, the policy 
 ajid success of Charles V. had established him firmly on 
 
 jr .'{
 
 102 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 the Spanish throne, and was extending far and wide the 
 glory of his nanio. To figlit for and to servo liini was 
 the Spaniards' duty : they had not yet suffered by the 
 yoke, but they had yielded to it. At first the nobles 
 of the land were the sole authors, while writing was 
 merely a taste, a study, or an amusement ; soon it was 
 followed, for purposes of' gain and reputation by men 
 of inferior rank, who were endowed with genius; author- 
 ship became general ; and poetry grew into one of the 
 chief pleasures of the court.
 
 103 
 
 ERCILLA. 
 
 1533—1600. • 
 
 The Spanish muse has produced numerous epic 
 poems, most of which are unknown beyond the limits 
 of Spain, and many even there have been consigned to 
 merited obUvion. The Araucana alone has been ad- 
 mitted to a station in general literature. This is owing 
 partly to its own intrinsic merits, but in a greater degree 
 U) the novelty of its argument, and to the circumstances 
 under which it was written. Unlike other poets, Ercilla 
 was himself an actor in the scenes which he describes. 
 The chronicler of his own story, he avowedly rejects 
 the aid of fiction. Veracity and accuracy are the qua- 
 lities in wliich, as a poetical writer, he is peculiar. His 
 descriptions and characters are portraits taken from 
 nature ; invention is therefore a talent which he never 
 exerts. If his imagination has any play, it is only in 
 the grouping and distribution of his pictures. His 
 scenery, his manners, his personages, are all copied from 
 originals wliich he had actually before his eyes. The 
 objects of his observation, tlie subject-matter of his 
 poetry, were, moreover, of a class strikingly novel, — a 
 new world, savage nations, for the first time brought 
 into contact and collision with civihsed man : on one 
 side the love of independence; on tlic other, the thirst of 
 plunder, the fury of religious zeal, and a mi-sguided 
 s])irit of chivalrous enterprise. No ordinary talents were 
 reijuired to do justice to so ricli a tlienie, wliilst even 
 ordinary abilities were sufKcient to give interest to a 
 poem founded on sucli a basis. To great genius the 
 Spanish poet cannot lay a claim; lie is indeed inferior 
 to his labour: yet he had that cleverness requisite to 
 produce a work not totally devoid of interest, occasion- 
 
 II 4
 
 lot LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MK>\. 
 
 ally aboundinp; in beauties ; such, in short, as entitles 
 him to a respectable though not a very high station in 
 the literary world. 
 
 Don Alonso do Ercilla was born in Madrid on the 
 7th of March, 153^5. [^Note l.^ His iamily was noble; 
 by which word a meaning is conveyed different from 
 that attached in this country to the notion of nobility, 
 it being tantamount to saying that his ancestors were 
 and had been for a long time gentlemen. Fortun 
 Garcia do Ercilla, the father of Ercilla, a native of 
 Biscay, was an industrious writer, whose labours as 
 a jurist were highly prized, and obtained for him the 
 cognomen of the " subtle Spaniard." He wrote gene- 
 rally in Latin, though a Spanish manuscript work of 
 his upon the challenge sent by the emperor Charles V. 
 to Francis I. king of France is recorded by the author 
 of the Bibliotheca Hispana. [[Note 2.] Fortun's wife. 
 Dona Leonor de Zufiiga (ladies in Spain do not take 
 their husband's names), was a woman of illustrious 
 descent, the feudal lady of the town of Bobadilla, the 
 domain of which, after her husband's death, was trans- 
 ferred to the crown, she having been admitted into the 
 household of the empress. Three sons were the offspring 
 of their union, of whom Alonso the poet was the 
 youngest. He received his education at the royal palace, 
 and since his tender years became a mcnino [[Note 3.], or 
 page of the heir to the crown, prince PhiUp, afterwards 
 so famous as Philip II. of Spain. What sort of education 
 he received under such circumstances we are not en- 
 abled to say. It is not probable that it was one suited 
 to a man intended for literary pursuits. His works, 
 however, prove him not to have been unacquainted with 
 the Latin and Italian poets ; and though his knowledge 
 of the latter was probably acquired in the course of his 
 travels, he must have been indebted to his early studies 
 for his introduction to the former. The words " gentle- 
 man" and "soldier "were at that time nearly synonymous; 
 and Don Alonso, though bred a courtier, and following 
 his royal master in that capacitv, was probably con-
 
 ERCILLA. 105 
 
 sidered to be intended for the military profession. In 
 his earher years Philip was directed by his father to 
 travel over his future extensive dominions, which formed 
 a very considerable, and, with the exception of France, 
 at that time the best, part of Europe. In this tour 
 Ercilla was a constant attendant of the young prince, 
 profiting, as he himself boasts*, by his travels, indulging 
 his own inquisitive propensities, and, in imitation of 
 Ulysses, acquiring an ample store of information and 
 wisdom, derived from his observations of nations and 
 manners. [^Note 4.] 
 
 The ambition of Charles V. Avas not satisfied with 
 the possession of Spain, Germany, the Netherlands, 
 great part of Italy, and the countries recently discovered 
 in America. The rich inheritance which he intended 
 to transmit to his son was to ])e increased, and as a 
 compensation for the loss of the empire of Germany, 
 to which his brother Ferdinand had been elected suc- 
 cessor, he aspired to the crown of England for the future 
 king of Spain. A marriage between Philip and the Eng- 
 lish queen Mary was brought about ; the young prince 
 repaired to London, attended by Ercilla. During their 
 residence in this metropolis, news reached them that 
 the Araucanos, an Indian tribe in South America, had 
 ris:en against the power of Spain. The insurrection ap- 
 I)eared of a more serious nature than those which had 
 hitherto occurred in the annals of Indian warfare. The 
 charge of subduing the refractory patriots, or, as they 
 were called by their invaders, the rebels, was committed 
 to Geronimo de Alderete, who had come over from 
 Peru to t^ngland, and soon set out again on his return, 
 having Ijecn appointed, by the king, adelantado of Chili, 
 — a title since become obsolete, which was equivalent to 
 liat of military commander of a district. To a man of 
 •Crcilla's adventurous disi)osition, this opj)()rtnnity of 
 military honour was too tempting to be resisted. He 
 left the perflonal service of the prince, to follow the ade- 
 
 * Araucjina, canto xxxvi.
 
 10() LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 lantado in his distant expedition, and girded on his 
 sword*, as he himself says, for tlie first time, being tlien 
 in the twenty-first year of his age. Geronimo ile Al- 
 derete, however, (Hd not reach the scene of warfare, 
 having died wliile on his way, in Taboga near Panama. 
 His young comi)anion proceeded alone to Lima, the 
 metropolis of Peru, to join the expedition. 
 
 Those distant possessions, which, for the most part, 
 had been annexed to the Spanish crown by the prowess 
 of obscure and enterprising adventurers, had already 
 begun to rank high in the i)ublic estimation, and indi- 
 viduals of noble birth and courtly favour sought to reap 
 the fruits of the labours of the neglected discoverers and 
 conquerors. 
 
 Don Andres Hurtado de Mendoza, marquis of 
 Canete, was at that time viceroy of Peru; a man belong- 
 ing to one of the oldest and most illustrious families in 
 Spain. 
 
 This nobleman entrusted his son, Don Garcia, with 
 the commaud of the forces destined to subdue the Arau- 
 canos. The expedition consisted of a corps of two 
 hundred and fifty men, who went by sea — a brilliant and 
 well armed and equipped band, as we are told by the 
 Spanish historians [^Notc 5.]; and a nearly equal number 
 which had been sent by land across those extensive re- 
 gions. With such inconsiderable forces did the Spaniards 
 attempt to conquer and hold in subjection those immense 
 regions of South America ! 
 
 The expedition having reached the point of its 
 destination, the war proved of a far more important 
 nature than those hitherto waged with the natives of the 
 American continent. Unlike the Indians of the torrid 
 zone, the Araucanos were a hardy and valiant race, 
 whose courage was not less impetuous than perse- 
 vering. They are described by a Spanish historian as 
 " a people exceedingly brave, robust, and swift, who 
 outstrip the deer in the race; and of so strong a breath, 
 that they persist in the course for a whole day; superior 
 * Araucana, canto xiii.
 
 ERCIIiLA. 107 
 
 to Other Indian tribes, as well in the strength of their 
 frames as in the vigour of their intellects; strong, fero- 
 cious, arrogant ; filled with a generous spirit, and thus 
 averse to subjection, to avoid which they readily peril 
 their lives.* " Though masters," says ErciUat, " only 
 of a district of twenty leagues' extent, without a single 
 town, or a wall, or a stronghold in it, destitute even 
 of arms, inhabiting an almost flat country, surrounded 
 by three Spanish towns and two fortresses, they, by 
 dint merely of their valour and tenacity of purpose, not 
 only recovered, but supported and maintained, their free- 
 dom." Their gallant stand against tlie invaders of Ame- 
 rica was at last crowned with success. Instead of the 
 subjects, they became the honourable foes, and in pro- 
 cess of time the allies and friends, of the Spanish mo- 
 narchy. The poverty of their native land proved their 
 best auxiliary ; it deterred tlie Spaniards from persisting 
 in a contest in which nothing was to be gained which 
 could repay their exertions; and so completely was the 
 animosity of those nations changed into feelings of 
 mutual esteem, that in the late events, which have se- 
 vered the colonies from their mother-coimtry, the Arau- 
 canos have constantly shown, and still preserve, the 
 most decided partiality to the cause and fortunes of the 
 old Spaniardri. 
 
 In the 'conflicts of that Indian war Ercilla was emi- 
 nently c.aLinguished, according to the testimony of nearly 
 all the Spanish writers [^Note 6.], and to his own rather 
 boastful account. lie had an ample oi)j)ortunity to in- 
 dulge his daring spirit of enterprise and his iiabits of 
 observation. After the tumult of a battle, or the toils of 
 a march, he devoted the hours of night to write his lialf 
 poetical, half liistorical, narration ; wielding, as he says, 
 by turns the sword and the j)en, and writing often upon 
 skins, and sometimes u]un\ scraps of jiaper so small as to 
 contain scarcely six lines. 'J'lu; ordinary duties, which 
 he shared in common with his fellow-soldiers, were 
 
 • f'ri«fol)al Simrc-J! do Kiifucroa, Hcchoi de Don Garria IlurUdo do 
 Mmiloza, ctliL Ma<lri<l, Ifii:), p. IH. 
 
 t Arauraria, I'rcfacp, p. Iv. Madrid, 1776.
 
 108 LITERAllY AND SCIENTIFIC 3IEN. 
 
 insufficient for his aspiring ambition, and as little 
 (lid tlu' matter for observation on men and coun- 
 tries, altliough the supijly was unusually copious, sa- 
 tisfy the cravings of his inquisitive mind. Determined 
 to accomplish more, he penetrated into the further- 
 most parts of the South American continent ; left the 
 army, in company with ten of his fellow-soldiers; crossed 
 twice, in a small boat, the dangerous pass of the archi- 
 pelago of Ancudbox ; and in the same manner, though 
 with less of gasconade [^Note 7.] than was long after 
 shown by an enterprising French traveller, in an oppo- 
 site region of the earth, carved upon a tree a record of 
 his having, first of all human beings, reached that distant 
 spot. 
 
 Upon his return from this expedition, Don Alonso 
 narrowly escaped an early and disastrous end. News 
 having been received at the city of La Imperial, where 
 the head-quarters of the Spanish army Avere fixed, that 
 rhilip II. had succeeded to the Spanish crown in con- 
 sequence of the abdication of his father, it was thought 
 proper to solemnise the event by holding a tournament, 
 after the fashion of those days of martial spirit, chival- 
 rous feeling, and imperfect civilisation. Among the 
 various shows and feats of skill there was an eatafermo, 
 a figure of wood or pasteboard, in striking which knights 
 made a trial of their strength and dexterity. Don Alonso 
 de ErciUa and a cavalier called Don Juan de Pineda had 
 a dispute, each pretending to have struck the best blow. 
 They soon passed from mock to real battle, drew their 
 swords, and were followed by their respective partisans; 
 so that the games, as not unfrequently happened in those 
 martial amusements, were converted into strife and con- 
 fusion. The general having, it is said, previously suspected 
 the existence of a plot against his authority, concluded that 
 this encounter at the games was meant to be the precursor 
 of its execution. The civil wars, which had arisen in rapid 
 succession among the invaders and conquerors of that part 
 of South America, gave countenance to this impression. 
 The pretended ringleaders were therefore committed to
 
 ERCILLA. 
 
 109 
 
 prison; and the irritated general, being desirous of mak- 
 ing a salutary example, to preserve discipline among his 
 troops, ordered that the heads of the criminals should be 
 cut off. The riot being quelled, and more correct inform- 
 ation ha\ing convinced Don Garcia that the quarrel had 
 been accidental, the severe sentence was revoked.* Of 
 the treatment which he then suffered, Ercilla complains 
 bitterly in his poem. He states that he was actually 
 taken to a public place, there to be beheaded by sentence 
 of a young and hasty general t ; nay, that he had been 
 already upon the scaffold, and liad stretched out his neck 
 for the axe, whilst he was only guilty of having un- 
 sheathed his sword, which he never drew without being 
 most clearly in the right. J The historian of Don Garcia 
 Hurtado de Mendoza, on the other side, pretends that he 
 had been justly condenmeil by the general, a person, in 
 the opinion of his panegyrist, to whom, by confession of 
 all, no blame could attach, of an exceedingly mild and 
 humane disposition § , endowed with great equanimity, an 
 acute intellect, and a fine memory, a perfect Christian, of 
 marvellous prudence and activity, no gambler, a zealous 
 restorer of discipline, highly abstemious, never tasting 
 wine, and, to crown all, constantly keeping in hand his 
 rosary to tell his beads. || lie, moreover, affirms that 
 our poet was indebted to Don (Jarcia for many favours; 
 but tha» ''e hated Ortigosa, tiie general's secretary, whom 
 lie taxcu with cowardice and incompetency for his office.H 
 It is impossible, and would be foreign to our j)rcsent 
 l)urpose, to settle this question. If P>cilla's testimony 
 in his own case ouglit to be little attended to, the adula- 
 tory style of Don Garcia's eulogiser renders his assertions 
 and opinions no less liable to sus[)icion and unworthy of 
 credit. 
 
 Though the sentence of deatii jjassed upon Don Alonso 
 was revoked, he had to undergo a long imprisomnent, 
 wliich terminated, as we are informed, in his being 
 banished. ^Ve are at a loss how to reconcile this state- 
 
 ♦ Suanj! lie Klgucrna, Hi»t. of Don Ciarcia, M.idriil, Ifil.i, pp. loi, 101, 
 
 -f Ardur. ratito xxxvii. t Arauc. caiuoxxxvi. 
 
 \ buorcz (If 1' igucTua, p|i. lUl. li'I. || Itixd. p. 101. 1 Ibid.
 
 110 lilTERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 iiient with liis own assertion, that he was, nevertheless, 
 l)rescnt at tlie several sieges and engagements which 
 took place in those countries after the accident of which 
 mention has been made. Not long after, he left Chili 
 in disgust, without having been duly rewarded for his 
 services. This fact appears to contradict Suarcz de 
 Figueroa, who says that he was under many obligations 
 to Don Garcia * ; but what these obligations were the 
 historian has not stated ; and, as has been observed by 
 the writer of Ercilla's life prefixed to the edition of the 
 Araucana of l??') (p- 22.), it is evident from the nar- 
 ration of that prejudiced author, that in a distribution of 
 rewards, which took place under the general, our poet 
 received none. 
 
 A new field of exertion seemed now opened to the 
 martial bard. A spirit of dissension and civil strife had 
 prevailed among the conquerors of Peru ever since their 
 establishment in those regions, where, to borrow the 
 expression of the chief historian of Spanish America, 
 " there had occurred frequent instances of disloyalty and 
 disobedience, cruel murders, and various other crimes, 
 two of the king's lieutenants having been deprived of 
 their authority and imprisoned ; the tribunals having 
 been reduced to utter insignificance ; the i)ower of the 
 crown and justice usurped and trampled upon ; and five 
 civil wars had taken place, in which men became furi- 
 ously enraged against each other, and fought with in- 
 human ferocity, till ultimately the prince prevailed." t 
 One of the most famous " tyrants " of those times (for 
 such was the appellation bestowed by the Spaniards upon 
 those who usurped the royal authority) was Lope de 
 Aguirre, a native of Guipuzcoa, who, having been sent 
 upon an expedition to quell some Indians, raised the 
 standard of revolt against the Spanish commanders, and 
 ruled for a time over the provinces of Venezuela. Of 
 his extraordinary cruelties much has been said, and they 
 are still preserved by tradition, though, perhaps, with that 
 exaggeration of blame which constantly attaches to the 
 • Suarez de Figueroa, p. 104. f Hcrrera, decada vii. lib. i. cap. i. p. 2.
 
 ERCILLA. 
 
 Ill 
 
 memory of an unsuccessful rebel. In the style of the 
 age, Ercilla compares him to Herod and Nero*; he 
 having caused his own daughter to be put to death. 
 But before our poet had been able to reach the scene of 
 this ci%-il war, the usurper had been defeated, taken, and 
 executed. Nothing now remained for him to do, as the 
 country was peaceable. He therefore determined to re- 
 turn to Europe, which at that time, however, a long and 
 painful iUness prevented. Having at length recovered, 
 lie left the American continent, proceeded to the Ter- 
 ceiras, and thence to Spain. At this period (1562), 
 his age being only twenty-nine years, he was in the full 
 and active vigour of life, and had lost none of that spirit 
 which impelled him to enterprise and discovery. He ac- 
 cordingly had scarcely returned to his native country, 
 when the restless energy of his mind sent him forth upon 
 new travels. He visited France, Italy, Germany, Silesia, 
 Moravia, and Pannonia.t Having gone back to Spain, 
 he married, at Madrid, Dona Maria de Bazan, a damsel 
 of rank, whose mother held a place at court as lady of 
 the bedchamber to the Spanish queen. The manner in 
 whicli he speaks of his marriage is quaint and singular : 
 he represents himself to have been carried away by 
 Bellona, in a dream, over a widely extended and flowery 
 meadow, where, while lie was intent upon devoting him- 
 self t- :orous songs, he felt an invincible curiosity to 
 be informed of the names of the beautiful damsels who 
 inhabited that region, especially of one of them, who 
 was such that he suddenly lay prostrate at her feet. She 
 was of tender age, yet she showed a maturity of judg- 
 ment and talent much abovi- liir time of life. ^\'liile the 
 poet felt compelled to gaze upon her, and while entranced 
 and ca[)tivated by the contemplation of her beauty, he 
 anxiously wished to know her name, he saw at her feet 
 tliu motto, or inscrijjtioii, " This is Do,,a Maria, a 
 branch of the stem of liazan." 
 
 Though the emperor and queen of Spain had stood 
 
 * Arauc. canto xxxri. -f Arauc. raiiln xviii.
 
 11'2 
 
 I.ITKIIARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 sponsors to the happy pair []Note 8.], 'Ercilla does not 
 appear to have obtained any rewards or promotion. The 
 emperor of (ierniany, Maximihan II., however, a])j)ointcd 
 him his chambellan, a distinction which did little to 
 better his fortune. In I.'iSO, he lived in Madrid, poor 
 and neglected, and accordingly complaining of the dis- 
 regard with which his services both at court and in the 
 camp had been treated. The stream of fortune (he 
 says) ran constantly against him : he was now in a state 
 of perfect destitution and abandonment, yet he had the 
 consciousness of having merited, by a long course of 
 honourable service, the just recompence which was with- 
 lield from him ; a consciousness which is itself u 
 reward, of which the man of rectitude and honour can 
 never be deprived by external circumstances.* 
 
 The following anecdote is recorded respecting Er- 
 cilla at this time : — Having waited to pay his court to 
 the king, and wisliing to speak to his majesty, he felt 
 so disconcerted that he could not find words to declare 
 the nature of his requests ; and the king being well 
 aware of the temper of the man who was before him, 
 and sure that his timidity arose from the respect he bore 
 to royalty, told him — ''Don Alonso, addresn me by 
 writing." So Ercilla did (says the author from whom 
 this story has been taken t), and the king granted his 
 request. 
 
 What the nature of this request was it is impossible 
 to ascertain, because Ercilla constantly complains of his 
 having been totally neglected and forgotten. The anec- 
 dote, moreover, seems doubtful. Though a soldier, 
 Don Alonso was not a blunt one : he had been brought 
 up at court, nay, within the i)recincts of the palace, and 
 as a youthful attendant on the person of that princv, 
 whom now he is represented to have looked upon with 
 such feelings of reverential terror. On the other iiand, 
 the account is not entirely devoid of j)robability, and if 
 not true, is, at least, well imagined. The gloomy and 
 stern disposition of Philip appears to have struck even 
 
 • Araurana, canto xxxvii. f Avisos para Palacio, p-Vji.
 
 ERCILLA. 113 
 
 his confidential servants with a sort of respect bordering 
 uiion fear ; and the notions of the divine attributes of 
 royalty were then carried to the most extravagant lengths 
 by the Spaniards ; a feeUng which can be traced in the 
 Spanish writers down to a very recent period^ and 
 which has only disappeared in consequence of the late 
 revolutions in the Peninsula. 
 
 The last years of Ercilla's life were spent in obscurity. 
 The disappointments he had met with engendered a 
 spirit of gloomy devotion^ to which his countrymen 
 were, in those days, peculiarly liable.* His morals in 
 liis juvenile years had been loose, as is proved by the 
 circumstance of his having had a numerous illegitimate 
 offspring. He now bitterly repented of his frailties ; 
 and lamented that he had devoted the best years of his 
 life to worldly pursuits and vanities. + The year of his 
 death is not known. In 159(^J he was still alive, and is 
 eaid to have been engaged in writing a poem to com- 
 memorate the exploits of Don Alvaro IJazan, marquis 
 of Santa Cruz, the bravest and most fortunate of the 
 Spanish naval commanders. This work, if it ever ex- 
 isted, lias been lost ; and Ercilla is only known in the 
 literary world by his poem La Araucana, and by a few 
 hnes printed in the Parnaso EspanolJ, which, though 
 they w'-re highly extolled by Lope de Vega, certainly do 
 no c.^ait to his poetical powers. 
 
 Respecting Ercilla's personal character we possess 
 little information. He appears to have been brave, 
 active, , and clever, of an adventurous disposition, impa- 
 tient of control, restless and querulous. That he, like 
 most of the literary men of Spain, was shamefully 
 neglected by his own countrymen, is an incontrovertible 
 fact. In his account of the Indian war, and of hie own 
 share in the events of it, he shows himself to have 
 bicn actuated by a more liberal sjjirit, towards the abo- 
 riginal natives, than was evinced by the generality of 
 
 • Moit of the celebrated Spnninh ilramatiiti {Lope dc Venn, Caldcron, 
 ilorcio, and (ithem,) IxTame clergymen In their old age, and dc'lilorcd that 
 they h;i(l written for the »tage. 
 
 + Araurana, cantoxuivU. % VoL ii. p. I'O. 
 
 VOL. III. t
 
 lit LITF.nAHY AND SCIKNTIFIO MEN. 
 
 his fellow-soldiers and fellow-writers. That this arose 
 from his discontent has hcen malignantly asserted by 
 his enemies, but without sufficient evidence. The exe- 
 cution of Caupolican, the Indian general, which he so 
 indignantly condemns, was a fact of glaring and ati"o- 
 cious injustice, though, unfortunately, of a class by no 
 means uncommon, not only in the annals of Spanish 
 warfare in those regions, but in the history of all con- 
 quests ; where the assertion of independence has been 
 held and treated as rebellion, and punishment the more 
 severely inflicted in proportion as the right to inflict it 
 was more doubtful or untenable. But as the name of 
 Ercilla belongs rather to the literary than to the political 
 history of Spain, the qualities of his poetry demand our 
 attention in preference to the actions of his life. 
 
 The Araucana, though often quoted, is little known 
 out of Spain. No English version of it has been pub- 
 lished, but it is stated in an article in the Quarterly 
 Review *, that there exists one in manuscript from the 
 pen of Mr. Boyd, known as one of the English trans- 
 lators of Dante. The writer of Ercilla's life, in the 
 French Biogi-apliie Universelle, speaks of a French 
 translation by M. Langles, also unpublished. We are 
 not aware that either the Italians or the Germans, tlio 
 latter of whom have latterly directed their attention to 
 CastiUan poetry, possess any complete translation of that 
 Spanish poem. 
 
 Voltaire was the first, amongst the French, who 
 called the attention of his countrymen to the Araucana. 
 In his very indifferent Essay upon Epic Poetry, he praises 
 the speech of Colocolo in the 2d canto, which he places 
 above that of Nestor in the first book of the Iliad, and 
 says that the remainder of the work is as barbarous as 
 the nations of which it treats.t Of the excellence of the 
 speech so praised (without meaning to enter into a com- 
 parison with Homer) no doubt can exist, and the judg- 
 inent passed ;ipon it by Voltaire deserves the more to be 
 
 * Quarterly Pcvicw, n. 
 
 ■f Voltaire, lisai sur la Pocsic Epiquc, liv. 8. Raynouard, p. 4DG.
 
 ERCILLA. 1 1 ."i 
 
 relied upon, as, according to Bouterwek's acute remark *, 
 he was a better judge of rhetorical than of poetical ex- 
 ceDence. The unqualified condemnation of the rest of 
 the poem cannot, indeed, be assented to ; for, though the 
 Araucana is far from being a work of first-rate merit, 
 yet it contains some manly beauties, which A'^oltaire's 
 notions of poetry rendered him unable to perceive. 
 []Note 9-] In an article of Moreri's Dictionnaire we 
 find a more just though still a severe criticism of Er- 
 cilla's poem. Latterly the writer in the Biographic 
 Universelle already quoted has expressed a more favour- 
 able opinion of the Araucana, and has perhaps erred on 
 the other side. [^Xote 10.] 
 
 It is to Hayley that the English are indebted for a 
 k-nowlcdge of the work in question : his analysis and par- 
 tial translations of it, and his eulogium upon the author, 
 are contained in the notes and body of his Essay upon 
 Epic Poetry. [[Note 11.] Hayley thought of Ercilla, per- 
 haps, more highly than he deserves ; though, upon the 
 ■whole, his notice of the Araucana is judicious. In his 
 translations he was not quite so felicitous : his prosaic 
 style was not ill calculated to give a just notion of the 
 tenour of the Spanish poet's composition ; but he wanted 
 that force of expression which constitutes the highest 
 recommendation of Ercilla's poetry. The translator, be- 
 sides, adopted the couplet, a very improper medium to 
 convey to an English reader a just notion of a Avork 
 originally written in the stanza. It would be needless to 
 point out to those who are acquainted with the Spen- 
 serian stanza, or with the Italian and Spanish octava, so 
 hai)iii]y adopted by Fairfax in his Tassci, how far the 
 mechanism of this measure affects thf orginal conception 
 and distribution of the poet's thoughts, and how much 
 the structure of the coujilet differs from it ; whence it 
 follows, as a necessary consequence, that conceptions ori- 
 ginally adapted to the former must api)e:ir distorted 
 when brouglit by a forced adaptation to the latter. 
 
 • CoutcTiri-k, Hj»t. ofSiianuh Literature, tram. Loud. 1923, p. 412. 
 
 1 2
 
 IK) 
 
 LITERAUY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 From the discordant opinions of critics of all nations 
 respecting the Araucana, we may safely infer that, al- 
 though its defects may be great and numerous, and 
 although even in the Castilian language it cannot be 
 esteemed a first-rate poem, still it possesses just preten- 
 sions to a rank in literature above that which some would 
 assign to it. 
 
 That Ercilla only meant to write a rhymed history 
 cannot be justly asserted. His fictions, though most of 
 them infelicitous, and unconnected with the main sub- 
 jects of his story; his machinery; his imitations of Ariosto 
 in the first stanzas of all his cantos, and especially at the 
 opening of the work; his frequent similes; — all clearly 
 prove that he intended to write a poem. But the novel 
 nature of his arguments naturally suggested the idea of 
 rendering liis poem a composition far differing from 
 those hitherto existing. He aimed at producing a work, 
 striking from its subject-matter, recommended by the 
 veracity and accuracy of the information []Notel2.] which 
 it was destined to convey, yet clothed in a poetical style, 
 and embelUshed by episodes where historical fidelity 
 might be easily departed from, and would not, indeed, 
 be expected on the part of the reader. 
 
 Don Alonso, however, was deficient in many of the 
 qualities which constitute the poet : he wanted invention 
 and command of language and versification ; on the 
 other hand, that which he conceived he could ex- 
 press with force, if not with correctness or delicacy. 
 His adventurous disposition seems to prove that the 
 elements of poetry were in his mind. He had no eyes 
 for the beauties of nature ; but he understood the work- 
 ings of the human heart. His warlike habits directed 
 bis attention to those fierce passions which rage in the 
 ■warrior's breast. He could interpret the feelings of the 
 natives of those remote regions fighting for their homes, 
 their altars, and their personal independence, against the 
 invaders of their country ; in his description of their 
 characters and exploits, his styl*; rises and his fancy 
 kindles. By the force of mental association, he is thence
 
 ERCILLA. 117 
 
 led to the contemplation of animated nature ; hence 
 the frequency and beauty of his similes, drawn mosvly 
 from the animal creation. 
 
 In his delineation of character there is abundant 
 matter for praise : his Indians are well pourtrayed, 
 though his Spaniards are all failures. From this latter 
 circumstance he has been accused of bearing ill-will to 
 his fellow-soldiers ; but upon a consideration of his pecu- 
 liar powers, the reason of that difference wiU be easily 
 explained without admitting the invidious imputations 
 thus cast upon hira. Neither could his mind seize, nor his 
 pen delineate, the complex character of cinhsed man ; 
 whilst the bolder and simpler lineaments of the physi- 
 ognomy of the savage were perfectly adapted to tlie nature 
 of his genius and the extent of his abilities. 
 
 The want of unity is one of the greatest faults in the 
 Araucana, as the poem is rendered thereby uninteresting. 
 'I'his defect does not arise solely from the want of a 
 hero ; but likewise from the poet's inability to invent 
 a story. Yet there are frequent instances of works, the 
 plot of which is loose and unconnected, without losing 
 much of their attractions. But in ErciUa, we miss the 
 power of imparting interest, even to the separate stories 
 which form his poem. 
 
 Ercilla's poem, on the whole, is rather deserving of 
 censure tlian of praise ; and, if read through, will cer- 
 tainly be found tedious ; but parts of it may be pe- 
 rused with pleasure and admiration. The epithet of 
 Homeric has been both applied and misapphcd when 
 bestowed upon his genius. Those qualities which have 
 been praised in him must be admitted by an impartial 
 judge to savour a little of the style of the father of epic 
 poetry. Tiiat Ercilla was at an immense distance from 
 his model must, liowever, be confessed, even by his 
 warmest admirers.
 
 lis LITERAKY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note 1.— This date is taken from the life of Ercilla prefixed to th« 
 edition of the Araucnna, of Madrid, 177G. The autlior of Ercilla 's life in 
 the French Riographie Univcrfcllc fixes his birth at Bermeo, in Biscay, 
 in 1525. He was led into error as to the place by the collector of the Parnaso 
 Espanol : in assigning the year he confesses that he had no foundation but 
 his own conjecture. This spirit led him to fix a date for our poet's death, 
 ■uhich is uncertain. 
 
 Note 2. — Xicolaus Antonius. Bihl. Hisp. Nov. p. 395. Madrid, 1783. It 
 is a remarkable fact, that while Krcilla the poet is sligluly mentioned in 
 this work, his father, whose labours are now forgotten, has nearly two co- 
 lumns devoted to a notice of his life and writings. 
 
 Note 3. — The yfeni'nos were young gentlemen attached to the court 
 The word is no longer used, though the office is preserved in that of the 
 king's pages. 
 
 Note 4. — The pedantic allusion, it is needless to gay, is made by 
 Ercilla himself, in the taste of his age. 
 
 Note 5. — Herrcra. Historia general de los Hechos de los Castellanos 
 en las Islas y tierra (irme del Mar t^ceano. Dec. viii. lib. vii, c. x. Our poet 
 is there mentioned as the famous poet and honourable gentleman, Don 
 Alonso de Ercilla. 
 
 Note 6. — Licentiate Cristoval Mosquera de Figueroa speaks of Er. 
 cilia's prowess at the battle of Millarapuc, and the engagement at Puren, 
 ■where, followed by eleven fellow.soldiers, he climbed up a mountain de- 
 fended by the Indians, and won the day. The writer of Ercilla's life quotes 
 the Chronicle of Fliiiip II., by Calvete de la Estrella, as a testimonial of the 
 poet's exploits, but this must be a mistake. There exists no such chronicle. 
 .Suarez de Figueroa only praises Don Alonso's gallant bearing at a mock 
 fight or field-day (p. GO.) ; but he was prejudiced against him. 
 
 Note 7. — The last line of the inscription here alluded to. 
 Hie tandem stetimus nobis ubi defuit orbis, 
 was written by the French comic poet Regnard, in Lapland, in IfiSI. 
 Though the thought is liable to the imputation of gasconade, it is spirited 
 and beautiful. Ercilla's inscription was of a more unpretending nature. 
 He merely says : — 
 
 " Here, where no one had reached before, arrived Don Alonso de Ercilla, 
 >vho, first of all men, crossed this pass in a small boat without ballast, at- 
 tended only by ten companions, in the year of fifty-eight above fifteen 
 hundred, on the last day of February, at two o'clock in the afternoon, re- 
 turning afterward^ to his companions whom he had left behind." 
 
 This inscription forms a stanza of the Araucana. It is very prosaic. 
 This instance is not the only one where dates are mentioned in the poem. 
 In order to accommodate them to measure and rhyme, the author is often 
 driven to very curious shifts, and strange phr.'>seology.
 
 ERCILLA. 119 
 
 Notes. — Luis de Salazar Advertcncias Historicas, p. 13. It has 
 however, been remarked by the writer of Ercilla's life, that this author is 
 wrong in stating, that Elizabeth, Philip's consort, or Isabel de ^■alois, acted 
 asfponsor; she having died in 156S, and Ercilla having married in 1570, 
 according to Garibay. Possibly the queen alluded to was Philip's fourth 
 wife, Ann of Austria. 
 
 Note 9. — Dictionnaire Historique de Morcri, art Ercilla. The sub- 
 ject of the Araucana (says the critic) being novel, has suggested some 
 novel thoughts to the poet ; but his poem is too long, and abounds with 
 low passages. There is great animation in his battles, but no invention, 
 no plot, no variety in his descriptions, no unity in his general outline of the 
 work, &c 
 
 XoTE 10. — Biographic Univ., Paris, 1815, art Ercilla. The merits of 
 the Araucana (says this writer) consist in a correct style, proper imagery, 
 beautiful descriptions, a plot constantly increasing in interest, a sort of 
 unity of action, and a spirit of heroism spread over the whole work. The 
 work is inferior to Tasso's Gierusalemrae, and superior to Voltaire's Hen- 
 riada There occur in it some feeble lines, and vulgar or common-place 
 thoughts. 
 
 NcTTE 11. — Ercilla's poetical character is drawn by Hayley in the fol- 
 lowing lines : — 
 
 With warmth more temperate, and in notes more clear, 
 
 That with Homeric richness fills the ear, 
 
 The brave Ercilla sounds, with potent breath. 
 
 His epic trumpet in the fields of de^tli ; 
 
 In scenes of savage war, when Spain unfurled 
 
 Her bloody banner o'er the Western world ; 
 
 With all his country's virtues in his frame. 
 
 Without the base alloy that stained her namew 
 
 In danger's camp this military bard. 
 
 Whom Cynthia saw on his nocturnal guard, 
 
 Ilecorded, in his bold descriptive lay. 
 
 The various fortunes of the finished day; 
 
 Seizing the l>en, while night's calm hours afTord 
 
 A transient slumber to his sati.itc sv/ord. 
 
 With noble justice his warm hand bestows 
 
 TTic meed of honour on his valiant foes. 
 
 Howc'cr precluded, by liis generous aim. 
 
 From high pretensions to inventive fame. 
 
 His strongly coloured scenes of sanguine strife. 
 
 His wflcr pictures, caught from Indian life. 
 
 Above the visionary forms of art, 
 
 yirc the awakened mind and melt the heart 
 
 llaylajf Estay upon Epic Poetry, Epistle X 
 KoTP. 12. —It is a curious fact, that, to the Antwerp edition of the Arau. 
 eana, 157., and to several others, there is affixed an approbation from 
 raptain Juan Gomez, praising Ercilla for hi* historical veracity, which 
 he, the ca|>taln, could vouch for, from his having rcMilcd twenty-seven 
 years in Peru, near the scene of the Araucan war. A strange rccom. 
 mendation of ao epic poem .' 
 
 I 4.
 
 J 20 LirEBARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN 
 
 CERVANTES. 
 
 1547—1616. 
 
 It is most certain, that all those capable of feeling a 
 generous interest in the fate of genius will turn with 
 eager curiosity to the page inscribed with the name of 
 Cervantes : not even Shakspeare has so universal a 
 reputation. While the subhme character of Don Quixote 
 warms the heart of the enthusiast, the truth of the sad 
 picture which his fortunes present tickles the fancy of 
 the man of the world. Children revel in the comedy, 
 old men admire the shrewdness, of Sancho Panza. That 
 this work is written in prose increases its popularity. 
 Imperfect as all translations must be, none fail so 
 entirely as those which attempt to transfuse the etherial 
 and delicate spirit of verse into another language. But 
 though to read " Don Quixote" in its native Spanish in- 
 finitely increases the pleasure it affords, yet so does its 
 mere meaning speak to all mankind, that even a trans- 
 lation satisfies those who are forced thus to content 
 themselves. 
 
 For the honour of human nature, and to satisfy our 
 own sense of gratitude, we desire to find that the author 
 of "Don Quixote" enjoyed as much prosperity as is con- 
 sistent with humanity, and that he tasted to its full the 
 triumph due to the writer of the most successful book 
 in the world. This satisfaction being denied us — for he 
 was " fallen on evil days," a poor and neglected man — 
 we are anxious, even at this distance of time, to com- 
 miserate his misfortunes, and sympathise in his sorrows. 
 We desire to learn with what spirit he endured adversity — 
 whether, like his heroic creation, he consoled himself at 
 the worst by the sense of conscious worth and virtuous 
 intention. We feel sure that his romantic imagination.
 
 CERVAN'TES. ]21 
 
 and keen sense of humour, must often have elevated him 
 above his griefs or blunted their sting ; but we wish to 
 learn whether they were borne with moral courage ; and 
 how far, like his hero, he preserved a serene and un- 
 daunted spirit in the midst of blows and derision. 
 
 We are disappointed at the outset by finding how 
 little is known of so renowned an autlior. Neglected 
 during life, his memory also was unhonoured. His con- 
 temporaries gave themselves no trouble to collect and 
 bequeath the circumstances of his life, so that they 
 quickly became involved in obscurity. When, at last, 
 it was endeavoured to do honour to his name, eulogy, 
 rather than biography, was written ; and it was only 
 towards the end of the last century that pains were taken 
 to make researches, which so far succeeded, that such 
 discoveries were made as place various portions of his 
 life in an interesting and romantic light. The Spanish 
 Academy published an edition of " Don Quixote," to 
 which is prefixed a biography, written by don \'icente de 
 los llios, who, with all the ardour of an admirer of genius, 
 spared no pains to render his work full and accurate. At 
 about the same time, don Juan Antonio I'ellicer made 
 similar researches, and threw some new lights on his 
 situation and circumstances. Much more, however, has 
 been done lately by a French gentleman of the name of 
 Viardot. He travelled in Spain, and exerted himself to 
 the utmost to discover the yet hidden circumstances of 
 Cervantes's life. By searching the archives of various 
 cities where he had resided, and by a careful examin- 
 ation of contemporary writers, he has brought a mass of 
 information together, the authenticity of which adds to 
 its interest. Some circumstances, indeed, arc important 
 only as they are true, and appertain to Cervantes; otliers 
 throw a great light on Ills character, and show his forti- 
 tude in HufFering, his devoted courage when others 
 depended on him, his cheerful content in poverty, his 
 l)enevolcnce, and the dignity and animation of his mind, 
 which raised him above his fortunes. 
 
 The first point to be decided was the place of his
 
 Ii:i2 LITKUAllY A.VD SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 birth : this had been attributed to various cities and 
 towns of Spain — to Madrid, Seville, Esquivias, and 
 Lucena. An allusion in "Don Quixote" led one of his 
 biographers (Sarniiento) to conjecture that he was born 
 at Alcala de Henares, a town of some consequence, not 
 far from Madrid. Another writer, following up this 
 trace, discovered a baptismal register in the j)arish 
 church of Santa Maria la Mayor of that town, which 
 certified, that on Sunday, the 9th of October, ] 547, the 
 reverend sePior Bachiller Serrano baptized Miguel, the 
 son of Rodrigo Cervantes and donna Leonora, his wife. 
 
 ^Vhile the question seemed thus put to rest, it was 
 unsettled again by the discovery of another register. 
 This was found in the parish books of Santa Maria, of 
 Alcanzar de San Lugar, a town of La Mancha. It 
 certified, that on the 9th November, 1558, was baptized, 
 by the licentiate Alonso Diaz Pajares, a son of Bias 
 Cervantes Saavetlra and Catalina Lopez, who received 
 the name of Miguel. A marginal note to this register 
 declared, "This was the author of ' Don Quixote.'" In 
 addition, there were various traditions in Alcanzar of 
 the house in which he was born. The name of Saavedra 
 was another testimony in its favour. Cervantes always 
 adopted this additional name; and no trace of it is to be 
 found in the town of Alcala ; however, it would seem 
 that the different families of these two towns were con- 
 nected, as Cervantes had an uncle, Cervantes Saavedra, 
 of Alcanzar. And thus, on minute examination, and 
 bringing the aid of chronology to decide the question, 
 the balance inclined uncontrovertibly in favour of Alcala: 
 the date of the battle of Lepanto, and the mention 
 Cervantes makes of his own age in several of his later 
 works, prove that he was born in 1 547, and not so late 
 as 1558. Another document, hereafter to be mentioned, 
 discovered by Los Rios in the archives of the society for 
 the redemption of captives in Algiers, declares him to be 
 a native of Alcala de Henares, and the son of Rodrigo 
 Cervantes and donna Leonora de Cortina. Thus the 
 question is set at rest; and it becomes matter of positive
 
 ' CERVANTES. 123 
 
 history that Cervantes was born at Alcala de Henares, 
 and baptized (probably on the day of his birth, as is usual 
 in cathohc countries,) on Sunday, the 9th of October, 
 
 1547. ^^'^'^^ 
 
 His family, originally of Galicia, and afterwards 
 estabUshed in Castile, belonged to the same class in 
 society, in which he places Don Quixote. They were 
 hidalgos (hijos de algo, sons of somebody,) and, there- 
 fore, by right of birth, gentlemen, tliough not noble. 
 The name of Cervantes is honourably mentioned in the 
 Spanish annals, as far back as the thirteenth century. 
 Warriors bearing that appellation fought imder the 
 banners of St. Ferdinand, and had a part in the taking 
 of Baeza and Seville, and received a share in the distri- 
 butions of land conquered from the !Moors, then made. 
 Others of that name figure among the first adventurers 
 in the New World. His grandfather, Juan de Cervantes, 
 was corregidor of Ossuna. The mother of IMigxiel was 
 of a noble family of Barajas ; she married his father 
 about the year 1540. Four children were the fruit of 
 the union ; donna Andrea and donna Luisa, daughters; 
 Rodrigo, and youngest of the four, Miguel. His parents 
 were poor, and he could inherit Uttle from them except 
 his honourable rank.* 
 
 Very little is known of his early life. The town of 
 Henares is but a few miles distant from Madrid, and it 
 contains a university, whore it is probal)le that Cervantes 
 prosecuted his early studies. He tells us, in a poem 
 written late in life, 
 
 '^rom my most tender yean I loved 
 riie gentlf! art ol"|)Of»y, — 
 
 and this taste gave the bias to his life. "WHiile still a boy 
 he was attracted by the drama, and frequented the 
 representations of Lope do Rucda ; these recitations, and 
 his taste for reading, which was such that he never 
 passed the meanest bit of paper in the streets without 
 deciphering its contents, were the early proofs he gave 
 
 • VlardnL
 
 124 LITERARY ASI> SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 of tliat love of inquiry which always accompanies 
 genius. 
 
 Having attained the proper age, Miguel repaired to 
 Salamanca, where he entered himself as a student, and 
 remained for two years.* It is ascertained that he lived 
 in Calle los Moros. He afterwards returned to Madrid, 
 and was placed to study with the learned Joan Lopez 
 d^ Hoyos, a theologian, who filled the chair for 
 Belles Lettres in that city. It is conjectured that in 
 giving him a literary education his parents meant that 
 he should pursue one of the liberal professions ; but we 
 have no other token that such was intended. He ac- 
 quired, however, a taste for literature, and aspired in his 
 turn to be an author. He wrote, he tells us, an infinite 
 number of what in Spain are called romances, being 
 ballads and ditties ; of which later in life, he says, he 
 considered a few good among many bad. He wrote 
 also a pastoral, called " Filena," which he boasts at- 
 tained celebrity. " The Avoods resounded with her 
 name," he says; " and many a gay song was echoed by 
 them; — my many and pleasant rhymes and the light 
 winds were burdened with ray hopes, which were 
 themselves light as the breezes, and shifting as the 
 sands." 
 
 His master_, Juan Lopez de Hoyos, admired and en- 
 couraged him in these pursuits, and, it would seem, 
 endeavoured to bring him into notice. The death of 
 Isabella of Valois, wife of Philip II., which hap- 
 pened in 1569, ehcited the tribute of many an elegy 
 from the poets of Madrid. The name of this queen is 
 rendered romantic to us by its association with that of 
 the unfortunate prince don Carlos, and the legend of 
 his unhappy attachment and consequent death. Of 
 course these circumstances were not the subject of verse 
 intended for the royal ear; but Isabella was beloved and 
 mourned with more sincerity than queens usually are. 
 Lopez de Hoyos pubUshed a book called "History and 
 
 * This circiimetanfo is mentioned by M. Viard6t only ; and was ua. 
 known to every other biographer.
 
 CERVANTES. 
 
 1:^5 
 
 true relation of the sickness, pious death, and sumptuous 
 funeral obsequies, of the serene queen of Spain, donna 
 Isabella of A'alois." This publication includes various 
 elegies, one of which is thus introduced : — " These Cas- 
 tilian redondillas on the death of her majesty, which, as 
 appears, indulge in rhetorical imagery, and at the con- 
 clusion address her majesty, are by Miguel de Cervantes, 
 our dear and beloved pupil." Besides this, the book 
 contains another elegy addressed by the whole school 
 to die cardinal Espinosa, also written by Cervantes. 
 Neither of these poems give promise; they are common- 
 place, wordy, and deficient both in sentiment and imagi- 
 nation. 
 
 In the same year that these poems were pubhsheti 
 Cen'antes quitted Madrid. It is usually supposed that 
 he left it in despair, to seek his fortune elsewhere; but 
 there can be no doubt that he left it in the service 
 of cardinal Acquaviva. On the death of the queen, 
 pope Pius V. sent a nuncio to Madrid to condole with 
 Philip II., and to seek compensation for certain dues of 
 the church, denied by the king's ministers at Milan. The 
 nuncio was a Roman prelate, named Giulio Acquaviva 
 son of the duke of Atri, who was created cardinal on his 
 return to Italy. His mission displeased the king, who^ 
 bigot as he was, never yielded any point to the court of 
 Rome. He remained, therefore, but a short time, receiv- 
 ing an order, two months after his arrival, to return to 
 Italy by way of Valencia and Barcelona, As Cervantes 
 himself mentions that he was at Rojne immediately after 
 in the household of the cardinal, there can be little doubt 
 that he was preferred to this situation while he was 
 at Madrid. Preferred, we say, because in those days the 
 sons of poor gentlemen often began their early career in 
 the households of princes, thus forming high connections, i^icH. 
 and securing a patron for life. M'v may believe tliat iEtnt. 
 the recommendation of De Hoyos, and the talents of the 
 youth, induced the cardinal to choose him. In the 
 suite of his new master Cervant^-s visited Valencia and 
 Barcelona, and traversed the south of France, — places 
 
 jl.
 
 12() LITEUAUY AND SCIKNTIFIC ilEN. 
 
 ■which he afterwards described in his writings, and which 
 he at no otlier time liad an opportunity of visiting. 
 1 'Gr>. What hopes and views he nourished in his own heart 
 JEuit. on visiting Rome we cannot tell. He was now in his 
 --• twenty-third year. His temperament was ardent and 
 aspiring, his tastes decidedly literary, but witli no bent 
 towards the clerical profession. That he had hopes we 
 cannot doubt ; and little doubt is there tliat these hopes 
 proved, as he says, " light as the winds and shifting as 
 the sands;'' for he had not been a year at Rome when 
 he changed the whole course of his life, and volunteered 
 as a soldier, " The war against the Turks," his bio- 
 grapher, Los Rios, observes, "\vhich was declared in 
 ] 570, gave him an opportunity of adopting a more noble 
 profession, and one more consonant to his birth and 
 valour;" and we may remark, that whatever hardships 
 he suffered in his military career, Cervantes prided 
 himself upon it to the end of his hfe. He always calls 
 himself a soldier; and his heart is in the argument, when 
 Don Quixote, comparing the student's and the soldier's 
 life, gives preference to the latter as the more noble. 
 1 570. 'f return to the Turkish war, during which he served^ 
 JEui. The sultan Selim, being desirous of possessing himself 
 ^•'>- of the island of Cyprus, broke the peace which he had 
 made with the Venetian republic, and sent an arma- 
 ment for the conquest of this island. The Venetians 
 implored the aid of the Christian sovereigns. Vo\ie 
 Pius v., in consequence, sent a force, commanded by 
 Marco Antonio Colonna, duke of Paliano. Cervante* 
 enlisted under this general, and served during the cam- 
 I)aign, which began late in the year, the object of which 
 was to succour Cyprus, and raise the siege of Nicosia. 
 The dissensions among the commanders sent by the 
 various Christian princes prevented, however, the good 
 they were sent to do. The Turks took Nicosia by 
 assault, and proceeded to other conquests, 
 l"l. During the following year greater efforts were made 
 A-.m. by the Christians. The combined fleet of Venice, Spain, 
 '■^'^- and of the pope, assembled at Messina. Marco Antonio
 
 CERVANTES. 12/ 
 
 Colonna continued to command the papal galleys, Doria 
 the Venetians; while the combined forces of all parties 
 were placed under the command of don John of Aus- 
 tria, a gallant prince, the natural son of the emperor 
 Charles V. Cervantes served in the company of the 
 brave captain Diego de Urbino, a detachment of the 
 tercio (regiment) of Miguel de Moncada. 
 
 Don John collected at Barcelona all the veteran troops 
 whom he had tried in the war againt the Moriscos in 
 Andalusia ; and among others, the renowned tercios of 
 don Miguel de Moncada and don Lope de Figueroa; and, 
 sailing for Italy, cast anchor off Genoa,on the 26th June 
 with forty-seven gaUeys. Thence he proceeded to Mes- 
 sina, where the combined fleet met. In the distribution 
 now made of the troops on boartl the various vessels, the 
 two new companies of veterans, taken from the tercios 
 of Moncada, those of Urbina and Ilodrigo de Mora, 
 were embarked on board the Italian galleys of Doria. 
 Cervantes followed his captain on board the Marquesa, 
 commanded by Francesco Santo Pietro.* 
 
 The fleet of the confederates, after having succoured 
 Corfu, went in pursuit of the enemy, and found the 
 Turkish fleet, on the morning of the 7th October, in 
 the entrance of the gulph of Lepanto. The battle 
 began about noon : the confederates achieved a splen- 
 did victory ; but it was a very sanguinary one, and, not 
 })emg followed up by other successes, it remained a use- 
 less trophy of Christian valour. 
 
 Cervantes was at tliis time suffering from an inter- 
 mittent fever, and his captain and comrades would 
 have persuaded him to abstain from mingling in the 
 fight ; but he spurned the idea, and requested, on the 
 contrary, to be placed in the post of honour, where there 
 was most <langer. He was posted near the shallop with 
 twelve chosen soldiers. The galley, on board of which 
 he wa.s, distinguished itself in the action : it boarded the 
 f'apt;iin of Alexandria, killed near five hundred Turks 
 with flx'ir commander, and took the royal standard of 
 
 • Viard'-t.
 
 J 28 LITEUARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 Egypt. In this bloody fray (Cervantes received three 
 arqucbuse wounds ; two in the chest, and one that 
 broke and destroyed liis left hand, lie always, how- 
 ever, regarded this loss with pride, and says, in one of 
 his works, that the honour of having been at the battle of 
 Lepanto was cheaply bought by the wounds he there 
 received. 
 
 The advance of the season, the want of provisions, 
 the number of their wounded, and the express orders of 
 king Philip, prevented t)ie victorious fleet from I'ollow- 
 ing up its victory ; and don John returned to Messina 
 on the 31st of October. The troops were distributed in 
 various quarters, and the tercio of Moncada was posted 
 in the south of Sicily. Cervantes himself, sick and 
 wounded, remained in the hospital at Messina for at 
 least six months. Don John of Austria had shown 
 a lively interest in his fate on the morning succeeding 
 to the battle, and did not forget him during his long 
 confinement. The industrious Viardot has discovered 
 mention of various small sums given him by the pay 
 office (pagaduria) of the fleet, under the dates of the 
 l.Oth and 25th of January, and the 9th and 17th of 
 March, 1572. When at last he recovered, an order was 
 addressed by the generalissimo, on the 29th of April, to 
 the pay-masters, tliat the soldier Cervantes should 
 receive the high pay of four crowns per month, and be 
 passed into a company of the tercio of Figueroa. 
 
 1 5T2. The campaign of the following year was a failure. 
 
 JEtat. Of the three allied powers, the pope was dead, the 
 ^5- Venetians grown cold, — the Spaniards alone remained to 
 prosecute the war. Marco Antonio Colonna set sail 
 on the Cth of June for the Archipelago, with a part 
 of the aUied fleet ; and, among others, the thirty-six 
 galleys of the marquis of Santa Cruz, on board of which 
 was embarked the regiment of Figueroa, in which 
 Cervantes served. 
 
 Don John sailed on the 9th of August following ; 
 but tlie only enterprise they attempted was an unsuc- 
 cessful assault on the castle of Navarino ; thus the
 
 I 
 
 CERVAXTES. lx?9 
 
 account given of this disastrous campaign in the story of 
 the captive in " Don Quixote"' was related by Cervantes 
 as an eye-witness. 
 
 During the following year the Venetians signed a 1.^75 
 peace with Seliui ; and the league being broken up, -'Eta 
 Philip was obliged to renounce all direct attack upon ~*^' 
 the Ottoman power ; but having assembled a large force, 
 he determined to employ it on a descent on Algiers or 
 Tunis. Since the time of Charles V., the Spaniards 
 possessed Goletta, a fortress near Tunis. Having, there- 
 fore, disembarked his troops, he sent the marquis de 
 Santa Cruz to possess himself of Tunis, which might 
 easily have been done ; but Philip, jealous of the views 
 of his brother, recalled him in haste from Africa. Feeble 
 garrisons were left in Goletta, which the Turks took by 
 assault the same year. 
 
 Cervantes had entered Tunis with the marquis of 
 Santa Cruz, and returned to Palermo with the fleet. 
 He made one of the force which, under the duke of 
 Sesa, vainly attempted to succour Goletta : he afterwards 
 wintered in Sardinia, and was brought back to Naples 
 in the galleys of Marcel Doria. In the month of June, 
 lo7:'i, he obtained leave from don John of Austria to 
 return to Spain, after an absence of seven years. Viardot 
 assures us, that in the intervals of military service, or 
 during the various expeditions, Cervantes visited Rome, 
 I'lorencc, Venice, liologna, Naples, and Palermo. He 
 l)ecame accomplished in the Italian language : the anti- 
 Petrarchists of his time detected tlie influence of Italian 
 literature, and accused him, as JJoscan and (Jarcilaso 
 had been accused, of corrupting his native Castilian. 
 
 Cervantes, now twenty-eight years of age,]iaving served 1 ,"7.' 
 in many campaigns, maimed and enfeebled, no doubt ■'T^'" 
 pined to revisit his native country. He had left it to ^^' 
 seek his fortune ; he was to return a simple soldier ; yet 
 the military profession continued de<ir to him; and wiien 
 he speaks of tlie many misfortunes a soldier encounters, — 
 his poverty so great tiiat he is poor among tlie poor ; ever 
 expecting his slender j>ay, which he seldom receives, 
 
 VOL. III. K
 
 130 LITEU-MIY AND SCIENTIFIC -MEN. 
 
 or is obliged to si'izc on, at tlie hazard of Iiis life, and 
 to the injury of liis conscience ; the hardships he en- 
 counters, tlie dangers he risks, and the small reward he 
 gains, — yet he looks on all these circumstances as re- 
 dounding to his glory, and rendering him deserving of 
 honour and esteem from all men. We may believe also 
 that Cervantes ([uitted Italy with well-founded hopes of 
 preferment in his native country : he had distinguished 
 himself in a manner that deserved reward. Don John 
 appreciated his worth, and gave him letters to the king 
 his brother, in which he gave due praise for his 
 conduct at the battle of Lepanto, and begged Philip 
 to confide to him the command of one of the regiments 
 which were then being raised in Spain to serve in Italy 
 or Flanders. The viceroy of Sicily, don Carlos of 
 Aragon, and the duke of Sesa, also recommended him to 
 the benevolence of the king and his ministers as a soldier 
 whose valour and worth deserved recompence.* 
 
 Such recommendations promised fair. Cervantes em- 
 barked on board the Spanish galley el Sol (the Sun) 
 with his elder brother Rodrigo, also a soldier, and 
 with various officers of distinction ; but disaster was 
 near at hand to dash all his hopes, and devote him to 
 years of adversity. On the 2()th of September the galley 
 was surrounded by an Algerine squadron, under the 
 command of the Arnaout iVIami, who was captain of the 
 sea. The Turkish vessels attacked and boarded el Sol. 
 The combat was obstinate, but numbers overpowered. 
 The galley was taken and carried into Algiers. In the 
 subsequent division of prisoners, Cervantes fell to the 
 share of the Arnaout captain himself. 
 
 The frightful system of cruising for captives, and 
 taking them to Algiers to sell them into slavery, which 
 continued for so many hundred years, had not long 
 before been carried to greater height than ever by two 
 pirates, who possessed themselves of Algiers and Tunis. 
 The horror of this warfare had excited the emperor 
 Charles V. to undertake to crush it. He made two 
 expeditions into Africa, the second of which was unsuc- 
 
 « Viardot.
 
 CERVANTES. 1 3 1 
 
 essful, and the .Ugerine corsairs pursued their nefarious 
 traffic with greater cruelty and success than ever : every 
 particular connected with it was frightful and deplora- 
 ble : the weak and unoffending were its chief victims : 
 the sea coasts were ravaged for prisoners ; and these, if 
 too poor for ransom, became slaves for life, under the 
 most cruel masters. The abhorrence excited by these 
 unprovoked attacks caused the Mahometan name to be 
 held in greater odium than ever ; and in Spain, par- 
 ticularly, this detestation was visited on the Moriscos : 
 the cruelties and oppression they endured, again excited 
 the Moors of Africa to reprisals ; and innocence and 
 helplessness became on all sides the victims of revenge 
 and hatred. Still the piracies carried on by the Alge- 
 rines, and the system to which they reduced their 
 practice of slavery, raised them to a " bad height" in 
 this war of reciprocal cruelty. None, also, %vere more 
 pitiless than the renegades ; Christians Avho, taken pri- 
 soners, bought their freedom by the sacrifice of their 
 faith. These men, often the most energetic and pros- 
 perous among the corsairs, were also the most cruel 
 towards their prisoners ; and, among them all, none was 
 so cruel as the Arnaout Mami. 
 
 P'ortunately, interesting details of Cervantes's captivity 
 have come down to us from undoubted and impartial 
 sources, as well as from his own accounts; and these place 
 him in the brightest light as a man of sagacity, resolution, 
 and honour. That these details are not fuller we must 
 lament ; but, such as they are, they display so much 
 gallantry and magnanimity on Cervantes's part, that 
 they must be read with the greatest pleasure. 
 
 In his tale of the "Captive," Cervantes gives an account 
 of the mode in which cajJtivL-s were treated at Algiers. 
 He Rays, " There is a {irison or house, which the Turks 
 call a bagnio, in which the Christian captives are con- 
 fined, — those belonging to the king as well as to various 
 inviduals ; and also th.ose of the Almacen, or slaves of 
 the council, who labour for the town at the public 
 works, or are employed in other ofllccs ; who, as they be- 
 
 K 2
 
 132 LlTKllAHY AND SCIENTIFIC iMEN. 
 
 lonp; to the city, and not to any particular master, have no 
 one witli whom to treat concerning their ransom, and are 
 worse off than the others. As I have said, various indi- 
 viduals place their slaves in this bagnio, and principally 
 those whom they expect to be ransomed, because they 
 are kept there more securely. The captives of the 
 king, who expect to be ransomed, are not sent out to 
 work with the rest ; and they wear a chain, more as a sign 
 that they are to obtain their freedom than from any other 
 cause : and here many cavaliers and men of birth live, 
 thus markeil, and kept for redemption ; and although 
 hunger and nakedness might well Aveary them, nothing 
 brought so much pain as witnessing the unspeakable 
 and frightful cruelties practised towards the Christians. 
 Each day, the dey, who was a Venetian renegade, hanged 
 or impaled some among them ; and this from such 
 trifling causes, and often from none at all, that the Turks 
 themselves were aware that he inflicted these cruelties in 
 wantonness, and because it was his natural disposition to 
 be the enemy of the human race. One man only did 
 he treat well, a soldier, by name Saavedra, w^ho, having 
 achieved things that will remain for many years in the 
 memory of that people, and all for the sake of gaining 
 his liberty, yet never received a blow nor an ill word ; 
 though it was often thought that for the slightest of the 
 things he did he would be impaled, and he himself 
 often expected it ; and, if it were not that I have no time 
 nor place, I would recount what this soldier did, which 
 would indeed excite your admiration and wonder,"* 
 
 In these terms does Cervantes speak of himself in 
 his captivity ; and so often are writers accused of boast- 
 ing that this might have been brought forward as a 
 proof of his vanity merely, but that we have another 
 testimony in a book named " Topography and general 
 
 ♦ Bouterwek says, erroneously, that Los Rios hasintcrwoven Cervantes's 
 novel of the" Captive" into his bioRrajihy, as being authentic, and relating 
 to himself. This is a mistal<e : Los Kios conceives, indeed, that the men- 
 tion made by the captive of "a soldier, by name .Saavedra," alludes to 
 Ceivantes himself, who adojited that surname, as of course he docs ; but 
 the history he gives of his captivity is drawn from other sources, such as 
 are used, with some additions^, for the present narrative.
 
 CERVA.s^^o. 133 
 
 History of Algiers^ by Father Diego de Haedo*," a 
 contemporary ; and his account, though not full enough 
 to satisfy our curiosity, yet proves that Cervantes 
 spoke of his deeds with no exaggeration; and that, to 
 attain his Uberty, he incurred every risk, and endured 
 a thousand hardships and perils with dauntless courage. 
 As Cervantes often alludes to himself, it is strange 
 that he did not vrrite an account of his years of 
 captivity ; but the truth is, that, though we may be 
 led to mention ourselves, it is ever a tedious task to 
 write at length on the subject : recollections come by 
 crowds ; hopes baffled, our dearest memories disco- 
 vered to have a taint, our lives wasted and fallen into 
 contempt even in our own eyes : so that we readily 
 turn from dispiriting realities to such creatures of the 
 imagination as we can fashion according to our liking. 
 But to return. 
 
 The account above given of the situation of the cap- 
 tives refers to those best off. The rest were either em- 
 ployed as galley slaves, or in other hard labours. Among 
 the latter Cervantes was probably numbered, as Haedo 
 mentions that his captivity was one of peculiar hardship. 
 Driven to resistance by his sufferings, Cervantes several 
 times endeavoured to obtain his liberty. His first attempt 
 was made in conjunction with several others, under the ^5^C^ 
 design of reaching Oran (a town of Africa, then in posses- ^*^* 
 sion of Spain,) by land. He and his comrades even 
 contrived to get out of the town of Algiers ; but the 
 Moorish guide whom tboy had engaged deserted them, 
 and they were obliged to return and deliver themselves 
 up to their masters. 
 
 Some of his companions, and among them ensign 
 Gabriel de Castancila, were ransomed in the middle of 
 the year 1570'. Castancda took letters from the captive 
 brotiicrs to their father, Rodrigo Cervantes, describing 
 
 • TopoKTapliia y Historia general do Arijel, rcpartiiln en rinco tratados, 
 di) «e veran ciw>\ cutranrMi, inuerti« e^|mnloa«, y torincntim ex(|Uii«ita», 
 fjiic ronvieiie «• tntirii.iari cii l.i clirifili.iMidail : <(iii imirli.i dortrina y 
 eleganria ruri<»a. I'i)r el Maestro I'ray Diegude Haedo, Abad dc I'uiio- 
 tra. Kul. Vallodutid, 161'^. 
 
 K 3
 
 lot LITERAUY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 tlieir miserable situation. He instantly sold or mort- 
 gap;e(l his little property, and, indeed, every thing he 
 possessed, even to tlie dowry of his daughters, who were 
 not yet married ; the wliole i'aniily being thus reduced 
 to penury. The entire sum, unhappily, did not suffice 
 ] z^??. for the redcnijttion of both brothers. Miguel accord- 
 JEiat, ingly gave up his share to secure the freedom of Rodrigo, 
 '^^' who was set free in August, 1577- He promised at 
 parting to get an armed vessel equipped at Valencia or 
 the Balearic isles, which, touching at a place agreed on, 
 near Algiers, would facilitate the escape of his brother 
 and other captives ; and he carried with him to this 
 effect several letters from men of high birth, now fallen 
 into the miserable condition of slaves, to various persons 
 in power in Spain. 
 
 Meanwhile Cervantes was arranging another j)Ian for 
 escape, nay, he was far advanced in its execution at 
 the time of his brother's departure. The alcayd Hassan, 
 a Greek renegade, possessed a garden three miles from 
 Algiers, close to the sea : in this garden Juan, a slave 
 from Navarre, had contrived to dig a cavern ; and here, 
 under the conduct of Cervantes, a number of runaway cap- 
 tives hid themselves till an opportunity should offer for 
 final evasion. Some of them had taken up their abode in 
 the cave since the month of February, 1577 •' it was dark 
 and damp, but it proved a safe asylum. The numbers 
 ■ increased till they amounted to fifteen. They had only 
 two confidants, both Christians. Juan, the gardener of 
 the alcayd Hassan, who worked near the mouth of the 
 cave, and kept watch for them ; and anotlier, a native of 
 A'illa de Melilla, a small town of Barbary, subject to 
 the king of Spain. He had become a renegade when a boy, 
 and then again turned Christian, and was now captured 
 for the second time. This man, who was commonly 
 surnamed el Dorador, or the Gilder, had it particularly 
 in charge to supply the fugitives with food and necessa- 
 ries, buying them with the money given him, and bring- 
 ing them secretly to the cavern. 
 
 The runaways had now been hidden for seven months : 
 the confinement was irksoma and unhealthy, and they
 
 CERVANTES. 135 
 
 never breathed the free air of heaven except in the dead 
 of night, when they stole out for a short time into the 
 garden. They often incurred., the greatest dangers, — as 
 Haedo says, " what these men suffered in the cavern, and 
 what they said and did, would deserve a particular ac- 
 count." Several fell sick, and all endured incredible hard- 
 ship ; while through all they were supported and encou- 
 raged by the firmness and dauntless courage of Cervantes. 
 In the month of September, an opportunity offered itself, 
 as they hoped, for effecting their ultimate escape. A 
 Mallorcan captive, of the name of Viana, accustomed 
 to the sea, and well acquainted with the coast of Bar- 
 bary, was ransomed ; and the captives of the cave agreed 
 with him that he sliould hire a vessel, either in Mallorca 
 or Spain, and bring it to the neighbourliood of the garden 
 by night, where they could unperceived embark, and 
 sail for their native country. "When this was arranged, 
 Cervantes, who had hitherto thought that he served his 
 friends Ix^st by remaining in Algiers, made his escape and 
 repaired to the cavern, and remained there. 
 
 Viana performed his part with celerity and success. 
 He hired a brigantine at Mallorca, and arrived with it 
 at Algiers on the 28th of September. As had been con- 
 certed, he made, in the middle of the night, for the part 
 of the coast where the garden and the cavern were 
 situated. Most unfortunately, however, at the moment 
 when the prow of the brigantine bore down on shore, 
 several Moors passed l)y, and, perceiving the vessel, 
 and tiiat the crew were Ciiristians, gave the alarm, cry- 
 ing out " Christians ! Ciiristians ! a vessel ! a vessel ! " 
 When those on board licanl tliis they were obliged to 
 put out to sea again, and to give up their attempt for 
 that time. 
 
 Thecajjtives in the cave were, however, undiscovered; 
 and they still put their trust in (iod, and htlieved that 
 Viana as a man of honour, would not fail them ; and 
 though suffering through sickness, confinement, and disap- 
 pointment, they still su])ported themselves with the hope 
 of succeeding at liLst in their attempt. Unfortunately the 
 
 K 4?
 
 136 LITERAKY AM) SCIKNTII'IC MEX. 
 
 Dorador turned traitor. The ill success of Viana's attempt 
 |)i'rliaps niado liini iniap;inc that all would l)e discovered 
 and he be implicated in the dangers of the enterprise, 
 ■while, on the other hand, lie hoped to gain large rewards 
 from the masters of the runaway slaves by giving them 
 up. Two days only after Viana left the coast, he sought 
 an audience with the dey, declared his wish to turn 
 Mahometan, and asked his permission ; while, as a proof 
 of his sincerity, he offered to betray into his hands 
 fifteen Christian captives, who lay concealed in a cavern, 
 expecting a vessel from Mallorca for their deliverance. 
 
 The dey was delighted Avith this account. As a tyrant, 
 he resolved, against all custom and right, to appropriate 
 the runaways to himself; so sending immediately for 
 Bashi, the gaoler of the bagnio, he commanded him to 
 take a guard, and, guided by the renegade, to seize on 
 the Christians hidden in the cave. Bashi did as he was 
 ordered ; and, accompanied by eight mounted Turks and 
 twenty-four on foot, armed, for the most part, with 
 muskets and sabres, he, guided by the traitor, repaired 
 to the garden. The first man they seized on was the gar- 
 dener ; they then made for the cave, and captured all the 
 Christians. 
 
 The traitor Dorador had mentioned Cervantes, whom 
 Haedo names " a distinguished hidalgo of Alcala de 
 Hernares," as the originator and the heart and soul 
 of the whole enterprise. He, therefore, was singled out 
 to be more heavily ironed than the rest ; and when the 
 dey, seizing on the whole number as his own, ordered 
 them to be carried to the bagnio, he detained Cervantes 
 in the palace, and, by entreaties and terrible menaces, 
 tried to induce him to declare the true author of their 
 attempt. His motive in this Avas to implicate, if pos- 
 sible, a friar of the order of mercy, established at Algiers 
 as redeemer of slaves for the kingdom of Aragon, on 
 whom he desired to lay hands for the purpose of extort 
 ing money. ' 
 
 But all his endeavours %verc vain ; and though his 
 merciless disposition gave Cervantes every cause to ap- 
 prehend a cruel death, he, with undaunted firmness.
 
 CERVANTES. 137 
 
 continued to reiterate that the whole enterprise ori- 
 ginated in, and was carried on by, himself, heroically 
 incurring the whole blame, and running the risk of the 
 heaviest punishment. Finding all his endeavours failj 
 the dey sent him also to the prison of the bagnio. 
 
 As soon as these circumstances became known, the 
 former masters of the captives claimed each his slave : 
 the dey resisted where he could ; but he was obliged to 
 give up three or four, and among them Cervantes, 
 who was restored to the Arnaout j\Iami, who had 
 originally captured him. The alcayd Hassan hastened 
 also to the dey to obtain leave to punish the gardener, 
 who was hung with his head downwards, and left 
 to die. Cervantes, meanwhile, returning to his old 
 state of slavery, was by no means disposed to submit to 
 it. Ardent and resolute, his schemes for procuring his 
 liberation were daring in the extreme. JNIany times he 
 reiterated his attempts, and ran risk of being impaled 
 or otherwise put to deatli ; and how he came to be spared 
 cannot 1k' guessed, except that the gallantry of his spirit 
 excited the respect of his masters, and, perhaps, associating 
 the ideas of bravery and resolution with noble birth, it 
 was supposed that in the end he would be ransomed at 
 a high price. 
 
 Soon after Hassan Aga himself purchased him from j^-^cj 
 ATami, either hoping to gain through his ransom, or to iT.tai 
 keep a Ix^tterwatch over his restless attemjjts. At one time ^1. 
 he sent letters through a Moor to don Martin de Cordova, 
 governor of Oran ; but this emissary was taken, and 
 brought with his dcKpatches l)efore the dey. The unfor- 
 tunate man was condemned to be impaled, and Cervantes 
 was sentenced to the bastinado ; but, from some undis- 
 covered influence, his punishment on this occasion, 
 as well as every other, was reuiitted.* 
 
 This ill success did not daunt his courage. In Sep- \r)79 
 temlKT, l.")7f), he formed acquaintance with a Spanish A'am 
 renegade, the licentiate (Jiron, l)()rM at (Jranada, who "'-■ 
 had taken the name of Abd-al-Khamen. This renegade 
 was eager to return to liis native country, and reassume 
 
 • ViardM.
 
 138 MTKRARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 the Christian faith. "VV'itli him Cervantes concerted a 
 new plan of escape : they had recourse to two Valen- 
 cian merchants, estal)lislied at Algiers, — Oiiofrio Kxarch ; 
 and Bathazar de Torres : they assisted in the plot ; 
 and the former contributed l.OOO doubloons for the 
 price of an armed frigate with twelve hanks of oars, 
 which Abd-al-Ithamen bought under the pretence of 
 going on a cruise as corsair. The vessel was ready, 
 and the captives were on the alert to get on board, when 
 they Avere betrayed. Doctor Juan lilanco de Paz, a 
 Dominican monI<, for the sake of a reward, denounced 
 the scheme to the dey. 
 
 Hassan Aga at first dissimulated : his desire was, as 
 in the former instance, though then frustrated, to con- 
 fiscate the slaves to the state, by which means he should 
 become possessed of them ; nevertheless it became 
 known that they were betrayed ; andOnofrio, fearful that 
 if Cervantes were taken, he would be tortured into mak- 
 ing confessions injurious to him; offered to buy him at 
 any price and send him to Spain. Cervantes refused to 
 avoid the common peril. He had escaped from the bag- 
 nio, and was hidden at the house of one of his old mili- 
 tary comrades, the ensign Diego Castillano. The dey 
 made a public proclamation of him, threatening with 
 death any one who afforded him refuge. Cervantes, on 
 this, delivered himself up, having first secured the inter- 
 cession of a Murcian renegade, Morato llaez Matrapillo, 
 who was a favourite with Hassan Aga. The dey de- 
 manded the names of his accomplices of Cervantes, and 
 threatened him with immediate execution if he refused. 
 Cervantes was not to be moved ; he named himself and 
 four Spanish gentlemen already at liberty, but fear of 
 death extracted no other Avord. Despite his cruelty there 
 must have been a touch of better things about Hassan 
 Aga. He was moved by the constancy and fearlessness 
 of his captive : he spared his life, but imprisoned him 
 in a dungeon, where he was kept strictly guarded and 
 chained. The ensign Luis Pedrosa, an ocular witness 
 of his countryman's conduct, exclaims on this, that his
 
 CERVANTES. 1 SQ 
 
 noble conduct deserved " renowrij honour, and a crown 
 among Christians." 
 
 The dey had now become thoroughly frightened. Cer- 
 vantes'slateplots were not limited merely to the attainment 
 of freedom; he aimed at raising the whole captive popula- 
 tion in revolt, and so gaining possession of Algiers for the 
 crown of Spain-. Hassan Aga, in his fear, Avas heard to 
 exclaim, that " he only held his city, fleet, and slaves se- 
 cure, while he kept that maimed Christian in safe custody." 
 
 The courage and heroism of Cervantes excited the 
 respect of the friars of the Order of JNIercy, who 
 resided at Algiers for the purpose of treating for 
 the ransom of the Christian captives. Tliis order had 
 been established as far back as the twelfth century by 
 pope Innocent III. It was originally founded by two 
 French hermits, who, dedicated to a holy life in solitude, 
 believed themselves called upon by God to take more 
 active service in the cause of religion. They repaired 
 to Rome, and were well received by pope Innocent, who 
 saw the benefits that might arise to Christianity from 
 the pious labours of these men. He instituted an order^ 
 therefore, whose members were to dedicate themselves to 
 the liberating of Christian slaves out of the hnnds of 
 the infidels. It was called the order of the most Holy Tri- 
 nity, for the Redemption of Captives. At first its labours 
 were probably most in use to ransom crusaders, taken 
 prisoners in the wars of Palestine. Africa afterwards 
 Ixfcame the scene of their greatest labours and dangers: 
 various members of the order were regularly appointed, 
 and resided in Algiers, for the purpose of carrying 
 on treaties for the ransom of captives in particular. 
 Each kingdom of Spain had its peculiar holy officer, a 
 sort of sjMritual consul, who transacted all tlie affairs of 
 redeiiijjtion and liberation for the unfortunate slaves. 
 
 Cervantes'fi case was peculiar: distinguished among 
 his fellow slaves, the dey paid hini the inconvcniiMt com- 
 pliment of rating his ransom highly, and set the price 
 of 1000 golden crowns on him; api)lication was made 
 in Spain, and it was endeavoured to collect his ransom. 
 His father was now dead, and his mother, donna Leonora.
 
 1 10 MTERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 a widow, coulil only contribute 250 ducats, his sister 50 
 more. This sum was placed in the hands of the friars 
 Juan Gil and Antonio de la Vclla, who arrived in Algiers 
 in Alay, l.OSO, for the purpose of treating for the re- 
 demption of various captives. For a long time they 
 were unable to bring the (ley into any terms with regard 
 to Cervantes : the sum of 1 000 golden ducats was ex- 
 orbitant, yet during several months he refused to take 
 less. At last he received an order from the sultan, 
 which appointed him a successor, and enforced his 
 return to Constantinople. At first he threatened to take 
 Cervantes, whom he kept on board his galley, with him ; 
 and the friars raised their offers to prevent this disaster: 
 at last he agreed to receive 500 golden crowns as his 
 ransom: on the 19th of September, 1580, the bargain 
 was completed. Hassan sailed for Constantinople, and 
 Cervantes was set on shore at Algiers, free to return to 
 Spain.* 
 
 * For the sake of the curious wc append a translation of the rpgistry of 
 Cervaiites's liberation, as toiiiui liy Los Itios in the archiies of the order 
 of mercy, ar.d quoted by him in his "Proofs of the Life." These liocunieiits 
 consist of two registers ; one of the receipt of money for his re(icni|ition , 
 given by the friars Juan Gil, iirociirer-general for the order of the 
 most Holy 'J'rinity and Antonio de la Vella, minister of the monastery of 
 the said order in the city of I'.aeza ; and the second testlHed the payment 
 of the money in Algiers. The first runs thus: — 
 
 " In the said city of Madrid, on the .Jlst of July, of the year 1579. in the 
 presence of me, the notary, and the underwritten witnesse.s. the said 
 fathers, friar Juan (iil and friar Anionicj de la Vella, received .iOO ducats, 
 at eleven rials each ducat, being ii.'id ducats, from the band of doinia 
 Leonora de Cortinas, widow, formerly wife of Kodrigo de Cervantes, and 
 fifty ducats from donna Andrea de Cervantes, inhalntants of AlcaU\, now 
 in this court {l/n's expressKin is alwai/.t ii.icil to signifij itaririd), to con. 
 tribute to the ransom of Miguel de Cervantes, an inhabitant of the said 
 city, son and brother of the above named, who is captive at Algiers in the 
 I)ower of Ali Mami, captain of the vessels of the Meet of the king of 
 Algiers, who is thirty-three years of age, has lost his left hand ; and 
 from them they received two obligations and receipts, and received the 
 said sum before me, the notary, being witnesses, Juan de Ouadros and 
 Juan de la Pefia Corredor, and Juan I'ernandez, residing in this court : 
 in faith of which the said witnesses, friars, and I, the said notary, sifn our 
 names." 
 
 The second register is as follows : — 
 
 " In the city of Algiers, on the 19th of September, liiSO, in presence of 
 me, the said notary, the rev. father friar Ju.ni Gil, the above named re- 
 deemer, ransomed ftliguel de Cervantes, * native of Alcala de Henares, 
 aged thirty-three, son of Rodrigo de Cervantes and of donna Leonora 
 de Cortinas, and an inhabitant of Madrid ; of a middle size, much 
 beard, maimed of the left arm and hand, taken captive in the galley el Sol, 
 bound from Naples to Spain, where he hac! been a long time in the service 
 of H. M. lie was taken 'iOtli September, IS"-'), being in the power of 
 Hassan I'acha, king : his ransom cost ;'00 crowns of gold in Spanish gold ;
 
 CERVANTES. 141 
 
 The first use, however, that he made of his hberty 
 was to refute, in the most determined manner, certain 
 calumnies of which he was the object. The traitor, 
 Juan Blanco de Paz, who falsely pretended to belong to 
 the inquisition, cast on him the accusation of betraying 
 the conspiracy, and of causing the exile of the renegade 
 Giron. The moment that Cervantes was free he en- 
 treated father Juan Gil to examine the whole affair. In 
 consequence, the apostolic notary, Pecho de Ribera, 
 drew out twenty-five questions, and received the 
 depositions of eleven Spanish gentlemen, the most dis- 
 tinguished among the captives, in answer. These ex- 
 aminations, in which all the events of Cervantes's 
 captivity are minutely recounted, give besides the most 
 interesting details concerning his understanding, his 
 character, the purity of his life, and the devoted sacri- 
 fices he made to his companions in misfortune, which 
 gained for him so many friends, 
 
 ^'iardot, who has seen this document, not mentioned 
 by any other author, cites among the depositions that of 
 don Diego de lienavides. Having made inquiries, he 
 says, on his arrival at Algiers concerning the principal 
 Christian captives, Cervantes was mentioned to him as 
 honourable, noble, virtuous, of excellent character, and 
 beloved by all the other gentlemen. Benavides culti- 
 vated his friendship, and he was treated so kindly, that he 
 says, " he found both a father and a mother in him." 
 The carmelite monk, Feliciano Enriquez, declared, that 
 
 because, if not, he was to be urnt to Constantinnplc ; and, thcieforo, on 
 arcoiiiit of this net-cskity, and that this Christian should not be lost in a 
 Mooriih rountiy, V20 crowns were raised amonfc' the traders and the re- 
 maining '2iV) collected from the charities of the redi'm|itioii. Three luin. 
 dred ducati were (fiven in aid ; and they were assisted hy the charity of 
 l-'ranci«co de ( araiiiaiichel, of whom i» the patron lh<> very ilhistrioim 
 Sefior Domingo lie Cardcfias Zapata, of the council of II. M., with fifty 
 doubloons, and by the Keireral charity of the order they were assisted by 
 fifty more ; and the remninder of the Mim, the saiil order eiiKaKcd to re- 
 |>(iy, boinK money l>oloM|.'in({ to other captives, who gave pliilKCs in Spain 
 for their ransom'; and, not beim; at present in AlKiers, they arc not ran- 
 Homed ; and the •ai<l order are under obligation to r<'liirii the money to the 
 |>artle«, the captives not IwiiiK ransomed; and besides were given nine 
 doiibliMins to the olticcrs of the galley of the said king Hassan I'achu, who 
 ■ikcd it u their fees : in faith of which sign their ii.-iincs, Ike
 
 14-2 LITERAllV AND SCIENTIFIC BIION. 
 
 having discovered the falsehood of an accusation made 
 against Cervantes, he, in common witli all the other 
 captives, became his friend; his noble, Christian, up- 
 rigl'.t, and virtuous conduct raising a sort of enmlation 
 among them. Fin:dly, the ensign Luis dc Pedrosa 
 declares, "that of all the gentlemen resident at Algiers, 
 he knew not one who did so much good to their fellow 
 captives as Cervantes, or Avho showed a more rigid 
 observance of the point of honour ; and that in addi- 
 tion, all that he did was adorned with a peculiar grace, 
 through his understanding, prudence, and forethought, 
 in which few ])eople could equal him. 
 
 Such was the natural elevation of Cervantes over his 
 fellow-creatures, when, all being placed on an equality, 
 the qualities of the soul alone produced a difference of 
 rank. It inspires infinite contempt for the arbitrary 
 distinctions of society when we find this prince and 
 leader among his fellows was, when restored to his native 
 country, depressed by poverty and obscured by want ; 
 and when we find no spirit of repining displayed during 
 his after life, though he had dignity of soul to assert his 
 worth, we are impelled to give Cervantes as high a place 
 for moral excellence as his genius has secured for him 
 in the world of intellect. 
 
 1581. Cervantes landed in Spain early the following year. 
 
 ■3Etat. He so often exj)resses the excessive joy imparted by a 
 '^'*- restoration to freedom, that we may believe that his heart 
 beat high with exultation when he set his foot on the 
 shores of his native country. "On earth," he says, 
 " there is no good like regaining lost liberty." Yet he 
 arrived poor, and if not friendless yet his friends were 
 poor also. His mother's purse had been drained to con- 
 tribute to his ransom. As a literary man he was not 
 known, nor, indeed, had he written any thing since he 
 left Spain eleven years before. , He evidently did not at 
 first look upon literature as a resource by which to live. 
 He was still a soldier in heart, and such he became again 
 by profession, though it would seem that his long capti- 
 vity erased the recollection of, and deprived him of all 
 reward for, his past services.
 
 CERVANTES. 1 i3 
 
 At this time Portugal had been recently conquered by 
 the duke of Alva. It was now tranquil, but stiU occu- 
 pied by Spanish troops. This army was in preparation 
 to attack the Azores, which still held out. Rochigo de 
 Cervantes, after his ransom, had re-entered the service. 
 His brother found himself obliged to follow his example. 
 That he had no powerful friend is proved by the cir- 
 cumstance that he again volunteered. Maimed of a 
 hand, in a manner which proved his gallantry, while 
 Algiers still rang with the fame of his intrepidity and 
 daring, poverty in his native country hung like a heavy 
 cloud over him. We must, however, at this period 
 consider that he was not known as the author of Don 
 Quixote, and a man of genius; he had shown himself 
 only as a gallant soldier of fortune. Such he continued 
 to be. He served in three campaigns. In the summer 
 of 1581 he embarked in the squadron of don Pedro 
 \'aldes, who liad orders to make an attempt on the Azores, 
 and to protect the commerce of the Indies. The fol- 1582. 
 lowing year he served under the orders of the marquis -^T^tat. 
 de Santa Cruz, and was in the naval battle which that ^^* 
 admiral gained on the 2.5th of July, within sight of the 
 island of Terceira, over the French fleet, which had tal;en 
 part with the Portuguese insurgents. It is asserted, 
 that beyond a question Cervantes served in the regiment 
 of the camp-major-general, don Lope de Figueroa. This 
 corps was composed of veterans, and was embarked on 
 board the galleon San Mateo, which took a distinguished 
 part in the victory. In tho campaign of 1 5Hf} he and his l.'^83. 
 brother were at the taking of 'i'erceira, which was carried ^^ta'- 
 by assault. Ilodrigo distinguished himself greatly on •'^• 
 this occasion, and was one of the first to spring on 
 shore; for which, on the return of the fleet, he was pro- 
 moted to the rank of ensign. 
 
 It is characteristic of Spanish manners that, although 
 only serving in the ranks, Cervantes mingled in the so- 
 ciety of the nobles of Tortugul. He was an hidalgo and, 
 as such, freely admitted to the circles of the well born, 
 despite his poverty. He was engaged in a love affair at
 
 144 LITERARY AN1> SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 Lisbon : the name of the lady is not known : it seems 
 likely, from attendant circumstances, that she was not 
 possessed of either rank or fortune. She ])ore him a 
 daughter, whom he named donna Isabel de Saavedra, 
 and brought up ; and she remained with him even after 
 his marriage till she took vows in a convent in IMadrid, 
 but a short time before her father's death. lie never 
 had another child. 
 
 In the year I.'584 Cervantes appeared as an author. 
 He seems to have written rather under the excite- 
 ment of his natural genius, which impelled him to 
 composition, than under the idea of earning a liveli- 
 hood by his pen. The most popular works then in 
 Spain were the " Diana" of Montemayor, and the continu- 
 ation of the same work by Gil Polo. This last was a par- 
 ticular ftivourite of Cervantes. In the scrutiny made by 
 the curate of Don Quixote's library, he thus speaks of 
 these books : — "I am of opinion that we do not burn 
 the ' Diana ' of Montemayor ; let us only erase from it 
 all the part that concerns the wise Felicia and the en- 
 chanted water, and almost all the poetry written in versos 
 mayores, and let the prose remain, and the honour it 
 enjoys of being the first of these species of books. As 
 to the continuation by Gil Polo,take care of it as if Apollo 
 himself were the author. Of his own 'Galatea,' he makes 
 the curate say, " Cervantes has for many years been 
 my intimate friend, and I know he has more experience 
 in disasters than good fortune. There is the merit of 
 Invention in his book : he proposes something but con- 
 cludes nothing ; and we must wait for the second part, 
 which he promises, when I hope he will merit the entire 
 pardon which is as yet denied." 
 
 AV'hen pastorals were the fashion, there was some- 
 thing very attractive in the composition of them to a 
 poetic mind. The author, if he were in love, could so 
 easily turn himself into a shepherd, musing on his 
 passion on the banks of rivulets, and all the lets and 
 hindrances to his happiness he could transform into 
 pastoral incidents. Montemayor and Gil Polo had
 
 CERVANTES. 1 45 
 
 acknowledgedly done this before, and it was but in good 
 costume to imitate their example. We are told that, at 
 the time of writing this work, Cervantes was already 
 deeply in love with the lady whom he afterwards mar 
 ried. She figured as the lovely shepherdess Galatea. 
 Lope de Vega asserts that Cervantes introduced him- 
 self as Elisio, the hero of his work. V'iardot says, " It 
 cannot be doubted but that the other shepherds intro- 
 duced in the romance as Tirsis, Damon, Mehsa, Siralvo, 
 Lauso, Larsileo, Artidoro, are intended for Francisco de 
 Figueroa, Pedro Lainez, don Diego Hurtado de ^len- 
 doza, Luis Galvez de Montalvo, Luis Barahona de 
 Soto, don Alonzo de Ercilla, Andres Rey de Artieda. 
 These names all figure in the Spanish Parnassus, and 
 it may be that they are introduced, but we have no 
 proof. That the allusions made both to himself and 
 his friends are very vague, is proved by the fact that 
 Los Ilios declares that Damon was the name of the 
 shepherd figuring Cervantes, and Amarilis that of his 
 lady-love. Of the pastoral itself we shall mention more 
 when we come to speak of all Cervantes's works ; suf- 
 fice it now to say, that the purity of its style, and the ease 
 of invention, must at once have raised Cervantes in the 
 eyes of his friends to the rank of a writer of merit. 
 
 It certainly gained him favour in the eyes of the 
 lady. Scon after the ])u])lication of the "Galatea" she 
 consented to Ijecome his wife. On the 8th December, 
 1.'584, Cervantes accordingly married, at Esquivias, 
 donna Catilina de Palacios y Salazar. Her family, though 
 impoverished, was one of the most noble of that town. 
 She had lieen brouglit up in the house of her uiule, don 
 Francisco de Salazar, who left her a legacy in his will, 
 or which reason she assmncd liis name in ronjiinction 
 with her own ; for it was tlie custoni in tliose days for jier- 
 sons to call themselves after one to wh( m they owed the 
 obligation of education and subsistence. Tlic father of 
 donna Catalina was dead, and the widow promised, when 
 her daughter was affianced, to give her a moderate dower. 
 This was done two years afterwards ; the contract of 
 
 VOU III. h
 
 146' LITKUAIIY AND SCIRNTIFIC MEN. 
 
 marriage bearing date of August yth, 1586'. This por- 
 tion we find to consist of a few vineyards, a garden, an 
 ordiard, several beehives, a hencoop, and some house- 
 hold furniture, amounting in value to 18!2,()()0 mara- 
 vedis, or about 5'3()0 reals, being, in English money, 
 about ()'()/. This property was settled on donna Cata- 
 lina, the management of it only remaining with her 
 husband, who also settled on her 100 ducats, which are 
 stated as the tenth of his property. 
 
 On his marriage, (jervantes took up his abode at Es- 
 quivias, probably from some motive of economy. Still 
 feeling within him the innate assurance of genius, and 
 the laudable desire of distinction which that feeling 
 engenders, he dwelt on the idea of becoming an author. 
 Esquivias is so near Madrid that he could pay frequent 
 visits to the capital ; and he cultivated the acquaintance 
 of the authors of that day, and in particular of Vicente 
 Espinel, one of the most charming romance writers of 
 Spain. A noble of the court had instituted a sort of 
 literary academy at his house, and it is conjectured that 
 Cervantes was chosen a member. 
 
 At this time he wrote for the theatre. There was 
 ever a lurking love for the drama in Spain. In his 
 youth Cervantes had frequented the representations of 
 Lope de Rueda, previously mentioned in this work, and 
 he felt impelled to contribute to the drama. lie saw 
 the defects of the plays in vogue, which were rather 
 dialogues than dramatic compositions. He saw the 
 miserable state of the stage and scenery. He endea- 
 voured to rectify these deficiencies, and in some mea- 
 sure succeeded. " I must trespass on my modesty," 
 he says, in one of his prefaces, " to relate the perfec- 
 tion to which these things were brought when ' The Cap- 
 tives of Algiers,' ' Numantia,' and ' The Naval Battle,' 
 dramas written by me, were represented at the theatre 
 of Madrid. 1 then ventured to reduce the five acts, into 
 which plays were before divided, into three. I was the 
 first who personified imagin;>ry phantoms and the 
 secret thoughts of the soul, bringing allegorical person-
 
 CERVANTES. 1 47 
 
 ages on the stage, with the universal applause of the 
 audience. I wrote at that time some twenty or thirty 
 plays, which were all performed without the public 
 throwing pmupkins, or oranges, or any of those things 
 which spectators are apt to cast at the heads of bad actors: 
 my plays were acted without hissing, confusion, or 
 clamour." 
 
 Of the plays which Cervantes mentions, two 
 only exist — " Numantia" and ''Life in Algiers." They 
 are very inartificial in their plots, and totally unlike 
 the busy pieces of intrigue soon after introduced ; 
 but the first, in particular, has great merit, as will be 
 mentioned hereafter. Still, his plays did not bring such 
 profit as to render him independent. He was now forty : 
 he had run through a variety of adventures, and re- 
 mained unrewarded for his services, and unprotected by 
 a patron. He was married ; and, though he had no 
 children by his wife, he maintained in his house his 
 two sisters and his natural daughter : despite his vine- 
 yard, his orchard, and his hencoop, — despite also his 
 theatrical successes — he felt himself straitened in cir- 
 cumstances. At this time, Antonio de Guevara, coun-1588. 
 cillor of finance, was named purveyor to the Indian -^T^tat, 
 squadrons and fleets at Seville, with the right of naming "*'• 
 as his assistants four commissaries. He was now em- 
 ployed in fitting out the Invincible Armada. He offered 
 the situation of commissary to Cervantes, who accepted 
 it, and set out for Seville with his wife and daughter, 
 and two sisters.* 
 
 Cervantes lived for many years at Seville fulfilling 
 
 • It i( URually »airl, and Viardot rcpeaU it, that t'orvanfi'S was driven 
 from Ilia thi-atncal l.iboiira by llic ^uccl•»« of Liipe dc \'i"t,M. I'liis is not 
 llif fact, l/pe nailed with tile Iiiviiieiblc Arriiaila, and it was not until 
 lii« return that he be^ari hi-, ilraiiiatie career. 'I'he tact seems simply to 
 have been that Cervantes, feilioK the animation of xeiiius within liiin, yet 
 not haviiiK dueovi red it. |>rii|.er exiire-sion, was, to a cerlain degree, siic- 
 ce«»rul a« a ilramat st, thoiiKli he could m.t ori)iiiiale a si vie which slioujd 
 fCive new life to the iniKleni uraina : thus his |jain» were moderate, and he 
 found himsell un.ible to support those depeiulant on hiin. 'I'he place of 
 comini'tary olTered itself to re»i iie him from this state of poverty. After- 
 wards, when Ix.pe |je«.iii his career, Cervaiiles foiind indeed, Ih^it, he fillwl 
 til.- pill. lie I-JC-, and hail hit it. taste ; an. I th.it Ins dram,i«, wllh their j.june 
 plot* and uniiiterwoven intidenls, however, adorned by poetry and the 
 inajrity of iiauiun, were thrown anidc and forgultcn. 
 
 L 2
 
 148 LITERARY AND SClENilKIC WEN. 
 
 1591. *^^^ duties of his employment. He served at first for 
 MtaX. ten years under (Juovara, and then for two more under 
 44. his successor, IViho de Isunza. That he was not con- 
 1593. tented with the situation, and that it was an insignifi- 
 ^'"^ cant one, is i)roved by his having soUcited the king to 
 .' give him tin- place of paymaster in New Granada, or of 
 correfxidor in the small town of Goetemala. His request 
 bears the date of May, 1 590. It was refused fortunately; 
 yet his funds and his hopes, also, must have been low 
 to make him turn his eyes towards the Indies; for, 
 speaking of such a design in one of his tales, he says of a 
 certain hidalgo that, " finding himself at Seville without 
 money or friends, he had recourse to the remedy to which 
 so many ruined men in that city run, which is going to 
 the Indies — the refuge and shelter of all Spaniards of 
 desperate fortimes, the common deceiver of many, the 
 individual remedy of few." At length the purveyor- 
 ship being suppressed, his office was also abolished, and 
 he became agent to various municipalities, corporations, 
 and wealthy individuals : among the rest, he managed 
 the affairs, and became the friend, of don Hernando de 
 Toledo, a noble of Cigah's. 
 
 We have little trace of how he exercised his pen 
 during this interval. The house of the celebrated painter 
 Francisco Pacheco, master and father-in-law of Velas- 
 quez, was then frequented by all the men of education 
 in Seville : the painter was also a poet, and Rodrigo 
 Caro mentions that his house was an academy resorted 
 to by all the literati of the town, Cervantes was num- 
 bered among them ; and his portrait is found among 
 the pictures of more than a hundred distinguished 
 persons, painted and brought together by this artist. The 
 poet Jauregui, who also cultivated painting, painted his 
 portrait, and was numbered among his friends. Here 
 Cervantes became the friend of Herrera, who spent his 
 life in Seville, sccluikd from the busy world, but vene- 
 rated and admired by his friends. Cervantes, in after 
 days, wrote a sonnet to his memory, and mentions him 
 with fond praise in his " Voyage to Parnassus." Viardot
 
 CERVANTES. 1 49 
 
 assures us, that it was during his residence at Seville 
 that Cervantes wrote most of his tales. This appears 
 probable. Certainly he did not lose the habit of com- 
 position. Much of the material of these stories was 
 furnished him by incidents that actually occurred in 
 Seville ; and when we see the mastery of invention and 
 language he had acquired when he wrote " Don Quixote/' 
 we may believe that these tales occupied his pen when 
 apparently, in a literary sense, idle. 
 
 It seems that, at Seville, and during his distasteful 
 employments there, he acquired that bitter view of 
 human affairs displayed in " Don Quixote." Yet it is 
 wrong to call it bitter. Even when his hopes were 
 crushed and blighted, a noble enthusiasm survived 
 disappointment and ill-treatment ; and, though he 
 looks sadly, and with somewhat of causticity on human 
 life, still no one can mistake the generous and lofty as- 
 pirations of his injured spirit throughout. We have 
 two sonnets of his, written at Seville, which justify the 
 idea, however, that there was something in this city (as 
 is usually the case with provincial towns), that peculiarly 
 excited his spirit of sarcasm. The first of these sonnets 
 was written in ridicule of seme recruits gatbered toge- 
 ther by a captain IJercerra to join the forces tent under 
 the duke of Medina, to repel the disembarcation of the 
 earl of Essex, who hovered near Cadiz with his fleet. 
 
 'I'he second is more known. On the death of 
 Philip II. in 1.598, a magnificent catafalque was 
 erected in the cathedral of Seville, •' the most won- 
 derful funereal moimment," says a narrator of the 
 ceremony, " which human eyes ever had the happiness 
 of seeing." All Seville was in ecstasy, the catafalque was 
 superb ; it did honour to Spain ; and they built the ca- 
 tafai<|ue: could provincial town have better cause to strut 
 and boast.''* The Andaiusians, also, are addicted to gasco- 
 
 • Thi« monumpnt rxritrd attention in thcrnpilal — I.<ipc(lc Vega in liiiirn- 
 mnly dI " 1^ K^-lava dc »u (;iilan," " l'lif»lave of licr I^)vcr" ninkc'- a lady 
 linnif III orcat rftircmont m thii roiintry, nay, " I visitrd Scvillr liiit Iwiic: 
 ■ iiiri- to •(■<■ the kiiiK. wlimn hr.ivi-n giianl I and a RiToiid tiino tii ic'i' ihu 
 wo'idroiu edilicc of the monumriit ; p.o that I wan only to lie leni|ited out 
 bjrthc grandrnt nblcrt* which heaven nr earth coiitaini " 
 
 L 3
 
 I.^O MTKRARY ANO SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 nadinp;, and (Cervantes could not resist the temptation of 
 ridiculing both the monument and its vaunting erectors. 
 In his " Voyage to Parnassus," Cervantes calls this sonnet 
 " the chief honour of his writings." After such an an- 
 nouncement it is hold to attempt a translation. This 
 sort of witty burlesque can never he transfused into 
 another language , for its point consists rather in asso- 
 ciation of ideas, which only those on the spot can enter 
 into, than, in witty allusions common to all the world. 
 The conclusion of the epigram is to this day the delight 
 of the Spaniards, who all know it by heart. The species 
 of sonnet is named an E.stramhote, having three verses 
 more than the proper fourteen. The following trans- 
 lation being tolerably literal, may serve to satisfy the 
 curiosity of the English reader, though it cannot do 
 justice to the composition itself. For the sake of the 
 Spanish one, the original is inserted underneath. 
 
 TO THE MONUMEXT OF THE KING AT SEVILLE. 
 
 " I vow to Ood, I (luake with my surprise! 
 Could I (loscribe it, I would give a crown — 
 And who, ll..-jt f;,izi',s on it in the- town. 
 But stands aglia't to see its wood rous size: 
 y.;\c\\ part a million (•f>st, I should di'vise; 
 ■\Vhat pity 't is, ere cftiturics have flown, 
 Old rime will morcikssly cist it down ! 
 'i'hou rival'st Home, O .Seville, in my eyes! 
 I bet, the soul of him who 's dead and l)Iest, 
 To dwell within this stnnptuous monument, 
 }Ias left the seats of sempiternal rest !" 
 A lellow tall, on deeds of valour l)ent, 
 My e\clamation heard, " Hravo!" he oied, 
 "Sir Soldier, what you say is true, I vow. 
 And he who says the eontrary has lie<l ! " 
 With that, he pulls his hat upon his brow. 
 Upon his sword's hill he his hand does lay. 
 And frowns — and — nothing does, but wallcs away* 
 
 The financial occupations of Cervantes at Seville were 
 full of various annoyances ; and it seems to have been his 
 destiny at all times, to find his life beset with various 
 forms of adversity. He was accused of malversation in 
 the employment of monies entrusted to him. His po- 
 verty was his best defence, but it required other cir- 
 
 • " AL TUIVIULO DEL KEY EN SEVILLA. 
 
 ' Voto 'a Dios que me e^panta esta grandcza, 
 y que diura ua doblou por Uescribilla,
 
 CERVANTES. 151 
 
 cumstances to prove his innocence, and his honest heart 
 and lofty soul must have been tortured by all the detail 
 of accusation and defence. Viardot has, by examining 
 the archives of Valladolid, Seville, and Madrid, found 
 traces of various circumstances, which he details. 
 In themselves some of them scarcely deserve record, ex- 
 cept as happening to Cervantes, and showing how like 
 the equally unfortunate but more imprudent Burns, he 
 was occupied by transactions antipathetic to his tastes 
 and vocation. The first circumstance recorded by 
 Viardot is indeed a mere mercantile casualty, full of an- 
 noyance at the time, but whose effects even to the suf- 
 ferer, vanishes like footsteps in the sand, when the next 
 tide flows. 
 
 Towards the end of 1.594., while he was settling at 
 Seville the accounts of his commissariat, and calling in 
 with much difficulty several sums in arrear, he forwarded 
 the receipts to the contndiirUi nirii/or of Madrid, in bills 
 of exchange drawn upon Seville. One of these si.ms, 
 arising from the taxation of the district of Velez-Malaga, 
 amounting to 74(10 rials, (little more than 70/.) was in- 
 trusted by him in specie to a merchant of Seville named 
 Simon Freire de Lima, who undertook to pay it into the 
 treasury at Madrid. It was not paid, and Cervantes was 
 forced to make a journey to the capital to demand from 
 Friere the sum in question ; but this man meanwhile be- 
 came bankrupt, and had fled from Spain. Cervantes hast- 
 ened back to Seville, and found the pro])crty of his debtor 
 seized on by other creditors. He atldressed a request 
 
 portiiic i ft qiiicn no suRponrlp y maravilla 
 fsia in;icniiiia iii>i(;iic, csta Ijravcza ? 
 I'cir Jf»u I hricti) nIvo, i-ada piiza 
 valf mas que uii iiiillnii, <|iic <•» nianrilla 
 
 ?iic eito no (liiru iiii »iKl'i. — <' (fran Sevilla; 
 Ininn triiinfante en aiiimii y ri(iui'za. 
 Ai>'>"tari' i|ii(' el anima ilcl iiiiiiTlo, 
 por (jozar i-.to nitir), lii>y ha ilcxado 
 C'l ChIk (IcJiiie K"'a itiTiianii'ntc !' 
 J':»lo oyo iin \Hli'iilmi. y rlixo : ' !•> cicrto 
 lo que ilice voarc, bi or nrililadn, 
 
 V (luicn clixiTf lo contrario mientc' 
 
 V liii'ifo P!i rontinfiitP 
 
 Calii el < ha|HMi, rci|Uitio la <'«|iacla, 
 iiuro at M>»la\(), foiiic, y no liiibo nada." 
 
 I- 'I-
 
 152 LITERATIY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 to the kinji, and a docreo was ])vi1)Us1k'(1 on the 7th of 
 August l.")J),'j, ordering doctor Jicruardo de Ohnedilla, 
 judge of ton Gradns at Seville, to take hy privilege on- 
 the goods of Friere, the sum intrusted to him by 
 Cervantes. This was done, and the money was sent 
 by the judge to the general treasurer, don Pedro 
 Mesia de Tobar, in a bill of exchange drawn on the 
 22d of November 1 r)<)(). 
 
 The next anecdote is of more interest, and displays 
 the style in which justice was carried on in Spain. 
 Cervantes wrote from his heart and from bitter experi- 
 ence, when he introduces, in one of his tales, the arrival 
 of a corregidor at an inn ; and says, " The inn- 
 keeper and his wife were both frightened to death, for 
 as when comets appear they always engender fear of 
 disaster, so when the officers of justice enter a house of 
 a sudden and unexpectedly, they alarm and agitate the 
 consciences even of the innocent." It appears that at 
 this time the tribunal of the contudurm examined the 
 treasury accounts with the greatest severity, emptied as 
 it had been by the various wars which had been carried 
 1597. on, and by financial experiments which had failed. The 
 ^tat. inspector- general, of whom Cervantes was merely the 
 , 50. agent, was sent for to Madrid to give in his accounts. He 
 represented that the documents which served as vouchers 
 •were at Seville in the hands of Cervantes ; upon this, 
 without other form of trial, a royal order was sent to arrest 
 him, and to send him under escort to the prison of the 
 capital, where he was to be disposed of as the tribunal 
 of accounts saw lit. Cervantes was accordingly thrown 
 in prison. The deficit of which he was accused 
 amounted only to 2()44- rials, not quite 301. He 
 offered security for this sum, and was set at liberty, 
 on condition that in thirty days he should appear 
 before the contadu)-iu, a.nd liquidate his accounts. In all 
 this, it is evident that no real accusation was levelled 
 against Cervantes, and that it was only the clumsy and 
 arbitrary proceedings of Spanish law that occasioned his 
 imprisonment.
 
 CERVANTES. 153 
 
 Some years after the claim of the treasury was 
 revived; the inspector of Baza, Caspar Osorio de 
 Tejada, sent in his accounts, at the end of l602 ; these 1602. 
 included an acknowledgment from Cervantes, proving, iKtat. 
 that that sum had been received by him in 1594, when ^^• 
 he was commissioned to recover claims in arrear on that 
 town and district. Having consulted on this point, the 
 judges of the court of the treasury made a report, dated 
 Vailadolid, January the 2 kh, l603, in which they gave 
 an account of the arrest of Cervantes in 1597 for this 
 same sum, and his conditional enlargement, adding that 
 since then he had not appeared before them. It ap- 
 pears that in this very year, iGO'J, Cervantes removed i60S. 
 with his family to Vailadolid, where Philip III. resided ^Etat. 
 with his court. There is no trace, however, of any ^^^ 
 proceedings against him ; and it is evident that there was 
 proof of his honesty sufficient to satisfy the officers of 
 the treasury ; and his honour in this and every other 
 transaction stands clear. His poverty was the great and 
 clinging evil of his life. Many housekeeping accounts, 
 and notes, and bills, have been discovered at Vailadolid, 
 proving the distress which he and his family suffered. 
 In IfiO.S there is a memorandum showing that his sister, 
 ilonna Andrea, was engaged in superintending the house- 
 hold and wardrolx- of a don I'edro de Toledo Osorio, 
 marquis of N'illafranca, lately returned from an expe- 
 dition to Algiers. 
 
 All these dates and papers seem to cast a gleam of 
 light upon the history of Cervantes ; yet after all they but 
 render the "darkness visible," and these tiny lights 
 becoming extinguished, we grope blinder than ever. It 
 is gencnilly supposi-d that Cervantes left Seville at the 
 time of the death of I'hilip II. {\. ',()()). U'e Hnd that 
 he was at Vailadolid in ifiO.'i, but both before and after 
 this (late it would appear that he resided in the province 
 of La Manrha. His perfect knowledge of that country, 
 his familiarity with its peculiarities, the lakes of Iluydera, 
 the cave of Motesinos, the position of the fulling mills, 
 and other places mentioned in " Don Quixote," shows an
 
 IT)!' LITKIIAIIV AND 8<TKNTIFIC MKN. 
 
 intimate knowledge of tlie face of the conntry, to be 
 gained only by a residence. The common conjecture 
 is that he resided for several years in La iMancha, 
 where he had several relations, acting; as agent for various 
 persons, and executing such commissionsaswere intru'-ted 
 to him, and which brought in some small income. Hut 
 adversity followed him here also, and again he became 
 an inmate of a prison; wherefore cannot he discovered. 
 'I'he i)eople of La Mancha were singularly quarrelsome. 
 About this time they entered on lawsuits and contentions 
 one with another, concerning some silly rights of pre- 
 cedence, which they ])ursued with such acrimony and 
 vehemence, that the population of the province became 
 diminished. 
 
 'I'o some such litigious proceeding Cervantes was pro- 
 bably the victim. It has been said that this dis<aster 
 happened at Toboso, on account of a sarcasm he had 
 uttered against a woman, and that her relations thus 
 avenged her. The common and the probable notion, 
 however, is that tlie inhabitants of the village of Arga- 
 masilla de Alba threw him into prison, being incensed 
 against him, either because he claimed the arreirs of 
 tithes due to the grand prior of San Juan, or because 
 he interfered with their system of irrigation, by turning 
 aside a portion of the waters of the (iuadiana, for the 
 purpose of preparing saltpetre. To this day they show 
 in Argamasilla de Alba an old house called Casa de 
 Medrano, which immemorial tradition declares to have 
 been the prison of Cervantes. It seems likely that he 
 was confined for some time ; and he was forced to have 
 recourse to his uncle don Juan Barnabe de Saavedra, a 
 citizen of Alcazar de San Juan, asking for protection and 
 assistance. VVe are told that the expressions of a letter 
 written by Cervantes to this uncle are remembered, and 
 that it began with these words : " Long days and short 
 but sleepless nights wear me out in this prison, or rather 
 let me call it cavern." In record of his ill-treatment here, 
 he at the same time placed the residence of Don Quixote, 
 in Argamasilla de Alba and refrained from mentioning
 
 CERVANTES. 1 55 
 
 the name, saying, " In a village of La Mancha, whose 
 name I do not wish to recollect." 
 
 It is impossible here not to remember the beautiful 
 image of lord Bacon, that calamity acts on the high- 
 minded as the crushing of perfumes, pressing the in- 
 nate virtue out of each : for in this prison Cervantes 
 wrote "Don Quixote." AVhen we consider the ill-fortune 
 that pursued him — his military career, Avhich left him 
 maimed and unrewarded — his captivity in Algiers, 
 where he exerted a spirit of resistance sublime in its 
 fearlessness and its risks, and whence he returned a 
 beggar — his life spent as a sort of clerk where he 
 gained his scanty daily bread, at the mercy of the 
 arbitrary and litigious ministers of Spanish justice — 
 and that he endured all the distresses incident to 
 straitened means and friendlessness ; when we consi- 
 der that the end of all was to throw him into a 
 squalid prison in an ol)scure village, where he must 
 have felt all hopes, not only of tdvancement, but of 
 attaining the means of existence, fail him — where in 
 a dreary cavern-like chamber he passed long days and 
 sleepless nights, weary and worn out : — when we 
 think that he was now fifty-six years of age, a period 
 when the fire of life burns dim — and then, when we 
 compare all these sad de])ressing circumstances with 
 the very outset of "Don Quixote," we feel that there 
 must have been something divine in the spirit of this 
 man, which could place a soul within the ribs of 
 death, and vivify darkness and suffering with so ani- 
 mated a creation. 
 
 lie himself speaks more modestly. " ^Vhat," he 
 says, ill his preface to "Don Quixote," "could' my bar- 
 ren anfl uncultivated understanding engender except 
 the history of an ofl^sjiring, dry, tough, and whimsi- 
 cal, and full of various fancies which had never en- 
 tered the imagination of another ? — like one born in 
 prison, where every discomfort dwells, and every odious 
 sound has birth." 
 
 ^\'itll this we turn to the book itself, and it seems to
 
 15() LITKUAnY ANP SCIRNTIFIC MEN. 
 
 US that if Cervantes had never written more than the 
 first chapter, his genius and originality had heen ac- 
 knowledged by all There is so much life, such minute 
 yet clear and characteristic painting — such an outset, 
 promising so nnich, and in itself jierforming so much — 
 that, but for its wisdom, it seems written by a man 
 who had never known a check nor care. He must have 
 felt happy while he wrote it ; though the excitement 
 of composition brings with it a reaction which, more 
 than any other exercise of the brain, demands amuse- 
 ment and chancre. To turn exhausted from the written 
 page, and find solitude and a dungeon walls about him, 
 might well make him feel that imagination sterile, Avhich 
 was indeed exhausted by the very fertility and beauty of 
 its creations. 
 Ifi04. In 1()04, Cervantes returned to what in Spain is 
 ^l£tat. called the court, that is, the town in which the monarch 
 resided. He had left it thirteen years before, in hopes 
 of earning a subsistence by the employment offered him. 
 He had lived in poverty, and experienced a variety of 
 disasters. During this period he had never thought of ob- 
 taining an income through authorship. Now he had with 
 liim that which in truth has proved to be his passport to 
 immortality, and the admiration of the world. We 
 may believe that an innate sense of the merit of his 
 work led him to consider that he was not too sanguine 
 in hoping thence to derive such profit and reputation 
 as would rescue him from the distresses to which he 
 had hitherto been the victim. But from first to last, in 
 a worldly view, Cervantes was born to disappointment. 
 His first attempt was to introduce himself to the notice 
 of the duke of Lerma, the " Atlas of the monarchy," as 
 he calls him. The haughty favourite received him 
 with disdain ; and Cervantes, not less proud, renounced 
 at once the humiliating task of seeking his favour. 
 
 His best and immediate resource was to print his 
 book. But not only the fashion of the times demanded 
 that It should be introduced under the nominal patron- 
 age of some great man, but the very title and nature of
 
 CERVANTES. 157 
 
 "Don Qiiixote" rendered it necessary that in some way 
 the public shoul 1 from the outset be prepossessed in 
 its favour, and let into the secret of its intentions. 
 Cervantes applied to don Alonzo Lopez de Zuniga y 
 Sotomayor, seventh duke of Bejar, a man who with 
 literary pretensions himself, was pleased to arrogate the 
 reputation of a patron of genius. A story is told, that 
 the duke, understanding either that the work in ques- 
 tion was a romance of chivalry, or that it was a bur- 
 lesque, thought in either case his dignity compromised 
 by its being introduced under the patronage of his 
 name, and refused the author's request. Cervantes, in 
 reply, only begged permission to read a chapterof his work 
 to him ; this was granted : the first chapter is enough 
 indeed to awaken curiosity, to engage interest, and 
 promise a rich harvest of amusement. The duke and his 
 friends were so delighted, that they asked for another, 
 and another chapter, till the whole book was read ; and 
 the duke, giving up his prepossession, gladly yielded 
 his consent to be in a manner immortalised, by having 
 his name inscribed on the first page of the work. It is 
 added, that a morose priest, who was religious director 
 of the duke, was shocked at the immorality of the work, 
 and bitterly censured both it and its author. He, they 
 say, was the original of the priest, at the duke and 
 duchess's table in the second jjart, wliom Cervantes 
 takes to task for his impertinent interference. \V'hat- 
 ever truth there be in this story, and whether influenced 
 by this ecclesiastic, or the worldly feeling that hardens 
 the hearts of the prosperous against those who really 
 need assistance, certaiidy the duke was no generous 
 patron. Cervantes never dedicated another work to 
 him, nor makes allusion, and he was ready enough to 
 do so, when merited, to any kindness received from him. 
 
 Tradition preserves the story, that even when pub- 1^05. 
 lisheil, " Don (^uixoU'" met with no popularity, and was ■^^•• 
 liailed with no glad welcome. The author was obscure 
 — he had written nothing previously that h;ul won the 
 public ear, and so opened the way to success : the very
 
 158 mti:rary and scientific mkn. 
 
 title of tlie book excited the censure and ridicule of 
 common critics. It was in danger of becoming a 
 dead letter. Cervantes perceived that his readers did 
 not understand the scope of the book ; but he felt its 
 merits, and was sure that if once the public were incited 
 to read, its general popularity must ensue. To allure 
 attention therefore, and awaken curiosity, it is said that 
 he published an anonymous pamphlet, which he called 
 the " liuscapie,' (a name given to those little fusees or 
 serpents, thrown forward in military operations to give 
 light to a night mark), which affected to criticise his 
 book, and insinuated, at the same time, that it was a 
 covert and fine satire on several well known persons ; 
 at the same time, not mentioning who or what these 
 personages w^ere. 
 
 'I'he existence of the " Buscapie " has been disputed, 
 as well as that Cervantes was its author. Tradition as- 
 serted it, and brought its weighty testimony; but in 
 addition to this, Los Rios brings forward a letter of a 
 friend of his, don Antonio Iluidiaz, who saw and read the 
 pamphlet, and gives the following account of it*: — "I 
 saw the 'Buscapie' in the house of the late count de 
 Saceda about sixteen years ago, and 1 read it in the 
 short space of time for which that learned gentleman 
 lent it me ; to whom also it had been lent, by I know not 
 who, for a few days only. It was an anonymous 
 pamphlet, in duodecimo, printed in this court, (^cn esta 
 Corte — Madrid 60 called while the king made residence 
 the?'e,) with that title only. I do not remember the 
 date of the year, nor the printer's name : it contained 
 about six sheets — good print, but bad paper. I will 
 mention what my imperfect memory retains of its 
 contents. 
 
 '■' The author begins by mentioning, or feigning, that 
 a book had been publislied some time ago, entitled, ' Don 
 Quixote de la Mancha,' but that for some time he had 
 felt no inclination to read it, conceiving that it was 
 only one of the romances of the day, or that its author 
 
 • Los Uios — I'ruebasde la Vida,
 
 CERVANTES. 159 
 
 had not talent sufficient to produce a work of any 
 excellence. For this reason, he, like most others, I'elt no 
 desire to read it ; till at last, influenced by mere curi- 
 osity, he bought it, and having read it once, he felt 
 ini[)elled to read it aiain with more pleasure and atten- 
 tion ; and then he became convinced that it was one of 
 the cleverest books that had seen light, and a satire full of 
 information and amusement, and written with the great- 
 est dexterity and cleverness, for the pu: pose of dispelling 
 the enthusiasm which the nation in general, and princi- 
 pally the nobles, felt for works of chivalry; and that 
 the persons introduced were merely imaginary, brought 
 in only for the sake of indicating those whose heads 
 were thus turned. Nevertheless, it was not so entirely 
 imaginary, but that an allusion might be perceived to 
 the character and chivalrous actions of a certain cham- 
 pion, a favourite of fame, and of other paladins who 
 had sought to imitate him, as well as other persons who 
 had charge of the government of a most extensive 
 and wea thy region of former times. The author 
 went on to compare the incidents ; and, although he art- 
 fully disguises some, he nevertheless plainly showed 
 that he had in view the enterprises and gallantry of 
 ('harles V., as most of the points apply to this hero, 
 though so veiled, both with regard to him and other 
 persons, that it is impossil.le to point them out. At 
 length he concluded, by saying, that to compensate to 
 the author for the injury he had done him in the first 
 instance, and to undeceive the prepossession of others, 
 and that they might (hscover the treasure hid under 
 that title, he had resolved to publish the " liuscapit'," 
 which might excite theattention of the unoccupied (which 
 was almost all Spain), an<l entice them to take the book 
 in hand and read it, well persuaded that whoever once 
 cast his eyes on it, would ajiprcciate at its just value 
 that which they had before despised." 
 
 Whether this story betruc, and whether " F)(in(^iiixote" 
 owed its first celebrity to the " IJuseapi' ,' we will not 
 decide; though I own 1 am leil to reject it as un-
 
 l60 LITKUARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 worthy. Cervantes makes no allusion to it in his 
 after works ; aiul it seems more probable that it was 
 written by some friend or disciple, than by himself. 
 It is said that the trick succeeded : at any rate, the 
 book at first excited no attention, and then, suddenly 
 coming into vogue, it was devoured with insatiable 
 •curiosity. Four editions were published in Spain in 
 one year, and its fame became spread to all neighbouring 
 countries, and in no long time reached this island. 
 
 Books in those days sometimes enriched authors by 
 gaining for them patrons and pensions ; the mere sale 
 brought no great profit. No doubt (."ervantes's distress 
 was somewhat alleviated ; but still poverty clung to him, 
 while his very success excited the enmity of a variety of 
 the men of letters of the day, who could not endure 
 that a man whose talents they had regarded with no 
 consideration, should suddenly pass over the heads of all: 
 a cloud of satires, epigrams, and criticism were levelled 
 against his work. Old rough doctor Johnson would 
 have revelled in such testimony of his popularity, and 
 Cervantes was at least secure in having the laugh on 
 his side. Los llios, however, observes, that if the many 
 satires, attacks, and persecutions, which the author 
 and his book suffered had not been submerged in ob- 
 livion, or drowned in the quantity of eulogies and 
 defences heaped on him by men of talent, who con- 
 tinued to subtract such disagreeable productions from 
 the eyes of posterity, it would now appear, that 
 " Don Quixote" had been written in the midst of a na- 
 tion enemy to the muses. Now the attacks of these 
 men redound to their own discredit, displaying only 
 their envy or incredible bad taste. Cervantes indeed 
 had not spared the authors of his time, and they al- 
 most all set themselves in array against him. Lope 
 de Vega, from the height of his prosperity, showed 
 a condescending good nature, which, considering that 
 he was attacked in " Don Quixote," shows a sort of 
 lion magnanimity : he even declared that the writings of 
 Cervantes were not devoid of grace or style. Don Luis
 
 CERVANTES. 
 
 161 
 
 de Gongora, a man of whom further mention will be made 
 in this work, was his most virulent critic. Figuero, 
 and Villegas both contributed their mite of disapproba- 
 tion. We cannot tell how Cervantes viewed their 
 attacks, but his warm heart must have been pained 
 at the falhng off of some of his friends ; among these 
 was Vicente Espinel, who had merit enough as a 
 poet, perfect in his class, to hail with pleasure, 
 instead of enviously depreciating, the merit of his friend. 
 
 Cervantes mentions some of these satires, and in 
 particular, one sent to him in a letter when he was 
 at \'alladoUd. * The circumstances accompanying this 1605. 
 letter show that he was settled and had a house in 
 that city. Philip III. had established his court 
 there, and doubtless Cervantes thought that in the 
 first flush of success his being in its immediate neigh- 
 bourhood might occasion some noble to become his pa- 
 tron. When Philip IV. was born, James I. of 
 P^ngland sent admiral lord Howard to present a 
 treaty of peace, and to congratulate Philip III. on 
 the birth of his son. He was received with the ut- 
 most magnificence: bull fights, tournaments, masked 1605. 
 balls, religious ceremonies — all of feasting and splen- 
 dour that the court could display, were put in requisition 
 'J'he duke of Lerma caused an account of these festivities 
 to l>e written : it is said that Cervantes was the author. 
 
 'I'hese rejoicings were scarcely over when an event 
 occurred greatly to distress Cervantes, who seems to 
 have been marked out by fortune for the endurance of 
 every variety of galling disaster. 
 
 There lived in Vailadolid a cavalier of Saint-.Tago, 
 don Gaspar de Kzpeleta, an intimate acquaintance of 
 the marquis de Fakes. On the night of the !27th of 
 June, HiO.'i, tliis gentleman, having supped, as he often 
 did, with his friend, returned home on foot over an open 
 field to a wooden bridge over the river Esqueva. He 
 
 •" Whfii I wnn at Vall'iiliiliil, n lolirr wan broufilit to my lioUBculiiih coit 
 a rial. It r»titaiiic-il a I jd, silly (lincourlfoin innrii'l, widioiit wit nr point, 
 xpcikinK ill rj| ' Drill Oiilxoio,' — no lh.1t I grudged the rial iiillnitcly." — 
 /'oalcri/it tilth,- " I'uyagc to J'urnainu." 
 
 VOL. III. U
 
 l62 LITERARY AND SCIFNTIFIC MEN. 
 
 was here met by a stranger wrapped in a large cloalc, 
 who accosted him with incivility, and a quarrel ensuing, 
 they drew their swords, and don (Ja-par fell pierced by 
 many wounds. Calling for help, and bleeding profusely, 
 he staggered on towarils a house near the l)ridgi' ; part 
 of the first floor of this house was occupied by donna 
 Luisa de Montoya, widow of the historian Esteban de 
 Garibay, with her two sons ; the other part by Cervantes 
 and his family. The cries of the wounded man drew 
 the attention of one of the sons of Garibay, who rousing 
 Cervantes, who had gone to bed, they proceeded to his 
 assistance. They found him lying at their porch, his 
 sword in one hand and buckler in another, and carried 
 him into the apartment of donna Luisa, where he ex- 
 pired on the following day. An inquest was held by 
 the alcayd de casa y corte, Cristoval de Villaroel, wlio, 
 like all other officers of justice in Spain, took the safe 
 side of suspecting the worst, and throwing every body 
 into prison. C'ervantes, his wife, donna Catalina de 
 Palacios y Salazar ; his daughter donna Isabel de Saa- 
 vedra, twenty years of age ; his sister donna Andrea 
 de Cervantes, who was a widow, with a daugh- 
 ter named d^nna Costanza de Ovando, twenty-eight 
 years of age ; a nun called donna Magdalena de Soto- 
 mayor, who was also termed a sister of Cervantes; 
 his servant maid Maria de Cevallos, and two friends, 
 who were staying in his house, one named Senor de 
 Cigales, and a Portuguese, Simon Mendez, made their 
 depositions, and were indiscriminately thrown into pri- 
 son. It is so usual in Italy as well as Spain to suppose 
 that all those who come to the assistance of a murdered 
 man, have had a hand in his assassination, that such 
 an act probably excited no wonder. After a confine- 
 ment of eight days, and a vast quantity of interrogation 
 they were, on giving security, set at liberty. The 
 depositions taken on this occasion show that Cervantes 
 was still employed as an agent. When we consider that 
 he maintained all these relations, we wonder less at his 
 poverty, while we admire his liberality and kindness of
 
 CERVANTES. 
 
 163 
 
 heart. Nor can we help remarking from this enu- 
 meration of his household, that Cervantes had that 
 predilection for women's society which characterises 
 the gentler and more gifted of his sex. 
 
 Though it is impossible to fix dates with any pre- 1 SOS. 
 cision, there is reason to believe that when the court ^'^^t- 
 returned to Madrid in 1(J0(), Cervantes followed it, ^^• 
 and continued to inhabit that city to the end of his 
 life. The freedom and society of a capital is always 
 agreeable to a literary man ; and his native town of 
 Alcala de Henares, and his wife's of Esquivias were 
 at a convenient distance. It has been ascertained that in 
 June, IG09, he lived in the CalJe (street) de la JNIag- 
 delena; a little after, behind the college of NuestraSefiora 
 de Loretto ; in June, l()iO, at 9 Calle del Leon ; in lf)14 
 in Calle de Las Huertas ; afterwards, in the Calle de el 
 Duque de Alva, at the comer of St. Isidoro ; and 
 lastly, in ifilf), at 20 Calle del Leon, where he died. 
 
 It must rather have been the capital than the court 
 that attracted him, for he lived in obscurity and neglect. 
 He had only two friends of rank, who allowed him some 
 small income ; these wore don Bernardo de Sando- 
 val y Rojas, archbishoj) of 'i'oledo, and don IVdro Fer- 
 nandez de Castro, count of Lemos ; and this was done 
 through no solicitation on the part of Cervantes, nor 
 in reward for any adulatory dedication, but simply out 
 of admiration for his talent, and sympathy for his 
 poverty.* At this time despotism and bigotry were 
 extending their influence. Spain had degenerated, 
 and letters, cultivated not long before with entlm- 
 siasm, were falling into neglect. The nobility sur- 
 rounded themselves with jesters and flatterers, ne- 
 glecting men of merit. Of the few of the old leaven, 
 men admiring talent, and desirous of serving it, were the 
 cardinal de Toledo, and the count of Lemos. The 
 Hrsl was respected for his retired habits and generosity ; 
 
 • Torrp* Mar(|UPZ, mniitcr of the psigr* to the archbi«linp of Toledo, WM 
 n frir-nil of Cervant*-!!, anil toiik every (K-cn«ii)n to iiruel.iiin Iiim ((<''ii"» a'"' 
 wcirlli. It wn* tliruugh liiiii, proliiihly, tlial the arclibikliup bt-ktuweil a 
 peiition on him. 
 
 u 2
 
 164' LITKRARY AND SCIENTITIC MEN. 
 
 the Other for liis imiiiificenfeand jiopuhirity. The cardinal 
 treated men of letters with kindness and nrl)anity. The 
 count sought out the necessitous and suffering among 
 thini, assisting them at their need with unlimited 
 generosity. 
 
 In 1()'10 the count of Lemos was named viceroy of 
 Naples ; and here again Cervantes was doomed to dis- 
 appointment. The count of Lemos held in high esteem 
 the two Argensolas. These brothers, Lupercio and Bar- 
 tolome Leonardo de Argensola, were of a family origin- 
 ally of Ravenna in Italy, and settled in Aragon. They 
 were surnamed the Horaces of Spain. Before he was 
 twenty, Lupercio wrote three tragedies, which met with 
 success, and which Cervantes praises highly in " Don 
 Quixote:" too highly, indeed, for they are of the old 
 school, wanting in versimilitude and regularity, and not 
 elevated by the merits of poetry. Philip IH. appointed 
 him historiographer of the kingdom of Aragon. Bar- 
 tolome, his junior by a year, was an ecclesiastic and also 
 a poet. These brothers were residing at Saragossa, when 
 the count, wisliing to have them with him, offered 
 Lupercio the place of secretary of state and war at Na- 
 ples, and requested that his brother should accom- 
 pany him. The count also confided to them the charge 
 of choosing the persons to fulfil the under places in their 
 office, and they, confiding in the count's taste, selected 
 various poets for this purpose. 
 
 Cervantes was their friend ; he had reason to hope 
 that they would use their interest when arrived at Na- 
 ples to advance him. But he was disappointed. He takes 
 a gentle revenge in his " Voyage to Parnassus." Mer- 
 cury bids him invite the two Argensolas to assist in the 
 conquest of Parnassus, but Cervantes excuses himself, 
 saying, " I am afraid they would not listen to me — 
 although I am desirous to oblige in all things — since I 
 have been told that my will and my eyes are both short- 
 sighted, and my poverty-stricken appearance would ill 
 suit such a journey. 'J'hey have fulfilled none of 
 the many promises they made me at parting. Much I
 
 CERVANTES. 
 
 165 
 
 hoped — for they promised mucli ; but perhaps their 
 new occupations have caused them to forget what they 
 then said." * 
 
 Cervantes meanwhile had rehnquished business, or 
 nearly so : his means, considering the number of persons 
 he maintained, were strait indeed : he felt that he was 
 neglected, while others of far less talent basked in the 
 favour of the court But he did not hunt after 
 patrons nor pension : he Uved quiet and secluded, 
 expecting nothing, repining at nothing — content, if not 
 satisfied. 
 
 It is certainly strange that in those days, when it 
 was considered a part of a noble's duty to protect and 
 patronise men of letters, that Cervantes should have 
 been thus passed over. Some men join a sort of que- 
 rulousness and snarling independence to considerable 
 self-esteem, which renders it difficult to obhge them. 
 But there was no trace of anything of the sort in Cer- 
 vantes — no trace of any quarrel or complaint ; nor, 
 though himself obscure, was his book unknown. There 
 is a story told of Philip 111., that he was one day stand- 
 ing in the balcony of his palace at Madrid, overlooking 
 the Manzanares, and he observed a student walking on 
 the banks of the river, reading, and interrupting him- 
 self every now and then with strange gesticulations and 
 bursts of laughter. The king exclaimed, " Either that 
 man is mad, or he is reading ' Don Quixote.'" The 
 
 ♦ The Argeniiolas were men much esteemed in their day, and are so often 
 menlioiiKl by Cervantes and I-ope de Vena, that they niu,-t not lie passed 
 over in filence. Hut as there ii. notliing very original in their writings, we 
 •hall Uike the hherty of dtsmishing them ni a note. The elder, I.upercio, 
 the historiographer (or Aragon, secretary to the empress Maria oC Austria. 
 and »erretary of state to the rouiit of Lenios when viceroy of Naples, died in 
 that city in l'il.3,at the age of forty-eight, lie founded an academy at Naples, 
 and wan a tludioun and laborious mai). He burned a considerable porlion 
 of hi* |>ocm> juit l)efore his death, ns not worthy to survive him. Haitolome 
 wan an ec<le»ia«tic. lie followeil his brother to Naples. On his death he 
 quilteil lUily. He continued the " Annals of Aragon," and wrntc a history 
 of the conquest of the .Molucca islands ; a work written with judgment and 
 clegiincc. Hit (eculnr (Hictry is so similar to his brother's that they cannot 
 he dintinguished one friptn the other. I'oUowing llie same school, adopting 
 the name tmitcii, and neither of thcin ririginal, it is not surprising that their 
 prrKluctiont bore a close resemblance. The best works, however, ol Karto. 
 lome arc hi> tacre<l Canzuni. He dil^i at Saragossa, in the year lt>3l, 
 atthe age of sixty-live. 
 
 M 3
 
 I ()'()' LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MKN. 
 
 courtiers around, eager to confirm their sovereign's saga- 
 city, started off to ascertain the fact, and found indeed 
 that the book tin- studiiit hi'ld was " Don Quixote ;" yet 
 not one among tlieni niiienibered to remind their sove- 
 reign that the author of that delightful work lived poor 
 antl forgotten. 
 
 I n the licence to print the " Second Part of Don 
 Quixote," another story is told, showing how the 
 Spaniards themselves regarded the obscurity in which 
 they suffered the author to live : it is related by the 
 licentiate, Francisco Marquez Torres, master of the 
 pages to the archbishop of Toledo, to whom the censor- 
 ship of the work was intrusted. He relates that in 
 1615, an ambassador arrived at Madrid from Paris, 
 whose object being complimentary, he was followed by 
 a numerous suite of noljles and gentlemen of rank and 
 education. Among others, the ambassador visited the 
 archbishop of Toledo. On the 25th February, l6l5, the 
 archbishop returned the visit, accompanied by various 
 churchmen and chaplains, and, among others, by the 
 licentiate, ]\Iarquez Torres, himself. While the arch- 
 bishop paid his visit, those of his suite conversed with the 
 French gentlemen present, and they discussed the merits 
 of various works of talent then i)opular, and in particular 
 of the " Second Part of Don Quixote," then about to 
 appear. When the foreign cavaliers heard the name of 
 Cervantes, they all began to speak at once, and to declare 
 the estimation in which he was held in France. Their 
 praises were such, that the licentiate Marquez Torres 
 offered to take them to the house of the author, that they 
 might see and know him — an offer accepted with de- 
 light, while a thousand questions were asked concern- 
 ing the age, profession, rank, and situation of Cer- 
 vantes. The licentiate was obliged to confess that 
 he was a gentleman and a soldier, but old and poor ; 
 and his reply so moved one of his audience, that he ex- 
 claimed, " Is it possible that Spain does not maintain 
 such a man, in honour and comfort from the public 
 purse ?" Wliile another, with less warmth of heart.
 
 CERVANTES. 
 
 167 
 
 though equal admiration, exclaimed, ''If necessity obliges 
 him to write, may he never be rich ! for, being poor, 
 he by his works enriches the world ; " — words to com- 
 fort, with the hope of fame, one whose life was clouded 
 by penury and neglect. 
 
 We cannot help observing that the court and thejgQg 
 nobles did not form the whole world. Cervantes had^tat. 
 many dear, many well-informed and valued friends, 61. 
 and among these he could forget the carelessness of those 
 who considered all reputation and prosperity to be in- 
 closed within their magic circle ; while in the case of 
 Cervantes, it is proved that though neglected by them, 
 the whole world rung with his fame anil praise. 
 
 For some years Cervantes published nothing more. 
 In \608 he brought out a corrected edition of the " First 
 Part of Don Quixote." He was employed, mean- 
 while, in a variety of works which appeared after- 
 wards in quick succession, on which he employed 
 himself at the same time. His "Voyage to Parnassus" 
 peculiarly engaged his attention, but he feared that the 
 pubhcation, with its gentle attack on the Argensolas, 
 might displease his kind patron, the count of Lemos. 
 He therefore brought out first his " Twelve Tales" 
 (" Novelas Exemplares") which raised yet higher his 
 character as an author. These tales are dedicated in a 
 few respectful lines to the count of Lemos ; the preface 
 to them is very interesting. Cervantes has been accused 
 unjustly of vanity and boasting: of this he is innocent; 
 but he had something of that fueling, the inherent 
 quality of authors, which led him t) dwell on his own 
 idea and fortunes (what could be nearer, or better known, 
 or more deeply felt by him P) the same that led Rousseau 
 to make his confessions, and which when indulged in 
 with good faith and without querulousness, sits well on 
 a writer, and interests us in him. " I should be well 
 content," he says, " to be excused this preface, and to 
 give ins'ead my portrait, such as it was painted by the 
 famous don Juan de Jauregui : with this my ambition 
 would be sati.sfied ; and the curiosity would be gratified 
 
 M 4
 
 l6S LITERAUY AND SCIKNTIFIC MKN. 
 
 of those \\\\o desire to know what tlie countenance and 
 person is of him who has dared bring before the world 
 so many inventions ; and below tlie portrait I would 
 place these words: ' He whom you here see with a 
 face resembling an eagle's with chesnut brown hair, 
 smooth and open brow, vivacious eyes, a hooked yet well- 
 proportioned nose ; with a beard now silver, but which 
 twenty years ago was golden ; tliick nmstachios and small 
 mouth ; ill-forme 1 teeth, of which but few remain ; a 
 person between two extremes, neither tall nor short ; 
 of sanguine complexion, rather fair than dark ; somewhat 
 heavy about the shoulders, and not very light of foot ; 
 — this, I say, is the face of the author of 'Galatea,' and of 
 'Don Quixote de la Mancha,' — he who, in imitation of 
 Ciesar Caporal, the Perugian, made a voyage to Par- 
 nassus, and wrote other works, which wander lost, 
 even with their master's name. He is usually called 
 Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, He was for many 
 years a soldier, and a captive for more than five, 
 where he learned to bear adversity with patience. In 
 the naval battle of Lepanto he lost his left hand by 
 a shot from an arquebuse, a wound which may appear a 
 deformity, but which he considers a beauty, having 
 received it on the most memorable and noble event which 
 past ages ever saw, or those to come can hope to witness — 
 fighting under the victorious banners of the son of that 
 lustre of war, Charles V., of happy memory." 
 
 There is certainly nothing boastful nor ungraceful in 
 
 this — rather are we glad to find how Cervantes, old and 
 
 poor, could dwell with complacency on past adversity, 
 
 and cast the halo of glory round his misfortunes. 
 
 j^^^ These tales established more firmly than ever the 
 
 iEtat. high reputation of Cervantes, and he now ventured to 
 
 67. publish his " Voyage to Parnassus ;" and after this the 
 
 least successful of his publications, or, rather, that which 
 
 is the only failure among them — his volume of " Co- 
 
 medias y Entremeses," which he composed according to 
 
 the new school introduced by Lope de Vega, but which 
 
 were never acted. In his preface to this work he gives
 
 CERVANTES. I69 
 
 some account of the origin of the Spanish drama, and 
 the amehoration that he, in his younger days, introduced, 
 which has already been quoted. He goes on to say, 
 " Called away by othei- occupations, I laid aside my 
 pen, and meanwhile Lope de Vega, that prodigy of 
 nature, appeared, and raised himself to the sovereignty 
 of the drama. He vanquished and reduced under his 
 dominion all writers of plays : he filled the world with 
 dramas, excellently written and well conceived, and that 
 in so great number, that ten thousand sheets of paper 
 would not contain them ; and, what is surprising, he has 
 seen them all acted, or known that they were acted. 
 All those who have wished to share the glory of his 
 labours, collectively, have not written the half of what 
 he alone has given forth. And when," ho continues, " I 
 returned to the old employment of my leisure, fancying 
 that the age which echoed my praises still endured, I 
 Ijegan again to write plays, but I found no birds in the 
 accustomed nest — I mean, I found no manager who 
 asked for them, although he was informed that they 
 were written ; I threw them, therefore, into the corner 
 of a trunk, and condemned them to eternal silence. A 
 bookseller then told me that he would have bought them, 
 if an author of re])utation had not told him, that my 
 |irose was worth something ; but nothing could be ex- 
 pected from my verse. To confess the truth, these 
 words mortified me deeply ; without doul)t, I am either 
 much changed, or the age has arrived at a higher degree 
 of perfection, against the usual course of things, for I 
 liave always heard past times praised. I re-read my 
 comedies, as well as some interludes 1 had mingled with 
 them, and I found that they were not so bad, but that I 
 might bring them out from what an author calls dark- 
 ness, to what others may, perhaps, name day. I grew 
 angry, and sold tliem to tlic Ijookseller wlio now ])ublishes 
 them. He gave me a reasonable price, and 1 received 
 the money without caring for the rebuff's of the actors. 
 I wis!) that they were tlic fK'st ever written ; and if, 
 dear reader, you find any thing gooil in them, I wish
 
 170 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 when you meet this ill-natured author, you would tell 
 him to repent, and not to .judj^e them so severely, since, 
 after all, they contain no incongruities nor striking 
 faults. " 
 
 Unfortunately, the author was right — the pieces are 
 very had ; so bad, that when lilas de Nasano rejirinted 
 them a century afterwards, he could find nothing better 
 to say of them, than that they were purposely written 
 badly, in ridicule of the extravagant plays then in vogue. 
 Ifil5. Cervantes published another slight work in this 
 ^tat. year. The custom of poetic games (giustas poeticas) 
 ^^- was still preserved in Spain, which had been instituted 
 even from the time of John 1 1 . Pope Paul V. having, 
 in lGl4, canonised the famous Saint Theresa, her apo- 
 theosis was given as the subject for competition. Lope 
 de Vega was named one of the judges. Cervantes en- 
 tered the lists, and sent in an ode ; it did not receive 
 the prize, but it is published among those selected as the 
 best, in the account written of the feasts which all Spain 
 celebrated in honour of a native and illustrious saint. 
 
 Two works employedCervantes at this time—" Persiles 
 and Sigismunda," and the "Second Part of Don Quixote. 
 He appears to have intended to bring out the former 
 first, but the publication of Avellanada's " Don Quixote" 
 caused him to hasten the appearance of the latter. 
 
 The name of the real author of this book is unknown; 
 he assumed that of the licentiate Alonzo Fernandez de 
 Avellanada, a native of Tordesillas. No plagiarism is 
 more impudent and inexcusable. Don Quixote and 
 Sancho Panza were the ofi'si)ring and the property of Cer- 
 vantes : to take these original and un])aralleled creations 
 out of his hands— to make them speak and act according 
 to the fancy of another, and that while he was alive, 
 and still occupied in adorning them with fresh deeds 
 and thoughts, all liis own, is a sort of theft no talent 
 could excuse. Avellanada's " Don Quixote" is not desti- 
 tute of talent ; but it is impossible to read it — the mind 
 of the reader is tormented by finding another knight, and 
 another esquire, whom he is called to look upon as the
 
 CERVANTES. 171 
 
 same, but who are very different. The adventures are 
 clever enough ; but the soul of the actors is gone. Don 
 Quixote is no longer the perfect gentleman, with feelings 
 so noble, pure, and imaginative, and Sancho is a lout, whose 
 talk is folly, without tlie salt of wit. Cervantes, heartily 
 disgusted, and highly indignant, hastened to publish 
 his continuation. In dedicating his comedies to the 
 count of Lemos, at the commencement of l6l5, he says, 
 " Don Quixote has buckled on his spurs, and is hasten- 
 ing to kiss the feet of your excellency. I am afraid 
 he will arrive a little out of humour, because he lost 
 his way, and was ill-treated at Tarragona : neverthe- 
 less, he has proved, upon examination, that he is not 
 the hero of that story, but another who wished to look 
 like him, but did not succeed." 
 
 In his dedication of the Second Part to the count oi 
 Lemos, he savs, in not ungraceful allusion to the extent 
 of his fame, while at the same time he covertly alludes 
 to his expectation of being invited to Na[)les, " Many 
 have told me to hurry it, to get rid for them of the 
 disgust caused by another Quixote, who, under the name 
 of the Second Part, has wandered through the world. 
 And he who has shown himself most impatient is the 
 great emperor of China, who a month ago wrote me a 
 letter in Chinese, asking, or rather entreating me to send 
 it for he was desirous of founding a college for the study 
 of the Castilian lamzuage, and he wished " Don Quixote" 
 to be the book read in it; at the same time, offering 
 that I should be rector of the college : but I replied 
 that I had not health to undertake so long a journey; 
 and besides being ill, I was poor ; and emperor for em- 
 peror, and monarch for monarch, there was the great 
 count of Lemos at Naples, who assisted me as much 
 as I wished, though he did liot found colleges nor rec- 
 torships." 
 
 This was tlie last work that Cervantes jmblished. 
 He had finished " I'ersilcs and Sigismunda," and medi- 
 tated the "Second Part of (Jalatea,'* and two other works, 
 whose subjects we cannot guess, though lie has mentioned
 
 172 LITERARY AN» POIENTIFIC MKN, 
 
 the titles ("Bernardo" and "LasScmanas dclJardin"); 
 but of tlieso no trace remains, lie published the "Second 
 Part of Don Quixote" at the end of 1()15, and l)eing then 
 sixty-eigbt years of age, he was attacked by the malady 
 I.'JIG. which not long after caused his death. Hoping to find 
 JEtixt. relief in the air of the country during spring, on the 2d 
 ^^- of the following April he made an excursion to Es- 
 quivias, but, getting worse, he was obliged to return to 
 Madrid. He narrates his journey back in his preface 
 to " Persiles and Sigismunda :" and in this we find the 
 only account we possess of his illness. "It happened, 
 dear reader, that as two friends and I were returning 
 from Esquivias — a place famous on many accounts, — 
 in the first place for its illustrious families, and secondly 
 for its excellent wines, — being arrived near Madrid, we 
 heard, behind, a man on horseback, who was spurring 
 his animal to its speed, and appeared to wish to get up 
 to us, of which he gave proof soon after, calling out 
 and begging us to stop ; on which we reined up, and 
 saw arrive a country-bred student, mounted on an ass, 
 dressed in grey, with gaiters and round shoes, a sword 
 and scabbard, and a smooth rufi'with strings ; true it is, 
 that of these he had but two, so that his raft' was always 
 falling on one side, and he was at great trouble to put it 
 right. When he reached us, he said, ' Without doubt 
 your Honours are seeking some ofiice or prebend at 
 court, from the archbishop of Toledo or the king, neither 
 more nor less, to judge by the speed you make ; for truly 
 my ass has been counted the winner of the course more 
 than once.' One of my companions replied, ' The 
 horse of senor Miguel de Cervantes is the cause — he 
 steps out so well.' Scarcely had the student heard the 
 name of Cervantes than he threw himself off" his ass, 
 so that his bag and portmanteau fell to right and left 
 . — for he travelled with all this luggage — and rushing 
 towards me, and seizing my left arm, exclaimed, ' Yes, 
 yes ! this is the able hand, the famous lieing, the 
 delightful writer, and, finally, the joy of the muses !' 
 As for me, hearing him accumulate praises so rapidly.
 
 CERVAXT£S. 173 
 
 I thought myself obliged in politeness to reply, and 
 taking him round the neck in a manner which caused his 
 ruff to fall off altogether, I said, ' I am indeed Cer- 
 vantes, sir ; but I am not the joy of the muses^ nor any 
 of the fine things you say : but go back to your 
 ass, mount again, and let us converse, for the short 
 distance we have before us." The good student did as 
 I desired ; we reined in a httle, and continued our 
 journey at a more moderate pace. JMeanwhile, my 
 illness was mentioned, and the good student soon gave 
 me over, saying, ' This is a dropsy, Avhich not all the water 
 of the ocean, could you turn it fresh and drink it, would 
 cure. Senor Cervantes, drink moderately, and do not 
 forget to eat, for thus you will be cured without the aid 
 of other medicine.' ' Many others have lold me the 
 same thing,' I replied ; ' but I can no more leave off 
 drinking till I am satisfied, than if 1 were born for this 
 end only. My life is drawing to its close ; and, if I 
 may judge by the quickness of my pulse, it will cease 
 to beat by next Sunday, and I shall cease to live. You 
 have begun your acciuaintance with me in an evil hour, 
 since I have not time left to show my gratitude for the 
 kindness you have displayed.' At this moment we ar- 
 rived at the bridge of 'I'oledo, by which I entered the 
 town, while he followed the road of the bridge of 
 Segovia. ^V''hat after that happened to me fame will 
 recount : my friends will jmhlish it, and I shall he 
 desirous to hear. 1 embraced him again ; he made 
 me offers of service, and, spurring his ass, left me 
 as ill. as he was well disposed to pursue his journey. 
 Nevertheless, he gave me an excellent subject for i)lea- 
 santry ; but all times arc not alike. Perhaps the hour 
 may come when I can join again this broken thread ; and 
 shall l)e able to say what Iutc I leave out, and which I 
 ought to say. Now, farewell pleasure ! farewell joy ! 
 farewell, my many friends ! 1 am about to die ; and I 
 leave you, desirous of meeting you soon again, hajipy, in 
 another life." 
 
 Such is Cervantes's adieu to the world; self-possessed.
 
 174! LITEUAnV AND SCIENTIKIC MKN. 
 
 and aniniat(>(I bv tli;it rc'si<j;nc(l and clieerful spirit wliicli 
 accompanied him throuj^li life. He wrote another farewell 
 to his protector, the count of Lemos, in his dedication 
 of this same work: it is dated lf)th April, iGlG. 
 " I should be glad,'' he says, " not to apply to myself, 
 as I Tnust, the old verses which men formerly celebrated, 
 that begin ' the foot already in the stirrup;' for with 
 little alteration, 1 can say, that witli my foot in the stir- 
 rup, and feeling the agonies of death, I write you, great 
 lord, this letter. Yesterday extreme unction was ad- 
 ministered me; to-day, I take up my pen ; my time 
 is slmrt ; my pains increase ; my hopes fail ; yet I wish 
 to live to see you again in Spain ; and perhaps the 
 joy I should then feel would restore me tr> life. How- 
 ever, if I must less it, the will of heaven be done ; but 
 let your excellency at least be aware of my wish, and learn 
 that you had in me an affectionate servant, who desired 
 to show his service even beyond death." Four days 
 after writing this dedication, Cervantes died, on the 
 2.Sd of April, l6l()', aged sixty -nine. In his will, 
 he named Ins wife, and his neighbour, the licentiate 
 Francisco Nunez, bis executors. He ordered that he 
 should be buried in a convent of nuns of Trinity, 
 founded four years before, in the Calle del Humilladero, 
 where his daughter donna Isabel had a short time 
 before taken the vows. No doubt this last wish of 
 Cervantes was complied with; but in l633, the nuns 
 left tiie Calle del Humilladero, and went to inhabit 
 another convent in the Calle de Cantaranas, and the 
 place of his interment is thus forgotten ; no stone, no 
 tomb, no inscription marks the spot. We have to regret 
 also the loss of his two jiortraits, painted by his friends 
 Jauregui and Pacheco : the one we have is a copy made 
 in the reign of Philip IV., and attributed to various 
 painters ; it resembles the description before quoted, 
 which Cervantes gives of himself. 
 
 In calling to mind all the events of this great man's 
 life, we are struck by the equanimity of temper preserved 
 throughout. As a soldier, he showed courage; as a
 
 CERVANTES. 1 75 
 
 captive, fortitude and daring; as a man struggling 
 with adversity, honesty, perseverance, and contentment. 
 He speaks of himself as poor, but he never repines. In all 
 the knowledge of the world displayed in " Don Quixote," 
 there is no querulousness, no causticity, no bitterness : 
 a noble enthusiasm animated him to his end. Despite 
 his ridicule of books of chivalry, romantic in his own 
 tastes, his last work, Persiles and Sigismunda, is more 
 romantic than all. His genius, his imagination, his wit, 
 his natural good spirits and affectionate heart, did, we 
 must hope, stand in lieu of more worldly blessings, 
 and rendered him as internally happy as they have ren- 
 dered him admirable and praiseworthy to all men to 
 the end of time.* 
 
 His life has been drawn to such a length, that there 
 is no space for a very detailed account of his works ; still 
 something more must be said. His first publication, "Ga- 
 latea," is beautiful in its spirit, interesting and pleasing 
 in its details, but not original : as a work it is cast in the 
 same mould as other pastorals that went before. Nor 
 was Ctrvantes a poet. Many men have imagination, and 
 can write verses, without being poets. Coleridge gives an 
 admirable definition : " Good prose consists in good 
 words in good places ; poetry, in the best words in the 
 best places." Cervantes had imagination and invention : 
 the Spanish language offered great facility, and he wrote 
 it always with purity ; so that here and there we find 
 
 * Coleridge's summary of the character and life of Cervantes, though 
 not correct in letter, ib ailinirahle in npirit : " A Castilian of relined man- 
 ners ; a Kcnllcman true to reliKii'O, anil Irne to honour. A scholar anil a 
 (olilier ; he fought uniUr the Ijannerh of don John of Austria, at I.ipanto, 
 and lost hi« arm, anil wai caplureil. Ijuluriil ^lavery, not only with forti- 
 tuilc, but with mirth ; and, l>y the dupmority of nature, mastered and ovcr- 
 aw.'d hi* barbarian owner. Kin.dly ruiisomed, he resumed lii- native 
 dcntiny— the awful task of achieving lame; and for that reason died 
 p<»i>r, and a prinoner, while nobIeK and kiiiKS, over their golilet.-> ot (;iilil, gave 
 relmh to thi'ir pliasiires hv tlir iliarins of his divine gi-nius. He was the 
 inventor of novels for the Spaniards ; and in his " ^er^ile8and Si^ji inuiida" 
 the Kii((li«h may find the germ of their " Itobinson Crusoe." 
 
 " The world was a dr.iina to him. Mis own thoughts, in spite of poverty 
 and sirknem, perpetuatid lor him the feelings of youth, lie paiiiteil only 
 what he knew, and had lonkid into; but he knew, and had lonktd into 
 murh iiidee<l ; and his im.iginatioii was ever at hand to adapt and modify 
 the world of hi> experience. Uf dellcioua love he fabled, yet with itainlcM 
 virtue."
 
 170 LITERAUY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 lines and stanzas that are poetry, but, on the whole, there 
 is a want oF that concentration, severe taste, and perfect 
 ear for harmony that form poetry. 
 
 Yet when we recur to the '* Nuniantia," we find this 
 sentence unjust, for there is poetry of conception and 
 passion in the " Numantia" of the highest order ; nor is 
 it wanting in that of language. It has been mentioned 
 that of the twenty or thirty plays which Cervantes 
 says he wrote, soon after his marriage, " Numantia " 
 and "El Trato de Argel" (Life in Algiers) alone remain. 
 They are written on the simplest plan, though not on the 
 Greek ; they are without choruses, without entangle- 
 ment of plot, sustained only by impassioned dialogue and 
 situations of high-wrought interest. The " Numantia" 
 is founded on the siege of that city, under Scipio 
 Africanus, when the unfortunate inhabitants destroyed 
 themselves, their wives and children, and their property, 
 rather than fall, and let them fall into the conquerors' 
 hands. It is divided into four acts : the first two are 
 the least impressive, though containing scenes of extreme 
 pathos, and well calculated to raise by degrees the 
 interest of the reader to the horrors that ensue. Scipio, 
 desirous of sparing the lives of his men, resolves to 
 assault the city no more, but, digging a trench round it 
 on all sides, except where the river flows, means to 
 reduce it by famine. The Numantines determine to 
 endure all to the last. They consult the gods, and dark 
 auguries repel every hope : the dreadful pains of hunger 
 creep about the city ; and when two betrothed meet, and 
 the lover asks the maiden but to stay awhile that he 
 may gaze on her, he exclaims — 
 
 " What now ? what stand's! thou mutely thinking, 
 Thou of my tliouglit the only treasure? 
 
 Lira. I'm thinking how thy dream of pleasure 
 And mine so fast away are sinking ; 
 It will not fall beneatli tlie hand 
 or liiin wlio wastes our native land. 
 For long, or e'er the war be o'er, 
 My hapless life shall be no moiv.
 
 CEBVANTES. 177 
 
 Morandro. Joy of my soul, what has thou said ? 
 
 Lira. That I am worn with liunger so, 
 That quickly will th' o'er|)owering woe 
 For ever break my vital tliread. 
 What bridal rapture dost thou dream, 
 From one at such a sad extreme? 
 For, trust me, ere an hour be past, 
 I fear 1 shall have breathed my last, 
 iNIy brother fainted yesterday. 
 By wasting hunger overl)orne ; 
 And then my mother, all out-worn 
 By hunger, slowly sunk away. 
 And if my licalih can stiuggle yet 
 With hunger's cruel power, in truih 
 It is because my stronger youth 
 Its wasting force hath better mjt. 
 But now so many a day hath pass'd, 
 Since aught I 've had its powers to strengthen ; 
 It can no more tlie conflict lengthen. 
 But it must faint atid fail at last. 
 
 Morandro. Lira, dry tliy weeping eyes; 
 But all ! let mine, my love, the more 
 Tlieir overflowing rivers pour. 
 Wailing thy wretched agonies. 
 But tliough thou still art lield in strife 
 With hunger thus incessantly ; 
 Of hunger still tlioii shall not die, 
 So long as I retain my life. 
 I ofl'cr here from yon liigli wall. 
 To leap o'er ditdi and Ijattlement ; 
 Thy death one instant to prevent, 
 I fear not on mine own to fail. 
 The bread llie Roman eatcth now, 
 I '11 snatch away and i;ear to thee ; 
 For, oil ! 'tis worse than deatii to see, 
 Lady, thy dreadful state of woe."* • 
 
 After this the scenes of horror accumulate; — children 
 crying to their mothers for hread ; brothers lamenting 
 over each other's suffering; and some repining at, and 
 others nobly antici|)ating the hour when death and 
 flames are to envelope all. Such scenes, denuded of 
 their poetry, are mere horrors ; but clothed, as Cervantes 
 has clothed them, in the language of the affections, and 
 
 • Quarterly Ilevicw, vol. xxv. 
 TOI,. in. N
 
 178 LITKRAUY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 of the loftier passions of the soul, the reader, even while 
 trembling with the excitement, reads on and exults at 
 last, when not a Xuinantine survives to grace Scipio's 
 triumph. Nothing can be more truly national than the 
 drama; and, as if fearful that a Spanish audience would 
 feel too deeply the catastrophe, he introduces Spain, the 
 river Duero, War, Sickness, and Famine, as allegorical 
 personages, who, while they mourn over the jiresent, 
 prophesy the future triumphs of their country. Another 
 merit of this play is one not usual in Spanish authors : 
 it is of no more than the necessary length to develope 
 its interest ; there is no long spinning out, and except 
 quite at the outset, before the poet had warmed to his 
 subject, it has not a cold or superfluous line. It is 
 indeed a monument worthy of Cervantes's genius, and 
 proves the height to which he could soar, and brings 
 him yet in closer resemblance to Shakspeare; showing 
 that he could depict the grand and terrible, the pathetic 
 and the deeply tragic, with the same master hand. It 
 is said that this tragedy was acted during the frightful 
 siege of Saragossa by the French in the last war ; and 
 the Spaniards found in the example of their forefathers, 
 and in the spirit and genius of their greatest man, fresh 
 inducements to resist : this is a triumph for Cervantes, 
 worthy of him, and shows how truly and how well he 
 could speak to the hearts of his countrymen. 
 
 In the comedy " Life in Algiers" there cannot be 
 said to be any plot at all. Cervantes brought back from 
 his captivity an intense horror of Christian suffering in 
 Africa; and he had it much at heart to awaken 'in the 
 minds of his countrymen, not only sympathy, but a 
 spirit of charity, that would lead them to assist in the 
 redemption of captives. He thus brings forward various 
 pictures of svifTering, such as would best move the hearts 
 of the audience, and such as he himself had witnessed. 
 Aurelio and Silvia, affianced lovers, are captives, and are 
 respectively loved by Yusuf and Zara, the Moors 
 who own them. In the old Spanish style, feelings are 
 personified and brought on the stage. Fatima, Zara's
 
 CERVANTES. 179 
 
 confidant, seelcs by incantations to bend Aurelio to her 
 mistress's will. She is told by a Fury, that such power 
 cannot be exercised over a Christian, but Necessity and 
 Occasion are sent to move him by the suggestions they 
 instil by whispers, and which he echoes ashis own thoughts. 
 He almost falls into the snare they present by filling his 
 mind with prospects of ease and pleasure, in exchange 
 for the hardships he undergoes ; but he resists the 
 temptation, and is finally set free with Silvia. Besides, 
 these, we have the picture of two captives, who escape and 
 cross the desert to Oran, as Cervantes had once 
 schemed to do himself. One of them appears worn and 
 famished — wiUing to return to captivity so to avoid 
 death : he prays to the ^'irgin, and a lion is sent, who 
 guards and guides him on his darksome solitary way. 
 To rouse still more the compassion of the audience, there 
 is one scene where the public crier comes on to sell a 
 mother and father, and two children : the elder one has 
 a. sense of his situation and of the trials he is to expect 
 with firmness ; the younger knows nothing beyond his 
 fear at being torn from his mother's side. A merchant 
 buys the younger, and bids him come with him. 
 
 " Juan. I cannot leave my mother, sir, to go 
 With others. 
 
 Mother. Go, my child — ah ! mhic no more, 
 
 But his who huvs tliee. 
 
 Juan. Mother dear, dost thou 
 Desert me ? 
 
 Mol/tiT Heaven! How ])ililess thou art ! 
 
 Merchant. Come, child, come ! 
 
 Juan. Brother, let 's go together. 
 
 Francisco. It is not in n^.y choice — may heaven go with 
 thee ! 
 
 Moihir. Remember, oh, my trcosure and my joy, 
 Thy (Jod ! 
 
 Jiiiin. Where do they lake me without you, 
 
 ,My father ! — my dear mother I 
 
 Mother. Sir, permit 
 
 l-'or one brief moment that I speak to my 
 I'oor child — sliort will the satisfaction l)e, 
 Long, cndlev* sorrow followifig close behind. 
 
 N 2
 
 180 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 Merchant, Say wliat tliou wilt ; 't is the last time tliou canst. 
 
 Mother. Ala-s ! it is the first that e'er 1 felt 
 Such woe. 
 
 Juan. Mother, kee)) me with thee ; 
 Suffer mc not to go, 1 know not wiiere. 
 
 Mother Fortune has since I bore thee, my sweet child, 
 Hidden her face — the iieavens are dark — the sea 
 And the wild winds eon)l)ine for my dismay ; 
 Tiie very elements our enemies I 
 Thou knowest not thy misery, although 
 Thou art its victim — and such ignorance 
 Is happiness for thee ! INIy only love, 
 Since to see thee no more I am allow'd, 
 I pray ihee never to forget to seek 
 The favour of the Virgin in thy jjrayers — 
 The queen of goodness she — of grace and hope 
 She can unloose thy chain, and set thee free. 
 
 Ai/dar. Hark to the Clnistian what advice she gives ! 
 Thoud'st liave him lost as thee, false infidel ! 
 
 Juan. My mother, let me stay — let not these Moors 
 Take me away. 
 
 Mother. My treasures go with thee. 
 
 Juan. In faith, I fear these men ! 
 
 Mdlher. But I more fear 
 
 Thou wilt forget thy God, me and thyself, 
 When thou art gone : thy tender years are such, 
 That thou wilt lose thy faith amidst this race 
 Of infidels — teachers of lies. 
 
 Crier. Silence ! 
 
 And fear, old wicked woman, that thy head 
 Pay for thy tongue ! " 
 
 At the end of the play, Juan is seduced by fine 
 clothes and sweetmeats to become a Mahometan. 
 When we think of the Spanish horror of renegades, 
 and its fierce punishment, we may imagine the effect 
 that such scenes, brought vividly before them, must 
 have had. The play ends with the arrival of a vessel, 
 with a friar on board, charged with money to redeem 
 the captives, and the universal joy the Christians feel ; 
 Cervantes had felt such himself, and well coidd paint it.. 
 The whole play, though without plot, and rendered wild 
 and strange by the introduction of allegorical personages, 
 yet is full of the interest of pathetic situations and na- 
 tural feelings, simply, but vividly represented ; such.
 
 CERVANTES. 1 S 1 
 
 doubtless, roused every sentiment of horror and com- 
 passion, and even vengeance in a Spanish audience. In 
 some respects we feel otherwise ; and when one of the 
 captives relates the cruel death of a priest burnt by slow 
 fire, bv the Moors, in retaliation of a Moor burnt by the 
 inquisition, our indignation is rather levelled against that 
 nefarious institution, which, unprovoked, punished those 
 who adhered to the faith of their fathers, and filled the 
 whole world with abhorrence for its name. Such, Cer- 
 vantes could not feel ; and in reading his works, and 
 those of all his countrymen, nothing jars with our feel- 
 ings so much as the praise ever given to the most savage 
 cruelties of the Dominicans, and the merciless reproba- 
 tion expressed towards those who dared revenge their 
 wrongs. 
 
 From the publication of these works to " Don Quixote," 
 what a gap ! He would seem to iiave lived as an unlighted 
 candle — suddenly, a spark touches the wick, and it burst 
 into a flame. " Don Quixote " is perfect in all its parts. 
 The first conception is admirable. The idea of the crazed 
 old gentleman who nourished himself in the perusal of ro- 
 mances till he wanted to be the hero of one, is true to the 
 verv bare truth of nature, and how has he followed it out? 
 Don Quixote is as courageous, noble, princely, and vir- 
 tuous as the greatest of the men whom he imitates : had 
 he attempted the career of knight errantry, and after- 
 wards shrunk from the consequent hardships, he had 
 been a crazy man, and no more ; but meeting all and 
 Waring all with courage and equanimity, he really 
 l>ecome8 the hero he desired to be. Any one suffering 
 from calamities would gladly have recourse to him for 
 help, assured of his resolution and disinterestedness, and 
 thus Cervantes shows the excellence and perfection of 
 his genius. The second part is conceived in a different 
 Hpirit from the first ; and to relish it as it deserves, we 
 must enter into the circumstances connected with it. 
 ('ervantes was desirous of not repeating himself. There 
 is less extravagance, less of actual iiisauity on the part of 
 the hero. He no longer mistakes an inn lor a caslle, nor a 
 
 N 3 4
 
 1S2 MTERARY AND SCIENTII'IC MEN. 
 
 flock of sheep for an army. He sees things as they are, 
 although he is equally expert in giving them a colouring 
 suited to his madness. This, Imwever, renders the second 
 part less entertaining to the general reader, less original, 
 less brilliant ; but it is more philosophic, more full of the 
 author himself: it sliows the deep sagacity of Cervantes, 
 and his perfect knowledge of the human heart. I ts draw- 
 back, for the second part is not as perfect as the first, 
 consists in the unworthy tricks of the duchess — very 
 different from the benevolent disguise of the princess 
 Micomicona, the deceptions of this great lady are at 
 once vulgar and cruel. 
 
 The greatest men have looked on " Don Quixote" as 
 the best book that ever was Avritten. Godwin said, 
 " At twenty, I thought ' Don Quixote' laughable — at 
 forty, I thought it clever — now, near sixty, 1 look 
 upon it as the most admirable book in the whole 
 world." In Coleridge's " Literary Remains," there are 
 some admirable remarks on " Don Quixote ; " they are 
 too long to be inserted here, but I cannot refrain from 
 quoting the contrast he draws between the Don and 
 Sancho Panza. lie says, " Don Quixote grows at 
 length to be a man out of his wits ; his understanding 
 is deranged ; and hence, without the least deviation 
 from the truth of nature, without losing the least 
 trait of personal individuality, he becomes a substantial 
 living allegory, or personification of the reason and 
 moral sense divested of the judgment and understand- 
 ing. Sancho is the converse. He is the common sense 
 •without reason or imagination ; and Cervantes not 6nly 
 shows the excellence and power of reason in Don 
 Quixote, but in both him and Sancho the mischiefs 
 resulting from a severance of the two main constituents 
 of sound intellectual and moral action. Put him and 
 his master together, and they form a perfect intellect ; 
 but they are separated and without cement : and hence, 
 each having need of the otlier for its whole complete- 
 ness, each has at times a mastTy over the other ; for 
 the common sense, though it may see the practical
 
 CERVANTES. 1 83 
 
 inapplicability of the dictates of the imagination of 
 abstract reason, yet cannot help submitting to them. 
 These two characters possess the world — alternately and 
 interchangeably the cheater and the cheated. To im- 
 personate them, and to combine the permanent with 
 the individual, is one of the highest creations of genius, 
 and has been achieved by Cervantes and Shakspeare 
 almost alone." 
 
 Of the ''Novellas," or talesof Cervantes, Ihad intended 
 to give a detail, but have no space ; they are among the 
 best of his works. They cannot compete with the best 
 of Boccaccio : they have not his energy of passion — his 
 soul-melting tenderness — his tragic power and matchless 
 grace ; but the tales of Cervantes are full of interest 
 and amusement : they possess the merit also of being 
 perfectly moral ; he calls them himself Novellas Exem- 
 plares, and there is not a word that need be slurred 
 over or omitted. It is strange also that as afterwards the 
 intrigue of his comedies was so bad, that that of some 
 of his stories is so good, that Beaumont and Fletcher 
 — than whom no dramatists better understood the art 
 of fabricating plays — have adopted two, ("La Sefiora 
 Cornelia" and "LasDosjDoncellas"), and so adopted them 
 as to follow them line for line, and scene by scene. 
 There is a very beautiful interview in "LasDosDoncellas,' 
 between a cavalier and a lady at night, by the sea shore ; 
 Beaumont and Fletcher have but translated and versified 
 this, and it stands among the most effective of their 
 scenes.* 
 
 The " Voyage to Parnassus" has the inherent Spanish 
 defect of length, otherwise it has great merit : the 
 ridicule is playful — the machinery poetic — the story 
 well adapted for burlescjue. There had been a poem, 
 written on the suliject of a voyage to Parnassus, by 
 Cezare Caporali — an Italian of Perugia. Cervantes 
 begins hi.s poem by mentioning the return of the Italian, 
 
 • There U an CKCcllcnt tran>lation of ton from ntnnnK them ; we majr aI«o 
 fnentinn that there it an admirable old Kriglith traiiilation of Don Uuixotc, 
 \)J Sbelluii. 
 
 M 4
 
 184 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 and how he, who ever desired to deserve the name of 
 poet, resolved to follow his example. In playful derision 
 of his poverty, he describes his departure : a piece of 
 bread and a cheese in his wallet, were all his provision — 
 " light to carry, and useful for the voyage ;" and then 
 he bids adieu to his lowly roof — " Adieu to Madrid — 
 adieu to its fountains, which distil ambrosia and nectar — 
 to its prado — to its society — to the abodes of pleasure 
 and deceit.'' He arrives at Carthagena, and sees Mer- 
 cury, who invites him to embark on board a boat, and to 
 come to assist in the defence of Parnassus, which had 
 been attacked by a host of poetasters. The skiff is fan- 
 cifully described :- — 
 
 And lo ! of vorsps framed, the bark,* 
 From th» mainlop to water mark, 
 Witliout a word of prose betwixt ; 
 The upper decks were glosses mix'd — 
 A hodge-pndge badly put together, 
 HI. married all «.itii one another : — 
 And of romances formM, the crew, 
 A daring people glaii to do 
 The wihiest a ts, however fierce. 
 The poop wiis made of other verse : 
 'Twas form'd of sonnets, each one rare. 
 Written all with the nicest care. 
 Two tercet.s, bold as muse could write. 
 The guiHiels framed from left lo right. 
 And gave free scope unto the oar. 
 The gangway's lei.eth was measured o'er 
 Kv elegies most sad and long. 
 More apt for tears than gladsome song. 
 
 • " De la quilla S la gavia, (> estrafla cosa ! 
 
 toda de versos era fabrirada, 
 sin que se cntremiese alguna prosa. 
 
 Las ballesteras eran de ensal ida 
 de glosas, todas hechas a la boda, 
 
 de la que so llami'> Malmaridada : 
 era la chnsma de romances toda 
 
 gente atrevida, empero nccesaria 
 pups k todas accioius se acomoda. 
 
 La popa lie materia extraordinaria, 
 bastarda, y de Ugitimos sonetos, 
 
 de labor pere.'rina en todo y varia. 
 Eran dos valentisimos tercetos 
 
 Ins espaUlares de la izquierda y diestra, 
 para dar bog.i laru'a muy perfctos. 
 
 Hecha ser la crnxia se me mueslra 
 de una luenga y tnstisima elegia, 
 
 que no en cantar, sino en 1 orar es diestra, 
 Por esta entien^o yo que se diria 
 
 lo que siiele, decirse a un desdichado, 
 quando lo pasa mal, pasticruxii. 
 El arbol hasta el cielo Icvautado
 
 CERVANTES. 185 
 
 The mast that rn«e unto the sky 
 
 An ode emlwdied, long and dry, 
 
 Tarr'd o'er witli songs of <lrc-aiy length. 
 
 So to ensure its weight and strenglh. 
 
 And all tlie yards that ran across 
 
 Were burthens harsh — you 're at no loss 
 
 Their hard material to find : 
 
 The parrel creaking to the wind, 
 
 Of ri'dnmiillas g.iy and free; 
 
 So that raiire easy it might he. 
 
 The ropes and tackle — rigging all — 
 
 Of srguidillas light ami small, 
 
 Eich twined with fancies f!ay and fickle. 
 
 The which the soul are apt to tickle; 
 
 The thwarts, of stanzas staunch and itrcng. 
 
 Planks to support a world nf son--' ; 
 
 While the pennant*, flying lightlv. 
 
 Love songs framed m) gay and sprightly. 
 
 Seslinas grave, and blank verse ready, 
 
 Shapeil the keel both sharp and steady ; 
 
 That like a duck the hark might swim, 
 
 And o'er the waters lightly skim. 
 
 Embarked on board this fanciful galley, Mercury 
 shows him a long catalogue of poets, asking his advice 
 as to their admisi5ion. Cervantes takes this occasion to 
 characterise several of his contemporary poets, in a 
 manner that in his day might have been keenly satirical 
 or warmly lauilatory : there is no doubt that there is 
 a good deal of irony in his praise, but a portion a'so is 
 sincere. The whole is obscure and uninteresting to us. 
 In the midst of the examination, a crowd of poets rush 
 into the skiff, in numbers that threaten its safety ; and 
 
 de una dura tancion prolixa cst'tba 
 
 dc canto de seis dedos embreado. 
 El y la entena (pie por el cruxaha 
 
 de duros c-tranibMt'>s — la madera 
 de que eran hechon daro *c moslraba. 
 
 I^ racamcnta. que es kiemnre parlera, 
 Todi la comiKjniaii de reilnndilla*. 
 
 Con que vV.x fe imxiraba mat ligcra. 
 laa xarcian pareciaii X'guiilill.i*, 
 
 dc ili«paratin mil y mas conipiiestag 
 Que duelen en el alma hater csqu Mas. 
 
 Ian rurabadai, riirll«iTnaii y honcstai 
 c«lancia«, eran talila« pondiTn«a«, 
 
 que llevan un |>neiiia v otrn ft cueataJ. 
 Era C'na <'e ver lan hiillici'n.nn 
 
 vaiideriHai que a ayre Iremol.iban, 
 De varia* riman «li;o he ncio.««. 
 
 Lo< grumetea, que aqiii v nlli criixaban 
 de eiicaden»il<)« ver»o« parecian, 
 
 pnotn que ci>mn lllirn traluijaban, 
 to<la« la* ohia* miiertai cotnpniii in 
 
 O vcrurt «iiclt<i». i'( kcxliiian ((ravcf 
 que la galera ii^as gallarda hjciaii."
 
 186 I.ITKnAlJY AND SCIKNTITIC MEN. 
 
 the syrens are ol)lifz;e(l t(i raise a storm to scatter them. 
 After this, he beholds a cloud obscure the day, and from 
 this cloud falls down a shower of poets, and, among 
 them, Lope de Vega, " a renowned poet, whom none 
 excels, or even equals, in prose or verse." The voyage 
 now proceeds prosperously ; the vessel glides along im- 
 pelled by oars formed of verses druccioli, (such as have 
 a dactyl at the end of each line), and the sails, which 
 are stretched to the lieight of the mast, were 
 
 Woven of mr\ny a gentle thought. 
 Upon a woof tlial love had wroiiHlit, 
 ImIIM by the soft and amoiuiis wind 
 Which breathed upon us from behind — 
 Kaiier to wait us swift alonp ; 
 Wiiile the fair queens of occan.song — 
 The syrens three, around us Hoat, 
 And so iniiiel the ilaniMni; boat ; 
 And crested waves are si)rea(l around, 
 Snowy flocks on a verdant ground ; 
 And the crew are at work recituig. 
 Or sweet lovc-la<len sonnets writing, 
 Or sin{;inp; soft the sweetest lays 
 All in their gentle ladies' praije. 
 
 They, at last, arrive at Parnassus ; and then follows a 
 description of the gardens of the Ilesperides: arrived 
 before Apollo, he invites them to sit down; on this, all 
 the seats around are speedily occupied, and Cervantes 
 remains standing. He then gives an accoimt to Apollo 
 of his writings, in which he praises himself modestly 
 enough, and, after alluding to his poverty, sums up all, 
 by saying, " that he is contented with little, though he 
 desires much, and that his cliief annoyance is to find 
 himself standing there, when all others sit." Apollo 
 answers him complimcntarily, and bids him double up his 
 cloak, and sit on that; but poor Cervantes has no cloak. 
 " Well," replies Apollo, " even thus I am glad to see 
 you ; virtue is a mantle with which penury can hide and 
 cover its nakedness, and thus avoid envy." 1 bowed 
 my head to this advice, and remained standing ; for it is 
 wealth or favour alone that can fabricate a seat." Poetry 
 herself now appears, and her description is the most 
 poetic passage Cervantes ever wrote. The arts and 
 sciences hovered round her, and, in serving her, were
 
 CERVANTES. 
 
 187 
 
 themselves served ; since thus all nations held them in 
 higher veneration. All things he represents as bringing 
 tribute to Poetry : — the rivers, their currents; the ocean, 
 its changeful tides, and secret depths; herbs present 
 their virtues to her ; trees, their fruits and flowers ; 
 and stones the power they hold within ; holy love pre- 
 sents her with its chaste delights; soft peace her 
 happy rest; fierce war, her achievements. The wise and 
 beautiful lady knew all, disposed of all, and filled all 
 things with admiration and pleasure. There is real 
 poetry in this description, melody in the verse, and 
 truth and beauty in the imagery. But we get weary; 
 for page succeeds to page, and the poem never ends. A 
 second storm ensues. Neptune endeavours to submerge 
 and destroy the poetasters; but Venus prevents them 
 from sinking, by turning them into empty gourds and 
 leathern bottles, which swim about in a thousand dif- 
 ferent manners. A battle, at last, ensues between the 
 real and would-be poets ; while Cervantes, full of an- 
 noyance, hurries away, seeking out his old and dusky 
 dwelling, and throws himself wearied upon his bed. 
 
 There is a whimsical postcript to the " \'oyage to Par- 
 nassus," written in prose, and very amusing. It recounts 
 the visit of a would-be poet, who brings Cervantes a 
 letter from Apollo. The god reproaches him for having 
 gone away from Parnassus without having taken leave 
 of him and his daughters, and says the only excuse he 
 can admit is his hurry to visit his Mecienas, the great 
 count of Lemos at Naples : another token that Cer- 
 vantes was disappointed in not receiving an Invitation. 
 
 The last of Cervantes's works, the one he was occu- 
 pied upon up to the hour of his death, was "Pcrsiles and 
 Sigismunda," — a romance, full of wild adventures, of 
 love and war, of danger, escape, and indeed every 
 variety of accident of " flood and field." It shows the 
 true bent of the author's niiiid, who delighted to revel, like 
 his own Don (Quixote, in the very excesses of the imagi- 
 nation ; and showing thus, how in his advanced age, he 
 had forgotten none of his youthful tastes. He wrote it
 
 188 LITERAHY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 in imitation of Ilfliodorus : it is amusing in parts, and 
 in parts interesting ; but now that the taste for this 
 heterogeneous, though imaginative, species of writing 
 has passed away it will scarcely find readers sufficiently 
 persevering, and sufficiently fond of the fabulous and 
 strange, to dwell upon its enchainment of impossible ad- 
 ventures. '
 
 189 
 
 LOPE DE VEGA. 
 
 1562—1635. 
 
 There is a vulgar English proverb of such a one 
 being bom with a silver spoon in his mouth. We are 
 reminded of it when we compare the several careers of 
 Cervantes and Lope de Vega. If we judged without 
 inquiry, we should imagine no man more likely to 
 obtain popularity through his works, than the author of 
 ''Don Quixote." His disposition was cheerful and unre- 
 pining; to the last hour of his life he displayed light- 
 ness of heart, even to the censure of a dull envious 
 rival (Figueroa), who remarks, that such was his 
 weakness, that he wrote prefaces and dedications even 
 on his death bed, — prefaces, as we have shown, full of 
 animation and wit. Yet he lived in penury, died 
 obscurely, and went to his grave unhonoured, except 
 by his friends ; while all Madrid flocked to do honour 
 to the funeral of Lope ; and two volumes of eulogiums 
 and epitaphs form but a select portion of all that was 
 written to commemorate his death. It is true that 
 posterity has been more just: great pains have been 
 taken to give forth correct editions of Cervantes's 
 works, and to ascertain tlie events of his life ; while 
 the twenty-one volumes of Lope's "Obras Sueltas" are 
 full of errors, and his plays are only to be obtained in 
 single pamphlets, badly printed, both to sight and 
 sense. 
 
 It is curious to read the epithets of praise heaped on 
 this favourite of his age, during his life and immedi- 
 ately on his death. His friend and disciple Montalvan 
 adopts a phraseology very similar to that in use with
 
 190 MTEnAUY AND SCIKNTIFIC MEN. 
 
 the emperor of riiina, when he is styled "Rrotlier of the 
 sun " aiul 'Tiicle of tlie stars." He with all the pomp of 
 Spanish hyperbole, names him " the portent of the 
 world; the .u;Iory of the land ; the light of his country; 
 the oracle of language ; the centre of fame ; the object 
 of envy; the darhng of fortune; the phoenix of ages: 
 prince of poetry ; Orpheus of sciences ; Apollo of 
 the muses; Horace of poets; Virgil of epics ; Homer of 
 heroics; Pindar of lyrics; the Sophocles of tragedy; 
 and the Terence of comedy. Single among the excel- 
 lent, and excellent among the great : great in every 
 way and in every manner." Such was the usual style of 
 speaking of Lope, — his common appellation being the 
 phoenix of Spain. And now, while editions of " Don 
 Quixote" are multiplied, and each hour adds to the fame 
 of Cervantes, we inquire concerning Lope, principally 
 for the sake of discovering the cause of the excessive 
 admiration with which he was regarded in his own time. 
 The life written by Montalvan, the biography compiled 
 with such care and elegance by Lord Holland, and 
 various researches given to light in several numbers of 
 the " Quarterly Review, " (written we believe, by Mr. 
 Southey), are (in addition to the works of Lope himself) 
 our principal guides in tracing the following pages. 
 
 Lope de Vegi Carpio was born at Madrid*, in the 
 house of Geronimo de Soto, near the gate of Guada- 
 laxara, on the 2()th of November, 1562, on the day of 
 St. Lope, bishop of \'erona, and was baptized on the 
 6th of December following, in the parish church of 
 San Miguel de les Octeos. His parents were in the 
 
 • In an epistle he mentions his father as having cmisrated to Madrid —he 
 speaks of him as living in the valley of Carriedo, but deficiency of means 
 cause<i him to leave his ancestral inheritance of Vega, and to remove to 
 Madrid. There had been a (juarrel between him and his wife, who was 
 jealous, an<l with reason, as I.ope tells us he loved a Spanish Helen ; she 
 however followed him, and they were reconciled : 
 
 " Y aquel dia 
 fu piedra en mi priinero fundamento 
 la paz de sii zelosa phantasia. 
 Kn fin por zelos soy ; que nascimiento! 
 imaginalde vos, que haver nacido 
 detan inquieta causa fueporteiito." 
 
 Bclardo d Amarylis.
 
 LOPK Di: VEGA. IQl 
 
 same situation as these of Cervantes — hidalgos, but 
 poor. We have an account of Felix de Vega, father of 
 the poet, which shows him to have been a good and 
 pious man, and a careful father. He was very attentive 
 to his religious duties, and had rooms in the Hospital de 
 la Corte, whither his children accompanied him, and 
 they performed several menial offices, and washed the feet 
 of the poor — comforting and helping the convalescent 
 with clothes and money. The good example thus im- 
 planted imparted a charitable and pious turn to Lope's 
 life, — and still more to that of his elder sister, Isabel de 
 Carpio, who was singularly pious, and died in 1()01.* 
 Felix de Vega was also a poet, as his son informs us 
 in the " Laurel de Apolo,' in some verses of respectful 
 and graceful allusiont ; so that he added the inheritance 
 of a poetical temperament to his pious instructions. 
 
 The boy early displayed great tokens of talent. 
 W^hat we are told of him does not exceed the accounts 
 given of other young prodigies, and we are wilhng to 
 believe the relations handed down of this wonderful 
 chilli, who, whatever his other merits were, showed 
 himself to the end of his life the prince of words, 
 having written more than any other man ever did, and 
 we may believe, therefore, that he acquired the art of 
 using them earlier than others. At two years old he 
 was remarkable for the vivacity of his eyes, and the 
 drollness of his ways, showing even thus early, tokens 
 
 • Pcllicer, Tratailo lobre el origen de la Comedia, 
 ■f- " Kfcctos do mi gcnio y mi fortuna, 
 
 auc me csefiaiites versos en la cuiia, 
 nice meinoria del priruipio amado 
 del ser que tengo, a <)uieri la vida debo, 
 en e«te panagyrico me llama 
 * iiigrato y olvjdado, 
 p<ro 81 DO me atrevo, 
 no fuc falta de aiimr, f.lno de fama, 
 que ol)li({acioii ine fuerza, amor mi inflama. 
 Ma fii lilix de Vega iin la tuvi'i, 
 l)a»ta liiher que en el r.irnnsn estuvi'i, 
 haviendo halladn yn hu* Ixirradoren, 
 verioH eran ti Dion lli-nn* de amnreii ; 
 y aunque en el tiiinpn que encnliio loitver«o», 
 no eran Ian rreipot <i>nio aliora y terso», 
 nl la* MuMin tenlan Untoa briix, 
 mcjorct me pareceii que lui mio5." 
 
 Laurel lU Apolu.
 
 192 LITEUAIIY AND SCIENMFIC MEN. 
 
 of his after career ; lie was eager even then to learn ; 
 anil knew his letters before he could speak, repeating 
 his lessons by signs before he could utter the words. 
 At five years old he read Spanish and Latin — and such 
 was his passion for verses, that before he could use a pen 
 he bribed his elder schoolfellows with a portion of his 
 breakfast, to write to his dictation, and then exchanged 
 his effusions with others for prints and hymns. Thus 
 tnUy he lisjied in numbers; as he says of himself in 
 the epistle before referred to, " I could scarcely speak 
 when I used a pen to give wings to my verses ;" and is 
 another proof, (if proof were wanting that the sun 
 shines at noon day) of innate talent. At twelve he was 
 master of rhetoric and grammar, and of Latin compo- 
 sition, both in prose and verse. To the latter accom- 
 plishment we must put the limit, that probably he was 
 as learned as his masters ; and that was not much, for 
 the Latin verses he published in later life are excelled 
 by any clever Etonian of the fourth form. In addition 
 to these classical attainments, he had learned to dance, 
 and fence, and sing. 
 
 He was left early an orphan, and his vivacious dispo- 
 sition led him into various scrapes and adventures. The 
 most important among these was an elopement from 
 school when fourteen years of age, impelled by a tlesire 
 of seeing the world. He concerted with a friend of his, 
 Fernando Munoz, who was filled with a similar desire: 
 they both provided as well as they could for the neces- 
 sities of the journey, and went on foot as far as Segovia, 
 where they bought a mule for 15 ducats; with this 
 they proceeded to Lavaileza, and Astorga — where meet- 
 ing, we may guess, with several of those various dis- 
 comforts we find detailed in " Lazarillo de los Tormes, 
 and other picaresm works, as inevitable in Spanish inns, 
 they became disgusted, and made up their minds to 
 return. When they had got back as far as Segovia, 
 their purses were emptied of small money, and they 
 had recourse to a silversmith, the one to sell a chain 
 and the other to change a doubloon. The silversmith's
 
 LOPE DE VEGA. 193 
 
 suspicions were awakened and he sent for a judge, 
 and the judge, a miracle in Spain, was a just judge, 
 as Montalvan says, " he must have had a touch of 
 conscience about him" — for he neither robbed nor 
 threw them into prison ; but questioning them and 
 finding them agree in their story, and that their fault 
 was that of youth, not of vice, he sent them back to 
 Madrid, with an alguazil, who restored them, dou- 
 bloons, chain and all, into the hands of their relations, 
 " which,'' says Montalvan, " he did at small cost. Such 
 then was the honesty of the ministers of justice, who 
 now-a-days would have thought they had not gained 
 enough had they not made an eight-days' lawsuit about 
 it." 
 
 The youth soon after became an inmate in the 
 house of the grand inquisitor, don Geronimo Manrique, 
 bishop of Avila ; it would appear that he was there as 
 a protrgr, and that the bishop thought his talents 
 deserving protection and encouragement. His own 
 expression is, " Don Geronimo jManrique educated 
 me." He delighted the prelate with various eclogues 
 that he wrote, and a comedy called the " Pastoral of 
 Jacinto," — from which Montalvan dates the change 
 Lope de ^'ega operated in the Spanish theatre. This 
 comedy is not extant, therefore it is impossible to pass 
 a judgment upon it ; but the name of pastoral rather 
 seems to limit it to an imitation of the plays then in 
 vogue ; indcL'd his eulogist only mentions this difference, 
 that he had reduced the number of acts to three. Mon- 
 talvan goes on to speak as if he, at this time, brought out 
 successful plays, but this arises rather from the confusion 
 of his expressions, than n)istake: he wrote tliem, it is 
 true, for lie tells us so himself ; l)ut there is no trace of 
 any being played. Meanwliile, leeling that his knowledge 
 was slight, and Ills education unfinisheii, with tlie assist- 
 ance of tlie bishop, he entered the university of .\lcala, 
 where he remained four years, until he graduated, and was 
 distinguished among his comjianions in the examina- 
 tions. 
 
 VOL. m. o
 
 IPI' MTKKAUY AM) SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 On Icaviiip; the univorsity of Alcala, he entered the 
 service of the duke of Alva*, who hecanie attached to 
 him, and made him not only his secretary hut his 
 favourite. A doubt is raised as to which duke this is ; 
 whether it be the oppressor of the Low Countries, or his 
 successor : chronology seems to determine that it was 
 the former. It has already been mentioned in this work, 
 that the duke of Alva, — whose name in the Netherlands, 
 and with us, is stamped with all the infamy that remorse- 
 less cruelty, blind bigotry, and faithlessness bestows — 
 was regarded in Spain as the hero of the age. Lope 
 introduces the mention of a statue in the "Arcadia," and 
 says, " This last, whose grey head is adorned by the ever 
 verdant leaves of the ungrateful Daphne, merited by so 
 many victories, is the immortal soldier, don Fernando de 
 Toledo, duke of Alva, so justly worthy of that fame, 
 which you behold lifting herself to heaven from the 
 plumes of the helmet, with the trump of gold, through 
 which for ever she will proclaim his exploits, and spread 
 his name from the Spanish Tagus to the African 
 Muta/.end ; from the Neapolitan Sabeto to the French 
 Garonne. He is a l*omj)ilius in religion; a Radaman- 
 thus in severity ; Belisarius in guerdon ; Anaxagoras 
 in constancy ; Pcriander in wedlock ; Pomponius in 
 veracity ; Alexander Severus in justice ; llegulus in 
 fidelity ; C'ato in modesty ; and finally a Timotheus in 
 the felicity which attended all his wars." 
 
 • Lope often mentions having been a Foldier in early youth. These 
 expressions are uenerally used in rpference to his having served on 
 board the Invincible Armada, hut tliere is a stanza in the " Hucrto Des- 
 hecho," that intimates that he had entered the army at (ilteen. 
 " Ni mi f'ortuna muda 
 ver en tres lustros de mi edad primcra 
 con la espada desnuda 
 
 al bravo Portugues en la Tercera, 
 ni dcs|)ues en las naves EspaHolas 
 del mar Ingles Ins inii-rtos y las olas." 
 Yet in the followinj; stanza he rails himself " Soldado do una pucrra." 
 In these verses, and in many other;- iiiileedin which he s|ieaks of himself, 
 his expressions are so obscure, and the whole stanza so ill worded, that it 
 is scarcely possible to guess even at what he means. The translation of 
 these verses seems to be : — " Nor did my fortune change on seeing me in 
 the third lustre of my tender -.ige, with a drawn sword among the brave 
 Portuguese at Tercera, nor afterwar Is in the English ports and waves on 
 board a Spanish fleet."
 
 LOPE DE VEGA. 195 
 
 At the request of the duke of Alva he •vvrote his 
 " Arcadia." It has been mentioned how the imitations 
 of Sannazaro's pastoral had become the fashion in Spain. 
 The " Diana " of INIontemayor, its continuation by Gil 
 Polo, and the "Galatea" of Cervantes, were all read with 
 enthusiasm. What the charm of this composition is, we 
 can scarcely guess; yet we feel it ourselves when we read 
 the '^Arcadia" of sir Philip Sidney. The sort of purely 
 sentimental life of the shepherds and shepherdesses, witli 
 their flocks, pipes, and faithful dogs, appears to shut out 
 the baser portion of existence, and to enable us to live 
 only for the affections, — a state of being, however 
 impracticable, always alluring ; and when to this is 
 added the delightful chmate of Spain, which invested 
 pastoral life with all the loveliness and amenity of 
 nature, we are the less surprised at the prevalence of 
 the taste. Lope was very young when he entered the 
 lists, and wrote his "Arcadia." There is exaggeration 
 in its style, and in its sentiments ; yet no oilt can open 
 it without becoming aware of the talent of the author. 
 The i)oetry with which it is interspersed possesses the 
 peculiar merit of Lope — perspicuity, and an easy artless 
 flow in its ideas ; as for instance, the cancion imitated 
 from the ancients, beginning, 
 
 " O libcrtad preciosa 
 No comparada al oro." 
 
 The story is meagre, and inartificial to a singular 
 degree. But we follow an cxam{)le set us, of giving 
 some sliglit detail of it, for tiie sake of introducing a 
 coincidence of a singular nature.* Anfrisio and lieli- 
 sarda are lovers ; Anfrisio is of so high descent that 
 he believes Jupiter to be his grandfather; but IJeli- 
 Barda is designid by hur parents to be tlie bride of 
 the rich, ignorant, and unworthy Salicio. Anfrisio is 
 forced to remove to a distant i)ai t of tht- couiifrv ; but 
 l)y a fortunate circunistancL', thither also Ik-lisanhi is 
 brouglit by her father, and the lovers meet and enjoy 
 each other's society till scandal begins to busy herself 
 
 • yuarlcrljr Hcviow, vol xviii. 
 
 o 2
 
 196 LITERARY AM) SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 with tlienrij and, at the request of his mistress, Anfrisio 
 sets out for Italy, so to baffle the evil thoughts of the 
 malicious. He loses his w;iy during his wanderings, 
 and comes to a cavern, wherein resides Dardanio, a ma- 
 gician, who promises to grant him any wish he may 
 express, however impossible. Anfrisio, with a modera- 
 tion astonishing to our more grasping minds, asks only 
 to see the object on whom he has ])laccd his affections. 
 He beholds her in conversation with a rival, wliom, in 
 pure pity, she presents Avith a black ribbon ; which sight 
 transports Anfrisio with jealousy, and he meditates re- 
 venging her perfidy by putting her to death ; but Dar- 
 danio carries him off in a whirlwind. Soon after he 
 returns home, and to annoy Belisarda, pretends to be in 
 love with the shepherdess Anarda ; while she in revenge 
 openly favours Olimpio. They are both very miserable ; 
 and still more so when driven to desperation, Belisarda 
 marries Salicio. Soon after, an explanation ensues be- 
 tween her and Anfrisio, but it is too late. Anfrisio's sole 
 resource is to forget ; and by means of the sage Poli- 
 nesta, through a visit to the Liberal Arts, and an ac- 
 'quaintance with the lady Grammar and the young 
 ladies Logic, Rhetoric, Arithmetic, and Geometry, and 
 others not less agreeable — Perspective, Music, Astro- 
 logy, and Poetry — he arrives at the temple of Disen- 
 gafio, or Dis.illusion ; where things are seen as they are, 
 the passions cease to influence, the imagination to de- 
 ceive, and the lovelorn shepherd becomes a rational man. 
 The composition of this story has given rise to a 
 singular conjecture. W^hen Montemayor wrote " Diana," 
 and Gil Polo continued it, and Cervantes composed '• the 
 robe in which the lovely Galatea appeared to the eyes 
 cf men," it is known that they embodied their own 
 passions and sorrows in the pastoral personages they 
 brought on the scene ; but Lope is not the hero of his 
 tale. Anfrisio is supposed to represent the duke of 
 Alva himself — the tyrant, the destroyer — who, it 
 would seem, requested his young protege to immortalise 
 his early loves in the manner other poets had done their 
 own. A good deal of testimony is brought in support
 
 LOPE DE VEGA. 197 
 
 of this hypothesis.* In the commendatory verses pre- 
 fixed to the " Arcadia/' there is a sonnet from Anfri- 
 sio to Lope de Vega," which addresses him by the name of 
 Belardo, under which he personified himself in the pas- 
 toral ; and which shows by its context that it was written 
 by a man of consequence, and a protector of the poet. 
 " Belardo," he says, " it has proved fortunate for my 
 loves, that you came to my estate and became one of my 
 shepherds ; for now neither time nor oblivion will cover 
 them. You have dwelt upon my sorrows, yet not to the 
 full ; since they are greater than you have described, 
 though the cause wherefore I suffered lessened them. 
 Tagus and my renowned Tormes listen to you. They 
 call the shepherd of Anfrisio, Apollo. If I am 
 Anfrisio, you are my Apollo ! " The painter Fran- 
 cisco Pacheco, in the eulogy that accompanies his por- 
 trait of Lope, speaking of the " Arcadia," says that the 
 poet ''had succeeded in what he designed, which was to 
 record a real history to the pleasure of the parties. ' 
 
 Montalvan hints at the same thing, when he says that 
 Lope wrote this work at the command of the duke, and 
 calls it a " mysterious enigma of elevated subjects, con- 
 cealed in the disguise of humble shepherds." And Lope 
 himself says, " The 'Arcadia' is a true story ; " and again, 
 in the prologue to the work itself, he insists several 
 times on the fact that he describes the sorrows of an- 
 other, not his own. He assumes the name of IJelardo 
 for himself, but introduces himself only as a Spanish 
 shepherd, poor and pursued by adversity. At the con- 
 clusion he comes forward as Belardo, addressing his 
 pijie, and taking leave of the tale on which he was occu- 
 pied. In this he talks of leaving the banks of the 
 Manzanares (the river of Madrid), and seeking a new 
 master and a new life. "\\'liat is better," he says, "when 
 one has lost a blessing, than to fly from the spot wliere one 
 enjoyed it, so not to see it in tlie possession of another? 
 My fortunes are dubious ; but what evil can l)efall him 
 who has once known happiness ? I lost that which was 
 
 • (Jiiarterly Ucvii'W, vol. xviii. 
 
 o :{
 
 198 MTKUAHV ANM) SCIKNTIIIC MEN. 
 
 niiiie. more from not beinp; worthy of it, than from not 
 knowing its value ; but I console myself with the ex- 
 pectation of fresh disasters."* 
 
 As the " Arcadia" was written in early life, but not 
 pubhshed till 1 .5<)8, it is impossible to say to what parti- 
 cular period of his career or to what misfortunes the 
 above alludes. 
 
 It were a subject for a painter to portray the old 
 grey-headed duke — the persecutor of heroes, the slayer 
 of the innocent, but retaining throughout a satisfied 
 conscience, and the dignity of virtue — pouring his love- 
 tale ill the young Lope's ear, or listening with delight 
 while Lope read to him the tale of his early love, clothed 
 in the fantastic costume of a pastoral and the ideal ima- 
 gery of poetry. 
 
 Lord Holland has given a specimen of the poetry of 
 the " Arcadia" in his hfe ; but we refer to his pages, and 
 will only conclude by mentioning that, despite the 
 conceits, the false taste, and exaggeration, there is much 
 genius, much real poetry, simplicity, and truth — lines 
 full of sweetness and grace, and a lucidness of expression, 
 which reminds the reader of Metastasio, who was indeed 
 a lover of Spanish verse, and who has never been sur- 
 passed in the crystal clearness of his expressions, and 
 the chiseled perfection (so to express ourselves) with 
 which he represents his ideas. 
 
 The " Arcadia," though written thus early, was not 
 not published, as has been mentioned, till 1598 ; and it 
 is conjectured that the death of its hero, the duke of 
 Alva, was the cause of the delay. But it may be added, 
 that Lope wrote a great deal but published nothing 
 before tliat period, when, his plays having made him 
 popular, he printed most of his early works. 
 
 He left the serviceof the dukeof Alva, when he married 
 a lady of rank, donna Isabel de Urbino, daughter of don 
 Diego de Urbino, king-at-arms. The marriage took place 
 to the satisfaction of the friends of both parties ; and the 
 
 * In this and other quotations the reader nust not expect sense. Even 
 while rpprehending (iongora for olwiurity, from carelessness or from a 
 notion of tine writing. I.ope's meaninj; can very often only lie guessed at. 
 'I'his may partly be attributed to misprints ; in his best poems he i», for a 
 .Spaniard, singulary persiiicuous.
 
 LOPE DE VEGA. 199 
 
 lady is praised as beautiful and discreet. He did not. how- 
 ever, long enjoy his domestic happiness. " It happened," 
 says Montalvan, " that there was a sort of half-and-half 
 hidalgo • (for there is a twilight in the origin of nobi- 
 lity as well as in the break of day) of small fortune, but 
 of great skill in contriving to dress and eat as well as 
 the rest of the world, without other employment than 
 frequenting society, when with little trouble to himself 
 he lived cheaply by flattering those present and back- 
 biting the absent. Lope heard that on one occasion he 
 had entertained a company at his expense. He passed, 
 over the impertinence, not from fear, but contempt ; but 
 seeing that the man persisted in his attacks, he grew 
 tired ; so without quarrelling with him by sword or word 
 — the first being impious, the second fooHsh — he de- 
 picted him in a song so pleasantly, that every body 
 laughed." The would-be wit grew angry — none being 
 more easily offended than those who take licence to 
 offend — and he challenged Lope. They met ; and the 
 cavalier was dangerously wounded. This was the im- 
 mediate cause that obliged Lope to quit ^Madrid ; though 
 Montalvan mentions other scrapes which he had got 
 into in his youth, and which his enemies took this occa- 
 sion to bring against him. He left wife and home with 
 a heavy heart, and took up his residence in Valencia, 
 where he was treated with distinction and kindness. 
 
 He remained at Valencia for some years, and doubt- 
 less wrote a great deal, though at that time he published 
 nothing. He formed a friendship there with Vicente 
 Mariner, himself a voluminous poet, whose compositions 
 remain inedited in the king of Si)ain's libraries. Among 
 these are many to tlie iionour and memory of Lope, and 
 in fierce attack of his enemies — so fierce that they de- 
 serve the name of abuse, and show that the Spanish 
 cavalier could descend, as so many literary men have 
 before, to calling names, as argument.t 
 
 • Lfiril Holland ralN I>o|ic-'ii .inlaKoiiist, a gentleman of coniiidcrablc 
 rank anil iin|>ortaii<'c— Moiilalvaii'it i-xpretiions ileiiole the contfary: " un 
 hiilaiKO cnlre clou liiee«, ile |«ira harienda, Kc." 
 
 + Lord Holland'* l,di' Id' I.oi.e <le Ve({a. Were tlienc MSS. examined, 
 we might ditcuvcr the real history of I>i|>e'* life at this |>eriod. 
 
 o 4
 
 200 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 After a few years, Lope returned to Madrid ; and 
 such was his joy in revisiting the "scenes of his youth, 
 and being reunited to his wife, that even liis health was 
 affected by it. lie did not, however, long enjoy this new- 
 found hajjpiness : ids wife died shortly after liis return. 
 The death of this lady was celebrated in an eclogue, 
 written conjointly by Lope and Medina Mcdinill;). The 
 strophes, composed by Lope, are full of the tcnderest 
 grief and impatient despair, but there is not a word rela- 
 tive to their separation ; he exclaims at Death for having 
 divided them, and implores her to take him to where 
 she is — to where they might live for ever secure to- 
 gether. 
 
 1588. Almost immediately after he became a soldier, and 
 
 jEtat. joined the Invincible Armada. 
 -^" The causes of this apparent freak are differently re- 
 presented. Montalvan attributes it chiefly to his grief on 
 losing his wife. In the eclogue to Claudio, which Lope 
 writes with the avowed intention of recording the events of 
 his early life, but in which he mentions no adventures 
 anterior to this period, he speaks of being banished from 
 Filis, and that he sought relief from his tender sorrows 
 by changing climate and element ; and Mars coming to 
 his aid, he marched to Lisbon with the Castilian troops, 
 with a nmsket on his shoulder, and tore up for cartridges 
 the verses he had written in his mistress's praise. In 
 several of his sonnets also he gives the same reason for 
 his military career.* 
 
 It is the fashion of the present day to ransack every 
 hidden corner of a man's life, and to bring to light all 
 the errors and follies which he himself would have 
 wished to consign to oblivion. A writer offers a 
 fairer mark than any other for these inquiries, as 
 we can always fancy at least that we trace something 
 of the man himself in his works, and so form a tissue of 
 some sort from these patchwork materials ; Lope felt 
 this, and in one of his epistles, laments that by pub- 
 lishing his verses, he has perpetuated the memory of his 
 * fide Sonnets 46. 66. 82. 92. &c. of Riraas Humanas, parte 1.
 
 LOPE DE VEGA. 201 
 
 follies. " My love- verses," he says, " were the tender 
 error of my youth ; would I could cover them in oblivion ! 
 Those poets do well who write in enigmas, since they 
 are not injured by the hidden." We do not know that we 
 should have enlarged on this portion of his life, but for 
 some conjectures given in the article before quoted in the 
 eighteenth volume of the " Quarterly Review." The au- 
 thor of that article, in mentioning Lope's5eco72rf marriage, 
 says, " Lope speaks of this marriage as a happy one ; 
 yet among the sonnets there are two which may excite a 
 suspicion that his heart was placed on another object. 
 The inference from the first of these poems is, that he 
 did not love the woman whom he married ; and from 
 the second thjit he had formed a miserable attachment 
 to the wife of another man. This last inference will be 
 much strengtliened if there be any reason for supposing 
 that he shadowed out his own character in the 'Dorotea;' 
 one of the most singular, and, unless such a supposition 
 be admitted, the most unaccountable of all his works." 
 
 Taking it for granted that these sonnets and the 
 'Dorotea' refer to himself, we think there is every proof to 
 show that they allude to his early life, his first marriage, 
 and all those subsequent disasters, to fly from which he 
 embarked on board the Armada. Certainly great ob- 
 scurity hangs over the pcrioil of his first marriage, and 
 the causes of his long exile at Valencia. Tlis antagonist 
 in the duel was a man of no consequence, and merely 
 wounded ; so, although that duel might have occasioned 
 him to fly, it would nothave forced so protracted an absence. 
 He does not allude to any of these circumstances in his 
 eclogue to (laudio. In his epistle to doctor (Jregorio de 
 Anguio he seems to imply that being married, he loved 
 another woman, or that he was not hap|)y in his first 
 marriage.* Montalvan, in speaking of his flight to 
 
 • " Criome don fJcroiiitno Manriquc : 
 catudic en Alcalii, barhilliTeine, 
 y aim untuvf de *vt cIitIko i pique : 
 rc'KoiTie una nMi«iT, ariciiincuu', 
 pcrdunc'oflo I)ii», ya xiy ranndo, 
 quien ticnc tanio inal, ningnnn trmc." 
 
 /■J/iatola uiulecima.
 
 202 LITEnARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 Valencia, incntioiis, in addition to the duel, youthful 
 scrapes, which his enemies took that opportunity of hring- 
 ing against him.* In a funeral eulogium, written on 
 Lope by don Joseph Pellicer, there are these expres- 
 sions : — " The excellent qualities of Lope excited the 
 animosity of several poweriul enemies, who forced him 
 several times to become a wanderer. His pen was his 
 faithful companion in his disasters and exile, and secured 
 him shelter and welcome in distant provinces." t 
 
 Putting all these circumstances and hints together, it 
 is plain that Lope suffered a good deal of adversity at 
 this time. His illustrious patron, the duke of Alva, died 
 soon after his marriage. When the duel and other cir- 
 cumstances caused him to fly, he had no powerful friend 
 to assist him, but was driven to absent himself even for 
 years. During so long a separation from home, and 
 being only about four-and-twenty at this period, it is not 
 impossible nor strange that he should have formed 
 an unfortunate attachment. 
 
 The sonnets Mr. Southey mentions, and which he 
 translates, are the following : — 
 
 " .Seven long and tedious years did Jacob serve, 
 And sliort had been tile term if it had found 
 Its end desired. To Ix-ah he was bound. 
 And must by service of seven more deserve 
 His Kachael.— Tlius will strangers lightly swerve 
 From their pledged word. Yet Time might well repay 
 Hope's growing debt, and Patience might be crowned. 
 And the slow season of expectance passed. 
 True Love with ample recompense at last, 
 Requite the sorrows of this hard delay. 
 Alas for me — to whose unhappy doom. 
 No such blest end appears! Ill fate is his. 
 Who hopes for Racliael in the world to come. 
 And chained to Leah drags his life in this." J 
 
 • " Este y otros desayres de la fortuna, ya negociados de su juventud, y 
 ya encarecedos de sus opuestos, leobligaron a dejar su casa, su patria y sn 
 esposa, con harto gentimiento." — Fiimii./'ostutna I't la I'ida df Lope de Vega. 
 
 t IJouterwek savs that all the panegyrics and epitaphs written on Lope, 
 ought to be carefu'llv consulted as to the circumstances of his life. We ac- 
 cordingly looked them over; but amidst an incredible ahundance and 
 variety of hyperbolical praise, there are but two or three that allude to 
 any events of his life — the one above quoted, which, after all, speaks 
 vaguely and confusedly ; the other is an elegy by Andres Carlos de 
 Balmaseda, which mentions his sailing with the Armada, and his two 
 marriages. But it tells nothing new. One or two others recount some 
 anecdotes of his old age to prove his charity and piety. 
 J " Sirvii'i Jacob los siete largos afios, 
 
 breves, si al fin, qual la esperanza fuera.
 
 LOPE DE VEGA. 203 
 
 " When snows before the genial breath of spring 
 Dissolve — and our great Mother reassumes 
 Her robe of green ; the meadow breathes perfumes, 
 Loud sings the thrush, the birds are on the wing, 
 The fresh grass grows, the young lambs feed at will. 
 But not to thee, my heart, doth nature bring 
 The joy that this sweet season should instil : 
 Thou broodest alway on thy cherished ill. 
 Absence is no sore grief — it is a glass, 
 Wherein true love from falsehood may be known ; 
 Well may the pain be borne which hath an end ; 
 But woe to him whose ill-plarcd hopes attend 
 Another's life, and who till th.nt shall pass 
 In hopeless expectation wastes his own."* 
 
 These sonnets are two among many, all addressed to 
 a lady whom he calls Lucinda. Generally speaking, 
 they treat only of her cruelty and his sufferings : 
 there is no date given to certify at what period they 
 were \vritten ; but they were published in l604, 
 during the life of his second wife — with whom there 
 is every proof that he lived in harmony, and he would 
 never have pained her by publishing his desire for her 
 death. This circumstance renders it conclusive that 
 they referred to the passions of his youth. 
 
 The " Dorotea" is indeed a singular performance, and 
 we have read it with some care to discover what it contains 
 that gives the idea that he shadowed forth himself. And 
 
 & Lia goza — y ft Rachel cspera 
 
 otros siete despues, lloranao engafios, 
 
 a»si guardan palabra los estranos. , 
 
 Pero in efecto vive, y considera 
 
 que la podra gozar antes tjue muera, 
 
 y quo luvicron teruiino sus dafios ; 
 
 trisie de mi, sin limite que mida 
 
 lo (|ue un engaiio al sufrimiento cuesta, 
 
 y >in riinedii) que el agravio pida . 
 
 Ay <le aquel alma a paducer dispuesta 
 
 que e-i>era su It.ichfl en la otra vida, 
 
 y ticne u I.ia para sienipre en csta." 
 
 I'arlr I. de Ins Himat Ifiimnnas de Lope 
 ttc Vena, mn. Soneto v. 
 • " Quanilo la Madrc antigun reverdeze, 
 bello pastor, y a <|Uanto \iv(' aplaze, 
 quandri en agua la riieve se dchazo, 
 
 }inr el sol <jue I'U el Aries resplandeze, 
 a yerba nai-e, la naiida crece, 
 canta el tilgucri), el rorderilio pace, 
 tu |)e('hi) a (|ui('n ku pena nalisface 
 del general conlento »e entrintecc. 
 No V* mucho inal la aukencla quees opcjo 
 lie In rierta verd.id (t la fiiigida ; 
 Hi enpera fm, ninguiia |K-nn en pen.*). 
 ; Ay del que tiene jhit iiu nial coiifiejo 
 Kl rerni'ilio iin|Hi<>ible tip mi vida 
 Kn la etpvranza de la mucrte agcna! " Ibid. Soneto xi.
 
 204 LITER AHY AND SCIENTIFIC JIEN. 
 
 we will p;ive some account of the work, which diffuse and 
 tedious, will hardly attract the reader, but which at 
 least presents a vivid picture of Spanish manners, and 
 if relating to Lope himself, must be regarded with in- 
 creased interest. ^Vc must premise that though this 
 work was one of the last that he published, and that he 
 mentions it as the favourite his of old age*, yet that it 
 was written at Valencia in his youth. t 
 
 "Dorotea" is not a play; it is a story told in dia- 
 logue, a sort of composition which has lately been named 
 " Dramatic Scenes." It is in prose, .with a few poems 
 interspersed. It is, as usual, very diffuse, and even inco- 
 herent and obscure in parts, and contains the story 
 of the intrigues of a young man, whom it has been con- 
 jectured Lope intended for himself. 
 
 Don Fernando, the hero of the piece, says of himself 
 that his parents dying, and leaving him in poverty, he 
 went to the Indies to try his fortune, but not prospering 
 he returned to Madrid, where he was hospitably received 
 by a rich relation. This lady had in her house a daughter 
 and a niece ; with the niece, named Marfisa, Fernando 
 fell, in some sort, in love. Unfortunately she was obliged 
 to marry a gentleman of some rank and merit, but aged. 
 The lovers parted with tears ; but the marriage was of 
 short duration, the husband dying soon after. Meanwhile 
 Fernando, on the very day of Marfisa's wedding, was 
 introduced to Dorothea. He was then, he tells us, two- 
 and-twenty, Dorothea fifteen, and beautiful beyond de- 
 scription. They seemed formed for each other, and 
 though they now met for the first time, yet they felt 
 as if they had known one another for years. 
 
 Dorothea was already married, but her husband was 
 far away in India. She was courted by a foreign prince, 
 whom she coquetted with, giving him large hopes, and 
 slight favours. This powerful rival Fernando at length 
 
 * " Postuma de mis Musas Dorotea, 
 y por (licha de mi la mas querida, 
 ultima de mi vida 
 publica liiz dcsoa, 
 desea el sol de rayns de oro Ueno 
 entre la niebla de Guzman el Bueno." 
 
 Ecloga d Claudia. 
 t Prologo del Editor.
 
 LOPE DE VEGA. 205 
 
 gets rid of: but he suffers from another evil, the evil of 
 poverty; and the thoughts engendered by want of money 
 fill hira with melancholy. Dorothea observes his sadness, 
 and he confesses its cause ; she promises at once to give 
 up all feasts and amusements, and sends to his house 
 her jewels and plate in two coffers. He disposes of these, 
 and even so draws on his mistress's resources, that she 
 is obliged to deny herself fitting dress, and to betake 
 herself to unaccustomed labour for her maintenance. 
 
 This lasted for five years ; and the piece begins at this 
 period, when an officious neighbour, Gerarda (who is 
 set on by don Bella, a Creole, who is another and a rich 
 admirer of Dorothea) attacks Theodora, the mother of 
 Dorothea, on the scandal the neighbours promulgate 
 with regard to her daughter's life. Theodora is alarmed, 
 and commands Dorothea to see Fernando no more. She, 
 in despair, hurries (accompanied by her maid) to his 
 house, to impart the sad intelligence. Fernando takes it 
 very coolly, and dismisses her in a manner to make her 
 believe that he no longer loves. But when she is gone, 
 he falls into a transport of despair; and partly piqued at 
 her daring to think of obeying her mother, and partly 
 too miserable to stay longer in a town where he may no 
 longer behold her, he resolves to quit Madrid, and go to 
 Seville. Being in want of means, he ajjplies to his old 
 friend Marfisa; and truniitiiig up a story of having killed 
 a man, and being obliged to fly (which, he says, is true, 
 fiince he himself was dead, and at tiie same time obliged 
 to absent himself), Marfisa gives him " the gold she 
 possessed, and the jjcarls of her tears ; " and thus en- 
 riched, Fernando departs for Seville. 
 
 Dorothea remaius: she talks of her lover, and lier 
 hard fate, with her maid (eiia. Among other things, 
 C'elia Bays, " The scMhdul that arose was greatly occa- 
 sioned by Fernando writing verses in his lady's jjiaise." 
 Dorothea re[)lieH, '• \\ hat greater riches can a woman 
 posReBH, than to have herself iuimortaliscd? Her beauty 
 fades, l)ut the verses written in lier honour are eternal 
 witnesses of it. 'llic Diana of Montemayor was a lady
 
 20(5 LITERARY AND SCIKNTIFIC MEN. 
 
 of Valencia; and the river Ezia and herself are immor- 
 taliseil by his pen. And the same has happened to the 
 rhilida of Montalvo, the Galatea of Cervantes, the Ca- 
 niila of (larcilaso, the Violantc of Camoens, the Silvia of 
 Bernaldes, the Philis of Figueroa, and the Leonora of 
 Corte-real." But though Dorothea loves Fernando, and 
 is grateful for his verses, she proves false, and admits to 
 her favour his rich rival, don lielia. 
 
 Meanwhile Fernando, unable to endure his absence 
 from her, returns. They meet by accident, and Do- 
 rothea feels all her affection revive. She exclaims on 
 the cruelty of her mother, and the misery of her fate, 
 and then intimates her falsehood. " All were against 
 me," she says ; " my mother with ill usage, Gerarda with 
 flattery, you by leaving me, and a cavalier by persuading 
 me." However, notwithstanding this, they are for a 
 time in some sort reconciled, liut Fernando becomes cold 
 and uneasy ; assured that Dorothea loves him, he grows 
 indifferent ; certain of her falsehood, he is annoyed : 
 he fancies that his honour is injured in the eyes of the 
 world by his toleration, and he resolves to break with 
 her. lie sees in jNIarfisa the love of his early years. 
 " We had been brought up together," he says ; " but 
 although it is true that she was the object of my first 
 attachment in the early season of my youth, her unlucky 
 marriage, and the beauty of Dorothea, caused me to 
 forget her charms as much as if I had never seen them. 
 She returned home after the untimely death of her 
 husband ; and she regarded me with eyes of favour, but 
 I vainly tried to admire her : yet I resolved to cultivate 
 my attachment for her without giving up Dorothea. 
 She (Dorothea) perceived a change, but attributed it to 
 my honour being offended by the pretensions of don 
 Bella ; and in this she was right, since for that cause I 
 had resolved to hate her. She indeed would have been 
 willing to love me alone, but that was impossible — her 
 fortunes forbade it." 
 
 Meanwhile an unlucky encounter with his rival, to 
 whom he is forced to give way, rouses him to revenge
 
 LOPE DE VEGA. 207 
 
 against Dorothea ; and fate puts the occasion in his 
 hands. By mistake he sends her a letter from Martisa to 
 himself; a violent quaiTel ensues; and they part to meet 
 no more. A friend of Fernando prophesies to him the 
 sequel of these disasters ; he tells him that he will be per- 
 secuted by Dorothea and her mother, and thrown into 
 prison, but afterwards liberated and banished ; before 
 this he will have become attached to a young lady, 
 whom he will marry to the discontent of the relations 
 on both sides. She will accompany him in his banish- 
 ment with great constancy and love, but will die. He 
 will then return to Madrid, Dorothea being then a 
 •widow, and will wish to marry him, but his honour has 
 more influence over him than her riches, and he will 
 refuse her. He will afterwards be very unfortunate in 
 love, but by help of prayer will extricate himself, and 
 enter another state of life. Marfisa will again marry a 
 literary man, who will leave the kingdom with an honour- 
 able employment, but she will soon again be a widow, 
 and then marrying a Spanish soldier, she will be very un- 
 happy, and at' cbe assassinated by her husband in a fit 
 of jealousy. Fernando is astonished at these prophecies, 
 and announces his intention of joining the Invincible 
 Armada. Dorothea, on her side, is teaching herself no 
 longer to love him ; she breaks his portrait, and burns 
 his letters. But while she is looking forward to hap- 
 piness with don Bella, he is killed in a duel. She 
 rushes out in despair, and Gcrarda falls into a well, 
 and is drowned. " And thus ends Dorotiiea," says 
 the author, " the rest being only the misfortunes of 
 PYriiando ; the poet could not fail in tlie truth, for the 
 story is true. Look at the exani|)lf, fur which end it is 
 written." 
 
 All this strange medley of a story is tolil in dialogue, 
 mucli of which is sjjirited and natural, but mucii, very 
 much, pedantic, anrl beyond expression tedious. By 
 some niians, despite her misconduct, we are interested 
 in Dorothea; she is so frank, so beautiful, so generous; 
 while Fernando is, on the contrary, an object of con-
 
 208 LITERARY AND SCIKNTIFIC BIKN. 
 
 tempt. lie talces tlie money of Dorothea, and then angry 
 at the tirst mention she makes of her mother's inter- 
 ference, he flies from her rather in revenge than in 
 grief: throughout he is selfish and ungenerous. 
 
 A\'hether Lope shadowed fortli himself is very doubt- 
 ful. There is a sort of dwelling upon trifies, and a reality 
 in the situations, that makes the whole look as if it were 
 founded on fact ; yet the facts do not accord with the 
 circumstances known of \us life. If it be himself that 
 he portrays, it is himself at two or three and twenty, 
 in the first inexperienced dawn of life, in all the hey- 
 day of the passions, when love was life, and moral 
 considerations and the softer affections still lingered far 
 behind in the background. To this period he often 
 alludes in his epistles, when he mentions the troubled 
 sea of love in which he was lost before his second 
 marriage ; from which period he dates his peace and 
 felicity. And all this together proves to us that his 
 allusions to an unfortunate attachment have no reference 
 to that happier time. We deduce also from this various 
 evidence that his taking up the life of a soldier, and 
 joining the Armada, arose from his desire to fly from 
 the adversity he had fallen into, " to change clime and 
 element," to begin a new career, in the hope of be- 
 coming a new man. Montalvan strengthens this view, 
 when he says that this enterprise was undertaken in a 
 fit of desperation, when he was desirous of finishing life 
 and its sorrows at the same time; and thus driven by 
 adversity, he enlisted under the banners of the duke of 
 Medina Sidonia. Leaving Madrid, he traversed Spain 
 to Cadiz, and tlience repaired to Lisbon, where he em- 
 barked with a brother, who was an alferez de marina, 
 a title probably answering to our midshipman, unless it 
 be that he was ensign in a marine corps. Lope was a 
 simple volunteer.* 
 
 * Tn his epistle to don Antonio dc Mendoza, Lope alludes to his 
 military life, but without assi(»iiing any cause (or its assumption. " True 
 it is," he says, " that in early life I left my country and friends to en- 
 counter the vicissitudes of war. I sailed "n a wide sea towards foreign 
 lands — where I served first with my sword, before I described events with 
 my pen. My inclinations caused nie to break off the career of arms, and 
 the Muses gave me a more tranquil life."
 
 LOPE DE VEGA. 209 
 
 It is well known with what sanguine expectations of 
 glorious victory the Invincible Armada sailed. The priva- 
 teering or piratical expeditions of Drake and Hawkins 
 though in accordance with the manners of the times, and, 
 indeed, disgracefully imitated in late years, had excited 
 feelings full of burning animosity and fierce vengeance 
 in the hearts of the Spaniards. Added to these natural 
 feelings, was the odium of English heresy, which, deep 
 rooted and rankling in Philip ll.'s heart, was partici- 
 pated in by his subjects ; they considered the expedition 
 of the Armada as holy, as well as patriotic. Lope felt the 
 full force of these sentiments ; he bade the invincible 
 fleet go forth and burn the world ; wind would not be 
 wanting to the sails, nor fire to the artillery, for his 
 breast, he said, would supply the one, and his sorrow 
 the other. Such was his ardour and such his sighs. 
 
 Twelve of the largest vessels, according to the fa- 
 vourite Spanish custom, were named after the twelve 
 apostles. Lope's brother had a commission in the 
 galleon San Juan, and he embarked on board the 
 same vessel. In accordance with the crusading spirit 
 of the expedition, all persons sailing in it were called 
 upon to be duly shriven, and receive the sacrament 
 with humility and repentance ; and the general order 
 went on to forbid all blasphemy against God, our Lady, 
 and the saints ; all gambling, all quarrels, all duels. 
 Lope felt the enthusiasm of such an hour, and of such a 
 character : a soldier of God going to relieve many contrite 
 spirits oppressed' by heretics, — a patriot about to avenge 
 the disasters brought on his country by her enemies. 
 
 Lope gives -in animated d(scri|)tion of the setting 
 forth of the Armada, — its drums and clarions, its gay 
 ])enriant8, the ploughing up of the waves by the keels, 
 and the gathering together of the busy crews.* Of 
 
 • There 1( a very olxcure xtariza rollowiiif; thm, it runs thus : 
 
 " 6 yuien tc dixern clic al exc-iito labio, 
 que a|>ona.i ilo un cabcllu ac ufciidia, 
 amnnciera dia 
 de tan |M'«a<lo auravir) 
 (|Uo culiirrto d I' II li'Vf aKraili>ciila? 
 ; 110 icpainot Si fu c tonicla vida!" 
 
 VOL. III. P
 
 210 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 himself, he says that Aristotle slept, with matter, forms, 
 causes, and accidents ; but he was not idle ; and in 
 another work, he mentions that in this expedition, in 
 which, for a few years, he followed the career of 
 arms, " my inclination prompted me to use my pen, 
 and the general tinished his enterprise when I did mine ; 
 for there, on the waters upon the deck of the San Juan, 
 beneath the banners of the Catholic king, I wrote, 
 ' The Beauty of Angelica.' " Thus, amidst storms and 
 disasters, when his brother died in his arms, struck by 
 a ball in a skirmish with the Dutch at the very com- 
 mencement of the expedition ; while the ships around 
 them were a prey to winds, and waves, and the enemy; 
 and the fury of the violent tempests spread destruction 
 around. Lope wrapped himself in his imagination, and 
 beguiled his sorrows and anxieties by the pleasures 
 of composition. " The Beauty of Angelica" is a con- 
 tinuation of Ariosto's poem. The Italian leaves the 
 heroine on her road to Cathay, and Lope brings them 
 to Spain. His tale is unconnected. Carried away by 
 Spanish difFusencss, he frames neither plot nor story, 
 but rambles on as his fancy leads. It opens with 
 the marriage of Lido, a king of Andalusia with Clori- 
 narda, a daughter of the king of Fez, who, meanwhile, 
 loves Cardiloro, a son of Mandricardo and Doralice ; 
 a pair familiar to all the readers of Ariosto. The 
 unhappy bride dies of grief, and her husband follows 
 her to the tomb, leaving his kingdom to the most 
 beautiful, he that either man or woman. The judges 
 sit in judgment, and give their stupid opinions, on 
 which Lope exclaims — 
 
 In the Quarterly Review this is translated. " Who would have thought 
 that this chin which had scarcely a hair upon it, should have somtimes 
 been found in the morning so shagged with snow that it might have been 
 mistaken for a comet? " 'I'his is obviously wrong. He alludes to his youth 
 at the time of sailing with the Armada, and his age at the time of writing 
 the eclogue to Claudio ; and the swiftness with which the interval had 
 passed. " Who could have told thee that there should come a day when 
 the lip then scarcely deforinerl by a hair, should be so heavy covered with 
 welcome snow (his beard turned white), [ind that so swiftiy that], we do 
 not know whether it was a comet or iilc? ' Nothing, however, can be 
 so ill cxorcesed and obscure.
 
 LOPE DE VEGA. 211 
 
 " O dotards ! through your spectacles who pry, 
 
 And ask the measure of a lovely face ; 
 Measure the influence of a woman's eye, 
 
 And ye may then I ween compute the space; 
 That intervenes between the earth and sky."* 
 
 Many candidates arrive, — the old and ugly and de- 
 crepit, leaving their homes, and braving every danger, — 
 to claim the reward of beauty. Among them, but sur- 
 passing all in charms, Angelica and Aledoro appear. 
 Angelica is described with the greatest minuteness, — 
 brow^ eyes, nose, ears, and teeth are all depicted. But 
 more beautiful than this sort of Mosaic portraiture are 
 the verses that portray her companion, 
 
 " Scarce twenty years had seen the lovely boy. 
 As ringlet locks and yellow down proclaim ; 
 Fair was his height, and grave to garers seemed 
 Those eyes, which where they turned with love and softness beamed." 
 
 The judges decide in favour of Angelica, and she 
 and her husband are crowned. But their beauty gives 
 rise to many a passion in the bosoms of others ; and 
 various are the incidents, brought about by enchantments 
 and other means, which for a time disunite the beautiful 
 pair, who, at last, discover their mistakes, and the poem 
 ends with their happiness. This work possesses little 
 merit, except here and there in short passages ; but it 
 is a singular specimen of Lope's power of composition, 
 amidst circumstances so foreign to the subject in 
 haiid. 
 
 On his return from the Armada, he quitted the 1590. 
 career of arms, and entered the service, first, of the ilitat 
 marquis de Malpica, and soon after of the count of -^• 
 Lemos, leaving him only on occasion of his second 
 marriage to donna Juana dc Guardio, a lady of Ma- 
 drid, of whom he thus speaks : — 
 
 " Who rnuld have thought that I ohould find a wife. 
 When fnim that war I reached my native shore. 
 
 Sweet for the love which ruled her life, 
 Dear for the norrowj which »he txire 'i 
 
 Such love which could endure through cold and hot. 
 
 Could only have been mine or Jacob'* lot." \ 
 
 • Quarterly Review, vol xviil. 
 iu:loga k Claudio. Quarterly Review, xviil. 
 
 P 2
 
 212 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN, 
 
 The sorrows to which Lope alludes, we conjecture to 
 have arisen from straitened means. He brought out a 
 vast quantity of plays at this time, and received no 
 scanty remuneration ; still he was not risen to the 
 zenith of his fame, when on every side he received 
 donations and pensions. He was extravagant we know, 
 and prodigality might easily produce a gap between liis 
 expenses and his chance receipts as an author. Tiiis 
 view is strengthened by his dedication of his play " El 
 Verdadero Amante," The True Lover, to his little son 
 Carlos. This was not published till l620, but must 
 have been written long previous, as Carlos died before 
 (how long, we know not) I6O9, and is dedicated to him 
 while he was learning the rudiments of the Latin lan- 
 (/naijp. He bids him follow his studies without imped- 
 ing them with poetry, because he who had addicted 
 himself to it was ill rewarded. He continues — " I 
 possess only, as you know, a poor house, with table and 
 establishment in proportion, and a small garden, whose 
 flowers divert my cares and inspire me with ideas. I 
 have written 9OO plays, and twelve volumes on various 
 subjects in prose and verse, so that the printed will 
 never equal in quantity the unprinted ; and I have ac- 
 quired enemies, critics, quarrels, envy, reprehension, and 
 cares ; having lost precious time, and arrived nearly at 
 old age without leaving you any thing but this useless 
 advice." Notwithstanding this repining. Lord Holland 
 is probably right in supposing that the years of Lope's 
 second marriage were the happiest of his life, though, 
 perhaps, he felt at the commencement some pecuniary 
 embarrassments. Through life he was extravagant, and 
 on first setting out as an author might easily be in debt; 
 yet, as he rose in fame his fortunes mended, and affec- 
 tion and content enshrined the family circle. 
 
 The period of his domestic hap{)iness did not last 
 long. At six years old, his little son died ; his wife 
 soon followed her child to the tomb, and Lope was left 
 with two daughters.* From his own pen we give an 
 
 * Montalvan and the other biographers mention only one daughter, 
 Feliciana, the child of his second wife. The reader will presently see
 
 I.OPK DE VEGA. 213 
 
 account of his wedded happiness, and his grief when 
 his home again became desolate. In the Eclogue to 
 Claudio, he says : — 
 
 " I saw a group my board surround. 
 
 And sure to me, though poorly spread, 
 'T was rich with such fair objects crowned — 
 
 Dear bitter presents of my bed ! 
 I saw them pay their tribute to the tomb. 
 And scenes so cheerful change to mourning and to gloom." 
 
 In addition to this affecting picture, he makes fre- 
 quent mention of these circumstances in his epistles, 
 and we subjoin extracts, which we are sure must in- 
 terest the reader. 
 
 One of these epistles is addressed to doctor Mathias 
 de Porras, who had been appointed corregidor of the 
 province of Canta in Peru. These epistles are in verse ; 
 but as their length is great, the abstract made from 
 them might as well be in prose : — 
 
 " Since you left me, Senor Doctor, and without dying 
 ■went to the other world, I have passed my life in me- 
 lancholy solitude; the evils of my lot increasing in 
 proportion to the blessings of which you saw me deprived. 
 Did not my new office (of priest) give me breath, the 
 prop of my years would fall to the ground. O vain 
 hopes ! How strange are tlie roads that life passes 
 through, as each day we acquire new delusions !" He 
 then goes on to speak of his early loves and sor- 
 rows, and of the power of beauty, and continues, 
 " But the vicissitudes of a life of passion were then 
 over, and my heart was liberated from its importuning 
 annoyances, when each morning I saw the dear and sin- 
 cere face of my sweet wife at my side, and when Carlos 
 — his cheeks all lilies and roses — won my soul by 
 his charming prattle, 'i'lie boy gambolled about me as 
 a young lamb in a meadow at tlie morning hour. The 
 half-formed words of his little tongue were sentences 
 for us, interpreted by our kisses. I gave thanks to 
 
 that we derive our knfiwlodjje of the exintencc of M.ircclla from I.opc 
 himM'If. It M-t-ma probable tliiit nhe wn» the (ifi;pring«f liiH (lr«t niarriane, 
 ■inrr when he •iH'ik* of I'Vliciana aii an liifiint, he iiiciitioii* that Marcela 
 wan fifteen, Miv entered a convent and wan |>erhapii dead when Muntalvan 
 wrote. 
 
 y 3
 
 214 LITEnARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 Eternal AVisdoin, and content with such mornings after 
 such dark nights, I sometimes wept my vain liopes, and 
 believed myself secure — not of life — but of reserving 
 this felicity. I then went to write a few lines, having 
 consulted my books. They called me to eat, but I often 
 bade them leave me, such was the attraction of study. 
 Then bright as flowers and pearls, Carlos entered to call 
 me, and gave light to my eyes and embriices to my 
 heart. Sometimes he took me by the hand, and drcAV 
 me to the table beside his mother. There, doctor, 
 without pomp, an honest and liberal mediocrity gave us 
 sufficing sustenance, liut fierce Death deprived me of 
 this ease, this cure, this hope. I lived no longer to behold 
 that dear society which I imagined mine for ever. Then 
 I disposed my mind for the priesthood, that that asylum 
 might shelter and guard me. The Muses were idle for 
 a time, and I refrained from all things worldly, and 
 humbly attained the sacred stole." 
 
 Another epistle is written under the feigned name of 
 Belardo, the appellation he had assumed in his " Arca- 
 tlia," to Amaryllis.* In this he gives a sketch of portion? 
 of his life. He speaks of his early turn for poetry and his 
 predilection for study, and continues: — " Love, and 
 love ever speaks false, bade me incline to follow him. 
 What then befel me I now feel ; but as I loved a beauty 
 never to be mine, I had recourse to study, and thus the 
 poet destroyed the love that destroyed him. Favoured 
 
 * That unknown ladies should write anonymous lelterstopoetscxprcssive 
 of Iheir admiration and syniiiathy, is, it seems, nomereinodcrn fashion. The 
 epistle Ironi Amaryllis to Helardo, was certainly not written by Lope him- 
 self — it is too lull of enthusiastic praise; and the style is not his. It is 
 well written, and interesting. Amaryllis addnsscs him from the New 
 World. She describes herself as a Creole, born of noble parents, in I'eru. 
 She and her sister were left early orphans — both endowed with beauty 
 and talent. Her sister marries, hut she dedicates herself to a life of 
 celibicy, though she does appear to be a nun; she loves and cultivates 
 poetry. She writes to Lope de Vega to offer her friendship — vim ahiia 
 pura d In volar rcmliiln — nccejitn el flon, <jue jmcili's I'SlimntIo — and to 
 exhort him to write religious poetry; and in |)articular, to celebrate St. 
 Dorothea — a saint hitherto unsung, whoin she and her sister hold in parti- 
 cular reverence. Lope replies with praises of her talents, and enters into 
 a succinct account of his life, from which we have quoted, and says " I 
 have written to you, Amaryllis, more than I tver thought to do concerning 
 myself — this freeiiom proves my fricnd.vliip fur you." lie concludes by in. 
 viting her to celebrate St. Dorothea her^elf, anil bids her immortalise the 
 memory of her heroic ancestors, and bestow on them the eternal laurel ol' 
 ber ijcn
 
 LOPE DE VEGA. 215 
 
 by my stars, I learned several languages, and enriched 
 my own by the knowledge I gained through them. Twice 
 I married ; from which you may gather that I was 
 happy — for no one tries twice a painful thing. I had a 
 son whom my soul lived in. You will know by my 
 elegy that this light of my eyes was called Carlos. 
 Six times did the sun retrocede, equalling day and 
 night, counting thus the time of his birth, when this 
 my sun lost its light. Then expired life that was the 
 life of Jacinta. How mucli better it had been that I 
 had died, than that Carlos in his very morning should 
 encounter so long a night ! Lope remained, if it be 
 Lope who now lives. MarceUa at fifteen obliged me to 
 offer her to God, althouch, and you may believe me, 
 thougli a fatlier's love might be supposed blind, she was 
 neither foolish nor ugly. Feliciana showed me in her 
 words and eyes the image of her lost mother, who died 
 in giving her birth. Her \irtues enforce tears, and 
 time does not cure my sorrow. I left the gaieties of 
 secular life ; I was ordained. Such is my life ; and 
 my desires aspire to a good end only, without extrava- 
 gant pretensions." 
 
 In his epistle to don Francisco de Ilerrera he enlarges 
 oa the vocation of Marcella. " Marcella," he says, 
 " the first care of my heart, thought of marrying, and 
 one evening she spoke freely to me of her betrothed. I, 
 seeing that it was ])ru(lent to examine her wish, since ac- 
 cident might have swayed it, grew attentive ; at the same 
 time that I desired to avoid shaking her intention if it 
 were founded in the truth of her heart. l?ut her 
 anxiety increasing each day, 1 resolved to give her the 
 husband to whom she aspired with so much love." He 
 then exjiiains the Son of God to be her bridegroom — 
 vows of chastity her nuptial benediction. He describes 
 the whole ceremony of lier taking the veil. Tlie mar- 
 chioness de la Tela was her godmother ; the duke of 
 Sesa and many otlier nobles being ])resent. Horteiisio 
 preached the sermon. " She asked me," he says, 
 " leave to conclude the marriage, and she wliom 1 had 
 
 ,. 1.
 
 21 6 LITEKARY ANH SCIENTIFIC JIEN. 
 
 loved, and whose lovely person I had adorned more like 
 a lover than a father, in gold and silk — like a rose 
 that fades and falls to pieces at the close of day, losing 
 the poni]) of her crimson leaves — now sleeps upon 
 rough straw, and barefoot and ill clad sits at a poor 
 table." 
 
 The dates of the various events of Lope's life are 
 very uncertain, and none more so than that of his 
 second marriage. He mentions it as happening soon 
 after his return from the expedition to England. Yet he 
 speaks of taking orders soon alter his wife's death, and 
 lie took orders 1609. The term of his second marriage, 
 however, endured only for eight years. It would there- 
 fore appear that several years elapsed after his return to 
 Madrid before he married a second time. As diligent a 
 researcher as M. Viardot in old parish books and official 
 documents, would clear up this obscurity. As it is, we 
 can only give the facts, as we find them stated_, obscurely. 
 
 The effect of his bereaved condition was, as has been 
 mentioned, to induce him to take vows, and be ordained. 
 He prepared himself, by retiring from gay society, as- 
 sumed a priestly dress, served in hosjiitals, and performed 
 many acts of charity ; and finally, visiting Toledo, took 
 orders, and said his first mass in a Carmelite church. 
 He entered a fraternity of priests dedicated to the per- 
 formance of good works and the assistance of the poor, 
 and fulfilled his duties zealously, so that he became 
 named head chaplain, and was as generous as conscien- 
 tious in the exercise of his office. To his other racred 
 employments he added that of being a familiar of the in- 
 quisition. His piety, which was catholic and excessive, 
 led to this ; but it is a painful circumstance, in our times 
 especially, when we are told that he presided over the 
 procession of the confraternity of familiars of the holy 
 office, on the occasion of an unto da fi', when a relapsed 
 Lutheran was burned alive. We feel sure that Cervantes 
 would never have been led to a similar act. 
 
 Meanwhile his reputation as an author was rising to 
 that height which it afterwards reached. In 1598, the
 
 LOPE nE VEGA. 217 
 
 canonisation of St. Isidro, a native of Madrid, was the 
 occasion of prizes being given to the authors of verses 
 written in his honour. Each style of poetry gained its re- 
 ward, but above one could not be gained by the same per- 
 son. Lope succeeded in the hymns ; but he had tried in all. 
 He wrote a poem of ten cantos in short verse, number- 
 less sonnets and ballads, and two comedies. These were 
 published under the feigned name of Tome de Bur- 
 guilos, and are among the best of Lope's compositions. 
 Already his dramas were in vogue, and the public were 
 astonished by their number and excellence. In this 
 yearalso he pubUshedthe "Arcadia," written long before. 
 Afterwards he published others of his younger produc- 
 tions ; for it is singular that he printed nothing while a 
 very young man, and that he had established his repu- 
 tation by his plays before he deluged the world with his 
 lyric and epic poetry. The " Hermosura de Angelica" 
 did not see light till iHOl-; and thus was it with many 
 other of his productions, which he wrote probably at \'a- 
 lencia during his exile, and which when he found profit 
 by so doing, he bestowed on the public. 
 
 The reputation he attained awakened the enmity of 
 rivals and critics, ^\'hen Cervantes published " Don 
 Quixote," in 16"05, Lope was risen high in popular esti- 
 mation ; he was generally applauded — almost adored. The 
 abundance and facility of liis verses, and the amiableness 
 of his character, were in part the occasion of this ; but the 
 eminent cause was his theatre, which we delay considering, 
 not too much to interrupt the thread of iiis history, but 
 whose originality, novelty, vivacity, and adaptation to the 
 Spanish taste, secured un|)aralle!ed success. Cervantes 
 (lid not feel the merits of his innovations, and lie con- 
 hidered himself also the unacknowledged originator of 
 many of the improvements attributed to Lope. We have 
 Keen in what Cervantes's dramatic pretensions consisU'd — 
 high wrought and impassioned scenes connected, not by 
 the intricacies of a methodical plot, but by the simple 
 texture of their causes and eflects, such as we find in 
 life itself, lie felt that he had written well; lie was
 
 218 UTEHAIIY AND SCIENTIFIC MKN. 
 
 unwilling to acknowlcdp;e that Lope wrote better, nor 
 (lid he, as a master of the hunuui heart, and as pre- 
 senting more affectinp; situations; but he did, as compre- 
 hending and rei)resonting more to the life the manners 
 and feelings of his day. Cervantes easily perceived the 
 faults of his rival ; he discovered his incongruities, and 
 noted the vanity or cupidity which made him more 
 abundant than correct, and the currying to the depraved 
 taste of the times, through a desire of popularity. In 
 short, Lope was not perfect, but he had something that 
 while he lived stood in the stead of perfection — he hit 
 the public taste ; he sui)plied it with ever fresh and ever 
 delightful food ; he pleased, he interested, he fascinated. 
 To act posterity, and judge coolly of his works, was an 
 invidious task ; and though it was natural that a man so 
 profound and sagacious as Cervantes should be impelled 
 so to do, yet, by attacking him and proving him in the 
 wrong, he could not weaken his influence, while he made 
 an enemy. There is a sonnet against Lope attributed 
 to him, of which the point is not acute ; but it dis- 
 plays contempt for his pastorals and epics, and sar- 
 castically alludes to his superabundant fertility. How- 
 ever, it is more than probable that Cervantes did not 
 write this sonnet ; for ho wrote in praise of Lope in other 
 works, and it was unlike the noble disposition of that 
 single-hearted and excellent man to have contradicted 
 himself. Still less likely is it that Lope wrote the answer. 
 It is vulgarly abusive and ridiculously assuming : he 
 calls Cervantes the horse to Lope's carriage ; bids him 
 do Lope honour, or evil will betide him ; and sums up by 
 saying that " Don Quixote" went about the world in 
 wrappers to parcels of spices. It looks more like the 
 spurt of an over-zealous disciple than of a man of Lope's 
 judgment and character.* 
 
 His war with Gongora was of a more grave descrip- 
 tion, and we defer farther mention of it till in the life of 
 Gongora we give some account of his poetic system. 
 Meanwhile Lope rose higher and higher in the estima- 
 
 • Pellicer.
 
 LOPE DE VEGA. 219 
 
 tion of the public. There is scarcely an example on record 
 of similar popularity. Grandees, nobles, ministers, pre- 
 lates, scholars — all solicited his acquaintance. Men came 
 from distant lands to see him ; women stood at their 
 balconies as he passed, to behold and applaud him. On 
 all sides he received presents ; and we are even told that 
 when he made a purchase, if he were recognised, the 
 seller refused payment. His name passed into a pro- 
 verb ; it became a synonyme for the superlative degree, 
 — a Lope diamond, a Lope dinner, a Lope woman, a 
 Lope dress, was the expression used to express perfection 
 in its kind. All this might well compensate for attacks; 
 yet as these were founded in truth, and he must some- 
 times have dreaded a reaction of poj)ularity, he felt at 
 times nettled and uneasy. His part was, however, \ci6. 
 warmly taken by his adherents. Their intolerance was iEtat. 
 such that they gravely asserted that the author of the 54. 
 " Spongia," who had severely censured his works and ac- 
 cused him of ignorance of the Latin language, deserved 
 death for his heresy.* 
 
 His works were more numerous than can be 
 imagined. Each year he gave some new poem to 
 the press ; each month, and sometimes every week, 
 he brought out a play; and these at least were of 
 recent composition, though the former consisted fre- 
 quently in tiie productions of his early years, corrected 
 and finished. He tried every species of writing, and 
 became celebrated in all. His hymns and sacred poems 
 secured him the respect of the clergy, and showed his 
 zeal in the profession he had embraced. When Philip IV. 
 came to the crown, he immediately heajied new honours 
 on Lo|)e ; for Philip was a patron of the stage ; and 
 several plays of considerable merit, published as written lfi21 
 " By a Wit of the Court" (I'or un Ingeiiio de esta iTliat 
 Corte), are ascrilwd to him. Lope published at this •^-'• 
 time his novels, imitated from Cervantes — whom he 
 graciouxly acknowledges to have displayed some grace 
 and ease of style, and whom he by no means succeeds in 
 
 • Lord IloltanU.
 
 220 LITERAHY AND SClKJfTIFIC SIEN. 
 
 rivallinp; — and several poems — which that they were 
 ever read is a sort of miracle ; and the Lope mania 
 must have been vehement indeed that could gift readers 
 with i);itience for his diffiiseness. 
 
 Still the taste was genuine, (though it seems tons per- 
 verted), as is proved by a rather dangerous experiment 
 which he made. He published a poem without his 
 name, for the sake of trying the public taste. It 
 succeeded ; and the favour with which his unacknow- 
 ledged " Soliloquies on God," were received must have 
 inspired him with great reliance on his own powers. 
 The death of the unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots at 
 this time spread a very general sensation of pity for her 
 and hatred for her rival through Spain. Lope made it 
 the subject of a poem, which he called the Corona Tra- 
 gica, which he dedicated to pope Urban VIIL; who 
 thanked him by a letter written in his own hand, and by 
 the degree of doctor of theology. This was the period 
 of his greatest glory. Cardinal Barberini followed him in 
 the streets ; the king stopped to look at him as he passed ; 
 and crowds gathered round him whenever he appeared. 
 
 The quantity of his writings is incredible. It is 
 calculated that he printed one million three hundred 
 thousand lines, and this, he says, is a small part of what 
 he wrote. 
 
 " The printed part, thouRh far ton larpc, is less 
 Than that wliich yet unprinteii still remains." * 
 
 Among these it is asserted that 1 800 plays and 400 
 sacramental dramas have been printed. This account 
 long passed as true. Lord Holland detected its fallacy ; 
 and the author of the article in the Quarterly ioUaws 
 up his calculations, and proves the absurdity of the 
 account. lie himself says, in the preface to the ''Arte 
 de Hacer Comedias," that he had brought out 48'}. 
 There are extant 4f)7. Some may be lost certainly, but 
 not so many as this computation would assume. Many 
 
 • The translation is from Lord Holland. The Spanish runs thus: — 
 " Que no es mininio iiarte, aunque es exccso, 
 De lo que esta por iinprimir, lo impreso."
 
 LOPE DE VEGA. 221 
 
 of his pieces for the theatre, indeed, consist of loas and 
 entremeses, small pieces in single acts, which may have 
 been taken in to make up this number, but which do not 
 deserve to rank among plays. 
 
 A\'ith regard to the number of verses he wrote there 
 is also exaggeration. He says he often wrote five sheets 
 a day ; and the most extravagant calculations have been 
 made on this, as if he had written at this rate from the 
 day of his birth, till a month or two after his death. 
 It is evident, however, that the period when he wrote 
 five sheets a day, and a play in the twenty-four hours, 
 was limited to a few years. With all this he is 
 doubtless, even in prolific Spain, the most prolific of 
 writers, and the most facile. Montalvan tells us, that 
 when he was at Toledo, he wrote fifteen acts in fil'teeu 
 days, making five plays in a fortnight ; and he adds an 
 anecdote that fell under his own experience. Roque de 
 Figueroa, a writer for the theatre of Madrid, found him- 
 self on an occasion without any new play, and the doors 
 of his theatre were obliged to be shut — a circumstance 
 which shows the vast ajipetite for novelty that had arisen, 
 and the cause wherefore Lope was induced to write so 
 much, since the public rather desired what was new 
 than what was good. But to return to jMontalvan's story. 
 Being carnival, Figueroa was eager to open his theatre, 
 and Lope and Montalvan agreed to write a play together ; 
 and they brought out the " Tercera Orden <le San 
 Francisco," dividing the labour. Lope took the first act 
 and Montalvan the second, which they completed in two 
 days; and the third they partitioned l)etvveen them, eight 
 pages for each ; and as the weather was bad, ^Montalvan 
 remained all night in Lojjc's bouse. 'I'he scholar finding 
 that he could not equal his master in readiness, wished 
 to surpass him by force of industry, and rising at two in 
 tile morning, finished his part by eleven. He then went 
 to seek Lope, and fouml him in the garden, occupied 
 by an orange-tree, which Ikk! hceii frost-bitten in the 
 night. .Montalvan asked how his verses s|)ceded ? Lojie 
 replied, " 1 began to write at five, and finished the act
 
 222 LITER^VRY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 an hour ago. I breakfasted on some rashers of bacon, 
 and wrote an epistle of fifty triplets, and having watered 
 my garden, I am not a little tired." On this he read 
 his act and his triplets, to the wonder and admiration of 
 his hearer. 
 
 He gained considerable profit by his writings. The 
 presents made him by various nobles amounted to a large 
 sum. His plays and autos, and his various publications, 
 brought him vast receipts. He had received a dowry 
 with each wife. The king bestowed several pensions and 
 chaplaincies. The pope gifted him with various pre- 
 ferments. With all this he was not rich ; his absolute 
 income apparently amounted to only 1500 ducats, and 
 profuse charities and prodigal generosity emptied his 
 purse as fast as it was filled. He spent much on church 
 festivals ; he was hospitable to his friends, extravagant 
 in his purchase of books and pictures, and munificent 
 in his charities, so that when he died he left little behind 
 him. VV^e cannot censure this disposition ; indeed it is 
 inherent in property gained as Lope gained it, to be lost 
 as soon as won ; for being received irregularly, it super- 
 induces irregular habits of expense. That Lope, the 
 observed of all, he to whom nature and fortune had been 
 so prodigal, should have been grasping and avaricious 
 would have grated on our feelings. We hear of his 
 profusion with pleasure : the well-watered soil, if gene- 
 rous in its nature, gives forth abundant vegetation ; the 
 receiver of so much showed the nobility of his mind in 
 freely imparting to others the wealth so liberally be- 
 stowed on him. 
 
 In his epistles and other poems, Lope gives very 
 pleasing pictures of the tranquillity of his life as he 
 advanced in age. Addressing don Fray Placido de 
 Tosantos, he says : " I write you these verses, from 
 where no annoyance troubles me. Myhttle garden in- 
 spires fancies drawn from fruits and flowers, and the 
 contemplation of natural objects." In the epistle before 
 (juoted to Amaryllis, he says, " My books are my life, 
 and humble content my actions — unenvious of the riches
 
 LOPE DE VEGA. 223 
 
 of Others. The confusion sometimes annoys me ; but, 
 though I live in Madrid, I am farther from the court 
 than if I were in Muscovy or Numidia. Sometimes I 
 look upon myself as a dwarf, sometimes as a giant, and 
 I regard both views with indifference ; and am neither 
 sad when I lose, nor joyful when I gain. The man 
 who governs himself well, despises the praise or blame 
 of this short though vile captivity. I esteem the 
 sincere and pure friendship of those who are virtuous 
 and wise; for without virtue, no friendship is secure; and 
 if sometimes my lips complain of ingratitude, this is no 
 crime." To Francisco de Rioja he writes : " My garden 
 is small ; it contains a few trees, and more flowers, a 
 trained vine, an orange tree, and a rose bush. Two 
 young nightingales dwell in it, and two buckets of water 
 form a fountain, playing among stones and coloured 
 shells." " My hopes are fallen," he says in another place, 
 " and my fortune shuts lierself up with me in a nook, 
 filled with books and flowers, and is neither favourable 
 nor inimical to me." In the "Huerto Deshecho," or 
 Destroyed Garden, he gives further testimony of his 
 love for his garden, whicii had just been laid waste by 
 a tempest. He thus addresses his fair retreat : — 
 
 " near solace of my weary sorrow, 
 
 Unhappy garden, thou who slept. 
 Foreseeing not the stormy morrow. 
 
 The while the tear* that ni|<ht had wept, 
 MorninK drank up, and all the flowers awoke, 
 And I the pen that told my thoughts up took. " 
 
 and he goes on bitterly to grieve over the desolation 
 the storm had made. 
 
 If there is a touch of melancholy, and a half-cliccked 
 repining in any of these (juotations, I do not sir that 
 he is to be reprehended. Covered with renown and 
 gifted with riches — it is said, who can l)c happy, if 
 Lope de \ iga wire not? But we must renKinl)Lr that 
 neither wealtli nor fame are in themselves hap|)iness. 
 Lope had tiirough diatli lost tlie dearest objects of life; 
 in a spirit of jtiety he had shut himself out from form- 
 ing others. His heart was the source of his disquiet —
 
 224 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 hut ho had recourse to natural objects for its cure, and 
 often found repose among them. That his disposition 
 was amiable and his temper placid, there is ample proof, 
 lie says of himself, " I naturally love those who love 
 me, and I cannot hate those who hate me ;" and we 
 may believe him : for this is a virtue a man never 
 l)oasts of without possessing it; to a nature formed to 
 hate and to revenge, hatred and revenge seem natural 
 and noble. That he was vain is evident: his sort of 
 character, vivacious, kindly and expansive, tends to 
 vanity. He would have been more than man not to 
 iiave been vain, flattered as he was. Lord Holland men- 
 tions his complaints of poverty, obscurity, and neglect, 
 in the preface to the " Peregrino," but they do not 
 amount to much. He certainly writes in a very ill 
 temper, nettled, it would appear, by some plays having 
 appeared with his name, which were not written by him. 
 There is more of complaint in his poem of the " Huerto 
 Deshecho," one of the most elegant and pleasing of 
 his poems. Alluding to his love of study, he says, 
 " Though that be a work of praise, it Avas but the 
 fatal prelude of the unhappy result of my hopes, since, 
 in conclusion, my verses were given to the winds. 
 Strong philosophy, and retired, but contented old age 
 animate me on my way. If I do not sing, it is enough 
 that others sing what I deplore — devouring time de- 
 stroys towers of vanity and mountains of gold; one only 
 thing, divine grace, suffers no change." 
 
 It is strange, indeed, that he should say that he had 
 given his verses to the winds — but he says himself, 
 
 " No he visto alegre de su bion ninguno— " 
 I ne'er saw man content with what he had. 
 
 Thus he passed many years, living according to the 
 dictates of his conscience, with moderation and virtue ; 
 unmindful of life, but deeply mindful of death, so that 
 he was ever prepared to meet it. His piety indeed was 
 tintred with superstition ; but he was a catholic and 
 a Spaniard, and dwelt fervently on the means of satis- 
 fying the justice of God in this world, so as to secure
 
 LOPE DE VEGA. 225 
 
 a greater stock of happiness in the next. Charitable he 
 was to prodigality ; and as he grew old he used his 
 pen on religious subjects only, repenting somewhat of 
 his labours for the stage. 
 
 His health was good, till, within a very short time 1635. 
 before he died, he fell into a state of hypochondria, -l-tat. 
 which clouded the close of his existence.* His friend, ^•^* 
 Alonzo Perez de Montalvan, seeing him thus melan- 
 choly, asked him to dine with him and a relation, on 
 the day of Transfiguration, which was the Gih of August. 
 After dinner, as all three were conversing on several 
 subjects, he said, that such was the depression of spirits 
 by which he was afflicted that his heart failed him in his 
 body, and that he prayed God to ease him by shortening 
 his life. On which, Juan Perez de JMontalvan (his 
 biographer, friend, and pupil) remarked, " Do not feel 
 thus. I trust in God and in your healthy looks, that this 
 indisposition will pass away, and that we shall see you 
 again in the health you enjoyed twenty years ago." To 
 which Lope replied with some emotion, " Ah, doctor, 
 would to God, I were well over it ! " 
 
 His presentiments were verified : Lope was soon to 
 • lie ; this his feelings foretold, and so prepared him for 
 the event. On the 18th of the same month he rose very 
 early, recited the divine service, said mass in his oratory, 
 watered his garden, and then shut himself up in his 
 study. At mid-day he felt chilled, either from his work 
 among his flowers, or from having, as his servants 
 averred, used the discipline on himself with severity, as 
 was proved by the recent marks of blood being found 
 on the discipline, and staining the walls of the room. 
 Lope was indeed a rigid catholic, as this circumstance 
 proves, and also his refusing to eat any thing but fish, 
 though he had a disi)ensation to eat meat, and it was 
 ordered him during his indisposition. In tlic evening 
 he attended a scientific meeting, but being suddenly 
 taken ill, he was obliged to return home. The pliysi- 
 
 • Montatvan. 
 VOL. III. Q
 
 226 LITERARY AND SCIENTII'IC MEN. 
 
 cians now gathered round with their prescriptions; and 
 it happened that doctor Juan de Negrete, the king's 
 physician, passed through the street, and he was told that 
 Lope de Vega was indisposed, on which he visited him, 
 not as a doctor, as he had not been called in, hut as a 
 friend. lie soon perceived his danger, and intimated 
 that it were better that he should take the sacrament, 
 with the usual excuse, that it was a relief to any one 
 in danger, and could only benefit him if he lived. " If 
 you advise this," said Lope " there must be a necessity ;" 
 and that same night he received the sacrament. Ex- 
 treme unction followed but two hours after. He then 
 called for his daughter, and blessed her, and took leave 
 of his friends as one about to make so long a journey; 
 conversing concerning the interests of those left behind, 
 with kindness and piety. He told Montalvan, that virtue 
 was true fame, and that he would exchange all the ap- 
 plause he had received, for the consciousness of having 
 fulfilled one more virtuous deed ; and followed up these 
 counsels with prayers and acts of catholic piety. He 
 passed the night uneasily, and expired the next day, weak 
 and worn, but alive to a sense of religion and friendship 
 to the last. 
 
 His funeral took place the third day after his death, 
 and was conducted with splendour by the duke of Sesa, 
 the most munificent of his patrons, whom he had named 
 his executor. Don Luis de Usategui, his son-in-law, and 
 a nephew, went as mourners, accompanied by the duke 
 of Sesa and many other grandees and nobles. The 
 clergy of all classes flocked in crowds. The procession 
 attracted a multitude ; the windows and balconies were 
 thronged, and the magnificence was such, that a woman 
 going by, exclaimed, " This is a Lope funeral ! " ignorant 
 that it was the funeral of Lope himself, and so applying 
 his name as expressive of the excess of all that was 
 splendid. The church was filled with lamentation 
 when at last he was deposited in the tomb. For eight 
 days the religious ceremonies were kept up, and on
 
 LOPE DE VEGA. 20-J- 
 
 the ninth, a sermon was preached in his honour, when 
 the church was again crowded with the first people of 
 Spain. 
 
 By his will, his daughter, donna Fehciana de Vega, 
 married to don Luis de Usategui, inherited the moderate 
 fortune he left behind. He added in his will a few lega- 
 cies of pictures, books, and reliques to his friends. 
 
 In person Lope de Vega was tall, thin, and well 
 made ; dark complexioned, and of a prepossessing coun- 
 tenance ; his nose aquiline ; his eyes lively and clear ; 
 his beard black and thick. He had acquired much 
 agility, and was capable of great personal exertion. He 
 always enjoyed excellent health, being moderate in his 
 tastes, and regular in his habits. 
 
 To gather Lope's character from the events of his 
 life, and his accounts of himself, it may be assumed 
 that while young his disposition had all the vivacity of 
 the south — that his passions were ardent, his feelings 
 enthusiastic — that he was heedless and imprudent per- 
 haps, but always amiable and true. Generous to pro- 
 digality — pious to bigotry — patriotic to injustice, he 
 was given to extremes, yet he did not possess the higher 
 qualities, the cheerful fortitude, and fearless temper of 
 Cervantes. 'I'ime and sorrow softened in after times 
 some portions of his character ; but still in his garden, 
 among his flowers and books, he was vivacious, perhaps 
 petulant (for his complaints of neglect are to be attributed 
 to pctulancy rather than to a repining temper) ; warm- 
 hearted, charitable and social, vain he might also be, 
 for that we all are. The activity of his mind resembled 
 more a spontaneous fertility of soil, than tlie exertion 
 of labour : " plays and ])0(try were the flowers of his 
 plain," as he says : and this seems an unexaggerated 
 picture of the ease with Avhich he comjiosed. W'c need 
 scarcely allude to the liyi)f)chondria that darkened his 
 laBt hours, as Montalvan Kenis to niciitioM it as a mere 
 precursor of death. If it were more, it is only another 
 proof that the mind must not work too l-.ard, while it 
 has this fragile body for its itistrument and prop. 
 
 y 2
 
 228 I/ITKRAUY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 In drawing up Lope's character, Montalvan * praises 
 liim as agreeable and unpresuming in conversation. 
 lie was zealous in the affairs of others, careless of his 
 own ; kind to his servants, courteous, gallant and hos- 
 pitable, and exceedingly well bred. His tenijier, he 
 says, was never ruffled but by those who took snuff 
 before company ; with the grey who dyed their locks ; 
 with men who, born of women, spoke ill of the sex ; with 
 priests who believed in gipsies ; and with persons wlio 
 without intentions of marriage asked others their age. 
 Good taste as well as good feeling is displayed in most 
 of these slight intimations of character : it is to be 
 cleanly to dislike to see snuff taken ; it is being unusually 
 just always to speak well of women. 
 
 As no writer ever surpassed him in quantity, so it 
 will be impossible to give a full account of his works. 
 We have already mentioned several : — His "Arcadia," 
 the production of his youth, which may be considered the 
 best of such of his writings as are not dramas ; — 
 " The Beauty of Angelica," is chiefly remarkable as 
 showing how superior the Italian romantic poets are to 
 any that Spain has produced. The " Dragontea" is 
 another poem of which Sir Francis Drake is the hero, 
 and the poet has not been sparing of vituperation. It 
 is founded on the last expedition of Drake, when, to 
 revenge the armada, and to inflict a deep blow on the 
 Spanish power, injured by the destruction of its fleet, 
 he scoured the Spanish coast, and did immense injury 
 to the shipping. The poem of Lope is very patriotic ; 
 the hatred felt in Spain for the English queen was fu- 
 rious and personal; the marriage of Philip II. with 
 
 *,\Vecannot take leave of Montalvan without saying something of his 
 nnerit^as an author, anM noticing his career. He was repardeil by Lope as his 
 favourite pupil and friend. He was notary to the inquisition. At the 
 age of seventeen he wrote plays in the style of his friend and teacher, and 
 continued to write after the death of Lope, with an assiduity and speed 
 that rivalled him. He died in Ki.'J!t, at the age of thirty-five only ; and had 
 already written nearly a hundred comedies and autos as well as seve- 
 ral novels. These la-,t are imaginative and entertaining. His comedies 
 are not so finished nor well arranged as Lojie's, but they have great merit, 
 and indicate still greater powers, had he flouriuhcd in an agewhen such could 
 have been developed, or if he had lived long enough to bring them to' per- 
 fect! on.
 
 LOPE DE VEGA. 229 
 
 bloody queen Mary, having caused much intercourse be- 
 tween the two nation:', and the accession of Elizabeth 
 being the signal of our island again falling off from the 
 Roman CathoUc faith ; all therefore that could be ima- 
 gined of horror for her heresy and wickedness, and that 
 of her ministers, animated the soul, and directed the 
 pen of Lope. 
 
 The " Jerusalem" was his next attempt at an epic ; of 
 this Richard Coeur de Lion is the hero, though the 
 English of course are rendered subordinate to the 
 Spaniards. We have not read it. Lord Holland pro- 
 nounces it a failure ; and the critic of the Quarterly 
 observes, " A failure indeed it is, and a total one ; the 
 plan, when compared to that of the 'Angelica' is as 
 * confusion worse confounded,' — it has neither begin- 
 ning, middle, nor end ; neither method, nor purpose, nor 
 proportion ; and many of the parts might be extirpated, 
 or, what is more extraordinary, might change places 
 without any injury to the whole. But there is more 
 vigour of thought in it, and more felicity of expression 
 than in any other of his longer poems." And thus 
 Spaniards alone write ; with them a poem resembles a 
 pathless jungle: you come to a magnificent tree, a wild 
 and balmy breathing flower, a mossy pathway, and clear 
 bubbling fountain ; and beside these objects you linger 
 a moment, but soon you jilunge again among tangled un- 
 derwood and uncultivated interminable wilds. A\'hen 
 Lope takes a subject in hand he does not follow it up as 
 a traveller who has a bourne in view ; but he scrambles 
 up every mountain, visits every waterfall, and plunges 
 into every cavern ; and like a tourist without a guide in 
 •in unknown country, he often loses his way, and often 
 leads his reader a wild chase after objects, wliich, when 
 reached, were not worth visiting. 
 
 riiis j)rodigality of verse, which caused him to be 
 iiainefl the I'otosi of rhyiius, was indulged in to tlie 
 utmost, when, on the (-anonisation of St. Isidro, lu' en- 
 tered into the lists to win the prize institutt-d for poems 
 in celebration of the event. Isidro hail been elevated 
 
 « 3
 
 230 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 into a saint at the solicitation of Philip III., who had 
 been cured of a fever by the l)0(ly of the defunct mi- 
 racle-maker being brought to him. Every Spanish 
 poet of the age, and they were all but innumerable, 
 entered the lists. There are two volumes of Lope's 
 productions, some in his own name, consisting of a sort 
 of epic, composed in quintillas, or stanzas of five short 
 lines each, a measure more suited to the genius of the 
 Spanish language than longer ones; and a play, and a 
 vast quantity of lyrics given under the name of Bur- 
 guillos. These were all burlesque ; but subsequently 
 Lope continued to adopt the name, and published se- 
 veral poems under it, among others, the " Gatomaquia, 
 or War of Cats," a mock heroic, which is a great fa- 
 vourite in Spain. The " Corona Tragica," a poem written 
 on the death of jVLiry, queen of Scots, brought him an 
 inci'ease of reputation : it is bigoted to the excess of 
 blind Spanish inquisitorial bigotry, and, except in a few 
 passages, does not rise above mediocrity. It is impos- 
 sible to give even a cursory account of Lope's lyrics 
 and sacred poems. The best of the former are to be 
 found in the " Arcadia" and the " Dorotea." 
 
 But it is not on any of these productions that the 
 reputation of Lope really rests. That was founded on his 
 theatre, and on that it must continue to subsist. There 
 he showed himself master of his art : original, fecund, 
 national, universal, true and spirited, he produced a form 
 of dramatic writing that, to this day, rules the stage of 
 every country of the world. 
 
 It was with considerable difficulty that the theatre 
 established itself at all in Spain, the church setting itself 
 against theatrical representations. This prejudice has 
 continued even to modern days. No Spanish monarch 
 since Phihp IV. has entered a theatre; and Philip V., 
 when he found in Farinelli the solace of his jjainful 
 distemper, not only never heard him in a theatre, 
 but caused him to give up the public stage, when he 
 was admitted to sing privately before him. In the early 
 day of which we are writing, the clerical outcry was
 
 LOPE DE VEGA. 
 
 231 
 
 furious, and the drama only became tolerated by mak- 
 ing over the theatres to two religious corporations, one 
 a hospital, and the other of flagellants ; and the wicked- 
 ness of the stage was permitted* for the sake of the 
 benefits to charity and religion to result therefrom. 
 The sites of the theatres then consisted of two open court 
 yards, corraks — corral is the Spanish term for farm- 
 yard, or any enclosure for cattle, and long continued to 
 be synonymous with a theatre. The representations 
 took place at first in the open air. Alberto Gavasa, 
 an Itahan, who brought over a company of buffoons, 
 was enabled by the greatness of his success to cover his 
 corral with an awning, the court yard itself was paved 
 and provided with movable benches, and called the patio, 
 or pit, which no women ever entered. The grandees 
 sat looking out of the windows of the houses that looked 
 into the court yard, which government appropriated and 
 distributed on this occasion. A prince or very great 
 man having a room allotted to him, and minor gentle- 
 men a single window, and this primitive arrangement 
 was we are told the origin of our boxes. In addition, 
 there were several galleries, into some of which women 
 only were admitted. It was called the cazuela, and 
 open to all classes. 
 
 Yet even this pious dedication of the proceeds of the 
 theatre did not silence the clergy. In l6()0, rhilip III. 
 ordered the subject to be referred to a junta of theologians. 
 This council established certain conditions on which the 
 performances were to be tolerated, the principal being that 
 women were not to act, nor to mingle with the audience. 
 It was at this time, and with this licence that Lojjc's 
 career was run. He alone furnished all Spain with 
 plays; and so great a favourite was he, that none but his 
 were received with any api)robation. On the accession 
 of Philip IV., a man of iileasure, the theatre was more 
 frequented than ever, ^'et still, it may be observed, the 
 clergy nourished a j)rejudice against it, censured Lope for 
 
 • Peliccr — Tratadoiobro el Origcn dc la Coincdia. Ouartcrly Review, 
 No. 117. 
 
 Q I-
 
 232 LITKIIARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 being tlic occasion of much sm, and caused him on his 
 death bed to express his regret at liaving written for the 
 stage, and to promise that if he recovered he would do 
 so no more. 
 
 Cervantes boasts of the improvements he occasioned 
 in theatrical representations. Still his plays, though 
 they have great merit from the passion and poetry they 
 display, are inartificial in their construction, while Lope 
 on the contrary, became popular from the admirable 
 nature of his plots. His dramas are praised by a Spanish 
 critic for " the purity and sweetness of his language, for 
 the vivacity of his dialogue, for the propriety of many of 
 the characters, for his invention, his exact description of 
 national manners, for his serious passages, his merriment 
 and his wit." There is often something barbaric in his 
 carelessness of time and place, and also in the hinging 
 on of his incidents : still the plot was preserved carefully 
 throughout, and the catastrophe showed the intention of 
 the author to have been always in his mind, even when 
 he most seemed to swerve from it. The nimiber of plays 
 that Lope wrote has been alluded to, and is really aston- 
 ishing: there is something of sameness, perhaps, at the 
 bottom of all, but this is joined to prodigious variety and 
 novelty within the circle by which his invention is cir- 
 cumscribed. He says himself — 
 
 " Should I the titles now relate 
 
 Of plays my endloss labour bore. 
 Well might you doubt, the list so great, 
 
 Such reams of paper scrihiilcd o'er ; 
 Plots, imitations, scenes, and all the rest, 
 To verse reduced, in (lowers of rhetoric drest. 
 
 The number of my fables told 
 
 Would seem the greatest of them all;' 
 For, strange, of dramas you behold 
 
 Full (ifteen hundred mine I call, 
 And full an hundred times — within a day. 
 Passed from iny muse, upon the stage, a play." 
 
 And so entirely did he possess the ear and favour of 
 the audience, that many a play of which he was inno- 
 cent was brought out under his name, and thus obtained 
 applause. 
 
 The causes of his success are easily discovered.
 
 LOPE I)E VEGA. 233 
 
 The Spaniards had hitherto wanted a national literature. 
 Their poetry and their pastorals did not express the 
 heroism, the bigotry, the tenacious honour and violent 
 prejudices that formed their character. Their ballads 
 did, and so did the romances of chivalry ; but the 
 latter had become mere imitations, and while they 
 echoed some of the sentiments they entertained, did 
 not mirror their manners. It was like a new creation 
 Avhen the poetic genius of Spain embodied itself in the 
 tlrama, and under the guise of tragedy and comedy, each 
 romantic, made visible to an audience the ideal of their 
 prejudices and passions, their virtues and vices ; and 
 these, in connection with a story that engaged their in- 
 terest and warmed their hearts with sympathy. 
 
 The plays of Lope were either romantic tragedies, or 
 plays of la Capa y Espada, of the sword and cloak, 
 sometimes tragic and sometimes comic, but which were 
 founded on the manners of the day. Of course there is 
 a great' deal of kilhng and slaying, but none of the 
 horrors that startle the reader of Titus Andronicus, and 
 other English tragedies of that period. 
 
 The point of honour, loyalty, love, and jealousy, form 
 the standard groundwork of the dramas of Lope. Lord 
 Holland has analysed the " Star of Seville," in which 
 the interest depends on an affianced lover killing the 
 brother of his betrothed at the instance of the king, 
 and then refusing to betray his royal master's secret. 
 Love and jealousy take singular forms. It was the 
 custom of the lover to watch beneath the barred windows 
 of the house of his lady, and she, if she favoured liim, 
 descended anrl conversed with him from her casement. 
 They never hesitate to acknowledge their love, but it 
 must never be suspected by others. Were it known 
 that a cavalier were thus favoured, the relations of the lady 
 would at once assassinate him, and stab her or shut 
 her ui)in a convent. Vet wlicn the lovers have escajjcd 
 these dangers, they marry, and at the sound of wedlock 
 the honour of the fainilv is secured ; the injury, to Ik- 
 so mortally avenged, is no longer an injury, and ail is
 
 234 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MKN. 
 
 well and liappy. If a husband is jealous, it is not that 
 he doubts the fidelity of his wife, or even her attach- 
 ment, but that she has been placed in a situation which 
 might have led to dishonour. Others know this, and 
 she must expiate the fault with her life. In the " Cer- 
 tain for the Doubtful," a lady wishing to dissuade the 
 king from marrying her, confesses that his brother, who 
 is his rival, had once kissed her without her permission. 
 The king instantly resolves to have him assassinated, 
 since he cannot marry the lady till his brother's death has 
 freed her from the dishonour that must accrue, while the 
 perpetrator of such an act lives. He says at the same 
 time " I know that there is no reality in what you tell 
 me, but, although this strange incident be a falsehood 
 invented for the purpose of inducing me not to marry 
 you, it suffices that it has been said, to force me to 
 revenge it. If love makes me in any manner give 
 credit to your story — Henriquez shall die, and I 
 marry his widow ; for then, if what you tell me shall be 
 discovered, we shall neither of us be dishonoured ; for 
 you will be the widow of this kiss, as others are of a hus- 
 band." Accordingly assassins are commissioned to 
 to waylay his brother. Meanwhile Henriquez and the 
 lady marry, and the king seeing the evil without remedy, 
 and his honour safe, pardons the lovers. 
 
 Schlegel observes, " Honour, love, and jealousy are 
 uniformly the motives : the plot arises out of their daring 
 and noble collision, and is not purposely instigated by 
 knavish deception. Honour is always an ideal principle, 
 for it rests, as I have elsewhere shown, on that higher 
 morality which consecrates principles without regard to 
 consequences : the honour of the women consists in lov- 
 ing only one man, of pure, unspotted honour, and loving 
 him with perfect purity : inviolable secrecy is required 
 till a lawful union permits it to be publicly declared. 
 The power of jealousy, always alive, and always break- 
 ing out in a dreadful manner, — not like that of eastern 
 countries, a jealousy of possession, but of the slightest 
 emotions of the heart, and its most imperceptible de -
 
 LOPE DE VEGA. 235 
 
 monstrations, serves to ennoble love. In tragedies^ this 
 jealousy causes honour to become a hostile destiny for 
 him who cannot satisfy it, without either annihilating 
 his own feUcity, or becoming even a criminal." 
 
 Schlegel, in his hatred of the French, espouses with 
 too much warmth, and elevates too highly the nobleness 
 of the passions on which the interest of the Spanish 
 drama is founded. ^Vhere jealousy is the main spring 
 of every action, there is little tenderness ; however, it is 
 in the comedies that this passion displays itself in the 
 worst light. In tragedies, death, hovering over the scene, 
 gives dignity and elevation to that which otherwise must 
 seem the excess of self-love. The comedies present 
 a tissue of intrigues and embroglios ; but these are 
 arranged with so much art, carried on with so much 
 spirit, and aided by sparkhng and natural dialogue, that 
 it is impossible not to be amused, and even interested. 
 
 To these subjects are added plays in which religion 
 is the master passion, where Catholicism is raised to the 
 height which makes its assumed truth a justification for 
 the worst crimes ; and the vengeance which Moor or Jew 
 pursue for infinite injuries, be considered a crime to be 
 expiated by a cruel death. In the same way, the point 
 of honour led to falsehood and dishonourable actions, all 
 of which were considered venial, as founded on, or tend- 
 ing to, a lofty aim. Even in the hghtcr comedies, there 
 is a dangerous and ticklish sense of honour always on 
 the alert to create danger, and enUven the interest. 
 
 Lope also wrote many sacred dramas and Autos Sacra- 
 mentalcs. Some of these are allegorical ; others founded 
 on the lives of the saints. God Almighty, the Virgin, 
 the Saviour, and Satan are among his dramatis ])ersonie. 
 But in this species of writing he was far surpassed by 
 Calderon. It required sublimity to give a pro|)cr tone 
 to such subjects, anri to this quality Lope cannot pre- 
 tend. His entremcscs or interludes, farces they may 
 be called, are full of merriment ; his vant facility in 
 inventing plots enabled him to bestow a subject that 
 might easily Ik- drawn out into a comedy of five, on a
 
 236 LITKRAUY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 piece of one act. French and English writers have 
 consulted him as a mine. In him originated also the in- 
 troduction of the Grazioso^ or jester — a clown who 
 makes ludicrous observations on Avhat is going on, and 
 turning tragic sentiment into burlesque, acts as censor 
 upon the motives and actions of the personages, and 
 often disturbs the current of interest excited ; but often 
 also the sprightly wit he thus introduces, relieves the 
 monotony of passion on stilts, and he is always a con- 
 venient personage in explaining away a difficulty, and 
 disclosing a secret. 
 
 Lope, of course, wholly disregards unity of time and 
 place. The incongruities of his plots are manifold. 
 Success, popular success, was what he aimed at, and he 
 gained it ; but he was aware of the barbarism of many 
 of his dramas, and has himself warmly censured his 
 plays. In his "Arte de hacer Comedias" he says * : — 
 
 " I, doomed to write, the public taste to hit, 
 Kosuine the barbarous dress 'twas vain to quit : 
 I lock up every rule before I write, 
 Plautus and Jerome drive from out my sight. 
 Lest rage should teach those injured wits to join, 
 And their dumb books cry shame on works like mine. 
 To vulgar standards then I square my play. 
 Writing at ease, for, since the public pay, 
 'Tis just methinks we by their compass steer, 
 And write the nonsense that they love to hear : " 
 
 And again in the same poem : — 
 
 " None than myself more barbarous or more wrong. 
 Who, hurried by the vulgar taste along, 
 Hare give my precepts in despite of rule. 
 Whence France and Italy pronounce me fool. 
 But what am I to do '< who now of plays. 
 With one complete within these seven days. 
 Four hundred eighty-three, in all have writ. 
 And all, save six, against the rules of wit." 
 
 And in his eclogue to Claudio : — 
 
 " Then spare, indulgent Claudio, spare 
 The list of all my barbarous plays ; 
 For this with truth 1 can declare. 
 
 And though 'tis truth, it is not praise. 
 The printed part, though far too large, is less 
 Than that which yet unprinted waits the press." 
 
 To this severe cen.?ure of his own works was joined 
 considerable study of the dramatic art. It had en- 
 
 "* Arte de hacer Comedias. Lord Holland's Translation.
 
 LOPE DE VEGA. 237 
 
 gaged his attention, he says, since he was ten years old ; 
 and in the " Dramatic Art " from which we have just 
 quoted, he shows great good taste and penetration in 
 his observations. 
 
 His plays are not now acted in Madrid. The theatre, 
 indeed, has declined in Spain, and melodrames and 
 vaudevilles have taken place of the higher species of 
 drama. Still Lope's works are a mine of wealth for 
 any dramatist, whence to draw situations, plots, and dia- 
 logue. Dryden borrowed much from him ; and, not- 
 withstanding his faults, there may be found in his plays 
 a richness of invention, a freshness and variety of ideas, 
 and a vivacity of dialogue unsurpassed by any author.
 
 238 LITEIIAUY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 VICENTE ESPINEL. 
 
 15U—1C)34>. 
 
 ESTEBAN DE VILLEGAS. 
 
 1595 — \669. 
 
 The vast number of poets who flourished in Spain at 
 this epoch renders the task of furnishing the biography 
 of even a selection from among them, hopeless. When 
 we turn to the " Laurel de Apolo " of Lope de Vega^ and 
 see stanza after stanza devoted to different poets ; and 
 when, in the " Voyage to Parnassus " of Cervantes we 
 find poets rain in showers, we give up the task as hope- 
 less — especially when we are told that, although many 
 of those so brought forward are unknown, Inany there 
 are, who wrote well, who are not mentioned at all in 
 these works. 
 
 Poetry was then the fashion ; and it was easy to 
 spin many hundred lines with few ideas, and those few 
 common-place, though pretty and graceful. Despotism 
 and the inquisition gave the creative or literary spirit of 
 Spain no other outlet. Thought was forbidden. Des- 
 cription, moral reflection, where no originality nor bold- 
 ness was admitted, and love and sentiment, — these 
 were all the subjects that Spanish poets rung the changes 
 on, till we wonder where they found fresh words for 
 the same thoughts. In any longer poems they wholly 
 failed : and the only compositions we read with plea- 
 sure are songs, madrigals, redondillas, and romances, 
 which are often fresh and sparkling — warm from the 
 heart, either dancing with animal spirits or soft with 
 pathetic tenderness. Among the writers of such, none 
 excelled Vicente Espinel. The following is a specimen, 
 and may be taken as an example of that style of Spanish
 
 VICENTE ESPINEIi. ESTEBAN DE VILLEGAS. 239 
 
 poetry, simple, feeling and elegant, which preceded 
 the innovations of the refined school. It is taken from 
 Dr. Bowring's translation, and is good, though not 
 comparable to the charming simplicity of the ori- 
 ginal : — 
 
 " A thousand, thousand times, I seek* 
 My lovely maid ; 
 But I am silent still — afraid 
 
 That if I speak. 
 The maid might frown, and then my heart would break. 
 
 I've oft resolved to tell her all," 
 
 But dare not — what a woe 't would be 
 
 From doubtful favour's smiles to fall 
 
 To the harsh frown of certainty. 
 
 Her grace, her music cheers me now ; 
 
 The dimpled roses on her cheek ; 
 
 But fear restrains my tongue — for how. 
 
 How should I speak. 
 
 When, if she frown'd, my troubled heart would break? 
 
 No, rather I'll conceal my story 
 
 !n my full heart's most secret cell : 
 
 For though I feel a doubtful glory, 
 
 I 'scape the certainty of hell. 
 
 I lose, 't is true — the bliss of heaven, — 
 
 I own my courage is but weak, — 
 
 'J'hat weakness may be well forgiven. 
 
 For should she speak 
 
 In words ungentle — O, my heart would break : " 
 
 Vicente Espinel was born at Ronda, a city of Gra- 
 nada, in the year 1544. He was of poor parentage, and 
 left his native town early to seek his fortunes. A coun 
 
 * " Mil voces voy a hablar 
 i. mi zagala, 
 pero mas ijuiero callar, 
 por no esperar 
 que me envic noramala 
 
 Voy (i dcciria mi daflo 
 
 pero tengo por niejor, 
 
 tcncr iluiloso el favor 
 
 que no cicrto el desengafio ; 
 
 y auni|uc me i-uele animar 
 
 au gracia y gala, 
 
 el temcr me hace callar, 
 
 por no esperar 
 
 que mcenvic noramala. 
 
 Tengo por nuerfe mas buenn 
 
 moKtrar nii lingnri a ser inuiln, 
 
 que ctttiinilo la gloria en duila 
 
 no estara cierta la pena 
 
 J aunque run dlMmular 
 
 se di'iiigual.i, 
 
 tengo por nitjor callar, 
 
 que no eitprrar 
 
 que mc envic noramala."
 
 240 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 trynian, don Francisco Pacheco, bishop of Malaga, so 
 far favoured as to ordain iiini, and lie became a be- 
 neficiary of the church at Honda. He sought better 
 preferment at court, but met with no success, either 
 in his own native place nor out of it. In Honda itself 
 he had enemies, who pursued him with such calumnies 
 and malignity that he withdrew into a sort of voluntary 
 exile, which, loving (Iranada as he did, he bitterly 
 lamented. He was at first a friend, and then an at- 
 tacker, of Cervantes, which circumstance does not 
 redound to his credit.* Lope de Vega speaks of his 
 poetry with the approbation it deserved. He was a 
 musician as well as a poet, and added a fifth string to 
 the Spanish guitar. He ilied poor and in obscurity at 
 IMadrid, in Ki.'ji, in the ninetieth year of his age. He 
 describes himself in some spirited and comic verses, as 
 singularly ugly — a tub with a priest's cap at top, a 
 monster of fat; — large face, short neck, short arms, each 
 hand looking like a tortoise, slow of foot : " whoever 
 sees me," he says, " so fat and reverend-looking, might 
 think that I were a rich and idle epicure. — What a 
 pretty figure for a poet ! " 
 
 Another writer of the natural school, named the Ana- 
 creon of Spain, more easy, sweet and spirited even than 
 Vicente Espinel, was Estevan Manuel de Vill^'gas. 
 He was born in the city of Nagera of Naxera, in the 
 province or Rioja, in Old Castile, in the year 1505. 
 He was of a noble and distinguished family. He spent 
 his boyish years at Madrid. At fourteen he was en- 
 tered in the university of Salamanca, and studied the 
 law. I lis tastes inclined him, however, to the more 
 agreeable parts of literature : he was a proficient in Latin 
 and Greek ; and, at fourteen, translated from Anacreon 
 and Horace ; and at the same time wrote original ana- 
 creontics, which he published in 16"18, in his twenty- 
 third year. 
 
 * Viardi'it, in his life of Corvantc«, mentions that Virentc Espinel became 
 his enemy. 1 have not discovered on what he grounds this assertion. In 
 the i)o»tscrii)t to the" Voyajjoto l'arnassus",( nc of the latest oC Cervantes's 
 works, he feigns that Apollo sent messages to various Spanish poets :_ 
 "You will give my compliments," the God writes, " to Vicente Espinel, 
 as to one of the oldest and truest friends I have."
 
 VICENTE ESPINEL. ESTEBAN DE VILLEGAS. 241 
 
 On the death of his father, he returned to Nagera, to 
 assist his widowed mother, and attend to the interests of 
 his estate. Here, in retirement and peace, he dedicated 
 himself to the acquirement of knowledge and the cultiv- 
 ation of poetry. He married, in the year ] 626, donna An- 
 tonia de Leyva A'illodas, a beautiful and distinguished 
 lady. Having six children, he endeavoured, by means of 
 powerful friends, to obtain some employment that might 
 add to his scanty income, and give him leisure at the 
 same time to prosecute various designs in literature and 
 poetry which he projected on a large scale, but he only 
 succeeded in being ajjpointed to a place of slight im- 
 portance and emolument. " Thus," says Sedano, " this 
 great man was, in common with almost every other per- 
 son of eminence, pursued by adversity, which was the 
 cause that his talents did not shine as brilliantly as they 
 might have done, and that his name has not come down 
 with due celebrity to our days." At last, giving up hope 
 of worldly advancement, he retired to his estate, where 
 he died in l66[), in the seventy-fourth year of his age. 
 
 Although the conceits, the fashion of the age, some- 
 times deteriorate from Villegas's poetry, he has more 
 natural facility, added to classical correctness, than al- 
 most any other Spanish poet. His verses flow on with 
 elegance and softness, joined to a nature and feeling 
 quite enchanting. His translations of Anacreon have 
 the simplicity and pure unencumbered expression of the 
 original ; that of the " Dove" breathes Anacreon himself. 
 For the .sake of the Spanish reader it is appended at the 
 bottom of the page*, and he can compare it with the 
 Greek, and perceive that Anacreon never found poet so 
 capable of transfusing into another language the viva- 
 city, and grace of his lyrics. 
 
 • " Amadn I'alomilln, 
 
 i (Ic fli'iiule, ill, t'l ndnndc 
 viciifn COM tiiita |)ri«a, 
 V.1II con taiitoH oloro ? 
 i I'lici II li i|ii<' t<- importa? 
 Sabrax ((iic Aiiarrciiiitc 
 mc cnvia a au il.illln, 
 ScCor dv tmlii el urbe : 
 
 VOL. iir. u
 
 242' MTERARY AND SCIRNTIFIC MEN. 
 
 His original Anacreontics may almost be said to 
 deserve a ])laco beside tbe immortal Greek. We copy 
 from Mr. ANitien's pages one of his sappbics, rendered 
 pre-eminent by its delicacy and beauty : — 
 
 "TO THE ZEPHYR. 
 
 " Sweet neighbour of the green, Icaf.shaking grove. 
 Eternal guest of April, frolic child 
 Of a sail sire, life-breath of mother Love, 
 Favonius, Zephyr mild! 
 
 If thou has learned like me to love, — away! 
 
 Thou who hast borne tlie murmurs of my cry; 
 Hence — no demur — and to my Tlora say, 
 
 Say that ' Idie!' 
 
 Flora once knew what bitter tears I shed ; 
 
 Flora once wept to see my sorrows flow ; 
 Flora once loved me — but I dread, 1 dread 
 
 Her anger now. 
 
 So may the Ciods — so may the calm blue sky, 
 For the fair lime th;it thou in gentle mirth 
 
 Sport'st in the air, with love benign deny 
 Snows to the earth '. 
 
 So never may the grey cloud's cumbrous sail. 
 
 When from on high the rosy day-break springs. 
 
 Beat on thy shoulders, nor its evil hail 
 Wound thy fine wings I" 
 
 que como per iin himno 
 me emancipo Dione : 
 nAnihrome su page, 
 y el por tal recibinme. 
 Suyas son estas cartas, 
 suyos estos renglones, 
 por lo qual me prometo 
 libertad qu.indo torno. 
 Pero yo no la quiero, 
 ni quiero que me ahorre ; 
 porqucf; de que me sirve 
 andar cruzando montes 
 comer podridas bacas, 
 ni pararme en ios robres ? 
 A mi pucs me pcrmite 
 el mismo Anacrconte 
 comer de sus viandas, 
 beber de sus licores : 
 Y quando vien brindada 
 doy saltos voladores, 
 le cubro con mis alas, 
 y el dulce las acoge. 
 Su citara es mi cama, 
 sus cuerdas mis colchones, 
 en quicn suavamente 
 duermo toda la noche. 
 Mi historia es esta, amigo, 
 peroqueda a Ios dieses, 
 que me has hecho parlcra 
 mas que graja del bosque."
 
 243 
 
 GONGORA. 
 
 1561—1627. 
 
 Don Luis de Gongora y Aiigote was bom at Cordova 
 on the 11th July I56l. Ilis father was don Francisco 
 de Argote, corregidor of Cordova, his mother was donna 
 Leonor de Gongora, both of ancient and distinguished 
 noble families ; and, as the name of his father was 
 equally patrician with that of his mother, liis having 
 given preference to thelatter has excited surprise among 
 his Spanish biographers. At the age of fifteen he en- 
 tered the university of Salamanca, and studied the law ; 
 but his inclination led him rather to the cultivation of 
 poetry and general literature ; and while at Salamanca, 
 he wrote many amatory, satirical, and burlesque poems. 
 At this time he had so severe an illness, that for three 
 days he was believed to be dead, and his resuscitation 
 was regarded almost as a miracle. 
 
 He passed his early life at Cordova, known and 
 esteemed as a poet and a man of talent. Ilis spirit was 
 high, his character ardent and penetrating, and his 
 j)en ready, so that he was induced to indulge in personal 
 satire, a circumstance which in after years he deeply 
 regretted ; and he changed so nmch that a friend of his 
 writes, " he became the most ingenuous, candid, and un- 
 ofl'ending man in conversation and writing that Spain 
 ever saw." At the age of forty-five he took holy orders, 
 and soon after visited ,M idrid, invited by several nobles 
 who, esteeming his worth, and regretting his slender 
 means, believed that he would there be enabled to 
 increase them. IJut though he frequented the society 
 of the great, he was but slightly benefited. However, 
 through the patronage of the duke of l>erma and the 
 marques de Siete Igli-sias, he was named honorary chap- 
 lain to Philip III. He was held in mnih cstcc n by 
 those nobles who cultivated literature, on account of his 
 
 II 2
 
 24'4 LITrilAUY AND SCIKNTIl'IC JIKN. 
 
 great talents ; and he fonnded a sort of school of litera- 
 ture whose disciples were bigotted, zealous, and into- 
 lerant. 
 
 He thus wasted eleven years at court, not deceived l)y 
 vain hopes, for his experienced understanding i)revented 
 his entertaining any such illusions, but forced by neces- 
 sity. He was then taken suddenly and dangerously ill, 
 while attending on the king in a journey to Valentia, 
 away from all liis friends ; the (jueen, however, hearing 
 of his illness, sent a physician to attend him. His 
 head was attacked in a manner not so much to destroy 
 reason, as to take from him all memory ; and in this 
 manner he continued lost to the end of his life. At one 
 time, during a short interval of comparative health, he 
 returned to Cordova that he might be buried in his 
 native place. Not long after he died, on the 24th May, 
 1627, at the age of sixty-six. 
 
 In person Gongora was tall and robust, his face large, 
 his eyes penetrating and lively, his whole appearance 
 venerable, though severe and adust, bearing marks of 
 the causticity and satire of his disposition, which how- 
 ever softened as he grew older. He was a disappointed 
 man. His talents, his understanding, the grasp of 
 mind of which he felt himself capable, nourished an 
 internal ambition, which being ungratified, turned to 
 discontent. It was some satisfaction to his imperious dis- 
 position to found a school of poetry, and attack the chief 
 writers of the day, Cervantes and Lope de Vega, the 
 Argensolas andQuevedo, in reply to their just criticisms 
 on his inflated and tortuous style ; and it was balm to 
 his pride to hear the ai)plause of his followers. But it 
 is greatly to his discredit that, while heretofore the dis- 
 putes of the Spanish poets with regard to literature were 
 conducted with temper, and for the most part with 
 urbanity, Gongora indulged in scurrility and abuse. His 
 excuse, Sedano tells us, is, that this sort of insolence 
 was the fruit of youthful arrogance : yet, as he was a 
 year older than Lope, and contemporary with most of 
 the others, he could not have been so very young when
 
 GONGORA. 245 
 
 he entered the lists against them. However, as he grew 
 older, visited Madrid, went to court, and took orders, 
 he threw off the presumption he nourished in his native 
 town, and became gentle, humane, and modest, and 
 regretted his fonner excesses of temper. 
 
 The terms in which his friends speak of him, prove 
 that the honesty and integrity of his disposition, and 
 his great understanding, inspired them with love and 
 veneration ; for, though their language be exaggerated, 
 stiU it bears marks of sincerity. A friend and disciple 
 wTiting his life, soon after his death, speaks of him as 
 " the greatest man that not only Spain, but the world ever 
 saw." He laments his brief career, as he names sixty- 
 six years ; but his praises being written in the excess of 
 the rulto style, it is impossible ahiiost to understand — 
 quite impossible to translate them. In this style the 
 literal translation only offers nonsense : there is a hidden 
 meaning which is to be guessed at, and that, so meta- 
 phoric and obscure, that it very much resembles a 
 Chinese puzzle — difficult to put together, and, when 
 discovered and arranged, not worth the trouble. The 
 riiltnrlstm themselves nourished unbounded contempt for 
 any thing that was at all explicable to common under- 
 standings in a common manner. 
 
 It is remarkable that in the early poetry of Gongora 
 there is no trace of this style which he afterwards in- 
 vented (as his followers called it), and insisted upon as a 
 prodigy of good taste and poetic genius. His early 
 j)oetry is peculiarly simj)le and plain. He wrote redon- 
 dillas or seguidillas in the old Spanish style, on the most 
 common-place topics, which yet lie treats with spirit and 
 power ; others of his jioems arc softly pathetic ; but 
 all are written without inflation — without conceit.s, but 
 with all that fire and brilliancy — that gaiety and 
 poignancy which characterised his vivid imagination. 
 Of the Hrst mentioned, those that even verge on the 
 common-place, we may mention tlic "Child's Address 
 to his Sister," as to liow tbey sbouKI amuse them- 
 selves on a holiday ; in which he (Uscril)es the plea- 
 
 K 3
 
 246 ' LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 surcs of Spanish children, witli infinite vivacity and nature. 
 The subject of another, is the story of Hero and Leander. 
 He transforms the hero and heroine of thife romantic love 
 story, into two poor peasants — she too poor to buy a 
 lantern, he to hire a boat. The catastrophe, the last 
 swinnning of Leander, his coming to the dreary, stormy 
 sea beach, and his throwing himself in — though tar- 
 nished by vulgarisms, is lively and picturesque. In all 
 that he wrote there was fire and spirit, facility and a 
 diction truly poetic. One of his sweetest lyrics is the 
 " Song of Catherine of Arragon," lamenting her sad 
 destiny ; it will prepossess the reader in favour of 
 Gongora's pure style, and we therefore quote the trans- 
 lation of Dr. Bowring : — 
 
 " THE SONG OF CATHERINE OF ARRAGON. 
 
 " O fake a lesson, flowers ! from me. 
 How in a dawn all charms decay — 
 Less than my shadow doomed to be, 
 Who was a wonder yesterday. 
 
 I, with the early twilight born, 
 Fourd ere the evcnine shades, a bier, 
 
 And 1 should die in darkness lorn, 
 But that the moon is sliming here. 
 So must ijc die — though ye ajjpear 
 
 So fair — and night your curtain be; 
 
 take a lesson, flowers! from me. 
 
 Mv fleetiuK being was consoled 
 
 When the carnation met my view: 
 One hurrying day my doom has told — 
 
 Heaven gave that lovely flower but two. 
 
 Ephemeral monarch of the wold — 
 
 1 clad in gloom —in scarlet he ; 
 
 O take a lesson, flowers ! from me. 
 
 The jasmin, sweetest flower of flowers, 
 
 The soonest is its radiance fled ; 
 It scarce perfumes as many hours 
 
 As there are starbeams round its head. 
 
 If living amber fragrance shed. 
 The jasmine sure its shrine must be : 
 O take a lesson, flowers ! from me. 
 
 The bloody-warrior fragrance gives, 
 It towers unblushing, proud and gay; 
 
 More davs than other flowers it lives. 
 It blooms through all the days of My. 
 I'd rather like a shade decay. 
 
 Than such a gaudy being be : 
 
 O take a lesson, flowers ! from me." 
 
 The following song, sent with flowers, and asking 
 from his lady a kiss for every sting he received while 
 gathering them, is tender and elegant: —
 
 GONGOKA. 247 
 
 " From my summer alcove, which the stars this morn 
 
 With lucid pearls o'erspread, 
 I've gathered these jessamines, thus to adorn 
 
 With a wreath thy graceful head. 
 From thy bosom and mouth, they, as flowers, ere death, ] 
 Ask a purer white, and a sweeter breath. 
 
 Their blossoms, a host of bees, alarmed 
 
 Watched over on jealous wing. 
 Hoarse trumpeters seemed they all, and armed 
 
 Each bee with a diamond sting : 
 I tore them away, but each flower I tore 
 Has cost me a wound which smarteth sore. 
 
 Now as ! these jessamine flowers entwine, 
 
 A gift for thy fragrant hair, 
 I must have, from those honey-sweet lips of thine, 
 
 A kiss for each sting I bear : 
 It is just that the blooms I bring thee home 
 Be repaid by sweets from the golden comb.*" 
 
 His poems in Spanish metres, his letrillas and romances, 
 have the same brilliancy of expression, warmth of emo- 
 tion, anil vivid colouring. The " IJallad of Angelica 
 and .Medora" is particularly airy and fresh, but rich and 
 strong as a deep clear inland river that reflects the gor- 
 geous tints of the sky. Gongora surpasses every other 
 Spanish lyrist, in the brilhant colouring of his poetry, 
 and the vivacity of his expression. 
 
 But all this he voluntarily set at nought. Instead of 
 writing as a poet, he a lopted the crabbed critic's art, 
 and, extreme in all things, gave no quarter even to the 
 beauties of his own compositions. He might reprove the 
 
 • This translation is from Mr. Wiffin, to show how simply and beau. 
 tifuUy (Wmgora wrote in his young and unspoiled style, and we give the 
 .Spanijih of this last song : 
 
 " A UNA DAMA PRESENTANDOLA UNAS FLORES. 
 " De la florida falda 
 que <iy de perlas bordo la Alba luciente, 
 tcgidos en guirnalda, 
 traslado estos jazinincs a tu frentc, 
 <|uepiden con ser tlorcs 
 blanca a tui sieiies, y a tu boca olores. 
 
 Guarda destos jazminoi 
 
 de avejas era un e.«<|uadron volante, 
 
 ronco, »i, de clarine*, 
 
 man de puiiUiH arinado de diamante, 
 
 punelaH eii huida 
 
 y cada tlor mi cucstra una hcrida. 
 
 Man Clori que he texido 
 
 j.'izmiiieH al cibello desatado, 
 
 y innn bc^utt te pido 
 
 que avcjat tiivo el e«<|uadron nnnado, 
 
 liiionj.ii> ion lt;ualea, 
 
 Bcrvir yo en Hore», pngar tn en panalcn." 
 
 Obras dc (ionfiuia, lCt33, 
 
 It 4
 
 248 LITERAKY AND SCIENTinC MEN. 
 
 diluted intonninable poems of Lope, and the unpoetic 
 style of Cervantes ; he might have been disi)lcase(l with 
 the poverty of ideas and enervated conceptions of many 
 of his contemporaries ; ))ut he might have been satisfied 
 with iiis own ease, purity, and strength : he, however, 
 rejected even these, and instituted a system : a new 
 dialect was invented, a new construction adopted, — liew 
 words, a dislocated construction, a profusion and exag- 
 geration of figures were introduced. " He rose," one of 
 his disciples writes, " to the sublime height of refine- 
 ment (culturn), which ignorance, holds in distaste, and 
 accomplished the greatness of ' Polyphemus,' the ' Sole- 
 daJes/ and other shorter, but not less, poems." He 
 grew almost frantic in the dissemination of his system; 
 and in his vehemence against its opponents, he became 
 lost to poetry, and lives, even to this day, more remem- 
 bered as a fantastic an 1 ill-judging innovator, than as 
 one of the most natural, brilliant, and imaginative poets 
 that Spain ever produced. 
 
 Lope de Vega has written a letter, or rather essay, 
 upon Gongora and his system, and gives the following 
 account of both : 
 
 " I have known this gentleman for cight-and-twenty 
 years, and I hold him to be possessed of the rarest and 
 most excellent talent of any in (.'ordova, so that he need 
 not yield even to Seneca or Lucan, who were natives 
 of the same town. Pedro Linan de Riaza, his contem- 
 porary at Salamanca, told me much of his proficiency 
 in study, so that I cultivated his acquaintance, and 
 improved it by the intercourse we had when I visited 
 Andalusia ; and it always appeared as if he liked and 
 esteemed me more than my poor merits deserve. Many 
 other distinguished men of letters at that time com- 
 peted with him : — Ilerrera, Vicente Espinel, the two 
 Argensolas, and others, among whom this gentleman 
 held such place, that Fame said the same of him as 
 the Delphic oracle did of Socrates. 
 
 " He wrote in all styles with elegance, and in gay 
 and festive compositions his wit was not less celebrated 
 than Martial's, while it was far more decent. We have
 
 GONGORA. 249 
 
 several of his works composed in a pure style, which he 
 continued for the greater part of his life. But, not 
 content with having reached the highest step of fame in 
 sweetness and softness, he sought (I have always 
 believed with good and sincere intentions, and not Avith 
 presumption, as his enemies have asserted), to enrich the 
 art, and even language, with such ornaments and figures 
 as were never before imagined nor seen. In my opinion 
 he fulfilled his aim, if this was his intent ; the difficulty 
 rests in receiving his system : and so many obstacles have 
 arisen, that 1 doubt they will never cease, except with 
 their cause ; for I think tlie obscurity and ambiguity of 
 his expressions must be disagreeable to many. By some 
 he is said to have raised this new style into a peculiar 
 class of poetry ; and they are not mistaken : for, as in the 
 old manner of writing, it took a life to become a poet, in 
 this new one it requires but a day : for, with these trans- 
 positions, four rules, and six Latin words or emphatic 
 phrases, they rise so high that they do not know — far less 
 understand themselves. Lipsiuswrotea new Latin, which 
 those who are learned in such things say Cicero and 
 Quintilian laugh at in the other world; and those who 
 have imitated him are so wise that they lose themselves. 
 And I know others who have invented a language and 
 style so different from Lipsins that they require a new 
 dictionary. And thus those who imitate this gentle- 
 man produce monstrous births — and fancy that, by imi- 
 tating his style, they inherit his genius. 'Would to God 
 they imitated him in that part which is worthy of adop- 
 tion; for every one must be aware that there is mucli 
 that is deserving of admiration, while the rest is wrapt 
 in the darkness of such ambiguity as I have found the 
 cleverest men at fault when they tried to understand it. 
 The foundation of this edifice is transjmsition, rendered 
 the more harsh by the disjoining of substantives from 
 adjectives, where no jfarenthesis is ])ossit)lc, so that 
 even to pronounce it is difficult : tropes and figures are 
 the ornamf'Mt.H, ko little to the jiurpose, that it is as if a 
 woman, when painting lierselC, instead of j)Utting the 
 rouge on her cheeks, should aj)ply it to her nose, fore-
 
 250 LITERARY AND SCIKNTIFIC MEN. 
 
 head and ears. Transpositions may be allowed, and there 
 are eonnnon examples, but they must be apjjropriate. 
 Boscan, Garcilaso, and Herrera use them. Look at the 
 the elegance, softness, and beauty of the divine llerrera, 
 worthy of imitation and admiration ! for, it is not to 
 enrich a language, to reject its natural idiom, and adopt 
 instead phrases borrowed from a foreign tongue ; but, 
 now, they write in the style of the curate who asked his 
 servant for the " anserine reed," telling her that " the 
 Ethiopian licour was wanting in the cornelian vase." 
 These people do not attend to clearness or dignity of style, 
 but to the novelty of these exquisite modes of expres- 
 sion, in which there is neither truth nor propriety, nor 
 enlargement of the powers of language ; but an odious 
 invention that renders it barbarous, imitated from one 
 who might have been an object of just admiration to 
 us all." * 
 
 In addition to these grave and reasonable arguments. 
 Lope attacked the culto style with ridicule, better suited 
 to explode the would-be invention of the unintelligible. 
 In several plays he alludes to it with good humoured 
 raillery. In one of them, a cavalier desirous of making 
 use of the talents of a poet to write for him, asks — 
 
 Cav. A plain or polished bard ? -f- 
 Pcet. Refined my style. 
 
 Cav. My secrets then remain with me to write. 
 Poet. Your secrets ? Why ? 
 
 Qiv. Fo"^. with refinement penned. 
 
 Their meaning sure no soul shall comprehend, t 
 
 In another play, a lady describing her rival, ridicules 
 her as, 
 
 " She who writes in that hiph polished style, 
 That language so charmingly Greek, 
 Which never was heard in Castile, 
 And her mother ne'er taught her to spcak."^ 
 
 » Discurso sobre la Nueva Poesia por Lope de Vega. 
 f Lord Holland's Life of Lope </f Vena. 
 X Lop. Sois vulgar o culterano '! 
 Sev. Culto soy. 
 Lop. (Juedaos en casa 
 
 Y escribircis mis secretes. 
 Sev. Sus secretos! por que causa ? 
 iMp. Porque nadic los entienda. 
 " Aquella quo escrihc en culto 
 por a quel Griego lenguage ; 
 que no lo supo Castilla, 
 ni se ense261e su madre."
 
 GONGORA. 
 
 251 
 
 In atldition to these quotations, there are many more 
 chance arrows let fly at the absurdity, in his volume of 
 burlesque poetry, written under the name of Tome de 
 Burguillos, in the shape of parodies on this style. We 
 select one which however ridiculous it reads, is a very 
 moderate representation of the bombast Gongora brought 
 into fashion. 
 
 " TO A COMB, THE POET NOT KNOWING WHETHER IT 
 WAS OF BOX OR IVORY. 
 
 " Sail through the red waves of the sea of love, 
 O, bark of Barcelona, ami between 
 The billows of those ringlets proudly move, 
 And now be hidden there, and i>ow be seen I 
 What golilen surges. Love, who lurks beneath. 
 Weaves with the windings of that splendid hair! 
 Be grateful for thy bliss, and leave him there. 
 In joyance unmolested by thy teeth. 
 O tusk of elephant, or limb of box. 
 Gently unravel thou her tanglcti locks. 
 Gently the windings of those curls unfold, 
 Like the sun's rays, in parallels arrange them. 
 And through the labyrinth shape thy paths of gold. 
 Ere yet to silver envious time shall change them."* 
 
 "While Lope on these occasions, and on many others, 
 takes occasion to reprehend and satirise this new system, 
 his disciples held it up as the wonder of the world ; 
 they called it the eatilo eulfo, or refined style, and them- 
 selves cidtorlstos : each phrase was to be twisted, each word 
 to receive anew anddecpcrmeaning, while mythology, and 
 all sorts of phantastic imagery, gave a bombastic gilding 
 to the whole ; and when they had written verses high 
 in sound, but obscure and simple in meaning, they 
 fancied they had arrived at sublimity. Thus, a petty hill 
 
 •"A UN" PEY>fE, QUE NO SABIA EL I'OETA SI ERA UE BOX 
 O DE .MAKHL. 
 
 " Suica del mar dc amor la« rubias ondai, 
 liarco de Barcelona, y |Kir Io« bellos 
 lazon navega altivo, auii<|ue |Mir ellos 
 tal vex to inueslres, y tal vez to escondaji. 
 Ya no flccha«. Amor, dor.idus nnd.-u 
 lojc dc ouii eaplcnclidoK cibilloH ; 
 tu con lo« dicntcH no lo <|nite» delloi, 
 para ipiea tanla iliclia I'orrespondaii. 
 l)e«envwclve li>« ri7.o« con decoro, 
 lot paralehx de mi nol dciuita, 
 box o ccilmillo de elqih.inte .Moro, 
 y en tanto c|U(.' citp.'ircidoH Ioa dilata 
 forma por la madija m iida* de ora 
 ante* <|uc cl tiemixj loi convicrla en plata."
 
 252 LITEHARY AND SCIKNTIFIC WEN. 
 
 assumes the proportions of a inountain in the evening 
 mist. Wv may looi< at it with wonder, we may lose our 
 way or tumble into a ditch in endeavouring to reach 
 it ; hut, once at its summit, and we find ourselves scarcely 
 elevated above the plain'. 
 
 The " Polyphemus" and the " Solitudes" of Gongora, 
 are, as has been mentioned, the poems written in his 
 most exaggerated style. The " Polyphemus" begins 
 with a description of the giant, who " was a mountain 
 of members eminent." His dark hair was a " knotty 
 imitation of the turbid waves of Lethe ; and, as the 
 wind combs them stormily, they fly dishevelled, or 
 hang down disordered : his beard is a torrent, the dried- 
 up offspring of this Pyrenees ! Trinacria has no wild 
 beast in its mountains armed with such cruelty, shod 
 with such wind, whose ferocity can defend, nor whose 
 speed may save ! Their skins, spotted with a hundred 
 colours, are his cloak ; and thus he drives in his oxen to 
 their stall, treading the doubtful light of morn." His 
 " Soledades" or " Solitudes," commence even more in 
 the csti/o culto, and with such very refined phrases and 
 images that no one can make any thing of it. "We give a 
 short passage with Sismondi's translation, and the Spanish, 
 that the reader may ju'ge in what a jungle of intermin- 
 able words, and heterogeneous ideas, this mistaken poet 
 lost himself : — 
 
 " 'T was in the flowery season of the year. 
 When fair Europa's ravisher disjiiiised, 
 (A crescent moon, tlio arms upon his brow, 
 And strewed with sunbeams all his plin'ring skin), 
 Shines out the glowing honour (jfthe sky, 
 And the stars pastures in the azure fields, 
 When he who well the cup of Jove might fill 
 More gracefully than Ida's shepherd boy. 
 Was wrecked — and scorned as well as far away. 
 The tears of love and amorous complaints 
 Gave to the sea, which he then pitying 
 Imparts to rustling leaves, that to the wind 
 Repeats the saddest sighs. 
 Soft as Arion's softest instrument — 
 And from the mountain top a pine which aye 
 Struggled with its fierce enemy the North, 
 There rent a iiitying limb — and the brief plank 
 JJecame a no small dolphin to (he youth 
 Who wand'ring heedlessly, was forced t' intrust 
 His way unto a Libyan waste of sea,
 
 GONGURA. 253 
 
 And his existence to an ocean-skiff, 
 
 At first sucked in, and jifteiwards thrown forth, 
 
 Where not far off a rock there stood, whose top 
 
 ■\Vas crowned with bulrushes, and feathers warm 
 
 With seaweed dank and foam besprent all o'er. 
 
 And rest and saft ty fomul there where a nest 
 
 The bird of Jove had built. 
 
 He kissed the samls, and of the broken skiff. 
 
 The portion that was thrown upon the beach 
 
 He gave the rock — and let the rugged cliflS 
 
 Behold his loveliness, for naked stood 
 
 The youth. — The ocean first had drunk, and then 
 
 Restored his vestments to the yellow sands. 
 
 And in the sunshine he extended them. 
 
 And the sun licking them with his sweet tongue 
 
 Of tempered fire, slowly invests them round. 
 
 And sucks the moisture from the smallest thread."* 
 
 Sismondi only gives half this sentence, but the latter 
 part is the most intelligible ; and besides it was difficult to 
 refrain from presenting the reader with the refined image 
 
 • " Era del aiio la estaoion florida, 
 
 en que el nientido robador de fcuropa 
 
 (media Luna las armas de su frente, 
 
 y el Sol todos los rayos de 8U pelo) 
 
 luzicnte honor del cielo 
 
 en campos de zafiro pace las estrellas. 
 
 quando el que miiii»trar podia la copa 
 
 a Jupiter, mejor que el gar^on de Ida 
 
 naufiaK6, y desdefiado sobre ausente 
 
 lagrimosas de Amor, dulccs quercllas 
 
 Dia al mar, que condolido 
 
 fue a las ondas, que al viento 
 
 el misero Remido, 
 
 se^undo de Arion dulce instrumento 
 
 del sieinpre en la raontafia opuesto pino, 
 
 al encmigo Note 
 
 piauo>o micmbro roto, 
 
 breve labia, Dclfin no fue pequcno 
 
 al inconsiderado peref;rino, 
 
 que a una Libia de oridas su camino 
 
 fio, y su vida a un leCu 
 
 del occano, puei antes sorvido 
 
 y luego vomitado, 
 
 no lexos de un eacollo coronado 
 
 dc »cros junco*, de calientei pluman, 
 
 (Al({a todo, y espumasi 
 
 liallo hospital idad donde halld nido 
 
 dc Jupiter el avp, 
 
 besii la arena, y dc la rcta nave 
 
 aquella parte |H«;a 
 
 que lo expuv) en la playa, die a la roca, 
 
 que ann »e ilexan In pefin* 
 
 liaonKcar de agradeciilai ncfiai, 
 
 desnudo el joven, rjuanto ya el vcstidu 
 
 occano ha bevjdo 
 
 rtmtituir Ic haze a la« arcnaa, . 
 
 y al nol In entienile Iui'ko, 
 
 que lamii'iidolo apenan 
 
 •n dulce lengua de templado fucRO 
 
 lento lo embinte, y ron «u»ve enliln 
 
 la mcnor honda chupa al mcnor hllo."
 
 251 LITEIlAllY AND SCIENTIKIC MEN. 
 
 (^culta figur(i) of the manner in which the shipwrecked 
 boy's clothes were (hied. In a luirried translation of this 
 sort, the harmony of verse is not preserved ; and that, 
 it must be remarked, is great, and one of (Jongora's chief 
 beauties. There is, indeed, a sort of dusky gorgeous- 
 ness throughout ; but it makes the reader smile, to be 
 told that this style of poetry was new and unknown, and 
 " superior to aught that man ever before imagined or 
 composed : " that it was to supersede Garcilaso, Ilerrera, 
 and Gongora himself in his better days. Such was the 
 faith of the cultoristos, such their hope in the estilo 
 culto. 
 
 Sismondi's translation of the first part of this sentence 
 runs thus : — " C't'tait la saison fleurie de Tannt'e dans 
 laquelle le ravisseur deguise d'Europe, portant sur son 
 front pour armes une demie-lune, et tous les rayons du 
 soleit dissemines sur son front, devenu un honncur bril- 
 lant du ciel, menait paitre des t'toiles dans des champs 
 de saphir ; lorsque celui qui etait bien plus fait pour 
 presenter la coupe a Jupiter que le jeune homme d'Ida, 
 fit naufrage, et confia a la mer de douces plaintes et des 
 larmes damour ; celle -ci pleine de compassion les trans- 
 mit aux feuilles qui repetant le triste gemissement du 
 
 vent comme le doux instrument d'Arion " Here 
 
 Sismondi breaks off, for here (iongora becomes particu- 
 larly obscure. We guess (it is all guessing with the 
 cultoristofi), that the poet intends to say, that the i)itying 
 waves repeated to the winds the complaints of the 
 wrecked youth, which in compassion tore from the pine 
 the limb that served him as a skiff' to save him. Whe- 
 ther the instrument, soft as Arion's, typifies the voice 
 of the youth, or the waves, or the wind, or the pine 
 tree, is an enigma beyond our solving.
 
 QUEVEno. 255 
 
 QUEVEDO. 
 
 1580—1645. 
 
 Spaniards may look hack with pride to this epoch, so 
 fertile in genius, so prolific of the talent and high cha- 
 racter that germinates in the Spanish soul, and which it 
 required unexampled despotism and cruelty to crush 
 and efface. Not that the inborn greatness of that people 
 is lost, but its outward demonstration, after this period, 
 became tlie unheard and sightlessprey of political oppres- 
 sion. The words of CJray, wherein he speaks of the 
 heroes and poets who may have been born and died with- 
 out achieving distinction, or performing any act capable 
 of winning it, is so true, perhaps, in no country as in 
 Spain : but with them it cannot be said, that 
 
 " Chill penury repressetl their noble rape, 
 And froze ihe genial current of the soul." 
 
 It was the stake and the dungeon, a system of misrule, 
 and the aspect of the merciless deeds committed by their 
 governors on helpless multitudes, that destroyed the 
 energies, and blighted the genius, of the people. AV'hen 
 we read of such acts as the banishment of the Moriscos, 
 and the history of all that that high-hearted people 
 suffered — torn from their native vales and hills, and 
 cast out upon the stranger — we wonder what manner 
 of men lived in Spain, and feel that these inhuman and 
 impious deeds must have poisoned tlie very air. JJut, 
 politically speaking, it is not the act, but its effects, tiiat 
 are so baneful ; national crime influences by causing 
 the degeneracy of the race. 'I'he youth may live a lif*- of 
 sin ; it is the man that is the sufferer. And tiius the 
 heroes of Spain of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, 
 might glory in their children of the sixteenth ; but the
 
 256 LITERAnV AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 iiitVction of evil had touched these, and their descendants 
 made good the awful denunciation, — that the children 
 are to suffer for their parents' crimes — an annunciation 
 of divine will, so carried out in the vast system of the 
 world, though often omitted in particular instances, as 
 to demonstrate that it is one of the laws bestowed by 
 heaven to govern the human race. 
 
 Among the men who, last of the Spaniards of re- 
 nown, flourished at that epoch, Quevedo deserves parti- 
 cular mention. He was a man of genius — a man who 
 acted as well as wrote, and displayed in both originality, 
 penetration and rectitude ; whose character was as 
 admirable as his intellect. lie was the victim, also, 
 of the most frightful misrule ; and the fate of Quevedo 
 alone might be brought forward as an example of the 
 infjimy of the political institutions of Spain. 
 
 Don Francisco (Joinez de Quevedo Villegas, was born 
 at Madrid in September 1580. His father, Pedro 
 Gomez do Quevedo, was a courtier. He had been 
 secretary to the empress Mar) , and afterwards filled the 
 same situation to queen Anne, wife of Philip II. His 
 mother, donna Maria de Santibanez, also was attached 
 to the court, and was a lady of the bedchamber to the 
 queen. They were both of noble family, and descended 
 from the most ancient landed proprietors of the Mon- 
 tana, in the A'alle do Toranzo. 
 
 His father died when he was a child ; and he was 
 brought up in the royal palace by his mother, but she 
 also died when he was young*, as we gather from one of 
 his ballads, in wdiicb he gives a jocosely bitter account 
 of the ill luck that pursued him througli life. He went 
 early to the university of Alcala, and there his passion 
 for study developed itself in all its intensity, so that we 
 are told that he took his degree in theology, to the 
 wonder of every body, at fifteen. This seems almost 
 
 • " Murieron luego mis padres, 
 Dios en ol rielo Ins tciiga, 
 porqiic no vuelvan acft, 
 y a ciigetidrar mas liijos vuelvan." 
 
 Musa, VI. — Romance, XVL
 
 QUEA'EDO. 257 
 
 incredible ; but it is plain he took it %vith credit, and a 
 the expense of great labour. 
 
 This science and success^ however, did not satisfy 
 him. He gave himself eagerly up to the acquirement 
 of other knowledge : civil and canon law, meclicine and 
 natural history, the learned languages, and the various 
 systems of philosophy, were in the number of his studies 
 and acquirements : poetry was added to the list. His 
 grasping and clear mind became informed by all the 
 learning of the times ; it converted it all to nutriment, 
 and acquired power from the various inteUectual weapons 
 he taught himself to wield. 
 
 His career was checked by a circumstance that may 
 rather be looked on as fortunate, since it forced him to 
 quit the immediate atmosphere of the court, and to 
 make his way elsewhere, tlirough his own exertions and 
 merits. He was, thougli so young, held in high esteem 
 for his conduct, and, as the most accomplished cavalier 
 of his time, was often made the arbitrator of quarrels : 
 in which character he displayed his good sense and good 
 feeling by the care he at once took, to watch over the 
 point of honour and to reconcile adversaries. He himself 
 wielded all weapons of defence with singular dexterity ; 
 though, being born with both his feet turned in, this 
 deformity must have impeded the full developement of 
 his powers, which, nevertheless, exceeded those of most 
 men in strength and skill, and were aided by his bravery 
 an«l p^catness of mind. 'I'hese qualifications had brought 
 iiimoffthe conqueror in several unexpected and inevitable 
 rencontres, where he had been obliged to defend or assert 
 himself. On one occasion a man, calling himself a 
 gentleman, entirely unknown to him, took advantage of 
 the darkness in which churches are plunged during the 
 evening of Holy Thursday, to insult a ladv (e(|uallv 
 unknown to (^uevedoj, in the church of St. Slartin, at 
 .Madrid. t^uevedo came forward to her assistance, 
 forced the insulter into the street, and, reproving him 
 for his brutality, they drew on each other, and (^ue- 
 vedo ran his adversary through the body. The friends 
 
 Vdl.. III. 8
 
 2^8 LITERAHY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 of the cavalier endeavoured to seize him, and he was 
 ol)lij;!;ed to fly : ho took refuge in Italy, and thence, 
 invited by the viceroy, repaired to Sicily. 
 
 At this time Don Pecho (liron, duke of Osuna and 
 grandee of Spain, was viceroy of Sicily. He was a man of 
 singular character ; and the career he ran, in which Que- 
 vedo was involved, was as strange and various as was his 
 disposition and designs.* The character of the Spanish, 
 under the gloomy influence of IMiilip II., had become 
 dii^nifled, grave and ceremonious. His son Philip III. 
 was of a different character. His father had taken pains 
 to inculcate all his own bigotry in matters of religion, 
 and, at the same time, to inspire him with application, 
 judgment, and a knov/ledge of the arts of government. 
 In the first part of his education he succeeded ; in the 
 latter he wholly failed. Philip III. was a weak prince 
 and as such given up to favouritism. On coming to 
 the crown, he devolved all the labours of government on 
 the marquis of Denia whom he made duke of Lerma, 
 who again entrusted much of the royal patronage and 
 power to Don Ilodrigo de Calderon, a man of low birth, 
 but of high and haughty mind, who became count of 
 Oliva and marquis de Siete Iglesias. The court 
 of Philip III., however, preserved much of the dignity, 
 the severe etiquette and solemn gravity brought in by- 
 Philip II. In this serious and ceremonious circle the 
 duke of Osuna was almost regarded as a madman. 
 He displayed the fervour and spirit of youth in a gaiety 
 and recklessness of manner and behaviour, wholly at war 
 with courtly decorum and seriousness. His Avit was 
 brilliant, his understanding penetrating, his imagination 
 full of fire and extravcgance ; his temper ardent and 
 joyous. He was often called insane, and the soba- tried 
 to bring him into discsteem. His high birth and vast 
 fortunes, however, gave him rank and weight, and he had 
 distinguished himself in the wars of the Low Countries, 
 not only by his bravery but by his military skill. His 
 
 * Cespcdcs.
 
 QVEVEDO. 259 
 
 disposition prompted him to love the trade of war ; and 
 he made such use of his experience during the struggle 
 carried on in that disturbed country, that he became re- 
 puted fit to command an army. His valour was undoubt- 
 ed ; on one occasion he had three horses killed under him, 
 and the success that attended his enterprises surrounded 
 them with still greater lustre. He was hcentious in his 
 habits, but so grossly so, that he was never the slave of 
 love. His ambition was unbounded ; liis designs vast : 
 his imagination suggested a thousand strange modes of 
 satisfying it, and engendered schemes so wild and 
 daring that, Avhile the world was amazed, and its repose 
 disturbed, their very singularity, in many instances, 
 commanded success. His military reputation was the 
 cause, joined to the influence of Uzeda, son of the duke 
 of Lerma, who was his friend, that, notwithstanding his 
 indiscretions and levity, he came to be named viceroy of 
 Sicily. 
 
 Quevedo was an invaluable acquisition to such a man. 
 His gaiety and wit recommended him as a companion : 
 his understanding, his integrity, his elevated character, 
 his resolution, his capacity for labour, and his great 
 knowledge, caused him to be a useful servant to one, 
 whose vast designs required instruments of power and 
 skill. 'J'he duke showed his great confidence in his 
 talents and fidelity by sending him as liis ambassador to 
 Madrid, to recount his exploits and explain his designs. 
 Quevedo succeeded so well that, the king and council 
 bestov.ed a pension on him, and the duke of Osuna was 
 advanced to the viceroyalty of Naples — which opened a 
 new scene for his schemes and a wide field for his 
 towering ambition. Osuna's first acts were directed 
 against the Turkish power, and he obtained several 
 Hplendid victories in the .Mediterranean and on the 
 coasts of Africa, but he had designs more at heart tlian 
 a victi ry over tlie 'I'urks. 'J'he war of the Low ( ountries 
 was concluded, an;! tlierc was peace between France and 
 Spain. The Spanisli |)nwer, possessed of Sicily and 
 Naples and .Milan, thrciitcned to become omnipotent in 
 
 e 2
 
 260 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC JIEN. 
 
 Italy. Charles Emanuel, duke of Savoy, a gallant and 
 patriotic ])rincc in vain endoavourcd to make head against 
 it : he was forced to submit. Still in heart he was at 
 war; and this sovereign and the republic of Venice 
 made a quiet but detei mined stand against the encroach- 
 ments of Spain in Italy. The Duke of Osuna set 
 himself in opposition to them, and, in particular, used 
 every means he could command, to weaken and injure 
 tlie \ enetians. 
 
 The methods he took were lawless and dishonour- 
 able, but they shewed his despotic and daring spirit. 
 lie encouraged the Uscocchi, a tribe of pirates who 
 inhabited Istria, and infested the Mediterranean. A 
 Spanish fleet protected their attacks on the Venetians, 
 intercepted the forces of the republic sent against them, 
 and seized upon their merchantmen in the Adriatic. 
 Corsairs and pirates of all nations brought their prizes 
 to the ports of Naples, and found shelter and protec- 
 tion : they were permitted to trade ; and Osuna thus 
 gathered together a number of desperate men whom he 
 could use in the execution of any daring enterprise. 
 The fair traders and merchants of Naples however, 
 finding commerce decline, complained at the court of 
 Madrid ; the French also made representations against 
 the nefarious acts of the pirates protected by Osuna ; 
 and the court, which had entered on a treaty of peace 
 with Savoy, and was negotiating one between Venice 
 and Ferdinand of Austria, sent an order to the viceroy 
 to suspend all hostilities. 
 
 Osuna would not obey. He sent a fleet into the 
 Adriatic, and threatened with death any one who 
 should dare carry complaints to Madrid. His pretence 
 was the alarm of an intended invasion by the Turks, 
 while at the same time he was endeavouring to induce 
 the I'orte to attack Candia. This fleet was driven into 
 port by a storm : but he had a number of privateers 
 which, notwithstanding Spain was at peace with Venice, 
 ca])tured the vessels of that state; and, when he was 
 ordered to restore them, he obeyed by sending back
 
 QUEVEDO. 
 
 261 
 
 the vessels and keeping the cargoes. In vain did the 
 Venetians complain. Osuna declared that he would 
 persist while he detected latent enmity to Spain in the 
 councils of the republic, and the Spanish ambassador was 
 forced to allow that the viceroy was beyond royal control. 
 
 But his designs did not end here ; his heart was set 
 on the destruction of Venice: and, his daring and uncon- 
 trouled imagination suggesting the wildest schemes, he 
 set on foot another attempt even less venial than his 
 encouragement of the Uscocchi. It is true that Spanish 
 historians, and, among them, Ortiz, deny the complicity 
 of Spain in the conspiracy formed against Venice, and 
 throw upon the Venetian senate the accusation of 
 trumping up a plot, for the sake of getting rid of the 
 Spanish ambassador: but all other nations concur in 
 believing the conspiracy to have been real, and in 
 affirming that the interesting account Saint Real gives, 
 is, in the main, founded on undoubted facts. 
 
 The name of the Bcdmar conspiracy against Venice 
 is familiar to us through Otway's play. This is not 
 the place to go into minute detail. The marquis of 
 Bedmar was a man of great talent and acquirements. 
 The Spanish government held him in high esteem ; he 
 was sagacious and discerning, and he had that zeal for 
 the glory of his country, which in that day distinguished 
 tlie Spaniards : and it was of the first importance to 
 the prosperity of Spain to weaken, how much more to 
 destroy the state of ^'enice. His design was to intro- 
 duce foreign troops surreptitiously into the town — to 
 fire the arsenal and other ])arts of the city, and to 
 seize on its places of strength. The senators were to be 
 massacred ; and if the citizens offered resistance, ar- 
 tillery was to Ix- turned on them, and the city laid in 
 ruins. The plot was discovered : it is not known 
 exactly how. It seems probal)lc, that a conspirator, a 
 Venetian, a Jaffier, betrayed it through the suggestions 
 of fear or humanity, and Venice was preserved. 
 
 licdniar, it is said, cfimmunicated his iilot to Osuna, 
 and they acted in concert. There can Ix; no doubt, but 
 
 8 3
 
 2()2 I.ITrHARY AN'O SOIKNTIFIC MKN. 
 
 that both ministers were zoalously briit on woakfiiinp 
 the power of \'enice; and, as there appears ample i)r()of 
 that this conspiracy originated in the marquis of Bedmar, 
 so is it also probable that he associated in it a spirit so 
 lawless, a man so bold and resolute as Osuna. Quevedo 
 was the emissary that passed between them, and if 
 Osuna was privy to the plot, it seems certain that 
 Quevedo also was. This is a painful circumstance. 
 We hear so much of the integrity and excellence of 
 Quevedo's character, that we are averse to believe his 
 complicity in the nefarious attempt to destroy a rival 
 state, not by the fair advantages of war, but by conspi- 
 racy, incendiarism, and massacre ; that state also not only 
 being at peace, but the plot originating in, and carried 
 on by one who bore the sacred character of an ambas- 
 sador. But, nurtured under the poisonous influence of 
 the Inquisition, fraught with a zeal, which does not de- 
 serve the name of pat: :ctic, since the true honour of their 
 country was not consulted, the Spaniards nourished a 
 false conscience ; and the men who could serve God by 
 the murder of the innocent and helpless, could serve 
 their king by perjury and assassination. During his 
 various political services the Hfe of Quevedo had been 
 several times attempted, and this also might tend to 
 blunt his sense of right : he might fancy that it was 
 but fair retaliation to use towards others the secret 
 weapon levelled against himself. However this may be, 
 whether or not he were acquainted with the secret 
 of the conspiracy, and took a part in it, it is certain 
 that he was in Venice at the time that the plot was 
 discovered. Many of his intimate friends were seized 
 and perished by the hands of the executioner ; but he 
 contrived to elude the vigilance of the senate, and 
 finally made his escape in the guise of a mendicant. 
 
 Osuna continued viceroy of Naples, and it began to 
 be suspected that he intended to arrogate power inde- 
 pendent of the king his master. His success at sea 
 against Venice raised him many enemies, as he gained 
 it through the destruction of all fair trade, and also by 
 the imposition of vast and burthensome taxes. The
 
 QUEVEDO. 
 
 263 
 
 Neapolitan nobility were, in a body, inimical to him ; and 
 all those ilisafFected to the Spanish rule made him the 
 apparent object of their hatred and complaints. He, 
 aware of their aversion, endeavoured to crush them ; 
 he visited all those crimes severely which they had 
 hitherto, under shadow of their rank, committed un- 
 punished. He excluded them from all offices of power 
 and trust, and took occasion when he could, to con- 
 fiscate their property. He encouraged a spirit of sedition 
 among the common people ; he surrounded himself by 
 foreign troops ; he encouraged men of desperate fortunes 
 — he commanded the sea — and his power became 
 unbounded. He utterly despised the king his master, 
 calling him the great drum of the monarchy, as if 
 he had been a mere tool and instrument, and possessed 
 no real authority. 
 
 "With all this it is not probable that he really con- 
 spired to seize on Naples. lie wished to rule absolutely 
 and unquestioned, but did not go beyond into forming 
 designs of putting his power on a new and independent 
 foundation. His wild projecting brain was well known, 
 and caused many of his acts to pass unnoticed ; but his 
 enemies increased, and their complaints at court were 
 frequent. They fabricated accusations to his dishonour, 
 exaggerated his weaknesses and faults, and combined 
 together for his overthrow. Finding that he became 
 aware of their attempts, they, fearful of his revenge, 
 renewed them with increased fervour. Men of the 
 highest rank in Naples visited Madriil, and i)ut tiiem- 
 selves forward to misinterpret his actions. They art- 
 fully represented tliat the ruin of commerce, and the 
 desolation of the kingdom arose from his di.ssolutc life 
 and misrule. The king and his ministers gave ear to 
 these repre-sentations, and commanded Osuna to return 
 to Madrid. This was a great blow to the duke : though 
 he received it with apparent constancy, he mither liked 
 to lose his place, nor, above all, to lose ii midir disho- 
 nourable iinpiitations, and he delayeil olxilience. Tims 
 colour was given to the idea that he meant to assert his 
 
 K '1'
 
 264 LITERARY ANO SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 iiulopi'mlence. Tlie court of Madrid, tlierefoie, pro- 
 ccuk'd more warily : they contrived to get possession 
 of his galleys and other vessels of war ; and orders were 
 ilispatchetl to cardinal don (Jaspar dc liorgia, who was 
 named his successor, to proceed instantly IVoin Home, 
 where he was residing, to Naples, and to seize on the 
 government. Borgia arrived at Caeta, but still Osuna 
 protracted his stay under various pretences. Tiie nobles 
 represented that he was endeavouring to raise an insur- 
 rection among the populace and soldiers ; and Borgia, to 
 put an end to the struggle, having gained the support 
 of the governor of the Castel Nuovo, introduced him- 
 self into that fortress by night. The following morning 
 the discharge of artillery proclaimed his arrival, and 
 Osuna was obliged to submit. He returned by slow 
 journies to Spain. He presented himself at court, and 
 the king turned his back on him. Osuna eyed his 
 sovereign with contempt, muttering, " The king treats 
 me not as a man, but as a child." Not long after, 
 Philip III. died. The enemies of Osuna were not 
 idle ; fresh accusations of his treasonable intents at 
 Naples were perpetually made ; and one of the first 
 acts of the reign of Philip IV. was to throw him into 
 prison. The distress of his mind increased the disease 
 of which he was the victim, and he died in prison of a 
 dropsy, in the year l624. 
 1620. Quevedo was enveloped in his ruin. He had been a 
 ^tat. zealous and laborious servant to Osuna and to his 
 '*^' government. He had, by his attention to the finances 
 discovered various frauds, and brought large sums into 
 the treasury. He crossed the sea seven times as ambas- 
 sador to the court of Madrid, and fulfilled the same 
 employment at Rome. He had been rewarded by the 
 gift of the habit of Santiago. He loved and revered 
 0§una, and testified his attachment by writing several 
 sonnets in his honour. One is on his death, in which 
 he says, " The fields of Flanders are his monument — 
 the blood-stained ('rcscent his epitaph : Spain gave him 
 a prison and death ; but though his country failed him.
 
 QUEVEDO. 
 
 265 
 
 his deeds were his defence."* He wrote three other 
 sonnets as epitaphs t : Ortiz mentions them as contain- 
 ing an epitome of the duke's life. He says of him tliat 
 he was " The terror of Asia, the fear of Europe, and 
 the thunder-bolt of Africa. His name alone was victory, 
 there wliere the Crescent ruled. He divorced Venice 
 and the Sea." In another he sums up his achievements 
 against the Turks: — " He liberated a thousand Christians 
 from the galleys ; he assaulted and sacked Goletta, 
 Chicheri, and Calivia ; the Danube, and Moselle and the 
 Rhine paled before his armies." The fall of Osuna in- 
 cluded his own. There can be no doubt that he was 
 innocent of all participation in any treasonable designs 
 of the viceroy, but innocence was a slight resource in 
 Spain against powerful accusers. He was arrested and 
 carried to his villa of Torre de Juan Abad, and imj)risoned 
 there for three years and a half. He was confined with 
 such rigour, that in default of medical aid he fell severely 
 ill, so that he wrote to the president of the council, to 
 represent the miserable state of his health, and obtained 
 leave to attend to his cure in the neighbouring city of 
 Villa Nueva de los Infanft's. A few months after he was 
 liberated, under the restriction tliat he was not to a[)pear 
 at court. But the total absence of all proof against 
 him, caused this sentence to be taken off soon after. 
 Unfortunately he was not .satisfied with freedom from 
 persecution. His fortunes had suffered during his 
 imprisonment, ami he .sought to mend them by claim- 
 ing the arrears of his pension, the payment of which 
 had been suspended during his disgrace. This lighted 
 again the fire of persecution, and he was again exiled, 
 and retired to his villa of 'I'orre .fiiim Abad, till after 
 the la|)se of anotlier year he was allowed to re turn to 
 Madrid. No longer persecuted, and restored to liis 
 projier place in society, lie resided for sonu- tinu at 
 court, where he enjoyed the reputation his talents, pru- 
 
 • " Mcmoria immorlal <lc I). Pedro Oiron, ilur|uc de Oiiiiia, miicrto en 
 la I*ri«ir"n." Min.n I. .^mcto I'j. 
 t .MiH.i III. SorictOi 4, .0. 9.
 
 266 
 
 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 dence, and. conduct commanded, so tliat the king, to 
 reward his services, and compensate for his sufferings, 
 named him one of his secretaries. 
 
 1G32. But such honours had ceased to charm Quevedo. 
 
 -'^'^'' Misfortune and disgrace had taught him to look with 
 aversion on public employments; his long imprisonment 
 had accustomed him to study, and engendered a love of 
 tranquillity. Several places were offered him by the 
 count-dukeOlivarez, minister and favouriteof Philip IV., 
 such as minister for state dispatches, and the embassy 
 to Genoa, but he declined them and gave himself up to 
 study and philosophy. His writings were many, and 
 gaineil for him a high reputation ; he was in corre- 
 spondence with all the most learned men of Europe, 
 and was enriched by the revenue of several benefices ; 
 thus for several years he enjoyed reputation and pros- 
 
 1634. perity. He gave up, however, his church preferments 
 
 iEtat. for the sake of marrying. His wife was donna Espe- 
 •54. ranza de Aragon y la ("abra, Seiiora of Cetina, and she 
 belonged to one of the highest families in the kingdom. 
 ^\'ith her he retired to Cetina ; but he was not long 
 allowed to enjoy the happiness he promised himself: 
 his wife died within a few months, and this last mis- 
 fortune, destroying the fabric of felicity he had erected, 
 and counted upon possessing to the end of his life, was 
 the heaviest blow of all. His resource and consolation 
 was retirement and study. He took up his abode at 
 Torre Juan Abad, and gave himself up to the cultivation 
 of literature and poetry- 
 Several of his poems are expressive of the delight he 
 felt at leaving Madrid for the solitude of his villa which 
 was placed in the Sierra of La Mancha. One of his 
 romances describes his progress from Madrid through 
 Toledo, la Mancha, and the Sierra, to his estate : the 
 poem is burlesque, and in ridicule of all he sees ; but 
 there are others in which he dwells with satisfaction on 
 his tranquil occupations. " Retired to the solitude of 
 these deserts," he writes, " with few but wise books, I 
 enjoy the conversation of the dead, and with my eyes
 
 QVEVEDO. 
 
 267 
 
 listen to those who are no more. The press gives into 
 our hands those great souls whom death has freed from 
 injury. The hour takes its irrevocable £ight, but that 
 is spent best which improves us by reading and study."* 
 He was an excellent landlord, and a kind master ; he 
 exerted himself in acts of charity towards his vassals, 
 and conducted himself with Christian humility and 
 mercy. For a few years he was permitted to enjoy this 
 tranquillity ; it was a sort of calm after storm, where 
 the absence of sorrow is called happiness. His active 
 mind furnished him with occupation, while his piety 
 and j)hilosophy taught liim content. He might now hope 
 that he was assured of such a stale of peace to the end 
 of his life, — for he had relinquished every ambitious 
 project, and limited his views to the narrowed sphere 
 immediately around him. But Quevedo was one of 
 those men marked by destiny for misfortune. He play- 
 fully, and yet with Fome bitterness, alludes to his evil 
 fate, in a poem before quoted. He says : " My for- 
 tunes are so black, they might serve me for ink : I 
 might be useil as an image of a saint ; — for, if the 
 country people want rain, they have but to turn me out 
 naked, and they are sure of a deluge ; if they want 
 sun, let me be covered by a mantle, and it will shine at 
 night ; 1 am always mistaken for some object of ven- 
 geance, and receive the blows intended for another. If 
 a tile is to fall, it waits till I pass under. If I wish to 
 
 • The la«t Ihrcc linei of this sonnet would nerve admirably for a motto 
 to a time.|iiecc in a library. 'I'he uliole, froiii which the above u an 
 extract, runn thus : — 
 
 " Kctirado en la paz dc estos doxiertoi, 
 Con pocos, pero dnctos libros jiiiitus, 
 Vivo en convcr8.icinn con lo^ (lifunlos, 
 
 Y cucuchiii'dn iiii^ ojox a los miiertoii. 
 Sino <itTii|>ro ciitciuliilriti, Kicinprc abicrton, 
 Oenmicndan.o f»-<-»iii(lan mi» ai>Minto», 
 
 Y en rnunu »» cillaiUi. r'iiitrn|>uiito>i 
 A) micfio de la vid.i halilan dopiertoH. 
 I.n* KT.i\)i\ii> nhiian, ijue In Miierte niiwenta 
 I)e iiijiiriaii.de Inn afifiK vriij{adfira, 
 
 Lilirn, » xraii Don .l(i«<-ph, docta la emprcnta. 
 I'.n fiijfa irrevmablc liuye la hora ; 
 l'<'ro .ii|uella el inejor calnilo nientn 
 (Jiiv III la lit'cioM > ettudiui nun mejora." 
 
 Musa If. Suiiria !«
 
 2()8 LITERAllV AND SCIKNTIFIC MEN. 
 
 borrow from ;my one, he replifs so ruddy, that, in- 
 stead of borrowing;, 1 am oblij^od to lend my patience. 
 Every fool prates to me ; every old woman makes love ; 
 every poor person begs ; every prosperous one takes 
 offence. ^Vhen I travel, I always miss my road; 
 when I play, I always lose ; every fric^nd deceives, 
 every enemy sticks to me; water fails me at sea, — in 
 taverns I find it in plenty, mingled with my wine. I have 
 given up all employments, for I know that if I turned 
 hosier, people would go bare-legged ; if physician, no 
 one would fall ill. If I am gallant towards a woman, 
 she Hstens to or refuses me, — both are equally dis- 
 astrous. If a man wished to die neither by poison nor 
 pestilence, he has but to intend to benefit me, and he 
 will not live an hour. Such is the adversencss of my 
 star, that I submit and try to propitiate its pride by my 
 adoration." * 
 1641. But worse luck was in store for him, and a misfor- 
 ■^''^t. tune so heavy, as to i)ut an end to his life, after ex- 
 ^^* hausting him by suffering. He was suspected of being 
 the author of certain libels against the court, and to the 
 injury of public morals; — and an accusation was 
 brought against him, either by some malicious enemy, 
 or officious and mistaken medler. Happening to visit 
 Madrid for some cause, and being in the house of a 
 grandee, his friend, he was arrested at eleven at night, 
 in the month of December ]fi41, and imprisoned in a 
 dungeon of the royal Casa de San Marcos de Leon, and 
 his possessions seized on. His confinement was cruel 
 as well as rigorous, — his dungeon was damp; — a 
 stream flowed through it close to his pillow. He was 
 allowed no money, and lived by charity ; his clothes 
 became rags, and he could not renew them. This 
 frightful situation produced sores on his body, and not 
 being allowed medical aid, he was forced to dress them 
 himself. 
 
 There are two letters of his extant, written in prison, 
 — one addressed to a friend, — the other, a memorial 
 to the count-duke Olivarez, soliciting inquiry into his 
 
 • Musa VI., romance xvi.
 
 QUEVEDO. ~ 269 
 
 case.* These letters are far less interesting than might 
 have been expected from so vivid a writer as Quevedo, 
 describing the squalid wretchedness of a dungeon^ and 
 the horrors of his lot ; but they are curious monuments 
 of the manners of the day^ shewing how men endured 
 the evils of misrule, and evincing the resignation and 
 dignity Quevedo could preserve throughout. 
 
 The first is addressed to a gentleman whom his 
 biographers name his intimate friend, don Diego de 
 ViUagomez, a cavalier of the city of Leon ; but the 
 style is as cold and ceremonious as if written to an arch- 
 bishop. It begins by Faying : — " 1 who am a warning 
 write to you wlio are an example to the world, — but 
 different as we are, we both travel to the same end, — 
 and adversity has this of good, that it serves as a lesson 
 to others. Even in learning the military profession, you 
 have shewn yourself a good captain. For you have not 
 left it, but attained preferment. War endures to all 
 men through life, for life is war ; and to live and to 
 struggle is the same thing." — He then makes a reli- 
 gious application of this maxim, saying, that to leave a 
 worldly service for that of Jesus, is to follow a better 
 banner and to be assured of the pay ; and, after a long 
 disquisition on this subject, and in praise of St. 
 Ignatius, he concludes by saying : " I can count, 
 senor don Diego, fourteen years and a half of imprison- 
 ment, and may add to tliis the misery of this last dun- 
 geon, in which, I count the wages of my sins. Give 
 me pity in exchange for the envy I bear you ; and since 
 God gives you better society, enjoy it, far from the 
 solitude of your friend, wlio lies in the grasp of perse- 
 cution, far short in his account, though he pays much 
 less tlian he owes. And may (Jod give you his grace 
 and benediction. From prison, the 8th of .fiinc, l()43." 
 The memorial to the coiint-duke is far more to the 
 |»ur[i()se, hut, c-ven that is very diffuse and pfd;nitic, 
 though the facts he details wi-re impressive enough to 
 oVjtain eonjpassion without (|U()fations from the ancients ; 
 but sucii was the tone of that age. 
 
 * Vida (Ic Uucvcdu por Tartia.
 
 270 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 " My lord," he writes, "a year and ten months have 
 passed since I was tlirown into prison, on the seventh of 
 December, on tlie eve of tlie Conception of our Lady, at 
 half-past ten at night ; Avhen I was dragj^ed in the 
 depth of winter, without a cloak, and without a shirt, 
 in my sixty-tirst year, to this royal convent of San 
 Marcos de Leon ; where I have remained all the time 
 mentioned, in most rigorous confinement ; sick with 
 three wounds, which have festered through the effects 
 of cold, and the vicinity of a stream that flows near 
 my pillow ; and not being allowed a surgeon, it has 
 been a sight of pity to see me cauterise them with my 
 own hands. 1 am so ])oor that I have been clothed, 
 and my life supported by charity. The horror of my 
 hardships has struck every one with dread. I have 
 only one sister, a nun among the barefooted Carmelites, 
 from whom I can hope nothing, but that she should 
 recommend me to God. I acknowledge (for so my 
 sins persuade) mercy in this cruelty. P^or I am my- 
 self the voice of my conscience, and I accuse my life. 
 If your Excellency found me well off, mine would be 
 the praise. To find me miserable, and to do me good, 
 makes the praise yours ; and if I am unworthy of pity, 
 your Excellency is worthy to feel it, and it is the ap])ro- 
 priate virtue of so great a noble and minister. ' There 
 is nothing,' says Seneca, when consoling Marcia, ' that 
 I consider so meritorious in those who hold a high station, 
 as the pardoning many things, and seeking pardon 
 for none.' What worse crime can I commit, than 
 persuading myself that my misfortunes are to be the 
 limit of your magnanimity ? I ask time from your 
 Excellency to revenge myself on myself. The world has 
 already heard what my enemies can say against me ; I 
 desire now that they should hear me against myself, and 
 my accusations will be the more true from being 
 exempt from hatred. I protest, before God, our Lord, 
 that in all that is said of me, I am guilty of no other 
 crime, than not having lived an exemplary life, so that 
 my sins may be attributed to my folly. Those who
 
 QUEVEDO. 271 
 
 see me, do not believe that I am a prisoner on suspicion, 
 but under a most rigorous sentence ; wherefore I do 
 not expect death, but live in communion Avith it. I 
 exist only through its generosity, — and I am a corpse 
 in all except the sepulture, which is the repose of the 
 dead. I have lost every thing. My possessions, which 
 were always trifling, are reduced to nothing, between 
 the great expenses of my imprisonment, and the 
 losses it has occasioned. My friends are frightened 
 by my calamity, and nothing remains to me but my 
 trust in you. No mercy can bestow many years on 
 me, nor any cruelty deprive me of many. I do not, 
 my lord, seek this interval, naturally so short, for the 
 sake of living longer, but of living well for a little 
 while." 
 
 He then sums up, by quoting Pliny and Trajan on 
 the merits of mercy, and the preferability of being 
 loved rather tlian feared. 
 
 This memorial had the effect of drawing attention to 
 his cause and sufferings. The accusation on account of 
 which he was im;)risoned was examined, and it was dis- 
 covered that he had been calumniated, and the real author 
 of the libel came to be known ; on this he was set at 
 liberty, and allowed to return to court. His first labour 
 was to recover his properly, the whole of which, except 
 the portion he had entrusted to his powerful friend, 
 doctor Francisco de Oviedo, had been sequestered. It 
 was a work of difficulty; and, meanwhile, he found 
 himself too poor to live with becoming respectability 
 at court, so he retired to his country seat. Here he 
 soon fell ill from the effects of neglect during his last, 
 long, and cruel imprisonment ; and he was obliged to 
 remove to Villa Nueva de los Infantes, for the sake of 
 medical treatment. He was long confined to Ids apart- 
 ment, suffering great ]iain and annoyance, all of which 
 he endured with cxenipiary patience. He made his 
 will, ami prejjared his sdul for deutii. He named his 
 nephew his successor, on condition that lie look the 
 name of C^uevcdo. His death was lingering. To the
 
 27^ MTKIIARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 last lie displayed fortitude and a tran(|uil spirit of 
 resignation. He died the Sth of September, Kit?, at 
 the age of sixty-five. 
 
 In jjerson, Quevedo was of middle height, and 
 robust, tliough liis feet were deformed, lie was hand- 
 some in face, fair, and with curly hair inclined to red. 
 He was short-sighted — but his countenance was full of 
 animation. Notwithstanding his deformity, he was 
 vigorous, — addicted to^ and excelling in, manly exer- 
 cises. 
 
 His life was spent in a series of vicissitudes ; at one 
 time enjoying power and reputation ; at another, a 
 prisoner, suffering all the evils of poverty and neglect. 
 He bore all with fortitude : his active mind gave him 
 employment, his genius caused him to find a resource 
 in writing ; — and the vivacity and energy of his 
 works display the unabated vigour of his soul. Nearly 
 fifteen years of his life he spent in prison, as he men- 
 tions in his letter above quoted. Meanwhile his cha- 
 racter remained uninjured by adversity. His dispo- 
 sition was magnanimous, so that he never revenged 
 himself on any of his enemies : he was generous and 
 charitable to those in need ; and so diffident of his own 
 merit, that the only poems he published saw light 
 under a feigned name. 
 
 His integrity had been put to the proof at Naples, 
 where bribes were offered him to conceal the frauds 
 practised on the royal revenue ; but he was far above 
 dishonesty and peculation. The only slur on his cha- 
 racter is his possible complicity in the Bedmar con- 
 spiracy ; but in those days the advantage of the state 
 to which a man belonged was deemed preponderant to 
 all the suggestions of justice and right. Quevedo also 
 acted on this occasion (if he did act) under the com- 
 mand of his superiors ; and believed that fidelity to his 
 patron was his first duty. 
 
 Of his " Affaires du Coeur," the great subject with 
 poets, we know little. Several ladies are celebrated in 
 his verses; but a great proportion of his erotic poetry
 
 QUEVEDO. 273 
 
 is dedicated to one^ whom he names Lisi^ and to whom 
 he appears to have been faithfully attached for a con- 
 siderable space of time. In one of his soimets to her^ he 
 says that ten years had taken their swift and noiseless 
 flight since first he saw her ; and for these ten years the 
 soft flame had warmed his veins, and reigned over his 
 soul ; " for the flame," he says, " that aspires to im- 
 mortal life, neither fears to die with the body, nor that 
 time should injure or extinguish it." Many of his 
 poems express great aversion to matrimony, and when, 
 at last, in advanced age, he did marry, we have seen 
 that he was widowed almost as soon as wed. 
 
 ^\'ith the never-to-be-omitted exception of Cervantes, 
 Quevedo is the most original prose writer Spain has pro- 
 duced ; but at the same time he is so quaint, referring 
 to local pecuharities, and using words unknown, except 
 colloquially, that he is often unintelligible, especially in 
 his burlesque poetry, to a foreigner. His countrymen 
 esteem him highly. One of the most pleasing stanzas of 
 Lope de \'ega's Laurel de Apolo is dedicated to his praise. 
 He speaks of him as " Possessing an acute but gentle 
 spirit ; agreeable in his wit, and profound in his serious 
 poetry." He adopted something of the culto style 
 and conceits blemish his verses. Quintana says of 
 him, " Quevedo was every thing in excess ; no one in 
 the same manner displays in the serious, a gravity so 
 rigid, and morals so austere ; no one in the jocose, 
 shows a humour, so gay, so free, and so abandoned to 
 the spirit of the thing. His imagination was vivid and 
 brilliant but superficial and negligent; and the poetic 
 genius that animates him, sparkles but does not glow, 
 surprises but does not move deeply, bounds with im- 
 petuosity and force, but neither flies nor supports itself 
 at the same elevation. I am well aware that Quevedo 
 often diverts with what he writes, and raves because it 
 is his pleasure. I know that jtuiis have their proper 
 place in such compositions, ami that no one has used 
 them more happily than he. JJut every thing has its 
 
 vol,. Ml. T
 
 274 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 hounds ; and heaped together with a prodigahty like 
 his, instead of i)leasing tliey only create weariness. 
 
 '' His verse, however, is for the most part full and 
 sonorous, his rhyme rich and easy. His poetry, strong 
 and nervous, proceeds impetuously to its end ; and if 
 his movements hetray too much of the effort, affectation 
 and bad taste of tlie writer, their course is yet frequently 
 seen to have a wildness, an audacity, and a singularity 
 hat is surprising. *" 
 
 To give some idea of Quevedo's style to the English 
 reader we may liken him to Butler ; but it is Butler 
 rather in his fragments than in Iludihras, for a more 
 elevated poetic tone is displayed in those. Quevedo 
 could be sublime, though only by snatches. Serious 
 he could be, to the depths of grave and profound dis- 
 quisition, as his ethical and religious treatises testify. 
 
 One singular circumstance appertains to Quevedo's 
 literary career — that he published none of his poetry 
 himself, except that portion which he gave to the world 
 under the feignetl name of the Bachiller Francisco de 
 la Torre. These are the choice of aU. Being more ele- 
 vated, more sweet, more pure in their diction and taste, 
 several critics would deprive Quevedo of the merit of 
 being their author. But who Torre was, if he were 
 not Quevedo, nobody can tell : while, these poems ap- 
 pearing under his editorship, and the very name — 
 Francisco being his own, and the surname, " of the 
 
 * As a specimen of Quevedo's Tpoetry, "Quintana quotes a sonnet, 
 which WifTen has translated, and which has the merit of force and truth. 
 
 ("tME RlilNS OF ROME. 
 
 " Pilgrim, thou look'st in Rome for Rome divine. 
 And ev'n in Rome no Rome can find ! her crowd 
 Of mural wonders is a corse, whose shroud 
 And fitting tomb is the lone Aventine. 
 She lios whore riigiied the kingly Palatine, 
 An<t 'rime's worn medals more of ruin show 
 From her ten thousand fights than even the blow 
 Struck at the crown of her imperial line, 
 Tiber alone remains, whose rushing tide 
 Waters the town, now sepulchred in stone. 
 And weeps its funeral with fraternal tears : 
 () Rome! in thy wild beauty, power, and pride. 
 The durable is Hed; and what alone 
 Is fugitive, abides the ravening years '."
 
 QUEVEDO. 275 
 
 Tower," appropiate to his position, as the verses were 
 written while he was living secluded in his patrimonial 
 villa of Torre Juan Abad, seems to fix them unques- 
 tionably on him. Of the rest, a friend of Quevedo 
 assures us that not a twentieth part of what he wrote 
 has escaped destruction. His dramas and historical 
 works have perished ; by which he has lost the right 
 to being considered the universal writer his contempo- 
 raries name him. This friend, and afterwards his 
 nephew and heir, published his poems, distributed under 
 the head of six muses, pedantically headed with mottos 
 from Seneca. There is Clio the historic, consisting 
 chiefly of sonnets on great events addressed to great 
 people ; Polyhimnia the sententious ; Melpomene, 
 composed chiefly of epitaphs ; Erato the erotic, or as 
 it is styled, " singing of tlie achievements of love and 
 beauty : " the greater part of which is dedicated to Lisi. 
 Terpsichore the light, gay and satirical, a large portion 
 of which are written in tiie jargon of the gypsies, and are 
 unintelhgible on this side of the Pyrenees ; and Thalia, 
 longest of all, which sings, " de omnibus rebus et quibus- 
 dam aliis." 
 
 It is as a prose writer, however, that Quevedo has 
 acquired fame out of his own country. And this 
 not from his serious works ; nor from his " picaresco," 
 in which he relates the life of the great Tacafio, or cap- 
 tain of thieves, the type of a Spanish rogue. This tale, 
 by its familiarity with vice, squalid penury, and vulgar 
 roguery, becomes tiresome ; nor is it to be compared in 
 richness of humour to Mendoza's history of Lazarillo de 
 los Tormes. The letters of the " Cavallero de Tenaza," 
 or knight of the i)incer, are very whimsical. They are 
 in ridicule of avarice, a sin, wiiich Quevedo declares in 
 another work to be the most unnatural of all. 'I'hey 
 arc addressed to a lady ; and are lessons to teach how 
 little can be given, and how much preserved, by a man 
 on all occasions. This sort of dry luuiiour turning on 
 one idea amuses at first, but at last becomes wearisome. 
 
 It is on his Visions however, his most original work, 
 T 2
 
 276 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 that his European rei)utation rests. Nothing can he 
 more novel, singular and strikinj^. They consist of 
 various visions of the other world ; where he sees the 
 end of earthly vanities and the punishments that await 
 crime. They are full of knowledge of human nature, 
 vivacity, wit and daring imagination ; they remind 
 the reader of Lucian ; and if they are less airy and 
 fanciful, they are bolder and moie sarcastic. They 
 liave the fault, it is true, of dwelling too exclusively 
 on subjects of mean and vulgar interest — alguazils, 
 attornies, ruffians, and all sorts of rogues of both 
 sexes ; among which, tailors figure preeminently. Now 
 that tailors provide their own cloth, we have lost that 
 intense notion of " cabbaging," which was so deeply 
 impressed on the minds of our ancestors, when they 
 only fashioned cloth sent to them. Tailors are with 
 Quevedo the very ne plus ultra of a thief. As lord 
 Byron styles a pirate '^ a sea-solicitor," so Quevedo 
 calls a robber " a tailor of the highways." Several of 
 these visions were written while their author was com- 
 paratively young : (one, dedicated to the duke of Osuna, 
 is dated I6IO, when he was thirty years of age), and 
 possess the glow and spirit of early life. Nothing can 
 be more startling and vivid than the commencement of 
 the " Vision of Calvary." The blast of the last trump is 
 described, and then he goes on to say : " The sound en- 
 forced obedience from marble, and hearing from the dead. 
 All the earth began to move, giving permission to the 
 bones to seek one another. After a short interval, I 
 beheld those who had been soldiers arise in wrath from 
 their graves, believing themselves summoned to battle : 
 the avaricious looked up with anxiety and alarm fearing 
 an attack, while men of pleasure fancied that the horns 
 sounded to invite them to the chase. Then I saw how 
 many fled with disgust or terror from their old bodies, 
 of which some wanted an arm, some an eye ; and I 
 laughed at the odd figures they cut, while I admired the 
 contrivance of Providence, th^t all being confounded 
 together, no mistake was made. In one churchyard only.
 
 QUEVEDO. 277 
 
 there was some confusion and exchanging in tlie ap- 
 propriation of heads ; and I saw an attorney who 
 denied that his own soul belonged to hiin. But I was 
 most frightened at seeing two or three merchants who 
 put on their souls so awry, that all their five senses 
 got into' their fingers." 
 
 The commencement of the ''Alguazil possessed" is 
 equally spirited. A spectator calling him a man be- 
 devilled, the bad spirit, within, cries out that " He is not 
 a man but an alguazil ; and you must know that it is 
 against their will that devils possess alguazils ; so that 
 you ought rather to call jne a devil be-alguazilled than 
 an alguazil bedevilled." He is almost as inveterate 
 against duennas, a race of people peculiar to Spain, and 
 he disposes of them ludicrously enough in the infernal 
 regons. " I went a little further," he says, "and came to 
 an immense and troubled swamp, where there was so much 
 noise ti)at my head was bewildered : I asked what it was, 
 and was told that it proceeded from women who had 
 turned duennas on earth. And thus I discovered 
 that those who are duennas in this life, are frogs in the 
 next, and like frogs, are for ever croaking amidst the wet 
 and mud ; and very properly do they act the parts of 
 infernal frogs, since duennas are neither fish nor flesh. 
 I laughed to see them turned into such ugly things, 
 with faces as care-worn and wrinkled as those of duennas 
 here on earth." 
 
 Such is the sort of wit that Qucvcdo indulges in ; 
 terse, pointed, bitter, and driven liome with an un- 
 sparing hand. Extravagant in its imaginations, yet so 
 proportioned to the trutli of nature as to excite admi- 
 ration as well as surprise, and to be the model of a 
 variety of imitations, none of which come up to him in 
 penetration, vivacity and subtle felicity of expression. 
 
 T 3
 
 278 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 CALDERON. 
 
 1601—1687. 
 
 We draAV to a close. ]\Iisrulc and oppression had their 
 inevitable results, crushing and destroying the spirit and 
 intellect of Spain ; and after, by an extraordinary harvest 
 of writers, the soil had shown what it could do, it be- 
 came waste and barren. For a long time, the purists, 
 tlie Gongorists, the partisans of a glittering and false 
 style, exerted their influence. A critic and poet of 
 eminence, Luzan, exerted himself to restore Spanish 
 poetry. He succeeded in exploding the false taste ; and 
 Moratin, the author of some excellent dramas, followed 
 in his steps : but, latterly, the state of the country has 
 been too distracted for literature to gain any attention. 
 
 Before we close the series of Spanish Lives, however, 
 one more is to be added, and it is that of the greatest 
 poet of Spain. Little, very little, however, is known 
 of him. We regret that we have not fuller accounts of 
 Cervantes. We search the voluminous works of Lope 
 de Vega to acquire knowledge of his character and of the 
 events of his life ; while the career of one far greater than 
 he, and, as a poet, infinitely superior to Cervantes him- 
 self, is wrapped in such obscurity that we can discern 
 only its bare outline, and no one has endeavoured to fill 
 up the sketch, nor by seeking for letters and other docu- 
 ments, to give us a fuller, and as it were coloured picture, 
 of what Calderon was. This partly arises from the 
 prosperity of his life : adversity presents objects that 
 catch the attention and demand research : an even 
 course of happiness, like a champaign country, eludes 
 description. The only account we have of him pro- 
 ceeds from a friend*, who commences with blowing a 
 
 • Fama Vida y Escritos de Don Pedro Calderon de la Barca por Don 
 Juan de Vera Tassis y Villarroel.
 
 CALDERON. 279 
 
 trumpet, as if he were going to tell us much. " How 
 can his limited powers,"' he says, " describe him who 
 occupies all the tongues of fame ? and iU will a short 
 epilogue befit the man whose merits endless ages cannot 
 limit.'"' And then he goes on to tell us that " his swift 
 pen shall comprise a brief sigh in a long regret, and 
 raise an honourable tomb to his sacred ashes ; adopting 
 for the purpose one of the many pens which his fame fur- 
 nishes, until others better cut than his shall publish 
 eulogies worthy of his name." 
 
 Don Pedro Calderon de la Barcawas born in I6OI *; 
 thus coming into the world of poetry at the moment when 
 the plays of Lope de Vega were in vogue, and when Cer- 
 vanteswascallingtheattention of mankind to his immortal 
 work. His biographer takes the pains to preserve the 
 intelligence that he wept before he was born ; " thus to 
 enter the world enshadowed by gloom, which he, like a 
 new sun, was to fill witli joy." And he tells us that he 
 collected " this important information from Donna 
 Dorotea Calderon de la Barca, his sister, a nun in the 
 royal convent of St. Clara at Toledo." The family of 
 Calderon was illustrious, and enjoyed an ancient hidal- 
 goship (or .solnr) in the valley of Carriedo among the 
 mountains of Burgos ; the very place, we may observe, 
 where Lope de Vega's ancestors resided, and whence his 
 father emigrated, when, driven by straitened means, he 
 removed to Madrid. The family of Calderon had mi- 
 grated many years before, and were settled at Toledo. 
 His motlier's name was Donna Ana Maria de Henao y 
 Iliafia, and her origin was derived from an ancient family 
 in the Low Countries, descended from the Seigneur de 
 Mons, and which had been settled in Spain for many 
 years. 
 
 His childhood was spent under the paternal roof, 
 and even as a boy he was conspicuous for his intiiIig«Mice 
 and acquirements. At the age of fourteen he entered 
 the university of Salamanca. He remained there for 
 
 * KnuU-rwck and Siimondl k'ivp IfiOO u the date of Calderon') birth. — lilt 
 Spaniih triographc-r mcntioni KiOI. 
 
 T 4
 
 280 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 five years, and rendered himself conspicuous by his ardour 
 for study, and by the profz:ress lie made in the most 
 abstruse and difficult sciences. Already also had he 
 begun to write plays, which were acted with applause in 
 several Spanish theatres. 
 }620. At the age of nineteen he left Salamanca. These 
 .^tat. dates are given us, but the intermediate spaces are un- 
 '^- filled up. Are are not told whether he resided at Madrid 
 or with his family at Toledo. His fame became estab- 
 lished as a poet, and began to rival that of Lope, whom 
 indeed he far transcended in the higher gifts of poetry, 
 creative imagination, sublimity, and force. 
 ir,-2G. At the age of five and twenty he entered the military 
 iEtat. service, and served his king first in the Milanese and 
 -•''• afterwards in Flanders, the old fields of war for Spain, 
 whereon had fought and fallen so many heroes of both 
 countries, and so many human beings had fallen victims 
 to religious and political persecution. He spent ten years 
 in this manner. Sismondi says, that his life is sprinkled 
 with few events. How do we know this ? Throughout 
 these campaigns, during these years of youthful ardour 
 and enterprise, how much may have occurred, what dan- 
 gers he may have run — what generosity, what valour he 
 may have displayed — how warmly he may have loved, 
 how deeply have suffered ! As a poet and a master of 
 the passions he must have felt them all. But a blank 
 meets us when we seek to know more of these things. 
 A poet's life is ever a romance. That Calderon's was 
 such we cannot doubt ; but we must find its traces in 
 the loves, the woes, the courage, and the joys of his 
 dramatic personages : he infused his soul into these ; 
 what the events might be that called forth his own per- 
 sonal interest and sympathy we are totally ignorant. An 
 16S7. order from his sovereign recalled him to court. Philip IV. 
 ^tat. was passionately fond of the theatre, and himself wrote 
 ■^^- plays. Innumerable dramas appeared under his patron- 
 age, the names of the authors being utterly unknown ; 
 and even of those of acknowledged writers few have 
 been collected and published under the name of their 
 author. Single plays, in pamphlets^ we find in plenty.
 
 CALDEROX. 281 
 
 all very similar the one to the other ; a better arrange- 
 ment in the plot, more or less poetry or spirit in the 
 dialogue, being almost all tlie difference we find among 
 them. Several of the most entertaining are given forth 
 as by a ^Vit of the Court (un Ingenio de esta Corte), 
 and attributed to Philip \Y. himself; though this honour 
 has been disputed him. JMoreto also, the gayest and 
 most comic of the Spanish dramatists, flourished at this 
 time. Lope Avas dead ; but his place was filled up, not . 
 by one, but by many, who, under royal patronage, were 
 eager to pay the tribute of a play to the theatre of 
 Spain. 
 
 Philip IV. saw Calderon's dramas represented. He 
 perceived their merit, and thought he might serve his 
 king much better by residing in Spain and writing for 
 the theatre, than by bearing arms in Flanders, where 
 there were so many men who could not write plays, nuich 
 more fit to be knocked on the head. He summoned 
 Calderon to court, by a royal order, for the sake of 
 writing a ilrama for a palace festival ; bestowed on him 
 also the habit of Santiago, and excusing him his mihtary 
 duties commanded him, instead, to furnish a play. Cal- 
 deron wrote the " Certamen de Amor" (the Combat of 
 Love), and " Zelos" (Jealousy), which were acted at 
 the palace of Buen-Iletiro. Calderon wrote as he was 
 commanded ; but, unwilling to leave the army, he ob- 
 tained a commission in the company of the count-duke 
 of Olivarez, which he followed to Catalonia, and re- 
 mained till the ])eace, when he returned to court ; when 
 the king conferred on liiin the pay of thirty crowns a 
 month in the artillery. 
 
 On another occasion, while staying in the country jf;5o. 
 with the duke of Alva, the king sent for iiim to cele])rate /i:tat, 
 the festivals that occurred on Ills marriage with Maria 49. 
 Ana of Austria. 
 
 At the age of fifty-one he rjuitted the military ca- 
 reer, to which for many years he iiad been ])aNsi()nat('ly 
 attached, and, Iwing ordained, he became a priest. The 
 king, who always favoured him, made him chaplain of
 
 282 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC WEN. 
 
 a royal chapel at Toledo, of which he took possession on 
 1654. the lf)tli of Juno of the same year. But the king, 
 ■^'**' dissatisfied with liis distance from court, and his con- 
 ^^' sequent inability to assist properly at the royal feasts, 
 gave him a royal chaplaincy, and recalled him to Ma- 
 drid ; bestowing on him besides a pension, derived from 
 the revenues of Sicily, besides other presents and re- 
 wards, the ever-renewing recompence of his labours. Cal- 
 deron now wrote a play at each celebration of the king's 
 birth-day, not only for ]\Iadrid, but for Toledo, Seville, 
 and Granada. As he advanced in age, he obtained 
 other church preferments. He died on the 29th of May, 
 )687. 1()87, at the age of eighty-six. He left the congrega- 
 iEtat. tion of St. Peter heir to all he possessed. 
 ^6* In describing his character, his biographer indulges 
 in Spanish hyperbole instead of original traits. He 
 calls him the oracle of the court, the envy of strangers, 
 the father of the Muses, the lynx of learning, the light 
 of the drama. He adds, that his house was ever the 
 shelter of the needy ; that his modesty and humility 
 were excessive ; attentive in his courtesy ; a sure friend, 
 and a good man. 
 
 Calderon never collected nor published his plays. The 
 duke of Veragua at one time addressed him a flattering 
 letter, requesting to be furnished with a complete list of 
 his dramas, as the booksellers were in the habit of 
 selling the works of other writers under his name. Cal- 
 deron, who was then in his eightieth year, supplied the 
 duke with a hst only of " Autos Sacramentales." He 
 added, in a letter, that with regard to his temporal dramas, 
 of which he had written an hundred and eleven, he felt 
 offended, that in addition to his own faulty works, those 
 of other authors should be ascribed to him ; and 
 besides that his writings were so altered, that he himself 
 could not recognise even their titles. He also expressed 
 his determination of following the example of the book- 
 sellers, and to pay as little regard to his plays as they did. 
 He observed, that on religious grounds, he attached 
 more importance to his " Autos."
 
 CALDEROiV. 283 
 
 Several collections of Calderon's plays appeared 
 during his life ; one of them being edited by his bro- 
 ther, and another by his friend and biographer, Don 
 Juan de Vera Tassis y 'S'illaroel, who published a hun- 
 dred and twenty-seven plays, and ninety -five autos ; but 
 it is doubted whether all these are really his. This 
 doubt, of course, appertains to the more mediocre ones. 
 In the best, the stamp of Calderon's original genius can- 
 not be doubted. 
 
 Bouterwek and Sismondi have both entered into con- 
 siderable detail with regard to Calderon's plays, but we 
 have no space to indulge in a similar analysis, although, 
 with our admiration for this great poet, we should be 
 glad to enter with minute detail on his merits ; but we 
 must confine ourselves to some description of his cha- 
 racteristics. 
 
 Schlegel is an enthusiastic admirer of Calderon ; and 
 his observations on his works are replete with truth. 
 Other writers — among them the author of an article on the 
 Spanish theatre, in thi twenty-fifth volume of the "Quar- 
 terly Review" — are less wiUing to attribute high merit to 
 him. We confess that our ojiinion more nearly coincides 
 with Schlegel. He carries too far, we allow, his theory of 
 the ideal of Calderon's morality, piety, and honour. It 
 is true, that these are too deeply founded on the bigotry 
 and falsehood of inquisitorial faith, and a false point of 
 honour ; but with all this, within the circle which his 
 sentiments and belief prescribe, he is a master of the 
 passions and the imagination. There is a wild and lofty 
 aim in all his more romantic plays, which i)Ut barrly 
 down, despoiled of the working of the passions and 
 the magic of jjoetry, seems monstrous, l)Ut which, 
 however different from our notions of the present day, 
 strike a chord that vibrates to the depth of the heart. We 
 may give as an instance, that supernatural machinery 
 is introduced into very many of ( 'alderon's j)lays ; and 
 ShakoHpear himself cannot manage the agency of the 
 spiritual world aK('alderon has done. He eidists a sort 
 of belief on his side, which it is difficult to descril)e.
 
 284 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 but impossible to withstand. It is not a mere ghost 
 tliat walks the earth, but an cMiibodying, at the same 
 time, of the conscience and fears of tlie person thus 
 visited. Thus in the " Purgatory of St. Patrick:" 
 Ludovico Ennio, the villain of the piece, has for many 
 years resolved to assassinate an enemy. He has travelled 
 through many countries, nourishing the idea of ven- 
 geance, and returns to Ireland resolved to accomplish it. 
 He wraps himself in his mantle, and thus disguised, he 
 goes for three successive nights to the street where his 
 enemy lives, resolved to stab him : but, at the moment 
 that he fancies that he shall attain his aim, he is met 
 by a man similarly disguised (einbozado — muffled up 
 in a cloak) who calls to him ; but when he follows, the 
 cmbozado disappears so quickly, it seems as if the wind 
 were in his feet. Ludovico enraged, on the fourth 
 night lays in wait again, and takes his servant with 
 him, that the disgxused intruder may not escape. He 
 arrives again at the street, resolved on the death of 
 his enemy. At this moment the cloak-wTapped figure 
 appears before him. Exasperated by his appearance, 
 he declares that he will take two vengeances ; one on 
 his ancient enemy, the other on the intruder : the 
 figure calls him by his name, and bids him follow. 
 Ludovico draws on him, but pierces only the empty air; 
 at once astonished and indignant, he still pursues 
 till they come to a desert place, when Ludovico ex- 
 claims, '' Here Ave are, body to body, alone, but my 
 sword cannot injure thee : tell me, then, who thou art ; 
 art thou a man, a vision, or a dicmon ! You answer 
 not — then thus I dare throw off your mantle !" But, 
 hidden by the cloak is a skeleton only ; and aghast with 
 terror, he exclaims, " Great God ! what dreadful spec- 
 tacle is this ! Horrible vision ! — Mortal terror ! what art 
 thou — stark corse — that crumbled into earth and dust, 
 yet live? The figure replies, " Knowest thou not 
 thyself? — I am thy portraiture — I am Ludovico 
 Ennio !" These words, this fearful sight, awaken hor- 
 ror and remorse in the criminal's mind ; his heart per-
 
 CALDERON. 285 
 
 ceives the truth, and how his crimes, indeed, had made 
 him but an image of death itself. He is thus prepared 
 for the purgatory where his sins are to be expiated. 
 ]Many of the plays thus turn upon visions, portions of 
 the mind itself personified; while, at the same time, the 
 affections and the passions find a voice all truth and 
 poetry, that charms, agitates, and interests. 
 
 His autos are conceived in the same spirit. It is 
 true, there is too much theological disquisition and doc- 
 trine in them, and that " God the Father plays the 
 school-divine;" but, on the other hand, the poet often 
 appears to open a new world before us, which we view 
 tremblingly at first, till he leads us on by that mastery 
 of the human imagination which he possesses — knowing 
 so well what it can believe, and what it cannot disbe- 
 lieve — and thus bringing heaven and hell palpably and 
 feelingly before us. The auto of '•' Life is a dream." 
 (La Vida es Sueho) more than any other, is an instance 
 of that peculiarity, which we imperfectly endeavour to 
 describe, of clothing in sensible and potent imagery, the 
 thoughts of the brain, the feehngs of the heart. Yet 
 this is not done in the German style. The Germans 
 subtilise, mystify, and cloud the real and distinct : they 
 dissolve flesh and blood into a dream. Calderon, on 
 the contrary, turns a dream into flesh and blood : he 
 gives a pulse to a skeleton ; he breathes passion from 
 the lips of ghosts and spectres. A\'hich is the greater 
 power, others must decide. The influence of Calderon 
 is greatest to us ; lie is master of a spell to which our 
 souls own obedience. 
 
 Calderon, as a poet, is diffuse and exaggerated at 
 times, but he is highly imaginative ; and as lie gives 
 human sympathies to the impalpable and visionary, so 
 does he inform the visible universe with a soul of beauty 
 and feeling. A poet alone could translate Calderon. 
 The only translation we have, is a few scenes from tlie 
 " Magico Trodigioso" by Slielley. These breathe at 
 once the Spaniard's peculiarities — his fantastic ma- 
 chinery — his incomparable sweetness. Justinais one
 
 286 LITERAUY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 of the most beautiful of his creations ; a maiden, 
 vowed to chastity, who being in vain tempted by the love 
 of many admirers, is assailed by the seductions of hell 
 itself. Nature — the birds, the leaves, and wandering 
 clouds, breathe of love, and endeavour to soften and 
 corrupt her heart.* The " Principe Costante " (the 
 Constant Prince) seems to be the most popular of 
 Calderon's plays with his critics. " La Vida es Sueno " 
 (Life is a Dream) — not the auto, but the play — is 
 another, full of wild strange interest, original and sub- 
 lime. " The Schism of England " is among the most 
 striking of his plays. One passage, where a cavalier 
 describes how he fell in love with Anna Bullen, is 
 fraught with touching sweetness and tender deep-felt 
 passion. 
 
 Calderon is, besides, a great master of comedy. His 
 " Gracioso" (or Clown), is different from Lope's — more 
 poetic and fanciful, more vivacious and humorous. In 
 the " Seiiora y la Criada " (the Lady and her Maid,) 
 where a country girl is carried off in mistake for her 
 mistress, there is a comic mistake, most amusingly 
 wrought. 
 
 It will be seen that we consider that, while Schlegel 
 refines too much upon the perfection of the art and the 
 sublimity of the moral of the poet, we think that the 
 critic of the Quarterly Review rates his merits at too low 
 a standard. We do not agree that he " cannot admit 
 us within the gates of horror and thrilling fear." On the 
 contrary, we think that much of his j)ower results from 
 his mastery over these emotions. We can scarcely allow 
 that " the sacred source of sympathetic flows not at his 
 command." The simply pathetic is certainly not his 
 characteristic ; but the tears may start forth in sympathy 
 for the grandeur of soul exhibited by the Constant 
 Prince ; the heart be charmed and interested by the 
 
 • Shelley's Posthumous. Poems. — Translations. There is a beautiful 
 passage, drawn Irom the " Purgatorio de San Patricio," introduced into 
 this author's tragedy of the Cenci.
 
 CALDERON. 
 
 287 
 
 sweetness of Justina, and be touched by the fatherly sor- 
 rows of David, in " Los Cabellos de Absolom." 
 
 Calderon is much more readable, much more interest- 
 ing than Lope. He rises higher. It is not only com- 
 plexity of plot, endless variety of situations, and well 
 sustained dialogue, there is interest of a higher kind ; 
 and, though it is true that perfect harmony is wanting in 
 his compositions, and that he riots too much " without 
 constraint or control," yet the colours of his poetry are 
 so bright, and the music of his verse so grand and 
 enthralling, that we feel as we read that he is one of 
 the master geniuses of the world.
 
 288 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 THE EARLY POETS OF PORTUGAL. 
 
 RIBEYRA, GIL VICENTE, SAA DE MIRANDA, FERREIRA. 
 
 The same spirit that inspired the Spanish Cancionero, 
 and animated the people of Castile with the love of song, 
 spread itself to the western portion of the peninsula ; 
 and, from the earliest times, Portuguese poets composed, 
 and the population of Portugal sang, in their native 
 dialect : and thus using it as the medium for conveying 
 their dearest feelings, caused it to be perpetuated as a 
 national language. Originally the Portnguese tongue 
 was the same as the Gallician ; and, had Portugal re- 
 mained a province of Spain, its peculiar dialect had, like 
 that of Arragon and of Gallicia, been driven from the 
 fields of literature by the Castilian, and while (to use 
 an appropriate metaphor) it might creep in tiny rivulets 
 here and there over the country, the Castilian had 
 flowed a mighty river, receiving all minor streams as 
 tributaries. But at quite the close of the eleventh cen- 
 tury Alphonso VL, a Spanish sovereign, celebrated for 
 his victories over the Moors, gave the county of Por- 
 tugal as a dowry to his daughter on her marriage with 
 Henry of Burgundy, a prince of the royal family of 
 France. The son of this prince, Alphonso Henriquez, 
 was the founder of the Portuguese monarchy. He 
 conquered all that portion of the peninsula that forms 
 Portugal, with the exception of the Algarve. He took 
 Lisbon, and thus became possessed of a powerful and 
 rich capital, and he signalised his successes, by changing 
 the appellation of what had hitherto been a province, 
 and by naming his dominions a kingdom. From this
 
 PORTUGUESE POETRY. 289 
 
 time the Portuguese became a separate nation from the 
 Castilian ; their institutions became national, and their 
 lanjruage asserted for itself a distinct existence. 
 
 The Portuguese were a poetic people, and the Por- 
 tuguese language adapted to poetry. It is softer than 
 the Castilian, it discards more entirely Latin consonants ; 
 but with all, there is something truncated and incomplete 
 in its sounds, very different from the sonorous beauty 
 of the Spanish. It did not adopt the Arabic guttural, 
 but it acquired, no one knows whence, a nasal twang, 
 more decided and obtrusive even than that of the French, 
 which considerably mars its melody. Still it is expres- 
 sive, it is soft, and it is harmonious; and these qualities 
 rendered it applicable to verse : so that a poet found 
 no difficulty in clothing his ideas and emotions in the 
 language of his native country. jNIany poets flourished 
 therefore at an early age, though we know little of 
 their productions. Endeavours have been made to 
 find their ancient cancioneiro (feral*, but tliey were 
 unsuccessful, and a guess only can be made as to the 
 nature of their contents. 
 
 The Portuguese nation was as peculiar in its pursuits 
 and character as in its language. They were not an 
 agricultural but a pastoral peojile ; and at the same time, 
 their long extent of sea shore led them to the pursuits 
 of commerce and navigation. While the Italian republics 
 were enriching themselves by the trade of the Mediter- 
 ranean, and while Sfiaiii, under Ferdinand and Isabella 
 was, by conquering the whole of its territory from the 
 Moors, laying the foundation of tlie brief grandeur of 
 Charles \'., ami the despotism and national degradation 
 that followed, the sovereigns of I'ortugal were encou- 
 raging their subjects in the maritime discoveries, which 
 ill a short time changed the as|)ect of the civilised globe: 
 for the very expedition of ('olumbus was the offsj)ring 
 of the Portuguese voyages. It was for the sake of dis- 
 covering iinothrr route to India, than the hitherto un- 
 
 • In Coalilinn cancioncroi general or general iong booka. Ink Uoutcr- 
 wek ; Siiniondi. 
 
 vor.. III. u
 
 290 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 successful one aloiip; the coast of Africa, that he sailed 
 over the illimitable ^V'estern Sea. In 1487, Bartoloineo 
 Diaz doubled the Cape of (lood Hope : many years had 
 Ikhmi previously occupied in creeping along the shores of 
 Africa ; but the moment this Cape was doubled, the 
 navigators made a spring, and the celebrated Vasco de 
 Gama reached the renowned and unvisited shores of 
 India. In less than fifteen years from this time, Fran- 
 cisco de Almeida, and Alfonso de Albuquerque founded 
 a Portuguese kingdom in Hindostan, of which Goa was 
 the capital. ^Ve may imagine the spirit and enthusiasm 
 that animated this people ; they found a new world over- 
 flowing with all the precious treasures most valued in 
 Europe ; they chd not content themselves with trading 
 with the people, a people highly civilised, possessed of 
 literature and all the appendages of an advanced state of 
 human pohtical association ; but by their valour they con- 
 quered them and made a portion of the country their own. 
 High notions of national importance and future national 
 glory filled their souls ; it was a period when each man 
 could regard his native country with pride, and such a 
 time is peculiarly favourable to the birth of genius, and, 
 above all, to the developement of the spirit of poetry. 
 
 Bernardim llibeyro is named the Ennius of Portugal. 
 He was a man of an enthusiastic and tender disposition; 
 his poems, full of passion and despair, emanated from 
 an attachment to some unknown lady ; some say the 
 infanta Donna Beatrice, the king's daughter. His 
 eclogues are more known than the rest of his works, 
 and are considered the most excellent * ; yet, though 
 they are feeling, there is a poverty of ideas, and a 
 want of classical correctness and compression, that 
 speaks of the infancy of composition. But his most 
 celebrated work is an unfinished prose romance, in 
 which, under feigned names and obscure allusions, 
 he narrates his own history and loves. We have 
 not seen this work, and borrow the account of it 
 from Bouterwek, who observes, that " such is the ob- 
 
 • Bouterwek.
 
 S-VA DE MIRAXDA. 291 
 
 scurity of the whole, that nothing can be comprehended 
 of the circumstances without the utmost effort of atten- 
 tion. The monotony of incessant love complaints, 
 renders the prolixity of the narrative still more tedious ; 
 but even amidst that monotony and prolixity, it is easy 
 to recognise a spirit truly poetic, more remarkable how- 
 ever for susceptibility than energy." 
 
 Other poets succeeded to Ribeyro, who also sang of 
 love and pastoral themes, and the poetry of Portugal as 
 well as that of Spain, confined itself to the language of 
 sentiment and description — instead of assuming an 
 heroic and epic measure. 
 
 The reformation of C'astilian poetry introduced into 
 Spain by Boscan and Garcilaso, penetrated into Portugal; 
 and, singularly enough, the poets who followed, quitted 
 their native idiom to adopt that of the rival country. 
 The cause of so unpatriotic an adoption can only be 
 guessed at. Bouterwek attributes it to the more sono- 
 rous and complete sound of the Castilian. Spain, it may 
 be observed, was the larger country and in more immediate 
 connection with Italy ; when, therefore, Italian forms 
 of poetic composition were introduced into the peninsula, 
 they flowed, as it were, through Spain, and arrived at 
 the M'est clothed in a Spanish garb. Perceiving the 
 superior power and charm of the Petrarchist compo- 
 sitions, their imitators at once adopted the very language 
 in which they were clothed. Saa de Miranda wrote his 
 best works, his eclogues, in Spanish, though the same 
 spirit that led him to desert Latin, so long the favourite 
 of educated men, also induced him to write in his native 
 language, and Francisco Diaz names him the real founder 
 of Portuguese poetrv. Saa de Miranda was a man of 
 strong feelings, with something too of an eccentric turn 
 of mind. He insisted on marrying a lady neither young 
 nor handsome, whom he had never seen ; hut whose 
 reputation for discretion and goodness charmed him. 
 He became so attaclieil to her, that when she died soini' 
 years after, he remained that most rare of all men, an 
 inconsolable widower ; giving ujt all the pursuits and 
 
 f 2
 
 292 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 purposes of life — neither sha\'ing his beard nor paring 
 his nails — and three years after following her to the 
 grave. And Jorge de aMontemayor altogether cast aside 
 his native language, and enriched the ('astiliau by a 
 new form of composition, the pastoral romance, which 
 became a general favourite throughout Spain, imitated 
 by every writer, but not excelled by any. 
 
 In this brief summary of the predecessors of Camoens, 
 ntroduced chiefly to shew the state of national poetry 
 when he appeared, we are unable to do full justice to 
 any of these writers, and are obliged to omit the names 
 of many. But we must not pass over Gil Vicente, who 
 is styled the Portuguese Plautus. Very little is known of 
 him — the very period of his birth only guessed at ; it is 
 supposed that he was born at the close of the fifteenth 
 century. He was an indefatigable writer, and furnished 
 the royal family and public with dramatic entertain- 
 ments suited to the taste of the age. He wrote entirely 
 in the old national manner. He appears to have been 
 the inventor of Autos, or spiritual dramas, which raised 
 into a regular and poetic style of play the monkish 
 or bufFoonish festive representations. 
 
 Doctor liowring has introduced translations of several 
 of this poet's songs ; these were written in Spanish, 
 they are characterised by a charming simplicity, and 
 are peculiarly short ; one chord of a lyre struck, as it 
 were, one emotion of the heart breathed forth in words ; 
 without elaborate display or any attempt at imagery or 
 metaphor beyond the one single feeling that dictates 
 the poem. 
 
 Antonio Ferreira must be mentioned as a classic poet 
 of Portugal. He is styled the Portuguese Horace. 
 He was of noble family, and destined by his parents to 
 fill some high public office in the state. He took the 
 degree of doctor in the university of Coimbra, where 
 he studied civil law. He was an enthusiastic lover of 
 his native language, and resolved never to write in any 
 other, at the same time that he founded his taste and 
 style on the study of Horace. He admired also the
 
 FERRBIRA. 2Q3 
 
 excellencies of Italian poetry, and introduced the mea- 
 sure and structure of its verse into the Portuguese. It 
 ■was the object of his ambition at once to be himself a 
 classic poet ; and to give to his native Portugal a classic 
 style of poetry. Ferreira was nine and twenty when 
 he published the first collection of his poetic works. 
 He had friends who admired his genius and joined him 
 in his pursuits. He quitted the university for the 
 court, and filled a high place as judge, and was also 
 appointed gentleman of the royal household ; he became 
 an oracle of criticism, and looked forward to brilliant 
 prospects through Ufe, when he died of the plague 
 which raged in Lisbon in 1 569, at the age of forty-one. 
 Ferreira, without possessing the originality of Gil Vi- 
 cente, his sweetness or his genius, was eminently useful 
 to the art of poetry in Portugal. He taught the writers 
 of that country to aim at correctness, and to enrich 
 their compositions by the knowledge acquired from the 
 writings of other countries ; but not, for that purpose, 
 to adopt a foreign tongue, but to raise the Portuguese 
 to the level of other languages, and gift it with the 
 purest and noblest poetic measures. He is, himself, 
 novel, however, rather in his style than in his ideas. 
 His epistles are his best work ; the sentiments he ex- 
 presses are elevated, and his fancy and poetic verve 
 graced them with a diction and imagery which raises them 
 in the class of such compositions. The distinctive feel- 
 ing however to be found in Ferreira, animating all he 
 wrote, was patriotism. The glory, the advancement and 
 the civilisation of Portugal, were tlie themes of his 
 praise, and the objects which he furthered with his 
 utmost endeavours. He exhorts his friends not to per- 
 mit the Muses in Portugal to speak any tiling but Portu- 
 guese. Of himself, he says, in very beautiful verses, 
 that "he shall be content with the glory of loving his 
 native land, and his countrymen." It was this enthu- 
 siasm that elevated Ferreira into a p^-eat man. He is a 
 little misplaced lure, as he was a few years younger 
 than C'amoens ; but it shows the spirit tliat was abroad 
 
 U 3
 
 29-i LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 in Camoens' time — a patriotic spirit that loved to express 
 its genuine sentiments in language warm from the heart 
 and familiar to the tongue. In this Camoens and Fer- 
 reira were alike ; they loved their native country, and 
 were eager to adorn its literature with native flowers. 
 In other respects they were different. Ferreira's classic 
 pages bear no resemblance to the fire, passion, and rich 
 fancy of Camoens, to whom we now turn as to one of 
 the favourites of fame, though he was the neglected 
 child of his country, and the victim of an adverse fate.
 
 29: 
 
 CAMOENS. 
 
 1524—1579. 
 
 Camoens and Cervantes encountered, in several respects, 
 a similar destiny. They were both men of genius, 
 both men of military valour ; both were disregarded 
 by their contemporaries, and suffered extreme mis- 
 fortune. Camoens, indeed, has in this a sad ad- 
 vantage over Cervantes. The latter lived in poverty, 
 but the former died in want. Posterity endeavoured 
 to repair the injuries inflicted by ungrateful con- 
 temporaries. The circumstances of the life of Ca- 
 moens were carefully collected. Several able native 
 commentators wrote elaborate notes on the " Lusiad," 
 and lastly a magnificent edition of that poem was pub- 
 lished in I8I7. Nor have the English been unmindful 
 of the great Portuguese poet. Sir Richard Fanshaw . 
 translated the " Lusiad" as far back as Cromwell's 
 time ; but tlie present popular translation is by iMickle. 
 He bestowed great pains on the work, and accompanied 
 it by various essays relative to its subject, and a life of 
 Camoens. His version has great merit, as will be here- 
 after mentioned, notwithstanding its want of fidelity 
 and the signal defect of being written in heroic couplets, 
 instead of eight-line stanzas, like the original. Lord 
 Strangford appended a sketch of Camoens' life to his 
 translation of a portion of his " Kimas ; " and, lastly, 
 Mr. Adamson has presented the English reader with an 
 elaborate biography, attendeil by all sorts of valuable 
 collateral information ami iinbellishinents. 
 
 The family of Camoens was originally of (Jallicia, 
 and [lossessed extensive demesnes in that jjrovince. 
 The old Spanish name of the family was Caamafios — 
 the etymology of which has occupied the commenUitors. 
 
 u 4
 
 296 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 We are told, anioiig others, that it was derived from 
 Cadmus. There is notliing extraordinary in this. All 
 readers conversant with old national annals, are aware 
 that they usually derive their innnediate origin either 
 from a son of Noah, or some well known (Jrecian 
 hero; Ulysses, it was said, founded Lishon. It was 
 probably adopted from the castle of Cadmon, where 
 they resided. The poet himself, however, refers it 
 to a more imaginative source. In ancient times, in 
 Gallicia, there existed a bird named the Camao, which 
 never survived the infidelity of the wife of its lord. 
 The moment the lady went astray, the bird sought its 
 master, and expired at his feet. A matron of the house 
 of Cadmon was unjustly accused of ill faith — she en- 
 trusted her defence to the cadmau, and the success of 
 lier appeal caused her husband, grateful for this restora- 
 tion to honour and domestic felicity, to adopt the name 
 of the saviour bird. This is a tale of romance and bar- 
 barism, of the days of ordeal and degrading suspicion ; 
 but Camoens himself alludes to it, and it derives interest 
 from his mention.* 
 
 The family of Caamanos possessed a solar or ancestral 
 inheritance in Gallicia, and reigned over seventeen vil- 
 lages near the promontory of Finisterre. One of the 
 lords of this family having killed a cavalier de Castros, 
 they were obliged to migrate, and settled at a fortress 
 called Rubianes ; where Faria y Sousa tells us the 
 family still remain, great in birth, but of diminished 
 means.t 
 
 \'asco Perez de Camoens, either brother or son of this 
 Ruy, made a second migration to Portugal in 1370. 
 Faria y Sousa conjectures that it might be from some such 
 same cause as occasioned the first exile, while Southey 
 
 * Experimentou-se al{;ua hora 
 Da Ave que chamao Camao, 
 Que, sc ila Casa, onde mora, 
 Ve atlultera a Seiihora, 
 IMorre do pura paixaf). 
 + I^ord Strangford dates the migration of this family from the time of 
 this Ancestor Kuy de Camoens — and speaks of him as a follower of king 
 Fernando, h'erreira is his authority, but other commentators give a difler- 
 ent account See Vida del Poeta jjoi- Faria y idousa, iii. iv.
 
 CA3I0ENS. 297 
 
 attributes it to his having sided with Pedro the Cruel 
 against his more infamous brother Henriquez II. How- 
 ever that may be, Fernando, king of Portugal, received 
 him with distinction, and gifted him with the " villas " 
 of Sardoal, Punhete, Marao, and Amendao, besides 
 making him one of the principal fidalgos of his court. 
 Nor did the favours of Fernando stop here. Vasco 
 Perez received various other estates in gift, and filled 
 places of political and military importance. 
 
 After the death of Fernando, \"asco Perez became 
 involved in a dispute for succession, and he upheld 
 the cause of the queen of Fernando, Leonor, and his 
 daughter, the queen of Castile. His power was great, 
 and his aid was held of importance, whichever side 
 he espoused. Camoens considered that his ancestor 
 assisted the wrong cause, that of Castile against Por- 
 tugal. The latter was destined to triumph, and \'asco 
 was the sufferer. He lost all command, but retained a 
 considerable portion of his estates. A letter has been 
 discovered by Sarmiento, written by the marquis of 
 Santillana, which intimates that Vasco Perez was a 
 poet as well as a warrior. 
 
 The descendants of \'asco Perez were of account, and 
 married into the richest and most powerful families of 
 Portugal. His second son, Joao Vaz, was the great- 
 grandfather of the poet. He acquired glory by his 
 military services under Alfonso V., and was named his 
 vassal — a title of distinction in those days. He built 
 a house at Coimbra, and there is a marble monument 
 erected to his memory in the chapel of the cloister of 
 the cathedral at Coimbra. Simao Vaz, the grandson of 
 Joao Vaz, married Dona Ana de Sa e Macedo, of noble 
 descent, and sprung from tin- .Macedos of Santarem. 
 Thus, in every way, Camoens was highly descended from 
 nobles and warriors ; but, springing from the younger 
 branch, he inherited the blood and name without the 
 estates of liis family. Ashe never married this i)r:ineh 
 of the family became extinct. 
 
 Coimbra and Santarem have both contended lor the
 
 298 LITERAKY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 glory of liaving been his birth-place, but without foun- 
 dation ; for he was born at Lisbon, most probably in 
 the district " da Mouraria," in th i parish of San Sebas- 
 tiad, whore his parents resided. The date of his birth 
 has been disputed. A friend and contemporary, Manoel 
 Correa, gave that of 15]7 ; but a register, in the 
 Portuguese India House, proves that he was really born 
 in 1524.* This entry also is conclusive on another 
 point. It was long believed that Camoens lost his 
 father while a mere child. Simon Vaz de Camoens was 
 a mariner ; nearly all the biographers of the poet agree 
 in stating that he lost a ship, of which he was com- 
 mander, on the coast of Goa, and, escaping from the 
 wreck, died soon afterwards in that city; though some 
 aver that he fell in the combat in which his son lost an 
 eye. Camoens himself does not mention his father 
 as being with him on that occasion, nor during any of 
 his adventures. This point, therefore, is left in obscurity. 
 Camoens was born at Ljsbon ; he celebrates with fond- 
 ness the parental Tagus : "My Tagus," as he sometimes 
 names the river. But most of his early years were spent 
 at Coimbra, where, as has been mentioned, his father 
 had a house. , He often mentions the river Mondego in 
 his verses. To a poet, there is something in a river 
 that engages his affections and enlivens his imagination. 
 Water is indeed the soul, the smile, the beaming eye of 
 a landscape ; and as Camoens' only happy days were 
 those when he nourished hopes — hopes, as he says in a 
 letter, which he afterwards cast aside as coiners of false 
 money — in his youth, he might well record with fond- 
 ness the hours he spent in the beautiful environs of 
 Coimbra on the banks of its lovely river. Thus, in his 
 poems, the nymphs of Tagus and of Mondego are both 
 
 • Faria y Soura, in his second life of Camoens appended to his " Rimas," 
 mentions! having found, in the registers of the Portuguese India House, 
 a list of all the chief persons who sailed to India. In the list for 1550, 
 there is this entry: " Luis de Camoens, son of Simon Vaz and AnadeSa," 
 inhabitants of Lisbon, in the quarter of la Monraria, escudciro (a name 
 equivalent to our esquire), with a red beard ; he gave his father as surety 
 — and sails.in the ship San I'edro los liurgalezes.
 
 CAMOEXS. 299 
 
 addressed ; and in one remarkable and most beautiful 
 passage of the " Lusiad" he exclaims, " ^Hiat, insane 
 and rash, am I about to do without ye, O nymphs of 
 Tagus and Mondego, through so arduous, long, and 
 various a way ? I invoke your favour, as I navigate 
 the deep sea with so contrary a wind, that, unless ye aid 
 me, I fear that my fragile bark must sink ! " and then 
 he goes on to describe his misfortunes in India, turning 
 to those streams that watered his native land, and whose 
 very names were full of blessed recollections of life's 
 prime, to give him fortitude and help,* 
 
 Camoens studied in the university at Coimbra. This 
 university was founded by king Diniz,inl308. Camoens 
 introduces mention of this monarch in the " Lusiad," 
 and alludes to the establishment of the university under 
 his fosterage: — 
 
 From Helicon the Muses wing their way : 
 Mondego's flowery banks invite their stay, 
 Now Coimbra shines, Minerva's proud abode ; 
 And fireil with joy, I'arnassus' blooming God 
 Beholds another d'ear.loved Athens rise. 
 And spread her laurels in indulgent skies.f 
 
 • Lusiad, Canto vii. 78. Further mention will be made hereafter of 
 thii passage. 
 
 + It is curious to compare the smooth, even, and (so to speak) unindi- 
 vidualiud verses of Mickic with the rugged and even uncouth stanza of 
 Fanshaw. Both are unlike Camoens. He wrote with (ire, and each word 
 bore stamp of the man ; but his style is elevated and truly poetic— dirt'erent 
 from the l'o|K-like flow of ^Hcklc, and the almost vulgar idiom that 
 Fanihaw too oltcn adopts.' This is the stanza in the original Portuguese : 
 Fez primeiro em Coimbra exercitarse 
 
 O valeroso officio de Minerva ; 
 E,de Helicona as Musas fez passar se, 
 'a pizar de Mondcgo a ferlil herva. 
 Quaiito poile de Alhenas dcsejarse 
 
 'I'utlo o hoherlio Apollo aqui riserva : 
 Aqui as capellas dA tecidas de ouro. 
 Do baccharo, c do seniprc verde louro. ■" 
 
 Canto iii. 97. 
 
 " He wns the lirst that madi> Coimbra shine 
 
 With liberal sciences, whi<h I'allas taught ; 
 Jly him from llihcon thi' .Muses nine; 
 
 To bruise Mondego's grassy brink were brought : 
 Hither Iraiitferr d A|kiIIo that rich mine, 
 
 Which the old tireiks in learned Athens wrought : 
 There ivy wreaths with golil he iiilerweavcs, / 
 
 And the coy Daphne's never fading leaves." 
 
 Faiuhaw'$ Tranilalion.
 
 300 LITERAUY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 The university, however, fell off, and it was don 
 Manuel who exerted himself for its re-establishment ; 
 and dom John, his successor, took ecjual pains to raise 
 it to its former prosperity, and in the first place caused 
 it again to be restored toCoinibra — for it had been trans- 
 ferred to Lisbon — and founded several new colleges. 
 The date when Camoens entered it is uncertain. It has 
 been supposed that he was twelve years old. In that 
 case he must have attended it while at Lisbon ; for it 
 was only transferred in L'JSTj when Camoens was thirteen 
 or fourteen. 
 
 Saa de Miranda had studied there, and Ferreira was 
 also a student. lie was younger than Camoens by four 
 years, and that, at a boyish age, makes the difference of, 
 as it were, a generation. There is no token that they 
 were known to each other, nor, indeed, are there any 
 traces of Camoens' life or pursuits at Coimbra, except 
 such as we find in his poems ; and these are in some 
 sort contradictory — agreeing, however, in the love they 
 express for the picturesque scenery in which this seat 
 of learning was placed, and affection for its beautiful 
 river. 
 
 Mr. Adamson quotes a canzone, in which he dwells 
 with delight on the charms of the Mondego, and dates 
 thence his earliest passion. Lord Strangford asserts 
 that he had never experienced the passion of love Avhile 
 at Coimbra, and rests his assertion on expressions of the 
 poet. Both of course are right, and the poet is wrong. 
 Nor is this assertion paradoxical. When the heart of 
 Camoens became susceptible to a master feeling, that 
 filled it and awoke its every pulse to a sense of love, he 
 would naturally wish to throw into the back-ground any 
 boyish fancy; and comparing;its slight and evanescent 
 emotions with the mighty passion of which he was 
 afterwards the prey, he might well say, — 
 
 All ignorant of love I pass'd my days, 
 Its bow and all its mad deceits despising, 
 
 and revert to that period as the time, — 
 
 ' • Cancam, vii. See also Cancam, ii.
 
 CAMOENS. 301 
 
 When from the bonds of love I wander'd free 
 
 For always was I not chain'd to the oar: — 
 Once hberty was mine — but that is o'er. 
 And I now dwell in hard captivity.* 
 
 This certainly contrasts strangely with the poem quoted 
 by Adamson, but it is a fair poetic licence^ or rather a 
 licence of the heart, which not only would bring to its 
 selected shrine every former emotion and immolate 
 them there, but is jealous that any such existed, and 
 would gladly expunge all trace of them from the 
 page of life. The verses above mentioned form his 
 fourth canzone, and were written on taking leave of 
 Coimbra.t The following is a portion of it: — 
 
 Soft from its crysUI bed of rest, 
 
 Mondego's tranquil waters glide, 
 Niir stop, till, lost on ocean's breast. 
 
 They, swelling, mingle with the tide. 
 Increa>ing still, as still they flow — 
 Ah I there ronimcnced mv endless woe. 
 
 * • ♦ * •'* « • * 
 
 Yet whisper'd to the murmuring .stream, 
 That winds these flowery meads among, 
 
 I give attection's cheating dream, 
 
 And pour in weeping truth my song; 
 
 That each recounted woe may prove 
 
 A lasting monument of love. 
 
 There is another sonnet, in which he takes leave of the 
 Mondego, but its context renders it apparent that it was 
 not written so early in life, as when he first quitted the 
 university. As his jjarents had a house at Coimbra, it 
 may be assumed that he frequently visited this place, and 
 wrote the following sonnet in a later and sadder day: — 
 
 Mondego ! thou whose waters, cold and clear, 
 
 <iird those green iKinlcf, where fancy fain would stay, 
 
 Kondly to muse on that cieparted day. 
 
 When hope was kind, and I'rienilship seemd sincere 
 
 Kre I had purcha-icd knowledge with a tear. 
 
 Mondego ! though I bend my jiilgriin way 
 To other shoren, where other Itiuntains stray. 
 And other rivers roll their proud cireer. 
 Still, nor shall time, nor grief, nor stars severe, 
 >for widening distance e'er prevail in aught. 
 To make ihee \vHt to this s.id boMim dear ; 
 And .Memory ott, by old affection tauglit, 
 .Sliall lightly speed upon ll)e i>hrin< s of thought, 
 'J'u bathe among thy waters cold and clear.) 
 
 There is nothing so attractive to a biographer as 
 to complete the fragments of his hero's life ; and, 
 
 • Soiieto, vl. 
 
 ■f The translation ii from Mr. Adani«on'< paKCH ; it haii the fault of 
 being in longer measure than the original, and therefore losing jomc of 
 iU (implicity, 
 
 I Lord ijtrangfurd'i tranilatioii, p. 'Jt.
 
 302 LITEUARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 almost as children trace the forms of animals and land- 
 scapes in the fire, by fixing the eye on salient particles, 
 so a few words suffice to give "local habitation and 
 a name," to such emotions as the poet has made the 
 subject of his verse. To do this, and by an accurate 
 investigation of dates, and a careful sifting of concomi- 
 tant circumstances to discover the veiled event, is often 
 the art of biography — but we must not be seduced too 
 far. Truth, absolute and unshakeable, ought to be the 
 foundation of our assertions, or we paint a fancy head 
 instead of an individual portrait. Truth is all in all in 
 matters of history, for history is the chart of the world's 
 sea; and if imaginary lands are marked, those who 
 would wisely learn from the experience of others, are 
 led sadly astray. Petrarch has been the mark of similar 
 conjectures to a great extent; but his letters give a true 
 direction to our researches. ^\^e have no such guide in 
 the history of Camoens's attachment. He loved and was 
 beloved ; Avas banished, and his lady died. Such is 
 nearly all that we absolutely know. 
 1545.* To return however from remark to history, Camoens 
 ^tat. left Coimbra for Lisbon and the court. He had not 
 21- lost his time at the University — he was a finished 
 scholar. He was a poet also then when poetry was 
 held a high and divine gift. With such acquirements 
 and accomplishments, joined to his gentlemanly quali- 
 ties, his courtesy and wit, he was favoured by the 
 highest people at court ; his handsome person also 
 gained him the favour and estimation of the ladies. 
 His defect was his poverty, but that defect might be 
 remedied by the friendship of some great man, or the 
 favour of his sovereign. As a young noble of illustri- 
 ous descent, he had a right to exj)ect advancement. As 
 a poet full of imagination and ardour, at the very first 
 glowing entrance to life, while (to speak metaphorically) 
 the Aurora of hope announced the rising sun of })ros- 
 perity, he might expect an ample portion of that hap- 
 
 * Faria y Sousa, says 1542 — other commentators give 1545. The latter 
 seems the more likely date.
 
 CAMOEXS. 303 
 
 piness, which, while we are young, appears to us to be 
 our just and assured inheritance. 
 
 Soon after his arrival at court he fell in love. One 
 of his sonnets, (commented upon by an ahnanack^) 
 fixes the date when he first saw the lady, as the eleventh 
 or twelfth of April, I5i5. He mentions that it was 
 holy week, and at the time when the ceremonies that 
 commemorate the death of our Saviour were celebrated. 
 This sonnet is not one of his best; but we quote Lord 
 Strangford's translation , as it is a monumtnt of an 
 interesting epoch — the commencement of that attach- 
 ment which shed a disastrous influence over the rest of 
 his life — for by it his early hopes were blightedj and 
 they never flowered again : 
 
 " Sweetly was heard the anthem's choral strain, 
 And myriads bow'd before the sainted shrine, 
 In solemn reverence to the Sire oivine, 
 Who pave the Lamb, for (guilty mortals slain ; 
 When in the midst of (Jod's etirnal fane, 
 (Ah, little wttiiing of his fell design.') 
 Imw bore the heart, which since has ne'er been niinc. 
 To one who seem'd of heaven's elected train '. 
 For sanctity of place or time were vain 
 'fiainst that blin<l Archer's sc ul-consuming power, 
 Which scorns, and soars all circumstance above. 
 ()! I.a<ly, .-ince I've worn thy gentle chain. 
 How olt have 1 deplore<l each wasted hour, 
 When I was free and had not learn'd to love '. 
 
 It is said that this occurrence took place in the church 
 of Christ's Wounds, at Lisbon.* There is so much 
 resemblance of time and ])lace between this event and 
 the first time when Petrarch records that he saw Laura, 
 that we might almost suppose that the later poet imi- 
 tated the earlier one; but there is no other resemblance 
 between their attachment. The name of the lady 
 
 * Mr. Adamion nayi, that " The sonnet docs not allude |to any parti. 
 cuUr lituation ;" but certainly the line 
 
 Ku crendo <|ue o lupar me defetidia, 
 alludct to lt« being a church, which, as ia well known, is in ratholic 
 counties, where young lailict are so much shut up, a u^ual place for 
 fallmg in love. — I^i|>o dc Vega alluili'S to this circumstance and the simi- 
 larity between the love* of I'etrarch and Camocns — 
 
 Kl culto cel<>.ti.il M- relehrava 
 
 Del mayor Vicrnrs en la Iglesia pla, 
 
 Uuandu |Mir Laura I'ranco se encendia, 
 
 y I/iso |>or Natercia nc inflamava. 
 Li«o and Natercia were the anagrams which Camocnii framed of hi* own 
 and hii lady'i Chriitian name — hi* own, Luis, being fVe(|uently siiclt Lois.
 
 304 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 Cainoens fell in love with, was dona Caterina de Atayde, 
 and she was a lady of the palace. Many researches 
 have Vieon made to discover more of her parentage and 
 station ; doiii Jose Maria de Sousa made diligent search 
 in the " Historia da Casa Real ;" but he can do no more 
 than conjecture that she was a relation of dom Antonio 
 de Atayde, the first conde de Castanhcira, a ])owerful 
 favourite of John III. It is guessed that she was not 
 more than sixteen when Camoens first saw her. She 
 was unmarried ; his attachment therefore was totally 
 unlike the Platonic, far-off worship of the lover of 
 Laura de Sades. Camoens loved as a youth who dedi- 
 cates himself to one whom he may hope to make his 
 own in the open face of day — with whom he might 
 spend his life, as her protector and husband ; but she 
 was of high birth, and her relations had lofty preten- 
 sions — a pennyless, though noble and accomplished 
 gentleman by no means suited their views. The love 
 of Camoens was full of difficulties : his ardour was 
 excited by them ; and, while unassured of any return 
 he was disposed to vanquish every obstacle for the sake 
 of seeing, and endeavouring to win the heart of the 
 beloved object. 
 
 Youth and love aided the developement of a vivid 
 imagination. There never breathed a more genuine 
 poet than Camoens, and now he poured forth his soul 
 in rhymes : canzoni and sonnets are dedicated to his 
 lady, describing her beauty, his sufitrings, and the 
 deep affection he nourished. Notwithstanding the good 
 old proverb, commentators are fond of instituting com- 
 parisons, and the amatory poetry of Petrarch and 
 Camoens has been compared. Camoens had doubtless 
 read and studied Petrarch, but in no respect does he 
 imitate him. There is more finish in the compositions 
 of the Italian, and for this there is an obvious cause. 
 ■VVliile speaking slightingly of them, Petrarch was 
 employed even in his last days in the correction and 
 polishing of his Italian poetry ; while the verses of 
 Camoens, written in the first gush of inspiration, were
 
 CAMOENS. 305 
 
 never collecfeil by him, or if collected, the volume was 
 lost : and scattered over Portugal and India, it was with 
 difficulty they were brought together, nor were they pub- 
 lished till after his death, and some of those included 
 in the collection are said not to be his. 
 
 There is a glow, a freshness, and a truth ; a touching 
 softness and a heart-felt eagerness, in his verses on 
 dona Caterina, which is very winning. The language 
 he uses does not charm the ear like Italian, but it is 
 capable of great melody and expression. We possess 
 translations of a small portion, but lyrics can never 
 be translated ; they have a voice of their own which 
 cannot be transfused into another language. Lord 
 Strangford's translations have this merit, that they read 
 like original poetry — but something of truth has been 
 sacrificed in consequence. 
 
 It is from these poems that we gather almost all we 
 know ot" Camoens' attachment. As Pctrarcii did, he 
 dedicates a sonnet to an emotion — which to a lover's 
 heart seemed an event, or in a mnziDic, dwells at length 
 on the course of his passion. One sonnet which de- 
 scribes the lady, is a great favourite with the Portu- 
 guese : the translation is difficult; we quote the one given 
 by .Mr. Adamson — 
 
 " Her Eye's »ofl movement, radiant and benign, 
 
 Yet with no casual glance ; her honest sinilc, 
 Cautious though free ; — her gobturcs that combine 
 
 Lij-lit mirth uiili modesty, as if the while ' 
 
 She stotxl all trembling o'er some doubtlul bliss. 
 
 Her blithe <lemeanour ; her contiding ease. 
 Secure in grave and virgin ha>hliilnc»«. 
 
 Midst every gentler virtue lormed to ]>leaee 
 Her purity ol soul — her innate liar 
 
 Of error's stain ; her temper mild, resigned ; 
 Her looks, obi<lii'ii(e , her uiirlouded air, 
 
 'I'lie faitliful index of a spotless miml ■ 
 'J'liese form a Circe, who with magic art 
 Can fix or change each pur|ioic of my heart." 
 
 He describes her charms in many of his poems. Dona 
 Caterina had mild blue eyes, and iiair of a golden brown 
 and lie dwells on the softness of the former and the 
 splendour of the latter with fond admiration; but the 
 poem which expresses most fervently the influence of 
 
 VOIi. III. X
 
 306 LITKHATIY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 her beauty is one of which Dr. Southey *lias given a 
 very exquisite transhition, and wiiieh we are irresistibly 
 tempted to quote — 
 
 " When T behold you, Lady, when my eyes 
 
 Dwell on the deep enjoyment of your sight, 
 
 I 1,'ive my spirit to lli.il one delight, 
 And earth appears to nie a Paradise. 
 And when I hear you speak and see you smile. 
 
 Full, satisfied, alisorbed, my eeiitred min<l 
 Deems all the world's vain hopes and joys the while. 
 
 As empty as the unsubstantial wind. 
 Lady, 1 leel your ehariiis, but dare not raise 
 To that high'theme lli' unequal song of jiraise ; 
 A power for that to language was not given : 
 
 Nor marvel I when I those beauties view, 
 
 Lady, that he whose power ereated you. 
 Could form the stars and yonder glorious heaven." 
 
 The concludinp; hnes of the above sonnet are conceived 
 in the very truth of love and ardour of imagination that 
 stamps the lyrics and sonnets of Camoens with a charm 
 almost unequalled by any other poet. 
 
 The obstacles that were in the way of all intercourse 
 with the lady maddened his young and impatient spirit. 
 Dona Caterina lived in the palace, and Camoens vio- 
 lated some rule of decorum in endeavouring to see her, 
 and was exiled. We are not told what his fault was. 
 Dona' Caterina was not insensible to his passion. He 
 always speaks of her as mild and retiring — modest and 
 gentle; he never complains of her haughtiness nor her 
 pride : indeed, several of his sonnets speak of how oft 
 he was happy and content, and of " past svveetdelights."* 
 We do not venture too far, therefore, in supposing that 
 her relations discovered that she returned her lover's 
 attachment ; and, as they were opposed to their being 
 married, they used their influence to get the youthful 
 and, as they deemed, presumptuous aspirant, banished. 
 Lord Strangford sjjcaks decidi-dly of a parting inter- 
 view, when the horrors of ajjproaching exile were 
 softened by finding his grief and his sorrow shared by 
 her he loved. There indeed appears foundation for 
 this, though the noble biographer uses a few fancy tints, 
 when, quoting the twenty-fourth sonnet, he comments 
 
 • Soneto i2S,
 
 CAMDEN'S. 307 
 
 on it, by saying, " On the morning of his departure 
 his mistress relented from her wonted severity, and con- 
 fessed the secret of her long concealed affection. The 
 sighs of grief were soon lost in those of mutual delight, 
 and the hour of parting was perhaps the sweetest of our 
 poet's existence." This may be true. The poet speaks 
 of " a mournful and a happy morning, overflowing with 
 grief and pity", which he desires should for ever be 
 remembered, and he speaks of " tears shed by other 
 eyes than his."* 
 
 Camoens appears to have passed his exile at Santa- 
 rem (the native place of his mother), or in its neigh- 
 bourhood. He was supremely unhappy ; banished from 
 her he loved, banished from the court, where all his 
 holies of advancement were centred, the gates of life 
 were closed on him. His genius and his poetical 
 imagination were his only resource and comfort. He 
 wrote many of his lyrics and sonnets here, and among 
 the rest a very beautiful elegy, in which he compares 
 him-^elf to Ovid banished to Pontus, and separated from 
 the country and the friends he loved. He dwells on 
 the Roman's misery, and proceeds — 
 
 " Thus Fanry paints me — thus like him forlorn, 
 Condcmn'd the hapless exile's fate to prove ; 
 In lile-consuiniiif; pain, thus doomed to mourn 
 The loi>» of all 1 prized — of her 1 love. 
 
 " Reflection painU me guiltleiis though npprcit, 
 Increasing thus the sources of my woe ; 
 The pant; unmerited that rends the breast, 
 But bids a tear of keener sorrow flow. 
 
 • Lord StranKford'g translation i« not literal, but it retains all tJie 
 feeling of the orignial, and ia very iK-autiful : — 
 
 " Till lover«' tear» at partinK amrc to (low. 
 
 Nor »undete<l heaitn by ttrong despair be torn, 
 
 .So long reeoriU'd be that Aprd morn 
 When gleams of joy were dashed with iihnwcri of woe. 
 Scarce h.id the purpling cast began to glow. 
 
 Of mournfiil iiii'ii, it saw me most forlum ; 
 
 .Haw thoae hard pangs by gentle Ixiiiim iHirne, 
 (The hardest, tore, that gentle iHisiims know '.) 
 liul oh, it saw love's charming necret told 
 
 I! ' ' ' droppiiig from relcntinl eyen, 
 
 I' rief, and by siirli piteniis siglin 
 
 As I , ■ iiini 111' infernal laviriis cold 
 
 And make the guilty deem their sulferiiiKs ea»c, 
 
 Their tormeutt luxury — compared to these '. " 
 
 X 2
 
 308 MTKRARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 " On (loUU'li Tagus' niKiiilatins stream* 
 
 Skim the li^lit liarks liy Kin'li'-t, wishes sped 
 Trace their still way iiuii.-t inany a rosy };leain 
 That steals in bluslius o'er its trvmbhiig bed. 
 
 " I sec thi'in gay, in p.-8«ing beauty glide 
 
 Some with lix'd sails to woo the tardy gale, 
 While others with their oars that stream divide 
 To which 1 weeping tell the Exile's tale." 
 
 At this period also he is supposed to have conceived 
 and begun the Lusiad. Passionately fond of his coun- 
 try, and proud of her heroes, he believed it to be a 
 glorious task to celebrate their deeds ; and while his 
 heart warmed and his imagination was fired with such a 
 subject, he might hope that it would please his sove- 
 reign, and that his patriotic labours would bear the fruit 
 of some prosperity for himself. That he hoped mudi, 
 we know, and felt all the confidence in eventual happi- 
 ness which the young and ardent naturally feel is 
 certain. How bitter and how blighting was the truth, 
 that as it brought to light, piece by piece, year by year, 
 the course of his life, shewed only barren tracks, storms, 
 and hardship — to end at last in abject wretchedness ! 
 
 The gleams that a little irradiate the obscurity in 
 which this portion of the life of Camoens is enveloped, 
 shed a very doubtful light upon his motives. Faiia y 
 Sousa says, that he returned to Lisbon, and was a 
 second time exiled for the same cause, and then 
 resolved on his expedition to India. But there is no 
 proof of his being banished a second time by any royal 
 .order. 
 
 The simple facts appear to be these. In 1545 he 
 eft the university and began life. He was twenty -one, 
 ardent in his temper, high of hoj)e, of an aspiring but 
 poetic temperament, that could bear all that called him 
 forth to action and glory, but was impatient of ob- 
 scurity, and the dull sleepy course of hopeless unvaried 
 mediocrity of station and life. He loved, and he was 
 banished. 
 
 ♦ These verses are peculiarly beautiful in the original. The translation, 
 though flowing, does not embody the ideas oi" the I'ortuguese wit'' "''act- 
 itude, or with equal energy of expression.
 
 CAMOENS. 309 
 
 His heart then spent itself in rhymes, and he conceived 
 the idea of a poem which he deemed to be epic, which 
 spoke of heroes, who were his countrymen, who were 
 but lately dead, and whose path to glory in the east 
 he even saw open before himself. Five years were 
 passed since he had left Coimbra ; he was still poor 
 and unprotected : he resolved to be and to do some- 
 thing, and on this, formed the project of going to 
 India. He had formed an intimacy Avith dom Antonio 
 de Noronha. Dom Alfonso de Noronha (who must 
 have been some relation to this young noble) was at this 
 time named viceroy for India , and the entry in the 
 Portuguese East Indian register shows that Camoens 
 had taken his passage on board the same vessel in 
 which the viceroy sailed. From some reason, however, he 
 changed his intention. Dom Antonio was about to join 
 the Portuguese army in Africa. His father had disco- 
 vered an attachment between him and chma Margarita 
 de Silva, a lady of high birth and great beauty, but 
 from some unknown cause, not approving of it, he sent 
 his son to C'euta. Nothing was more natural than that 
 dom Antonio should solicit his friend to accompany 
 him, instead of leaving his native country for the 
 distant clime of India. Other commentators say that 
 the father of Camoens was at that time in Africa, and 
 sent for his son ; but facts tend to negative this. We 
 have seen that Simon Yn?, was his son's surety on his 
 projected voyage, on board tlie Don Pedro ; nor have 
 we any facility afforded us of reconciling these contra- 
 dictions.* There are several expressions in his poems 
 
 • While Camocni wa« in Africa his father failed to India, and died at 
 Coa on hit arrival. U it nol |«)»»dile that Simon Va7, instead of being in 
 Africa, wa» in Lisbon, a« indeed i-eeiim certain, an he w«« surety for hi« 
 •on ; and that bin projected voy.in"' cau«eil l.uiit to entertain thedesiKn of 
 goinK to ln(ha al»o, though hopen ol |ireleriiient imhiced liiin rather 
 to wish to nail with the viceroy than on hoard bin fathei'n ve»»el. lint the 
 invitation of hi* yoiithlul Irieiid, the reliicl.iiice he lelt to K'Ve iij) every 
 ho|i<- of neeiiiK dona ( aterina .iK^dii, made bun prefer an I'Xpedition to 
 Africa._Siinoii Vuzidied on bin arrival at (ioa, lint voyaKen in those dayi 
 were lonK and uncertain: and when l.nin actually nailed lor India, be 
 (irobably ba<l not heard of his latber't fate, and went out with the Inten. 
 tiuii 01 joininx bun. 
 
 X 3
 
 310 MTERAHY AND SCIENTIFIC JIKV. 
 
 which indicate that the poet, thoii<:h innocent, was obliged 
 
 to go to Africa.* These iniglit alhnle to a paternal 
 
 command, or simply to the evil fate that pursued him, 
 
 driven by which, lie might term that force, which was 
 
 only a strongly impelling motive. 
 
 1350. While with the troops at Ceuta, Camoens was ac- 
 
 iEtat. lively employed, and displayed great bravery on various 
 
 20. occasions ; on one, he was destined to be a great sufferer, 
 
 as he lost an eye in a naval engagement which took 
 
 place in the straits of Gibraltar. 
 
 Like Cervantes, Camoens fought for his country and 
 was nmtilated in her wars, and received neither reward 
 nor preferment. After passing some time in the burning 
 clime of Africa, he returned to Lisbon ; but no better 
 fortune awaited him. He returned, deprived of an 
 eye, and the unfortunate mutilation rendered him an 
 object of ridicule to those very ladies who, eight years 
 before, Avhen he was in the prime of youth and beauty, 
 had welcomed him with distinction. At tliis period, 
 the biographers state that the object of his faithful 
 and passionate attachment died : this seems a mistake, 
 as we shall afterwards mention; but he was divided 
 from her by obstacles as insurmountable as death. His 
 father was no more. He had sailed to India as com- 
 mander of a vessel, was wrecked on the Malabar coast, 
 and, escaping from the wreck, arrived at Goa ; but did 
 not long survive the loss of his fortunes. 
 ] 553. Camoens cast hope to the winds, and embarked for 
 Mtm. India. Stricken by disappointment, rendered despair- 
 ~^' ing by hopeless love — his wearied fancy could build 
 no more airy fabrics of future good fortune to which to 
 escape during the tedious or fearful hours of a long and 
 dangerous voyage. His resource was his poem. He 
 occupied himself with the Lusiad ; and, doubtless, 
 found in the glow of inspiration, and in the exercise of 
 his imagination, some relief from sorrow and care, while 
 traversing those stormy and distant seas, which the 
 
 * Don Joae Maria de So usa.
 
 CAJIOENS. 311 
 
 heroes of his epic had before sailed over, even though 
 he went towards 
 
 " That long desired and distant land, which is 
 The grave of every poor and honest man." * 
 
 He sailed in the San Bento, in which the commodore 
 Fernando Alvares Cabral, who commanded the fleet 
 then going to the east, also embarked. It was the only 
 one of the stjuadron that reached its destination ; the 
 rest being destroyed by tempests. It reached Goa in 
 the September of the same year. 
 
 AVhen C'amoens visited India the glorious days of 
 Portugal were at an end. Albuquerque, Almeida, and 
 the heroic Pacheco, who like a fabulous Paladirt, with- 
 stood whole armies with his single arm, and who died 
 unrewarded and unnoticed by his ungrateful sovereign 
 in a hospital in Lisbon, were no more ; the disinterested- 
 ness, the honour and humanity, that distinguished 
 the administration of Albuquerque, was not imitated 
 by his successors. He had taken fJoa, and founded an 
 empire, which the corrupt government of Portugal has 
 caused us to inherit. The local governors too often 
 sought only to enrich themselves ; the viceroys were 
 involved in wars occasioned by their tyranny and 
 extortion ; and that which Albuquerque intended should 
 be a political and vast dominion tributary to his 
 native land, sunk into mere commercial or piratical 
 speculations. In the same way, the trade with (Jhina 
 was stained by oppressions and rapine. 
 
 * There is a singular story toM by I'aria y Snusa, that ho found amonR 
 the old l)rK>ks on tin- »t.-ill or I'lilro (oilhn, at Madriil, a MS iii|.y of the 
 tint (ix cantos of Ihe Luiiaci, wrilten hclnre I'ainocns weiil to India. The 
 cii|iy at the conclusion coiilaiiied this note : " Tlicse six canto* were i)ur. 
 loincd from I.uis dc Camociis, from the work which h.is commenced on 
 the discovery and conquest of India hy the rorluKuesc: they arc all liinshed 
 exceiil the sixth ; — Ihe conclusion of that is here (liven, yet il wants the 
 story of the history of his loves that Ix-oiiardo relatei. duriiiK his watch, 
 wliKliouKht to follow at -t.niza lo., uhcre the lo-s of It is felt, for the 
 convernation of those nn watch becomes In con»e(|uence shorter and 
 ilullcr, and the canto is shorter than the others." Kaila y Sousn ailds that 
 he found several stanza^ in this MS. wanting in the prinleil copies, 
 but as the I.imad was |iul)liKlied under the Insix-ctinn o( C.imocnK, il is lo 
 Jk- doul)l<il, whcthiT a l.ile coiiiioiiitalor (Sotisa) M rJKht in ri|iroai-hin|i 
 his jireilitensor lor not pr' serviiin tln' lu-w ones, since it wiiuld appear that 
 they were cx|iunged by Camocni himself. 
 
 K 4
 
 312 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 Dom Alfonso tie Noronha was still viceroy on 
 Canioens' arrival. He was avaricious and tyrannical. 
 At this time the king of Cochin had applied to the 
 Portuguese for protection against the king of Pimenta. 
 An armament was sent in November ; and Camoens, 
 without giving himself time to repose from his long 
 voyage, accompanied it. The artillery of the Portu- 
 guese gained for them a signal victory, and the king 
 of Cochin soon sued for peace. " We were to retake 
 an island," Camoens writes in his first elegy, " be- 
 longing to the king of Porca, and which the king of 
 Pimenta had seized ; and we were successful. We 
 departed from Goa with a large armament, which com- 
 prised all the forces there, collected together by the 
 viceroy. 'With little trouble we destroyed the quiver- 
 armed people, and punished them with death and fire. 
 We were detained in the island only two days, which was 
 the last for some, who passed the cold waters of Styx." 
 
 Thus he enrolled his name at once among those 
 adventurers who sought by their gallantry to conquer 
 fortune, and to acquire prosperity and reputation by 
 the sword. Camoens was full of military ardour, but 
 he was a poet, and his disposition was gentle as it was 
 fearless ; and Southey well observes, that his better 
 nature induced him, while recording this victory, to 
 envy those happier men whose lives were spent in the 
 exercise of the arts of peace. 
 
 On his return to Goa, he was saddened by the news 
 of the death of his young and dear friend, dom An- 
 tonio de Noronha. He perished in an engagement 
 with the Moors, near Tetuan, on the 18th of April, 
 155'i. Antonio had been driven from his native 
 country to fall in the destructive African wars, through 
 the obduracy of his father. He was miserable in his 
 exile; as Camoens pathetically describes: — 
 
 " But while his tell-tale i-lieok the cause betrays, 
 To him who marks it with aHection's eye, 
 
 And speaks in silence to a father's paze 
 The fatal streoKtli of love's resis'less sigh ; 
 
 Parental art, resolved, alas ! to prove 
 
 The stronger power of absence over love."
 
 CAMOENS. 313 
 
 Unimaginative people fancy that when a poet laments 
 in song, his heart is cold. How false this is, persons 
 even of the chilliest fancy can judge if they call to mind, 
 how, in times of vehement affliction, they are more alive, 
 and the world is more aUve to them,, in images that 
 bear upon their grief, than during periods of mono- 
 tony. The act of writing may compose the mind; 
 but the boiling of the soul, and quake of heart, that 
 precede, transcend all the sufferings which tame spirits 
 feel. Camoens wrote a sonnet * and an elegy on this 
 loss, which he sent in a letter to a friend. 
 
 " I wish so much for a letter from you," he says in this 
 letter, " that I fear that my wishes balked themselves 
 — for it is a trick of fortune to inspire a strong desire 
 for the very purpose of disappointing it. But as I 
 would not have such wrong done me, as that you should 
 suspect that I do not remember you, I determined to 
 remind you by this, in which you will see little more or 
 less than that I wish you to write to me from your native 
 land ; and in anticipated payment I send you news 
 from this, which will do no harm at the bottom of a 
 box, and may serve as a word of advice to other adven- 
 turers, that they may learn that every country grows 
 grass. When I left Portugal, as one bound for another 
 world, I sent all the hopes I had nourished, with a 
 crier before them, to be hanged, as coiners of false 
 money, and I freed myself from all the thoughts of 
 home, so that there might not remain in me one 
 stone ujjon another. Thus situated, in the midst of 
 uncertainty and confusion, the last words I uttered 
 were those of Scipio Africanus — ' Ingrata patria, non 
 possidebis ossa mea.' For without having connnitted 
 any sin that would doom me to three days of jjurgatory, 
 I have endured tliree thousand from evil tongues, worse 
 intentions, and wicked designs, born of mere envy, 
 
 " li) virw 
 Their ilarliiiK ivy, turn from thom, take root 
 Agaiiitt aiiolliiT wall." f 
 
 • The ionnct hai bct-n trannlati'd by lord Strniigford. 
 
 + Thc»c lint! are quoted from tlic'firtt ccl<ij;ue of fiarcilaiodc la Vega.
 
 314 LITEnAUV AND SCIENTIKIC MEN. 
 
 Even fViendsliips softer tlian wax have been warmed 
 into hatred and set alight, whence my fame has received 
 more bhsters than the crackling of a roasted pig. Thus 
 they found in my skin tlie valour of Achilles, who could 
 only bo wounded at the sole of tlie foot ; for they were 
 never able to see mine, though I forced many to 
 show theirs. In short, Senhor, I know not how to 
 thank myself for liaving escaped all the snares witli 
 which circumstances surrounded me in that country, ex- 
 cept by coming to this, where I am more respected than 
 the bulls of Merciana*, and Uve more peacefully than in 
 the cell of friar. This country, I say, which is the mother 
 of rascals, and the mother-in-law of honest men. For 
 those who seek to enrich themselves float like bladders 
 on the water; but those whose inclinations lead them 
 to deeds oi arms, are thrown, as the tide throws dead 
 bodies on shore, to be dried up first, and then to 
 decay." 
 
 He then proceeds to speak of the women. The 
 Portuguese whom he finds there, he says, are old ; and 
 of the natives he dislikes their language — " for if you 
 address them," he continues, "in the style of Petrarch 
 and Boscan, they re])ly in a language so sown with 
 tares, that it sticks in the throat of the understand- 
 ing, and would throw cold water on the most burning 
 flame in the world. And now no more, Senhor, than 
 this sonnet, which I wrote on the death of dom Antonio 
 de Noronha, wliich I send as a mark of how much it 
 grieved me. I wrote an eclogue on the same subject, 
 which appears to me the best 1 have written. I wished 
 also to send it to ]\Iiguel Diaz, who would be glad to see 
 it, on account of his great friendship for dom Antonio, 
 but being occupied by the many letters I have to write 
 to Portugal, I have no time." 
 
 Camoens could not remain inactive ; he had left 
 
 It is supposed that Camoens meant, that his enemies were angry to see the 
 reputation they coveted, possessed by hliii. The language and style of this 
 It^ttcr is so very obscure as to be almost uiitraiisljtable. 
 
 • A place a few miles from Lisbon, where bulls are bred for the bull, 
 fights. He seems to use these expressions ironically.
 
 CA3I0ENS. 3 ] 5 
 
 a country which, notwithstanding all he had suffered, 
 he fondly loved, because no career was open to him. 
 He sought one in India, and when none presented itself, 
 he cast himself in the first expedition set on foot, how- 
 ever dangerous or tedious it promised to be, and with 
 all the bravery and ardour of his soul, using both pen 
 and sword, endeavoured to fight or write himself into 
 reputation and preferment. 
 
 The year following his arrival at Goa, Noronha was 1554. 
 succeeded in his viceroyalty by dom Pedro Mascarenhas, ■*'t^*' 
 who soon after died, and Francisco Barreto acted as 
 governor. The cruising of the Mahometans in the 
 straits of Mecca was very detrimental to the Portuguese 
 trade, and expeditions were sent out to protect the mer- 
 chantmen, under the command of Manoel de Vascon- 
 cellos. On the second occasion, Camoens offered to 
 serve as volunteer, and accompanying Vasconcellos, 
 shared the great iiardships of the expedition. 
 
 On his return to Goa, he wrote a most beautiful can- 1555. 
 zorip, the ninth, descriptive of the wretchedness he -^^tat. 
 endured, in which he pourtrays that corner of the 
 world, " neighbouring a barren, rocky, sterile moun- 
 tain ; useless, bare, bald and shapeless, abhorred of 
 nature, where no bird flies, nor wild beast crouches — 
 where no stream flows, nor any fountain springs, and 
 whose name is Felix. Here my hapless fortune placed 
 me ; here, in this remote, rugged, and rocky part of the 
 world, did fortune will tliat a short space of my short 
 life should be spent, that it might be scattered in pieces 
 about the world ; here I wasted my sad, solitary, and 
 sterile days, full of hardship, grief, and resentment ; 
 nor. had I, as my only adversaries, life, a burning sun, 
 and chilling waters, a thick ;inil sultry atmosphere, — but 
 also my own thoughts. 'I'hey assailed me, bringing 
 the memory of some passed and brief deligiit, which 
 once was mine when I inhabited the world, to double 
 the asperity of my adversity, liy showing me that 
 many hajtpy hours may be enjoyed ; and thus, in these 
 thoughts, I wore out time and life."
 
 316 
 
 I,ITEnARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 Camoons returned to fJoa, only to .again encounter tlie 
 enmity of fate and malice of men. It \vas natural for 
 liim, to behold with indignation and contempt the ex- 
 tortion and tyranny of the Portuguese government; 
 and he is said to have been exciteil by these feelings to 
 express his dislike of various individuals that composed 
 it in a satire, which he named "Follies in India," 
 {Di.sjxnuttes lui Iiifiin), in which, in general terms, he 
 lashes many potent individuals for their misdeeds. This 
 made him enemies; and being suspected of composing 
 another satire, still more distasteful to several who were 
 named in it, as instituting a feast of canes in honour 
 of the new governor, and getting drunk on the occasion; 
 the jiersons aggrieved, fearing Camoens' sword as well 
 as his pen, applied for redress to Barreto, and he was 
 glad of the pretence to arrest and banish him to China*; 
 or rather, Southey says, we should express it, ordered 
 him to another station; but this is often the worst exile ; 
 when a man has sought a new country, where he has 
 friends and prospects, it is an arbitrary and cruel act that 
 drives him out to seek his fortune on unknown shores, 
 where he arrives a stranger, and may be looked on as an 
 intruder ; his name already stigmatised by the very cir- 
 cumstances of his removal. 
 
 • A discussion has arisen concerning the cause of Camoens' banishment. 
 Fario y Sousa, who lived near the time of Camoens, (lie was born in 
 1S!K),) s:)js that Barreto took olli'iice at this secoiKi satire, and adds with 
 great candour and good feelin;,' : " 'J'here is not anything repreheiifihlc in 
 all my master's actions, except his having written these satires, for in 
 doing so he lost sight of prudenrc, independence, and the hearing of a 
 cavalier ; as not any of these qualities belong to a satirist. Uarret", like- 
 wise, who was a man possessing a great niiml, did not appear to advant;ige 
 in revenging himself so steriily upon a man of such abilities, and in treating 
 him with such rigour." The late biographer Sousa resents this account. 
 He says, the satire was falsely attributed to (;.iinoens, since no spark of 
 liis genius appears, — nor is he found either before, or after that time, 
 indidging in that species of composition." .Southey warmly takes Karia's 
 part, [whom he names one of the most nprif-ht and high-minded men that 
 ever ended his days in honour.ible poverty) and blames Camoens. Adam- 
 son is inclined to_side with .'•'ous.i. We must remember that 15arreto was 
 a cruel, arbitrary", and extortionate man : and the sense Camoens evinces 
 of his banishment, makes us willuig to believe that he was supported by 
 n lofty sense of innocence. He calls his banishment an unjust decree, in 
 the Lusiad, — and in more energetic language in another poem, he wishes 
 tliat the remembrance of his exile might, in p'lulshmeiit of those by whom 
 it was obtained, be sculptured in rock or adamant.
 
 CAMOENS. 317 
 
 Camoens departed from Goa in the fleet which Barreto 1556. 
 despatched to the South. He felt this arbitrary act-^^**** 
 bitterly. He denounced it as unjust^ and went, he saysj " "' 
 " loaded with his recollections, his sorrows, and Ins for- 
 tunes, which were for ever adverse." He disembarked, 
 at first, at one of the Molucca Isles ; Ternate, as it is 
 supposed : the term of his stay there is uncertain, but 
 there is every reason to suppose that he soon proceeded 
 to Macao.* He here held the office of " Provedor 
 dos Defunctos," or commissary for the effects of the 
 deceased ; and here again we find a similarity with 
 Cervantes, who was driven to maintain himself by 
 accepting a clerkship ; but in this Camoens was more 
 fortunate than the Spaniard ; the situation he held was 
 of greater emolument, and he amassed a little fortune 
 while holding itt; nor was it a place that demanded 
 much time for the fulfilment of its duties. Camoens 
 found leisure to retire from the details of business, and 
 to pursue his poetical occupations. He was wont to 
 spend much time in a grotto which commanded a view 
 
 • The description which he gives of the jilacc where he spent the greater 
 part of hm exile, an doctor Soiithey justly remarks, applies decidedly to 
 Macao and not to Ternate, as Mr. Adainsoti supposes. 
 
 Cercada esta de hum rio. 
 
 lie Miaritiin; » a^uas sauclosas, 
 
 U.is herbas que a<|ui nasceni, 
 
 O.' f;ados juntainente, y es olhos passcml, 
 
 A<|ui wiiiiha veiitura 
 
 Ouiz <)ue huina grande parte, 
 
 IJa vida se passasse. 
 
 " It is surrounded liy an ocean-stream of salt water. On the herbage that 
 it pro<luce« the flotk and the eye jointly pasture. Here fortune willed 
 that a consiilerable part of my life slioulil be p.isseil." 
 
 t That C'amoiTis, banished by IS.trrelo, held a profitable situation under 
 him leeniH a contradiction ; yet since he amassed a sum of money that 
 seemed wealth to him, he must have In-en appointed during the governor. 
 •Iiip o( llarreto. 'J'he Ouarlerly lieview, bent on admiring the virtues of 
 iiower, deducts arguinei:t« in favc.nr of Barreto: but CaiiioenH could not 
 have denounced him .is he did bad he been under obligatioiis to him, 
 obligation" too, which the whole world in India would have coiisiderecl 
 full nimpensation for his exili- from (ioa. .Sousa consiilers that bis stay 
 was of longer duration at Ternate than we assign, and that he did not (ill 
 the place at Macao till a later period, when it was given him by Harreto's 
 successor. Knt then he woulil not have hail time to ainajts a fortune. 
 Here therefore is an enigma, whose •idiition we cannot di''Cover, unless it 
 III- ';ind It seems llie probable ciiojccliirej thai ibr liic.il governor of Macao 
 preferred Camoens lo this pl.icc, and ll.irreto had iiotlliiig at all to do 
 Willi il.
 
 "18 LITF.RAIIY AND SCIENTIFIC MF.N. 
 
 of the sea, and where, apart from tlie rest of the world, 
 he wrote a great portion of the " Lusiad." Tliis spot 
 is still shown to strangers who visit Macao, as the grotto 
 of Cainoens ; and an English visitor thus describes it : 
 " It is pleasantly situated on the western shore of the 
 promontory of Macao, and faces the harbour, which 
 divides it on that side from the main land. This pro- 
 montory is a narrow neck of land, whose stony and 
 barren surface is only rendered habitable by the sea 
 breezes, that blow from three quarters of the compass, 
 and somewhat temper the natural heat of the climate." 
 At this day, the English possessor has beautified it 
 by a plantation of trees, and crowned it with a small 
 Chinese temple, built on the rock, which is a sort of 
 cromlech ; the excavation beneath is the cave, or natu- 
 ral grotto, to which the poet resorted, bare in itself, but 
 commanding a beautiful and extensive view: — "the wide 
 sea flecked with verdant isles, the harbour busy with 
 vessels, the line of woody and cultivated coast, bounded 
 by the majestic Montagna, whose pyramidical form and 
 dark aspect add no small charm to the scenery." 
 
 Here Camoens continued the "Lusiad;" here Sou- 
 they supposes that the happiest years of his life were 
 spent. It may be so, but airy and cameleon-like must 
 that happiness have been. His imagination, his desire 
 of fame, the grasp he held of it, as he added to his 
 immortal work, doubtless often fired his soul with that 
 rapture which poets only know ; and, as he gathered 
 together some of the world's pelf, he might dream of 
 dona Caterina, of his native Lisbon, and hope to make 
 her his own when he should return ; he could look upon 
 the sky and sea, and the beautiful earth, and feel the 
 loveliness of the creation breathe peace and love around 
 him. But still he was exiled and he was alone; his 
 food was hope ; far off" expectation, and that too of 
 blessings, which he was never doomed to possess ; and 
 as doubtless the human soul does unconsciously receive 
 shadows or sunbeams from the future, so his melancholy 
 mood may often have made him wonder, why on an earth
 
 CAMOENS. 3\Q 
 
 SO lovely; beneath so sublime a heaven, he should be 
 doomed to solitude and misfortune. 
 
 Thus several years were passed. ^\'hatever the 
 emoluments of his place were, or whatever fortune it 
 was that he amassed, or whatever were the charms of 
 his abode, they did not seduce him to stay a day longer 
 than he was oblij:^od. He obtained leave to return to 
 Goa from, or was invited to do so by, dom Costantino de 
 Braganza, the new viceroy, who had known and enter- 
 tained friendship for him in Portugal. He embarked 
 carrying with him his little fortune. But here fate at 
 once displayed her unmitigated persecution ; he was 
 wrecked at the mouth of the river Mecon, and with 
 difficulty reached the shore ; carrying in one hand 
 the manuscript of his poem, while he swam with 
 the other. Every thing else that he possessed in the 
 world was lost.* 
 
 C'amoens was kindly received by the natives who 
 lived on the banks of the Mecon ; though he says of 
 them with some scorn — 
 
 " The near inhabitants briitishly think 
 That pain and k'<"'>', alter this life's end 
 Kven brute creatures of each kind attend." 
 
 yet this very belief may have made them more sympa- 
 thetic and charitable. 
 
 He remained on this coast for a few days after his 
 wreck. And here all commentators agree that he wrote 
 what are called his marvellous and inimitable rendon- 
 dillias, which commence by an allusion to the Hebrew 
 psalm of exile, " By the waters of Babylon." Southcy 
 rejects absolutely the possibility that this beautiful 
 poem could have Iwen written at such an hour of 
 
 * To thin wreck, and to bin escape hi- referii in the prophetic >ong in the 
 tenth Lumad when he »|>i'akii of the river Mecon — 
 
 " Ui)on bin soft and charitable lirim 
 The wi'l and "bipwreekiil cionn receive dhall he, 
 Which in a lainentnble ph^lit nhall Huiin 
 From iihoal* and (|uickiuuid< orteniiieituoua lea. 
 The (lire clHcl ol exile, _ when on /lim 
 1« executed llii' iinjiKt decree, 
 Whone reperrn«»ive lyre ►hall have the fate 
 To l»f renowiud more than forliin.ite."' 
 
 /^iMiV)(/, ciinto X. itaiiza 128. — Faiuhaio'i Tramlation
 
 .'520 LITKRAUY AND SCIENTIFIC SIKN. 
 
 tumult and uncertainty, and brings as proof, that not 
 only, ho does not mention his wreck, nor the kindness 
 he received, for which he evidently felt grateful, but 
 speaks of himself as livin<!; in exile. 
 
 lie soon pursued his voyage to Goa, where the vice- 
 roy received him with kindness and distinction ; and 
 hope might dawn again upon his heart, and he nn'ght 
 expect preferment under dom Constantine de IJraganza's 
 patronage, who loved him as a friend. But we are al- 
 most forced to believe in the influence of a star, and that 
 which ruled the fate of Camoens was full of storm and 
 wreck, and miserable reverses. Dom Constantine, with 
 whose viceroyalty, Faria tells us, ended all good govern- 
 ment in India, the succeeding governors being unable 
 to stem the tide and avarice of extortion, was soon 
 replaced by don Francisco de Coutinho, Conde de 
 lledondo. The poet's enemies took advantage of this 
 change to urge against him an accusation of malver- 
 sation in the exercise of his office at Macao. Don Fran- 
 cisco was said to be the friend and admirer of the poet, 
 but Mickle, in reprobating his general character, accuses 
 him also of deceit towards Camoens — at least he 
 afforded him no protection on this occasion, and this 
 thrice unhappy man was thrown into prison. 
 
 In the seventh canto of tlie Lusiail, the poet breaks 
 off suddenly in the narrative, as if oppressed by the 
 sense of his own woes; and, forced to give a voice to the 
 anguish that wrung his soul, he recalls images of home 
 and bids them assuage the bitterness of his grief, while 
 he recapitulates the various disasters he had sustained 
 — exclaiming, — 
 
 " But, O, blind man 
 I'J. that, unwise and rude, without your clue, 
 Nymjjhs of iMondcgo and the Tafjan stream, 
 A course so long, so intricate, pursue. 
 I launch into a boundless ocean, 
 VVith wind so contrary, that unless you 
 Extend your favours, I have cause to think 
 My brittle bark w'ill in a moment sink. 
 
 Behold, how long, whilst I strain all my powers 
 Your 'I'agus singinj^. and your I'ort'igal, 
 I'ortune, new toils presenting and new sours. 
 Through the world drags me at her chariot's tail :
 
 CAMOE>n;. 321 
 
 Sometimes committed to sea's rolling towers,. 
 Sometimes to bloody dangers martial ! 
 Thus I, like desperate Canace of old. 
 My pen in this, my sword in that hand hold. 
 
 Xow by declined and scorned poverty 
 Degraded, at another's board to eat ; 
 Now in possession ofa fortune high, 
 ; Thrown back again, farther than ever yet ; 
 Now 'scaped, with my life only, which hung by 
 A single thread, even that a load too great ; 
 That 'tis no less a wonder I am here. 
 Than Judah's king's new lease of fifteen year. 
 
 Nay more, my N'ymphs, I thus being made an isle 
 And rock of want, surrounde<i by my woes, 
 'ihe same, whom I swam, singing ail the while, 
 Oavc me for all my verses, but coarse prose : 
 Instead of ho|>ed rest for long exile. 
 Or bays, to crown my head which bald now grows. 
 Unworthy scandals they thereon did hail. 
 Which laid me in a miserable jail.* 
 
 Camoens was easily enabled to prove the falsehood of 
 the charges of which he was accused. And he would 
 have been set free, but Miguel llodrigues C'outinho,a man 
 of wealth and consequence, but nicknamed Fios-seccos, 
 detained him in prison for a trifling debt ; not more, 
 at the very largest computation, than twenty pounds. 
 He petitioned for his release from the viceroy in some 
 sportive verses, in which he ridicules the character of 
 his creditor. The request was such as a man in ad- 
 versity might prefer to a friend in power, Avithout 
 humiliation ; and though the biographers arc chary of 
 attributing the merit of his release to the viceroy, and 
 Mickle even asserts that he owed it " to the shame felt 
 by the gentlemen of Goa," it seems likely that dom 
 Francisco did shew his friendship by enlarging him. 
 
 lie continued in India, and pursued his military 
 career as a volunteer. ( )n all occasions he displayed 
 undaunted bravery ; and his companions in arms loved 
 him for tlie heroic as well as cheerful spirit which he 
 displayed in all reverses, and during every hardship. 
 
 * Wc cannot help preferring the faithfUt and nervoui, though imcouth 
 and even olMolete, Irarmlalinn of I'anslriw to the more dllulisl hlrcini of 
 Mirklt'i liiToirt. South) y »ptak«of " thr clnliorntc and curioua inlidclily 
 of Miiklc'ii vrriion i" at llif nanii- time that he praio-s it highly. DcbiruuH 
 of undiTniniiding the noul nt Cuni'ictiii, it in not from hin iimoolh exprcMlona, 
 thflt the ri'.'ulc-r uuac<|uaintcd with I'ortuguutv can bv infunucd. 
 
 VOL. J 11. Y
 
 322 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 At this period he is supposed to have heard of the 
 death of dona Catarina dc Atayde*^ who, in her grave, 
 was not more lost to him than on cartli, while such far 
 seas lay bftwoon them ; yet the thought of her was dear 
 and consolatory. When recording that two blows befell 
 him at the same time, the one the loss of fortune, he 
 continues : — 
 
 " And greater ill — the other blow destroyed 
 The gentle one, whom I so deeply loved. 
 Perpetual HccoUection of my soul ! "f 
 
 Of Catarina's story we may say, as Shakspeare's Viola 
 does of her own history, it was " a blank." She 
 loved, she wept, she died. Her lover won her heart, 
 and then was driven by fate to other lands at an 
 immeasurable distance, and the course of long years 
 promised no return. He fondly laments and comme- 
 morates her loss in poems which breathe tenderness'and 
 love in all its purity and truth. J He addressed her in 
 
 * Don Jnze Faria y Souza, the latest Portuguese commentator, first 
 suggested this as the probable epoch of" dona Catarina's death, in contra- 
 distinction to all other biographers, who placeiton his return from Ccuta. 
 He founds his notion on the internal evidence of Camoens' lyrics and son- 
 nets, and has made converts of Adamson and Southey, and will of all 
 future biographers. There is this of agreeable also; that Camoens is 
 rescued from the charge, that otherwise lies at his door (and is men- 
 tioned by Lord Strangford), of forgetting dona Catarina as soon as she was 
 no more, and addressing another lady in the language of constant love. 
 IJut these ]ioems show by their context that they were addressed to his 
 first love, who still lived. 
 
 t Perpetuo saudade da alma mia. 
 
 The word 4Vi//(/«rfe is peculiar to the Portuguese language — it includes 
 
 much a recollection accompanied by alli-ction, and regret, and pleasure : 
 
 friends when they write, send saudadcs instead of our remembrances to 
 Others, and it speaks of more tender and kind feeling. 
 
 X One of the most perfect and beautiful of Camoens' poems, is a sonnet 
 which many have preferred to the one of Petrarch on the same subject, or 
 even to his Trionfa, which also narrates the visionary visit of his lost love. 
 The following is Mr. Hayley's translation : — 
 
 " While prest with woes from which it cannot flee. 
 My fancy sinks, and slumber seals my eyes, 
 Her spirit hastens in my dreams to rise. 
 Who was in life but as a dream to me. 
 O'er the drear waste, so wide no eye can see 
 How far its sense-evading limit lies, 
 I follow her quick step ; but ah, she flies ! 
 Our distance wid'ning by fate's stern decree. 
 • Fly not from me, kind shadow,' I exclaim ; 
 She with fixed eyes, that her soft thoughts reveal. 
 And seemed to say, ' Forbear thy fond design,' — 
 Still flics. — I call her, but her half-formed name 
 Dies on my falt'ring tongue. — I wake and feel 
 Not e'en one short delusion can be mine."
 
 CAMOENS. 323 
 
 that heaven which she had reached, and adjured her : — 
 
 " Prefer thy prayer 
 To God, who took thee early to his rest. 
 That it may please him soon amid the blest 
 To summon me, dear maid, to meet thee there." 
 
 He had lost all ; poverty clung to him, and the last hope 
 of seeing her he loved again, was taken away. Fame 
 and glory only remained. His poem was finished ; and 
 weary of hard services in wars — whose objects he con- 
 demned, and in reward for which he received but the 
 slender pay of a volunteer — he desired to return to his 
 native country, to pubUsh his poem, and to receive the 
 welcome of his friends, and perhaps the reward of his 
 sovereign. He had left Portugal with an embittered 
 spirit ; but his misfortunes in India made him turn 
 with a longing eye to his native land, where he might 
 hope that his enemies would cease to persecute him, and 
 he obtain favour from his sovereign. 
 
 Pedro Barreto (a name unlucky for the poet) was 
 appointed governor of Sofala, in the Mozambique, and 
 invited Camoens to accompany him. AMiethcr he 
 offered him an office, or only allured liim with the hope 
 of facilitating his return to Portugal, Sofala being on 
 the way, we are not told. It seems likely that (.'amoens 
 went, induced by the latter motive, and trusting to the 
 friendship of a low-minded and hard-hearted man. 
 Arrived at Sofala, he obtained no situation ; it was his 
 place to dine at the governor's table, to follow in his 
 train, and to tell the world that he, a gallant soldier and 
 a poet, who inherited immortality, Avas the dependant 
 of I'edro Harreto. Ills proud spirit revolted, and he 
 was content to endure the extreme of poverty, rather 
 than play the servile part of parasite and hanger-on. It 
 is probable that some absolute (juarrc'l ensued, or at least 
 that Barreto was so ill j)Ieasc(l with the indepenilcnt 
 deportment of the man whom he believed that he 
 held in his power, that he expressed his dissatisfaction 
 with an insolence which Camoens resented. At this 
 juncture some of his Indian friends arrived in the 
 
 Y 2
 
 324' UTERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 Santa Fc ; they fouiul liiui in a most deplorable con- 
 dition, dopendont on others for his subsistence ; in 
 vant of clothes and every necessary. Tiiey supplied 
 his wants, and invited him to accompany them, a 
 proposal Camoens gladly accepted ; when the das- 
 tardly and malevolent Barreto refused to permit his 
 departure, until he had been paid 200 ducats, which he 
 alleged he had spent in his behalf. The newly-arrived 
 gentlemen, indignant at this meanness, were only the 
 more eager to rescue their friend out of such a person's 
 hands : they subscribed the money, and as Faria ex- 
 presses it, " ransomed him ; so that at the same time the 
 person of Luis Camoens, and the reputation of Pedro 
 Barreto, were bought and sold at the same price;" and 
 if, as men of genius and virtue fondly think, renown 
 for good or ill in this world is an acquisition to be sought, 
 or to be avoided, even with the loss of life, Pedro 
 Bari'eto, as he counted his paltry ducats, had better 
 have cast them and himself into the sea, than have put 
 them into his pocket ; but even the sea could not have 
 washed out the stain of moral infamy. These friends 
 of Camoens were cavaliers, who loved literature and 
 honoured the writer. Their names have been preserved : 
 Hector da Sylveira, Duarte de Abreu, Diogo de Couto, 
 Antonio Cabral, Antonio Serram, and Luis de Veyga. 
 He was the intimate friend of Hector da Sylveira, who 
 showed himself the most active and friendly, and who 
 contributed the largest share to the payment of the debt, 
 even if he did not, as has been asserted, pay the whole. 
 Sylveira is mentioned in a Barmecide feast, Camoens 
 describes as having given at Goa; and they composed 
 redondillhas and other light verses together. The repu- 
 tation of Couto is known. He was an historian of great 
 merit. 
 
 Camoens felt keenly the depth of adversity in which 
 he had sunk. " Oh, how long drawn out," he exclaims 
 in a sonnet, " year by year, is my weary pilgrimage ! I 
 go hastening towards age, while my ills increase ; every
 
 CAMOENS. 325 
 
 bright hope becomes a dark deceit, and I follow a 
 o-ood which I never reach. I fail midway in the path, 
 yet falling a thousand times, I have still hoped." And 
 in another, driven by despair into feelings unlike his 
 natural ones, he asks, " where he may find a desert 
 place, unvisited even by the brute creation ; some 
 gloomy wood or darksome forest — a place as dismal as 
 his own thoughts, wherein to dwell for ever !" 
 
 During the voyage home, however, his spirit revived, 
 refreshed by the kindness and admiration of his friends. 
 They read, they praised, and anticipated success for the 
 " Lusiad." Couto Avrote a commentary on it, Avhich 
 was unfortunately lost ; and the same writer tells us 
 that Camoens employed himself, on the passage, in com- 
 posing a work of great erudition and philosophy, which 
 he entitled " Parnasso de Luis Camoens," ami which 
 Couto says was stolen from him, and irretrievably lost. 
 Late commentators suppose that this must have been a 
 collection of his minor poems : but as Couto speaks of 
 its erudition, and had read it, he would have been 
 aware of this, and expressed himself cUfFerently. 
 
 The sanguine spirit of the poet, to whom kindness 
 was medicine, and the hope of fame the dearest joy, 
 again dared look forward — again he trusted. A young J[5C9. 
 and gallant monarch had just ascended the throne, and >^tat. 
 he hoped to propitiate bis favour by his patriotic work. "*'^' 
 The moment of his landing, however, was unfavourable ; 
 for the plague was raging at Lisbon, and the minds of 
 even the great and prosperous were absorbed by tiie fear 
 of death. The political state of the kingdom was also 
 disadvantageous. Sebastian had succeeded to the crown 
 when only three years old. The queen, Catherine of 
 Austria, had been appointed regent by tiie will of the 
 late king; but the cardinal Henrique, uncle to the in- 
 fant sovereign, so disgusted li<r with his intrigues, that 
 she resigned her power in his favour. Ilenri(jue did 
 not show himself unworthy of the trust ; but as Sebas- 
 tian grew up, the courtiers around him were eager that 
 
 V 3
 
 :i26 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 he should take the govcrninent of the kingdom into his 
 own hands. Sebastian's own heart was set on military 
 glory and conquests in Africa: a project favoured by 
 all the young and ambitious, and deprecated by the ex- 
 perienced, who saw only a useless expenditure of life 
 and money in the design. The cardinal, meanwhile, 
 endeavoured to prolong his sway. Camocns must have 
 found it difficult to trim his sail between the actual 
 power of the cardinal and the anticipated influence 
 of the favourites of the king. He wrote the verses 
 in which he dedicates his poem to the young monarch ; 
 he corrected and polished it ; but the publication lin- 
 gered, and it was two years after his return to his 
 native country before it appeared. It was hailed with 
 1571. enthusiasm, and reprinted within the year. The king 
 ifltat. heard of it, it is said, and granted the poet a pension of 
 '*^- 15,000 reis — about five pounds sterling — and re- 
 quired him to live within the precincts of the court, 
 and obtain its payment half-yearly. A soldier who had 
 fought as Camoens had done for his country, would have 
 had his sufferings and mutilation better rewarded. It 
 has been impossible to discover what occasioned the 
 paltriness of the grant ; if, indeed, it was not his half- 
 pay as a military man, rather than a pension given to 
 the poet. Some commentators fancy that the cardinal 
 scowled on the poem, as likely to excite the martial 
 ardour of the king, which he wished to repress. This 
 fear almost seems to have gone the length of with- 
 holding the book altogether ; for had Sebastian read 
 the poem, he Avould surely have found in it a voice 
 that echoed the emotions of his own heart, and would 
 have regarded its writer with more favour ; and when 
 he sailed on his ill-fated expedition to Africa, and se- 
 lected Diego Bernardes to accompany him as his poet, 
 he would rather have chosen a man who could so well 
 achieve and so well describe deeds of arms, as Camoens 
 had proved that he could do.* 
 , ♦ Southey has given the following account of his rival : — " Diego Ber-
 
 CAMOEXS. 327 
 
 But in mentioning this we anticipate. Sebastian ilid 
 not undertake his fatal expedition until the lapse of 
 several years. Meanwhile the darkest shadows clouded 
 the poet's fate. No court favour, no preferment was 
 extended to him. Her he loved was dead; his poem 
 was finished, published, read, admired ; yet it proved 
 barren of any advantage, except what he must have 
 felt to be empty reputation, to its unfortunate writei-. 
 The poetry of his hfe faded before realities the most 
 heartbreaking and oppressive. He continued to reside 
 at Lisbon. He did not write, for he had fallen into 
 a state of ill-health, the consequence of the many 
 hardships he had endured, and the cUmate of IncUa. 
 He lived, he says, " in the knowledge of many, and 
 the society of few." He enjoyed the acquaintance and 
 conversation of some learned men, who belonged to the 
 convent of S. Domingos de Lisboa, near wliich he lived. 
 
 The most melancholy circumstances attended his 
 last days. He was sick and poor ; his very life was 
 supported by charity. His servant Antonio, a native of 
 Java, by whom some say his life was saved when 
 wrecked on the coast of Cochin, whom he had brought 
 with him from India, was accustomed to steal out at 
 night, and beg for bread, to support his miserable 
 master during the following day. 
 
 AVhile in this afflicting state, a fidalgo, Ruy Diaz de 
 Camara, paid liim a visit in his wretched dwelling, to 
 complain that he had not fulfilled a promise whicli the 
 poet liad made of translating the penitential psalms. 
 
 nardcs, one of the t)c«t or the I'ortiijfueKc pofts, wan born on tlic banks of 
 tlie I.iina, and psttionalely <oiitl of it> kcvni-ry. .Sonic of liiit poeniii will 
 Iwir ioin|iariiniM with the bent pocinH of their kiml. Tbcre in a iharRo of 
 i>ln):inriiini aKainttt biin, tor having priiitt'd iicverni of CainoiMi'ii nonneU as 
 iii. OHM ; to oStain any proof on lint mlijcct would be very dilllcult ; this, 
 hoA-.K r, i< rcrtairi, that Inn own undiiipiitiMl pr<Hlii<'tionii ri-neinblc them lu 
 iiiiK li in .id(i ijOK tcndernem and itweelneht of diction, that the whole 
 ipi' ir like the work« of one author. "—. Vo/cj /» Smil/in/'s Dim Itndi-rick. 
 \'.i ni.irdro, however, had no reaioii to coiif(ratiilate hiuiiielf on the choiec 
 hnvioK fallen on him. lie w.m taken prmixier in the battle in which 
 .Sebaalun fell ; and then lie blamed the unfortunate king, and deplored 
 hit own f.ite--a r.tplive diHimed to Jolmur and ehaiim. lie obtained hi 
 liberty, and ilied at I,i«boii in 1 jOtj, oiid won buriud in tliu same church a 
 Camoeiis. Vide Adiimton. 
 
 Y 4
 
 32S LITEHARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 Camocns rcp:ar<lc(l with resentment the man wlio could 
 urge him to write wliilc starving. '■' AVlien I wrote 
 those verses," he repheil, " I was young, well off, and 
 in love ; I possessed the affection of many friends, and 
 was favoured of ladies, which imparted a poetic fire. 
 Now I have neither spirit nor peace of mind for any 
 thing. There stands my Javanese, who asks me for 
 two pieces, to buy fuel, and I have none to give him.'* 
 M'e arc told, though it seems incredible, that " the 
 cavalier closed his heart and purse and quitted the 
 room." Thus shewing himself as base-minded as he 
 was silly. Yet even in this state, so keen and patriotic 
 •were the poet's feelings, that his illness is said to have 
 been increased by the tidings of Sebastian's overthrow 
 and death in Africa. 
 
 * Prophesying that the ruin of his country would result 
 from this defeat, he says, in a letter written at that 
 time, — " At least I shall die with it!" — and this sad 
 reflection was a consolation. Southey conjectures that 
 those friends who were kindest to him perished in this 
 defeat, and that thus he lost that aid which had hitherto 
 stood between him and absolute want. 
 
 1778. At length illness and suffering reduced him to so low 
 MiBt. a state that he was incapable of all exertion. Ho felt 
 
 ^^- that his death was near, and, as a last effort, he expressed 
 in a letter some of the bitter feelings excited by the 
 miserable circumstances with which it came attended. 
 
 1779. " Who ever heard," he says, " that fortune should wish 
 .^tat. to represent such vast misfortunes on the little theatre of 
 
 ^^' a poor bed ! and I, as if they were not sufficient, make 
 myself her ally ; for it would appear effrontery to 
 attempt to resist such ill." 
 
 But the last scene was saddest of all. He breathed 
 his last in an hospital. The month and day of his de- 
 cease are alike unknown. The sheet in wJiich he was 
 shrouded was the gift of a noble, Don Francisco de Por- 
 tugal, whose name deserves no praise for so meagre an 
 offering to the dead, whose life a small portion of wealth 
 might have rendered easy. A morahsing monk watched
 
 CAMOENS. 329 
 
 his last hours. " How miserable a thing," he writes, 
 " to see so great a genius so ill rewarded ! I saw him 
 die in a hospital at Lisbon, without possessing a shroud 
 to cover his remains, after having borne arms victo- 
 riously in India, and having sailed 5500 leagues : — a 
 warning for those who weary themselves by studying 
 night and day without profit, as the spider who spins 
 his web to catch flies." * 
 
 After his death his body was removed to the church 
 of Santa Anna, where he was interred ; but no tomb or 
 monumental inscription marked the spot, till sixteen 
 years after his death, don Goncalo Coutinho placed a 
 stone to his memory, with this inscription — 
 
 HERE LIES L0UIS;DE CAMOENS, 
 
 PRINCE OF THE POETS OF HIS TIME. 
 
 HE LIVED POOR AND MISERABLE, 
 
 AND THUS DIED, 
 
 IN THE YEAR MDLXXIX. 
 
 D. GON9ALO COUTINHO ORDERED 
 THIS STONE TO BE PLACED HERE, 
 UNDER WHICH 
 NO OTHER PERSON SHOULD BE BURIED. + 
 
 We are told that Camoens was hamlsome in person ; 
 and Faria y Sousa speaks of him as elegant and pre- 
 possessing in person before he went to India. Hard- 
 ships an(l disappointments on his return bowed him 
 down, destroyed his cheerfulness, and made liini old 
 before his time. 
 
 • I-ord Holland poiiiiMiics a copy of thf> (Irst cditinti of tlip Lusiad, in 
 wliirh tlu'M; words won- written by the friar Joftcpc Judio, who left it in 
 the convent of the liarefooted Carineliteii of (iiiadalaxara. 
 
 + 'I'hi» admirable inncription rum thus in it< own native Portuguese on 
 the stone itself — 
 
 AQII .1.\7. MIS I)K CAMOKS. 
 
 rUlN(II~K DOS I'OKIASI HE SEU TKMPO, 
 
 VIVEO I'OHKK 1; MISKHAVlCLMENTIi, 
 
 1; ASSI MOHKKO, 
 
 ANNO or. MDLXXIX. 
 
 KHTA ( AMI'A I.HK MASDA Al^i;!, 
 
 I'Ok n. (.IINIJAUI loniMIc), 
 
 NA UI'AL HK NAO RMTKHKAliA 
 
 PKHDUA MMVMA.
 
 330 LiTERAny and scientific men. 
 
 Camoens was a great man, not only as poet, but in the 
 qualities of his mind and heart. He entered life full of 
 aspiration after the good and beautiful. He loved ten- 
 derly and fondly one who was as pure and good as she was 
 lovely; and in absence, and through hardshii) and sorrow, 
 still he worshipped her idea and mourned her fate. He 
 was gallant and brave in doing, as well as in the harder 
 task of bearing. No mean, no servile, no even dubious 
 act is recorded of him, during the course of many misfor- 
 tunes, when spirits less high might have bowed before 
 the rich and powerful. He was naturally cheerful, 
 friendly, and fond of society, which he enlivened and 
 adorned by his wit and genius. Fortune warred with 
 him long in vain, but she conquered at last, when poor, 
 and sick, and friendless, he grew melanclioly and de- 
 spairing. At the commencement we compared his for- 
 tunes with those of Cervantes ; but the career of Ca- 
 moens was the most disastrous. Every act of his life 
 had an adverse termination. In the early season of youth 
 he loved tenderly and ardently ; and this feeling had not 
 injured his fortunes, if his attachment had not been 
 returned. A modern poet asks, " ^V'hat makes it fatal 
 in this world of ours, to be loved.''" It was the love 
 that Dona Catarina bore the poet, that aw^akened the 
 enmity of her powerful relations, and cast his whole 
 life into shadow. From the hour he Avas banished for 
 her sake, he succeeded in nothing. He fought for his 
 country in Africa, only to be maimed and deformed for 
 life. He visited India only to encounter the same 
 hardships in a worse cUmate ; he amassed a fortune, 
 and lost it in shipwreck ; he trusted to the kind feel- 
 ings of the powerful, and found hnnself reduced to ab- 
 solute want. The most adverse period of Cervantes' 
 life was his captivity at Algiers *, when he had the 
 spirit of early manhood, the love and admiration of his 
 companions, his own conscience, and stirring hopes and 
 
 * We may remark that Camoens died while Cervantes was still a captive 
 at Algiers. He was dead when the Spaniard joined the army at Lisbon 
 two or three, years after.
 
 CAMOENS. 331 
 
 fears to animate him. The happiest portion of Camoens* 
 existence, we are told, were the years he spent at Macao, 
 away from every friend, with hope only to cheer him, 
 and his imagination, while he looked over the wide dis- 
 tant sea that separated him from the dearest objects of 
 life. In his last moments, Cervantes had wife and re- 
 lation near ; and, when dying, he said farewell, to joy ; 
 farewell to his friends. In Camoens' last hour his spirit 
 was broken : want and penury, in their most loathsome 
 guise, were his death-becl companions, in a wretched 
 hospital. Southey justly remarks, however, that he is 
 not to be considered a martyr to literature ; for he in 
 no way depended on that for bread. He was a martyr 
 to that political system which created a body of men, 
 (the younger sons of the nobility), who, if they in- 
 herited no property, could acquire a livelihood only 
 by court favour ; and that is never bestowed upon 
 the worthiest. He sought advancement, as well as the 
 " bubble, honour, at the cannon's mouth." He gained 
 the latter only ; and unless his spirit now enjoys 
 the fame which he desired during life, it was a bubble 
 indeed, without substance to support him in his neces- 
 sity. Had he hved a httle longer, we are told Philip II. 
 desired to see him when at Lisbon ; and he would have 
 found assistance in him. Many is the reprieve fate 
 sends to the suffering after they are dead, as if to show 
 her power, and to im])ress us with the idea that all de- 
 pends on her fiat. A\']ierefore Heaven has established 
 a law, that the best men are to suffer most in this life, 
 is a mystery. All wc know is, that so it is, and so 
 learn at least to revere those cast in adversity, and to 
 glory rather than feel shame in the frowns of fortune.* 
 It seems strange that men should let a fellow-crea- 
 ture die 88 Camoens died ; a man, too, who possessed 
 
 •".'fhc (io<-f« life i> one of want ami mifPrrinK, and oflcn of mortidcntion 
 — mortitiration, too, that corni'n ti-rrilily home; hut tar Ik- it from inu to 
 (ay that it h.u not iti own cxcodlinK k"'"' reward. It may Iw late ill 
 rominR.tnit therlaiinon univrrtal KVinpathy m at la«t allowtKl. The future, 
 il ralin, hriKliKOH over the Kravc ; anil tticn, for the jirejent, 
 w.rlil of the iin:iKinatioii i« around it Not one cmolioii of your 
 uj.i. ,,c..;,;.K heart but it recorded in inutic."^ /.■ E. L.
 
 332 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. 
 
 the much-coveted advantage of birth, who had fought 
 for his country, and celebrated her glories in his verse. 
 Long did these very verses — the " Lusiad," and the 
 reputation it promised — bear him up; yet some hope 
 he lost as he concluded it, and at last he breaks ofF 
 impatiently, — 
 
 " Xomorc, my Musp, no more ; my harp 's ill strung, 
 Heavy and out of tune, and my voice lioarse — 
 
 And not « itii sin(,'ing, hut to see I've sung 
 To a deal' people, and without remorse. 
 
 Favour that wont t'insj)ire the poet's tongue, 
 Our country yields not : she minds the purse 
 
 Too much ; exhaling from her gilded muil 
 
 Nothing but dross and melancholy blood. 
 
 Nor know T by what fate or duller chance, 
 Men have not now the life or general gust, 
 
 ■VVhich made them with a cheerful countenance. 
 Themselves into perpetual action thrust. 
 
 ***** 
 
 While I, who speak in rude and humble rhyme. 
 Nor known, or dreamt of by my king at all. 
 
 Know yet from mouths of little ones sometime 
 The praise of great ones does completely fall. 
 
 I want not honest studies for my prime. 
 Nor long experience, since to mix withal j 
 
 T want not wit, such as in this you sec. 
 
 Three things which rarely in conjunction be." 
 
 An arm to serve you, trained in war have I, 
 
 A soul, to sing you, to the Muses bent ; 
 Only 1 want acceptance in your eye. 
 
 Who owe to virtue fair encouragement. 
 
 We have dwelt so long on the various and melan-' 
 choly circumstances of Camoens' lot, that small space 
 is left to speak of his works. Of his lesser poems, 
 his lyrics, and sonnets, such mention has been made 
 in the foregoing pages as have informed the reader 
 of their high merit. Impassioned yet tender, earnest, 
 yet soft — full of heart, and all the better feelings of 
 the soul, they are the type of Camoens, and deserve the 
 same praise as he himself merits. 
 
 Patriotism, warmed by the heroic deeds of the dis- 
 coverers of the passage to India, inspired him with the 
 idea of the Lusiad. He named it " Os Lusitanos," 
 that is to say, the Lusitanians or Portuguese. It opens 
 with the arrival of Vasco de Gama m the Mosambique; 
 it carries him thence, after many dangers, to Calicut,
 
 CAMOENS. 333 
 
 and brings him thence home. Episodical narrations 
 vary the poem. It has faults.* Its mythology is 
 clumsy. "While bringing forward Christians as Mos- 
 lems in contention, the introduction of the heathen 
 deities, of Bacchus and Venus^ is ridiculous j yet the 
 description of \'enus presenting herself to Jupiter, in 
 the second canto, may make any lover of the beautiful 
 pardon the incongruity. The Lusiad is full of beauties : 
 stanzas that rise to sublimity, touch the heart by their 
 pathos, or charm it by descriptive beauties, abound. 
 Above all, there is fire, a heart, a scid — flesh and 
 blood, enthusiasm, and the poet's best spirit, to adorn 
 it with magnanimous sentiments, patriotism, and piety. 
 As such, the Lusiad is an immortal poem, and 
 Camoens a poet that the world may be proud to have 
 brought forth. He has been considered such, and his 
 poem translated into many languages. In English 
 Mickles' is the modem and popular one ; but it has no 
 pretension to fidelity ; and, though Wickle was a man of 
 taste and a poet, we turn impatiently from his ])ara- 
 ]>hrase to the truer, thougii uncouth version of Fan- 
 shaw.f 
 
 • Doctor Southcy h.u, in his article on the '.life of Camoens, in 
 the twei)ty-i.cvcMitli volume of the " Ouartirly Review," Riven an ac- 
 count of the attack made by Jose Agotinho de' Macedon on the Lusiad, 
 and the iKiem he wrote in rivaUhip on the same subject. Maccdo was an 
 acute critic : as such, he could more readily detect defects than beauties. 
 He saw with discerning eye the faults of jiinn in the Lusiad ; — but he 
 was not warnii-d by its hre, nor cleTatcd by its genius. The most entire 
 vengeance a friend of C'amocnn could take, he himself achieved when he 
 wrote his [Kiem, whose in.-uhmery and plan arc no better, and which 
 [>ossc-sses none .of the transccnd.int merits of its predecessor. To subvert a 
 national idol, is an invidious task — to set himself upon the same pedestal, a 
 ridiculous pretension. A jx^t of the present day, whom the Portuguese, 
 of whatever political cree<l. ajjrc-e in admiring, .Mmciila-fJarrett, lias written 
 a |K>em, entitled "< anioens," worthy of his Kftat countryman. 
 
 t l-ansbaw's |)Ocm wa» published without his own corrections. Southey 
 olmrves on this, that " thouKh he miKht have sometimes improved the 
 harmony of hi" verse«, and sometimes liave changed a word or expression 
 for the better, the main fault is not one he was like to have rorrecteti," 
 that fault Ijcing the imitatinK the It.-.lian poets in mingling familiar and 
 tiiirlo«|UC expressions with tiie grave and ide.il. This observation issingu. 
 larly true ; the copy of »ir Itichard I'ansliaw's Lusiad which we have con- 
 sult" d, conLiins manuscript correcti-)iiH in his own hand. Inthishehau 
 frctjuentiy changed a word or traiuposed it; but not one of the faulty pat- 
 sages ii amended. 
 
 Ktil) OK TUK TlJinil VOLUME.
 
 London : 
 
 Printed by A. Spottiswoode, 
 
 New.Street-Square. 
 
 /.* 
 
 V
 
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