PART I.

I.

GASPAR MELCHOR DE JOVELLANOS.

An able and distinguished writer in the Madrid Review has observed,

that if the question were asked as to which is the first great

name in modern Spanish literature, the answer must unquestionably

be--Jovellanos. It seems, therefore, only a just deference to his

merits, though it is but a fortuitous coincidence in the order of

dates, that we have to place his name first in the series of modern

Spanish poets. It is, however, to his State Papers and his writings on

Political Economy that he principally owes his reputation; though it is

a proud consideration for Spanish literature, that, as regards him, as

well as Martinez de la Rosa and the Duke de Rivas, she has to place the

names of eminent statesmen among her principal poets.

Jovellanos was born the 5th of January, 1744, at Gijon, a town

in the Asturias, of which his father was Regidor or one of the

chief Magistrates. His family connections were of the class called

Nobles, answering to the Noblesse of France, and were moreover

very influential and sufficiently wealthy. To take advantage of the

preferments these offered him, he was destined in early youth, being

a younger son, for the church, in which he entered into the first

orders for the purpose of holding several benefices that were given

him. He studied consecutively at Oviedo, Avila and Osma, where he

distinguished himself so much to the satisfaction of those interested

in his fortunes, that he was removed, in 1764, to the University of

Alcalà de Henares, and shortly afterwards to Madrid to study law.

His friends and relatives, having become aware of his great talents,

had now induced him to abandon the clerical profession and engage in

secular pursuits. A person of his rank in those days was not at liberty

to practise as an advocate, though the young Noble, under court favour,

might administer the law; and thus he was, in 1767, when only in his

twenty-fourth year, appointed judge of criminal cases at Seville. In

this office he conducted himself with great ability and humanity,

appearing to have been the first to abandon the employment of torture

for obtaining confessions, which system has scarcely yet been discarded

on the Continent. As characteristic of him, it may here be added,

that he is reported to have been the first of the higher magistrates

in Spain who gave up the use of the official wig; so that his unusual

dress, combined with his youth, made him on the bench more observed

than perhaps even his talents would at first have rendered him.

Whatever objections might have been made, if cause could be found, he

seems, after having served nearly ten years as judge in the criminal

courts, to have been advanced, with the approbation of all parties,

to the office of judge in civil cases, also at Seville. This was an

office much more agreeable to his inclinations, though the salary

was no higher than what he had previously enjoyed. He had, however,

other duties also entrusted to him of minor character, though of

proportionate emolument, and thereupon he resigned his benefices in

the church, which he had held till then, and to the duties of which he

had strictly attended. Beyond this act of disinterestedness, he seems

to have given his brother magistrates no inconsiderable inquietude

at the same time by refusing some emoluments of office to which they

considered themselves entitled. But their minds were soon relieved

from the apprehensions his conduct might occasion them, as at the end

of four years he was, in 1778, appointed judge of criminal cases at

Madrid; an office generally considered of eminent promotion, but which

he accepted with regret.

In after times, every letter and every notice of Jovellanos that could

be found was eagerly sought and treasured up; and from these and his

own memorandums, it appears he had good reason to consider the years

he passed at Seville as the happiest of his life. Honoured in his

public capacity and beloved in his social circle, he passed whatever

time he could spare from his official or private duties in literary

pursuits. It was then he wrote or prepared most of the lighter works

which entitle him to be ranked among the poets of the age; the tragedy

of “Pelayo,” and comedy of “The Honourable Delinquent,” both which were

highly esteemed by his countrymen, as well as most of his minor poems.

He did not however confine himself to such recreations, but at the same

time entered on graver studies for the public service, on which his

fame was eventually established.

Shortly after Jovellanos joined the courts at Seville, he had for one

of his colleagues Don Luis Ignacio Aguirre, a person of high literary

attainments, who had travelled much, and brought with him, as stated

by Bermudez, many works in English on Political Economy. To understand

these, Jovellanos immediately, under Aguirre’s guidance, proceeded

to learn the English language, of which he soon obtained a competent

knowledge. He then studied the science, then newly dawning, from the

works his friend afforded him, and made himself a master of it, so

as to give him a name among the most eminent of its professors. Not

contented with these pursuits, his active mind was still further

engaged in whatever could tend to the benefit of society in the place

of his labours. He seems indeed to have always had before him the

consideration of what might be the fullest duties his station imposed

on him, beyond the mere routine of official services. Not confining

himself to these, much less giving himself up to passive enjoyments,

however harmless or honourable in themselves, he seemed then and

through life as ever acting under the sense of a great responsibility,

as of the requirements of Him “who gave his servants authority, and

to every man his work.” Thus he instituted a school at Seville for

children, reformed the course of practice at the hospitals, attended

to the keeping of the public walks and grounds in good order, and

was foremost in every case where charity called or good services

were required. Artists and men of genius found in him a friend, who,

by advice and other aid, was always ready to their call; and it was

observed that his only passion was for the purchase of books and

pictures, of which respectively he formed good collections.

On giving up his duties at Seville, Jovellanos travelled through

Andalusia, and, as was his custom in all the places he visited, made

notes of whatever useful information he could obtain respecting them,

many of which were afterwards published in a topographical work he

assisted in bringing forward. On arriving at Madrid, where his fame had

preceded him, he was at once chosen member of the different learned

societies, to several of which he rendered valuable services. At

Seville he had already prepared a sketch of his great work, entitled

“Agrarian Law,” in which he treated of the law and tenure of land,

its cultivation, and other topics connected with it. This work he

then published in an extended form, in which it has been reprinted

several times, separately as well as in his collected works. In the

several societies he also read many papers, one of which, “On Public

Diversions,” deserves to be named particularly, as containing much

curious information, as well as many excellent suggestions for public

advantage, on points which statesmen would do well to remember more

frequently than they are in the habit of doing.

On leaving Seville, Jovellanos regretted that he had to engage again in

criminal cases, for which he had a natural aversion. After fulfilling

these duties at Madrid a year and a half, he therefore sought another

appointment, and obtained one in the Council of Military Orders, more

agreeable to his inclinations. In this office it was his duty to attend

to the affairs of the four military orders of Spain, and in his visits

to their properties and other places on their behalf, he was entrusted

with various commissions, which he fulfilled with his accustomed zeal.

In those visits he had to go much to his native province, and he took

advantage of his influence to make roads, which were much needed there,

and the benefits of which he lived to see appreciated. He incited the

members of the Patriotic Society of Oviedo, and others connected with

the Asturias, to explore the mineral wealth of the country, rich in

mines of coal and iron, then scarcely known. For the study of such

pursuits he founded the Asturian Institute, and raised subscriptions

to have two young men educated abroad in mathematics and mining, who

were afterwards to teach those sciences at the Institute. Every day of

his life indeed seems to have been employed on some object of public

utility, or in studies connected with such objects; following the

ancient maxim to do nothing trifling or imperfectly:--Μηδὲν ἐνέργημα

εἰκῆ, μηδὲν ἄλλως ἢ κατὰ θεωρήμα συμπληρωτικὸν τῆς τέχνης ἐνεργεῖθω.

Though exact in the fulfilment of his official duties, and other

various commissions entrusted to him by the government to report on the

state of the provinces, it is wonderful to consider the industry with

which he followed other pursuits. He studied botany and architecture,

on which he wrote several treatises; and though each of those subjects

would have been a sufficient task for ordinary men, to him they were

only relaxations from his favourite science of political economy.

Bent on the promotion of law and other reforms in the state, he became

connected with the Conde de Cabarrus, who, though a Frenchman by

birth, had obtained high employments in Spain, and who, as a person of

superior talent and discernment, was also convinced of the necessity of

such measures. As too often is the case with able and honest statesmen,

the Conde de Cabarrus fell, while attempting to effect these reforms,

under the intrigues of his enemies, and Jovellanos became involved

in his disgrace. He had been sent, in 1790, into the provinces in

fulfilment of the duties of his office; when, having heard on the road

of his friend’s ill fortune, he returned at once to offer him whatever

assistance he might have in his power. He had, however, no sooner

arrived in Madrid, where the Conde was under arrest, than, without

being allowed to communicate with him, Jovellanos received a royal

order to return immediately to his province.

The terms in which this order was conveyed convinced Jovellanos that

he was to share in the disgrace of his friend, and to consider himself

banished from court. He therefore proceeded philosophically to settle

himself in his paternal abode with his brother, their father being now

deceased, with his books and effects, and engaged in the improvement

of their family estates. His expectations proved correct, as in this

honourable exile he had to pass seven years, though not altogether

unemployed, as he had several commissions entrusted to him similar

to those he had previously discharged. But still Jovellanos, unbowed

by political reverses, continued the same ardent promoter of public

improvement. For the Asturian Institute, which he had founded for the

purpose of teaching principally mineralogy and metallurgy, and which

he personally superintended, he wrote his very able work on Public

Instruction, and compiled elementary grammars of the French and English

languages, in which he showed himself proficient to a degree truly

astonishing.

In his official duties, having to go carefully in inspection over the

Asturias and other neighbouring provinces, he noted his observations

in diaries, which have been fortunately preserved, and which contain

much valuable information. In these he has gathered all he could learn

relative to the productions of the provinces, and the state in which

he found them and the people, as embodied in his reports thereon to

the government, with an account of the ancient remains and public

buildings, making copies of whatever he found most interesting in the

archives of the several convents, cathedrals and corporations. Some of

these copies now possess a peculiar value, from the damages that have

since accrued to many of the originals from time and the events of the

subsequent wars.

If it were not for the disparagement of being considered in banishment,

Jovellanos could have felt himself contented. He had not only

honourable employment, as before stated, but he also received several

notices of approbation from the government, especially as regarded

the Institute, to which notices he perhaps paid a higher regard than

they deserved. He seems himself to have felt this; for in one of his

letters he writes--“I will not deny that I desire some public mark of

appreciation by the government, to gain by it that kind of sanction

which merit needs in the opinion of some weak minds. But I see that

this is a vain suggestion, and that posterity will not judge me by my

titles, but by my works.”

This was written on a rumour having reached Gijon of the probability of

his being soon restored to favour at court. Those under whose intrigues

he had fallen had now passed away in their turn: a favourite of a more

powerful grade was in the ascendant, Godoy, the Prince of the Peace, to

whose mind had been suggested the advisability of gathering round him

persons of acknowledged probity and knowledge, for the support of his

government. Jovellanos had returned home, in October 1797, from one of

his journeys of inspection, when he found the whole town in a state of

rejoicing. On inquiring the cause, he was told it was because news had

been received of his nomination as ambassador to Russia. A few days

afterwards the rejoicings were renewed, on the further intelligence of

his being nominated a member of the government itself, as Minister of

Grace and Justice.

In this office it might have been hoped that a happier career was

before him; but evil fortune on the contrary now followed him, and

more fatally than ever. His former banishment from court was owing to

the endeavours he had made to remove those abuses into which all human

institutions have a tendency to fall, rendering frequently necessary

a correction of those abuses, to preserve what was most valuable in

the institutions themselves. His next misfortune arose from personal

differences with the reigning favourite, whose greater influence it

was his error not to have perceived. Jovellanos had been restored to

favour at the instance of Godoy; but as this was without his seeking,

he felt himself under no obligation to maintain him as the head of the

government, for which he was totally unfit. Jovellanos joined in an

opposition to him, which for a short time succeeded in depriving Godoy

of office. But his influence at court continued, and thus Jovellanos

was in his turn dismissed, after holding the office of minister only

about eight months, and ordered to return to Gijon.

Unhappily the favourite carried his resentment further; and Jovellanos

was, on the 13th of March, 1801, arrested in his bed at an early

hour of the morning, and sent as a prisoner through the country to

Barcelona, thence to Mallorca, where first in the Carthusian convent,

and afterwards in the castle of Bellver more strictly, he was closely

confined, without any regard paid to his demands to know the accusation

against him. Here his health was severely affected, as well as his

feelings outraged, by the unjust treatment to which he was subjected.

Still he was not one to sink under such evils. He was rather one of

those “who, going through the valley of misery, make it a well.” He

turned accordingly to the resources of literature, and employed himself

in writing and translating from Latin and French several valuable

treatises on architecture, and other works, on the history of the

island, and of the convent, besides several poems, among which the

Epistle to Bermudez, his biographer, deserves particular notice.

Another work he then wrote is no less deserving of mention, showing

the attention he had paid to English affairs, entitled “A Letter on

English Architecture, and that called Gothic,” in which he treated of

English architecture from the time of the Druids, dividing it into the

Saxon, Gothic and modern periods. He describes the buildings according

to the epochs, especially St. Paul’s and others of the seventeenth

century, coming down to the picturesque style of gardening then adopted

in England, with notices of the different sculptors, painters and

engravers, as well as architects, and also of the authors who had

written on the Fine Arts in England. This work has not been published,

but Bermudez states he had the manuscript.

After being seven years a prisoner, Jovellanos was in 1808 released

on the abdication of Charles IV. and the consequent fall of Godoy.

This release was announced to him in terms of official brevity, and

he replied by an earnest demand to be subjected to a trial, for the

purpose of having the cause of his imprisonment made manifest. Before,

however, an answer could be returned, Ferdinand had, under Napoleon’s

dictation, also ceased to reign, and Jovellanos was called upon to take

a prominent place in the intrusive government of king Joseph. This he

could not be supposed from his antecedent character to be willing to

accept. On the contrary, being chosen by the National party a member of

the Central Junta, he engaged with his accustomed energy on the other

side until the Regency was formed, principally under his influence, to

carry on the struggles for independence.

On this being effected, Jovellanos wished to retire to his native city

apart from public affairs. At his advanced age, with cataracts formed

in his eyes, and after his laborious life and painful imprisonment,

rest was necessary for him; but he could not attain it. One of his

first efforts in the Central Junta was to draw up a paper on the form

of government to be adopted, and this he strongly recommended to be

founded as nearly as possible on the model of the English constitution.

But he was far too enlightened for the race of men with whom he had

to act, and his prepossessions for English institutions were made a

reproach against him, observes the editor of the last edition of his

works, even by those who were striving to introduce the principles of

the Constituent Assembly into Spain.

The miserable intrigues and jealousies of the leading members of the

National party caused Jovellanos much anxiety. But he had fulfilled his

duties as a Deputy, and those having ceased, he left Cadiz in February,

1810, to return to the Asturias, in a small sailing vessel. After a

long and dangerous passage, during which they were in great danger of

shipwreck, they arrived at Muros in Galicia, in which province he had

to remain more than a year, in consequence of the Asturias being in the

possession of the French, to whom he had now become doubly obnoxious.

In July, 1811, however, the French having left that part of Spain,

Jovellanos was enabled to return to his native city, where he was again

received as he always had been with every token of popular respect. He

seems to have been always looked upon there with undeviating favour

and gratitude, as their most honourable citizen and public benefactor.

No one knew of his coming, says his biographer, but he was observed

to enter the church, and kneel before the altar near his family

burying-place, when the whole town was roused simultaneously, and a

spontaneous illumination of the houses took place, with other tokens of

public congratulations and rejoicing.

Here he now hoped to have a peaceful asylum for his latter years,

engaged in the objects of public utility for which he had formerly

laboured. But those labours were to be begun again. His favourite

“Asturian Institute,” which he truly said, in one of his discourses,

was identified with his existence, had been totally dismantled and used

for barracks by the French. Having obtained authority from the Regency

to do so, he began to put the building again into repair, and collect

together the teachers and scholars. Having done this, he announced by

circulars that it would be reopened the 20th of November following,

when the news of the French returning compelled him again to fly on

the 6th of that month. He set sail in a miserable coasting vessel

for Ribadeo, where a ship was ready to take him to Cadiz or England

as he might desire, in virtue of instructions given by the Regency,

and in accordance with the English government. But further misfortunes

only awaited him. The vessel in which he had to take refuge was cast

on shore in a storm near the small port of Vega, on the confines of

Asturias; and there, worn out with fatigue, and under a pulmonary

affection, brought on by exposure to the weather, he died the 27th of

November, 1811, a few days after his landing.

The news of his death was spread rapidly through Spain, notwithstanding

the interrupted state of communications, and was everywhere received

with regret as a national calamity. Those who had opposed his views

did justice to the uprightness of his motives and character; and the

Cortes, now assembled, passed a decree, by which in favour of his

patriotism and public services, he was declared Benemerito de la

Patria. This beautiful and classical acknowledgement of his worth was

then also remarkable as a novelty, though it has been since rendered

less honourable, by being awarded to others little deserving of

peculiar distinction.

The life of Jovellanos, as intimately connected with the history of

his country, is well deserving of extended study. But our province

is rather to consider him as a poet. Eminent as a statesman for

unimpeachable integrity and for wise administration of justice, he

carried prudent reforms into every department under his control, in

which, though subjected to many attacks, he proved himself, by a memoir

published shortly before his death, in justification of his public

conduct, to have been fully warranted. This memoir, for heartfelt

eloquence, deserves to be ranked with Burke’s Letter to the Duke of

Bedford. Jovellanos has been compared by his countrymen to Cicero. A

writer in the Foreign Quarterly Review has instituted an ingenious

parallel between him and Montesquieu. With either, or with Burke, he

may be observed to have possessed the philosophy and feeling, which

give eloquence its chief value and effect.

As a prose writer, Jovellanos, for elegance of style and depth of

thought, may be pronounced without a rival in Spanish literature. As a

dramatist, he only gave the public a tragedy and comedy, both of which

continue in much favour with the public. The latter, “The Honourable

Delinquent” is particularly esteemed; but it is a melodrame rather

than a comedy, according to our conceptions. It turns on the principal

character having been forced into fighting a duel, and who, having

killed his opponent, is sentenced to die; but after the usual suspenses

receives a pardon from the king. There are several interesting scenes

and much good writing in the piece; but no particular delineation of

character, to bring it any more than the other into the higher class

of dramatic art. It has, however, been observed, that it only needs to

have been written in verse to make it a perfect performance, and this

alone shows the hold it must have on the Spanish reader.

As a poet, Jovellanos is chiefly to be commemorated for his Satires.

Two of these, in which he lashes the vices and follies of society at

Madrid,--“girt with the silent crimes of capitals,”--are pronounced by

the critic in the Madrid Review to be “highly finished” compositions.

They were, in fact, the only poems he himself published, and those

anonymously. With the strength of Juvenal, they have also his faults,

and abound too much in local allusions to be suited for translation. In

somewhat the same style were several epistles he addressed to different

friends, of which the one written to his friend and biographer Bermudez

has been chosen for this work, as most characteristic of the author.

Like his other Satires, it is written in blank verse; which style,

though not entirely unknown in Spain, he had the merit of first

bringing into favour. He probably gained his predilection for it from

his study of Milton, for whose works he had great admiration, and of

whose Paradise Lost he translated the first book into Spanish verse.

The Epistle to Bermudez is remarkable as written with much earnestness,

in censure not only of the common vices and follies of mankind, but in

also going beyond ordinary satirists into the sphere of the moralist,

to censure the faults of the learned. What our great modern preacher

Dr. Chalmers has termed the “practical atheism” of the learned, was

indeed the subject of rebuke from many English writers, as Young

and Cowper, but may be looked for in vain in the works of others.

Jovellanos had no doubt read the former, at least in the translation

of his friend Escoiquiz, and meditated on the sentiment,--“An undevout

astronomer is mad,” even if not in the original. It can scarcely be

supposed that he was so well acquainted with English literature as to

have read Cowper; but there are several passages in his Epistles of

similar sentiments. The praise of wisdom especially, in the one to

Bermudez,--by which we may understand, was meant the wisdom urged by

the kingly preacher of Jerusalem, or the rule of conduct founded on

right principles, in opposition to mere learning,--is also that of our

Christian poet:--

Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one,

Have ofttimes no connexion. Knowledge dwells

In heads replete with thoughts of other men;

Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.

In his hours of leisure, Jovellanos employed himself in composing

occasional verses at times, for the amusement of the society in which

he lived, without thinking of their being ever sought for publication.

These, however, have been lately gathered together with much industry

and exactness in the last edition of his collected works, published

by Mellado at Madrid in five volumes, 1845. As the last and fullest,

it is also the best collection of them, four other editions of them

previously published having been comparatively very deficient with

regard to them. Besides those, there were various reprints of several

others of his works, which were all received with much favour, both in

Spain and abroad.

Jovellanos was never married, and in private life seems to have

considered himself under the obligations of the profession for which

he was originally intended. His character altogether is one to which

it would be difficult to find a parallel, and is an honour to Spain

as well as to Spanish literature. His virtues are now unreservedly

admitted by all parties of his countrymen, who scarcely ever name

him except with the epithet of the illustrious Jovellanos, to which

designation he is indeed justly entitled, no less for his writings,

than for his many public and private virtues and services to his

country. These may be forgotten in the claims of other generations and

succeeding statesmen; but his writings must ever remain to carry his

memory wherever genius and worth can be duly appreciated.

The charge of writing a memoir of Jovellanos was entrusted by the

Historical Society of Madrid to Cean Bermudez, who fulfilled it with

affectionate zeal, Madrid, 1814; several other notices of his life have

appeared in Spain, including that by Quintana, which has been copied

by Wolf. The English reader will find an excellent one in the Foreign

Quarterly Review, No. 10, February, 1830; and the Spanish scholar a

further very eloquent encomium on his talents and merits in Quintana’s

second Introduction to his collection of Spanish Poetry.

JOVELLANOS.

EPISTLE TO CEAN BERMUDEZ, ON THE VAIN DESIRES AND STUDIES OF MEN.

Arise, Bermudo, bid thy soul beware:

Thee raging Fortune watches to ensnare;

And, lulling others’ hopes in dreams supine,

A fell assault she meditates on thine.

The cruel blow which suffer’d from her rage

Thy poor estate will not her wrath assuage,

Till from thy breast her fury may depose

The blissful calm to innocence it owes.

Such is her nature, that she loathes the sight

Of happiness for man in her despite.

Thus to thine eyes insidious she presents

The phantasies of good, with which she paints

The road to favour, and would fain employ

Her arts thy holds of virtue to destroy.

Ah! heed her not. See her to rob thee stand

Ev’n of the happiness now in thy hand.

’Tis not of her; she cannot it bestow:

She makes men fortunate;--but happy? No.

Thou think’st it strange! Dost thou the names confound

Of Fortune with felicity as bound?

Like the poor idiots, who so foolish gaze

On the vain gifts and joys which she displays,

So cunning to exchange for real good.

O cheat of human wisdom! say withstood,

What does she promise, but what beings born

To our high destiny should hold in scorn?

In reason’s balance her best offers weigh,

And see what worthless lightness they betray.

There are who, burning in the track of fame,

Wear themselves ruthless for a sounding name.

Buy it with blood, and fire, and ruin wide;

And if with horrid arm is death descried,

Waving his pennon as from some high tower,

Their hearts swell proud, and trampling fierce they scour

The field o’er brothers’ bodies as of foes!

Then sing a triumph, while in secret flows

The tear they shed as from an anguish’d heart.

Less lofty, but more cunning on his part,

Another sighs for ill-secure command:

With flatteries solicitously plann’d,

Follows the air of favour, and his pride

In adulation vile he serves to hide,

To exalt himself; and if he gain his end

His brow on all beneath will haughty bend;

And sleep, and joy, and inward peace, the price

To splendour of command, will sacrifice:

Yet fears the while, uncertain in his joy,

Lest should some turn of Fortune’s wheel destroy

His power in deep oblivion overthrown.

Another seeks, with equal ardour shown,

For lands, and gold in store. Ah! lands and gold,

With tears how water’d, gain’d with toils untold!

His thirst unquench’d, he hoards, invests, acquires;

But with his wealth increased are his desires;

And so much more he gains, for more will long:

Thus, key in hand, his coffers full among;

Yet poor he thinks himself, and learns to know

His state is poor, because he thinks it so.

Another like illusion his to roam

From wife and friends, who flying light and home,

To dedicate his vigils the long night

In secret haunts of play makes his delight,

With vile companions. Betwixt hope and fear

His anxious breast is fluctuating drear.

See, with a throbbing heart and trembling hand,

There he has placed his fortune, all to stand

Upon the turning of a die! ’Tis done:

The lot is cast; what is it? has he won?

Increased is his anxiety and care!

But if reverse, O Heaven! in deep despair,

O’erwhelm’d in ruin, he is doom’d to know

A life of infamy, or death of woe.

And is he happier, who distracted lies

A slave beneath the light of beauty’s eyes?

Who fascinated watches, haunts, and prays,

And at the cost of troubles vast essays,

’Mid doubts and fears, a fleeting joy to gain?

Love leads him not: his breast could ne’er profane

Admit Love’s purer flame; ’tis passion’s fire

Alone that draws him, and in wild desire

He blindly headlong follows in pursuit:

And what for all his toils can he compute?

If gain’d at length, he only finds the prize

Bring death and misery ev’n in pleasure’s guise.

Then look on him, abandon’d all to sloth,

Who vacant sees the hours pass long and loth

O’er his so useless life. He thinks them slow,

Alas! and wishes they would faster go.

He knows not how to employ them; in and out

He comes, and goes, and smokes, and strolls about,

To gossip; turns, returns, with constant stress

Wearying himself to fly from weariness.

But now retired, sleep half his life employs,

And fain would all the day, whose light annoys.

Fool! wouldst thou know the sweetness of repose?

Seek it in work. The soul fastidious grows

Ever in sloth, self-gnawing and oppress’d,

And finds its torment even in its rest.

But if to Bacchus and to Ceres given,

Before his table laid, from morn to even,

At ease he fills himself, as held in stall:

See him his stomach make his god, his all!

Nor earth nor sea suffice his appetite;

Ill-tongued and gluttonous the like unite:

With such he passes his vain days along,

In drunken routs obscene, with toast and song,

And jests and dissolute delights; his aim

To gorge unmeasured, riot without shame.

But soon with these begins to blunt and lose

Stomach and appetite: he finds refuse

Offended Nature, as insipid food,

The savours others delicacies view’d.

Vainly from either India he seeks

For stimulants; in vain from art bespeaks

Fresh sauces, which his palate will reject;

His longings heighten’d, but life’s vigour wreck’d;

And thus worn out in mid career the cost,

Before life ends he finds his senses lost.

O bitter pleasures! O, what madness sore

Is theirs who covet them, and such implore

Humbly before a lying deity!

How the perfidious goddess to agree

But mocks them! Though perhaps at first she smile,

Exempt from pain and misery the long while

She never leaves them, and in place of joy

Gives what they ask, with weariness to cloy.

If trusted, soon is found experience taught

What ill-foreseen condition they have sought.

Niggard their wishes ever to fulfil,

Fickle in favour, vacillating still,

Inconstant, cruel, she afflicts today,

And casts down headlong to distress a prey,

Whom yesterday she flatter’d to upraise:

And now another from the mire she sways

Exalted to the clouds; but raised in vain,

With louder noise to cast him down again.

Seest thou not there a countless multitude,

Thronging her temple round, and oft renew’d,

Seeking admittance, and to offer fraught

With horrid incense, for their idol brought?

Fly from her; let not the contagion find

The base example enter in thy mind.

Fly, and in virtue thy asylum seek

To make thee happy: trust the words I speak.

There is no purer happiness to gain

Than the sweet calm the just from her attain.

If in prosperity their fortunes glide,

She makes them free from arrogance and pride;

In mid estate be tranquil and content;

In adverse be resign’d whate’er the event:

Implacable, if Envy’s hurricane

O’erwhelm them in misfortunes, even then

She hastes to save them, and its rage control;

With lofty fortitude the nobler soul

Enduing faithful; and if raised to sight,

At length they find the just reward requite,

Say is there aught to hope for prize so great

As the immortal crown for which they wait?

But is this feeling then, I hear thee cry,

That elevates my soul to virtue high,

This anxious wish to investigate and know,

Is it blameworthy as those passions low?

Why not to that for happiness repair?

Wilt thou condemn it? No, who would so dare,

That right would learn his origin and end?

Knowledge and Virtue, sisters like, descend

From heaven to perfect man in nobleness;

And far removing him, Bermudo, yes!

From vice and error, they will make him free,

Approaching even to the Deity.

But seek them not, in that false path to go

Which cunning Fortune will to others show.

Where then? to Wisdom’s temple only haste;

There thou wilt find them. Her invoke; and traced,

See how she smiles! press forward; learn to use

The intercession of the kindly Muse

To make her be propitious. But beware,

That in her favour thou escape the snare,

The worship, which the vain adorer pays.

She never him propitiously surveys,

Who insolently seeking wealth or fame,

Burns impure incense on her altar’s flame.

Dost thou not see how many turn aside

From her of learning void, but full of pride?

Alas for him, who seeking truth, for aid

Embraces only a delusive shade!

In self conceit who venturing to confide,

Nor virtue gain’d, nor reason for his guide,

Leaves the right path, precipitate to stray

Where error’s glittering phantoms lead the way!

Can then the wise hope happiness to feel

In the chimæras sought with so much zeal?

Ah, no! they all are vanities and cheats!

See him, whom anxious still the morning greets,

Measuring the heavens, and of the stars that fly

The shining orbits! With a sleepless eye,

Hasty the night he reckons, and complains

Of the day’s light his labour that detains;

Again admires night’s wonders, but reflects

Ne’er on the hand that fashion’d and directs.

Beyond the moons of Uranus he bends

His gaze; beyond the Ship, the Bear, ascends:

But after all this, nothing more feels he:

He measures, calculates, but does not see

The heavens obeying their great Author’s will,

Whirling around all silent; robbing still

The hours from life, ungratefully so gone,

Till one to undeceive him soon draws on.

Another, careless of the stars, descries

The humble dust, to scan and analyse.

His microscope he grasps, and sets, and falls

On some poor atom; and a triumph calls,

If should the fool the magic instrument

Of life or motion slightest sign present,

Its form to notice, in the glass to pore,

What his deluded fancy saw before;

Yields to the cheat, and gives to matter base

The power, forgot the Lord of all to trace.

Thus raves the ingrate.

Another the meanwhile

To scrutinize pretends, in learning’s style,

The innate essence of the soul sublime.

How he dissects it, regulates in time!

As if it were a subtile fluid, known

To him its action, functions, strength and tone;

But his own weakness shows in this alone.

’Twas given to man to view the heavens on high,

But not in them the mysteries of the sky;

Yet boldly dares his reason penetrate

The darksome chaos, o’er it to dilate.

With staggering step, thus scorning heavenly light,

In error’s paths he wanders, lost in night.

Confused, but not made wise, he pores about,

Betwixt opinion wavering and doubt.

Seeking for light, and shadows doom’d to feel,

He ponders, studies, labours to unseal

The secret, and at length finds his advance;

The more he learns, how great his ignorance.

Of matter, form, or motion, or the soul,

Or moments that away incessant roll,

Or the unfathomable sea of space,

Without a sky, without a shore to trace,

Nothing he reaches, nothing comprehends,

Nor finds its origin, nor where it tends;

But only sinking, all absorb’d may see

In the abysses of eternity.

Perhaps, thence stepping more disorder’d yet,

He rushes his presumptuous flight to set

Ev’n to the throne of God! with his dim eyes

The Great Inscrutable to scrutinize;

Sounding the gulf immense, that circles round

The Deity, he ventures o’er its bound.

What can he gain in such a pathless course

But endless doubts, his ignorance the source?

He seeks, proposes, argues, thinking vain.

The ignorance that knew to raise, must fain

Be able to resolve them. Hast thou seen

Attempts that e’er have more audacious been?

What! shall an atom such as he excel

To comprehend the Incomprehensible?

Without more light than reason him assign’d,

The limits of immensity to find?

Infinity’s beginning, middle, end?

Dost Thou, Eternal Lord, then condescend

To admit man to Thy councils, or to be

With his poor reason in Thy sanctuary?

A task so great as this dost Thou confide

To his weak soul? ’Tis not so, be relied,

My friend. To know God in His works above,

To adore Him, melt in gratitude and love;

The blessings o’er thee lavish’d to confess,

To sing His glory, and His name to bless;--

Such be thy study, duty and employ;

And of thy life and reason such the joy.

Such is the course that should the wise essay,

While only fools will from it turn away.

Wouldst thou attain it? easy the emprise;

Perfect thy being, and thou wilt be wise:

Inform thy reason, that its aid impart

Thee truth eternal: purify thy heart,

To love and follow it: thy study make

Thyself, but seek thy Maker’s light to take:

There is high Wisdom’s fountain found alone:

There thou thy origin wilt find thee shown;

There in His glorious work to find the place

’Tis thine to occupy: there thou mayst trace

Thy lofty destiny, the crown declared

Of endless life, for virtue that’s prepared.

Bermudo, there ascend: there seek to find

That truth and virtue in the heavenly mind,

Which from His love and wisdom ever flow.

If elsewhere thou dost seek to find them, know,

That darkness only thou wilt have succeed,

In ignorance and error to mislead.

Thou of this love and wisdom mayst the rays

Discern in all His works, His power and praise

That tell around us, in the wondrous scale

Of high perfection which they all detail;

The order which they follow in the laws,

That bind and keep them, and that show their cause,

The ends of love and pity in their frame:

These their Creator’s goodness all proclaim.

Be this thy learning, this thy glory’s view;

If virtuous, thou art wise and happy too.

Virtue and truth are one, and in them bound

Alone may ever happiness be found.

And they can only, with a conscience pure,

Give to thy soul to enjoy it, peace secure;

True liberty in moderate desires,

And joy in all to do thy work requires;

To do well in content, and calmly free:

All else is wind and misery, vanity.

TO GALATEA’S BIRD.

O silly little bird! who now

On Galatea’s lap hast got,

My unrequited love allow

To envy thee thy lot.

Of the same lovely mistress both

Alike the captives bound are we;

But thou for thy misfortune loth,

Whilst I am willingly.

Thou restless in thy prison art,

Complaining ever of thy pains;

While I would kisses, on my part,

Ev’n lavish on my chains.

But, ah! how different treating us,

Has scornful Fate the lot assign’d!

With me she’s always tyrannous,

But with thee just as kind.

A thousand nights of torment borne,

A thousand days of martyrdom,

By thousand toils and pains, her scorn

I cannot overcome.

Inestimable happiness,

A mere caprice for thee has got;

So bathed in tears, in my distress,

I envy thee thy lot.

And there the while, with daring heel,

Thou tread’st in arrant confidence,

Without a heart or hope to feel,

Or instinct’s common sense.

In the embraces, which my thought,

Not even in its boldest vein,

Could scarce to hope for have been brought,

Presumptuous to attain.

TO ENARDA.--I.

Lovely Enarda! young and old

All quarrel with me daily:

Because I write to thee they scold,

Perhaps sweet verses gaily.

“A judge should be more grave,” they say,

As each my song accuses;

“From such pursuits should turn away

As trifling with the Muses.”

“How wofully you waste your time!”

Preach others; but, all slighting,

The more they scold, the more I rhyme;

Still I must keep on writing.

Enarda’s heart and mind to praise,

All others far excelling,

My rustic pipe its note shall raise,

In well-toned measures telling.

I wish, extolling to the skies,

Her beauty’s high perfection

To sing, and all her witcheries

Of feature and complexion:

With master pencil to portray

Her snowy neck and forehead,

And eyes that round so roguish play,

And lips like carmine florid.

And let the Catos go at will,

To where they most prefer it,

Who withering frowns and sneerings still

Give me for my demerit.

In spite of all, with wrinkled pate,

The censures each rehearses,

Enarda I will celebrate

For ever in my verses.

TO ENARDA.--II.

Cruel Enarda! all in vain,

In vain, thou view’st with joyful eyes

The tears that show my grief and pain,

Thyself exulting in my sighs.

The burning tears that bathe my cheek,

With watching shrunk, with sorrow pale,

Thy lightness and caprice bespeak,

Thy guilt and perfidy bewail.

Those signs of sorrow, on my face,

Are not the obsequies portray’d

Of a lost good, nor yet the trace

Of tribute to thy beauties paid.

They are the evidence alone

There fix’d thy falsehood to proclaim;

Of thy deceits the horror shown,

Of my delirium the shame.

I weep not now thy rigours o’er,

Nor feel regret, that lost to me

Are the returns, which false before

Thou gavest, or favours faithlessly.

I weep o’er my delusions blind;

I mourn the sacrifices made,

And incense to a god unkind

On an unworthy altar laid.

I weep the memory o’er debased

Of my captivity to mourn,

And all the weight and shame disgraced

Of such vile fetters to have borne.

Ever to my lorn mind return’d

Are thoughts of homage offer’d ill,

Disdains ill borne, affection spurn’d,

And sighs contemn’d, recurring still.

Then, ah, Enarda! all in vain

Thou think’st to please thee with my grief:

Love, who now looks on me again

With eyes of pity and relief,

A thousand times has me accost,

As thus my tears to censure now,

“To lose them thou hast nothing lost;

Poor creature! why then weepest thou?”

II.

TOMAS DE IRIARTE.

Of all the modern Spanish poets, Iriarte seems to have obtained for his

writings the widest European reputation. He was born the 18th September

1750, at Teneriffe in the Canary Islands, where his family had been

some time settled, though the name shows it to have been of Basque

origin. His uncle, Juan de Iriarte, also a native of the same place,

was one of the most learned men of his age, and to him the subject

of this memoir was indebted for much of the knowledge he acquired,

and means of attaining the eminence in literature he succeeded him in

possessing. Juan de Iriarte had been partly educated in France, and

had afterwards resided some time in England, so as to acquire a full

knowledge of the language and literature of those countries. He was

also a proficient in classical learning, and wrote Latin with great

precision, as his writings, published by his nephew after his death,

evince; Madrid, two volumes, 4to. 1774. Having been appointed keeper of

the Royal Library at Madrid, he enriched it with many valuable works,

in upwards of 2000 MSS. and 10,000 volumes. He was an active member

of the Royal Spanish Academy, and one of the principal assistants

in compiling the valuable dictionary and grammar published by that

learned Society, as well as other works.

At the instance of this uncle, Tomas Iriarte went to Madrid in the

beginning of 1764, when not yet fourteen years of age, and under

that relative’s able guidance completed his studies, learning at the

same time the English and other modern languages. He was already far

advanced in a knowledge of classical literature, and it is stated that

some Latin verses he wrote, on leaving his native place, showed such

proficiency as to surprise his friends, and make them entertain great

expectations of his future success. Some of his Latin compositions,

published afterwards among his works, prove him to have been a scholar

of very considerable acquirements. Classical literature does not seem

in modern times to be much studied in Spain, and Iriarte is the only

distinguished writer among the modern Spanish poets who can be pointed

out as conspicuous for such attainments. Thus they have failed in

apprehending one of the chief beauties of modern poetry, so remarkable

in Milton and Byron, and our other great poets, who enrich their works

with references that remind us of what had most delighted us in those

of antiquity.

In 1771 his uncle died, and Tomas Iriarte, who had already been acting

for him in one of his offices as Interpreter to the Government, was

appointed to succeed him in it. He was afterwards, in 1776, appointed

Keeper of the Archives of the Council of War; and these offices,

with the charge of a paper under the influence of the government,

seem to have been the only public employments he held. From one of

his epistles, however, he appears to have succeeded to his uncle’s

property, and thus to have had the means as also the leisure to give

much of his time to the indulgence of literary tastes. He was very fond

of paintings and of music, to which he showed his predilection, not

only by his ability to play on several instruments, but also by writing

a long didactic poem on the art, entitled ‘Musica.’ This he seems to

have considered as giving him his principal claim to be ranked as a

poet, though the world preferred his other writings.

When yet under twenty years of age, Iriarte had already appeared as a

writer of plays, some of which met with considerable approbation. Of

these it will be sufficient for us here to observe, that Moratin, the

first great dramatic poet of Spain in modern times, pronounced one of

them, ‘The Young Gentleman Pacified,’ to have been “the first original

comedy the Spanish theatre had seen written according to the most

essential rules dictated by philosophy and good criticism.”

Besides several original plays, Iriarte translated others from the

French, from which language he also translated the ‘New Robinson’ of

Campe, which passed through several editions. From Virgil he translated

into Spanish verse the first four books of the Æneid, and from Horace

the Epistle to the Pisos. These, though censured by some of his

contemporaries so as to excite his anger, were altogether too superior

to those attacks to have required the vindication of them he thought

proper to publish. Horace seems to have been his favourite author; but

he had not learned from him his philosophical equanimity, wherewith

to pass over in silent endurance the minor miseries of life. Thus he

allowed himself, throughout his short career, to be too much affected

by those ungenerous attacks, which mediocrity is so apt to make on

superior merit. The names of those censurers are now principally

remembered by his notices of their writings; an honour, which men of

genius, in their hours of irritation, too often confer on unworthy

opponents. Thus a large portion of his collected works consists of

these controversial notices, which, as usual in such cases, only

impair the favourable effect produced by the remainder on the mind of

the reader. Those works were first published in a collected form in six

volumes, in 1786; afterwards in eight volumes, in 1805.

From Iriarte’s poetical epistles, which are eleven in number, he

appears to have been a person of a very kindly disposition, as

Quintana describes him, living in friendly intercourse with the

principal literary characters of Spain, especially with the amiable and

ill-fated Cadahalso, to whom, in one of those epistles, he dedicated

his translations from Horace. The others also are mainly on personal

topics, and display his character advantageously, though, as poetical

compositions, they have not been received so favourably as some of his

other works.

The fame of Iriarte may be said to rest on his literary fables, which

have attained a popularity, both at home and abroad, equalled by few

other works. They are eighty-two in number, and all original, having,

as their title indicates, a special reference to literary questions,

though they are also all sufficiently pointed to bear on those of

ordinary life. Like Sir Joshua Reynolds’s Discourses on Painting, they

convey general instructions to all, while professing an application to

one particular pursuit. They are written with much vivacity and ease,

yet with an appropriate terseness that adds to their effect. Martinez

de la Rosa, equally eminent as a statesman, a poet and a critic,

observes of them, that if he had not left compositions of any other

class, they would have extended his reputation as a poet; and adds,

“that they abound in beauties, though frequently wanting in poetical

warmth, so as to recommend this valuable collection, unique in its

class, as one of which Spanish literature has to be proud.”

Of these fables, first published in 1782, so many editions have

appeared, that it would be a very difficult task to enumerate them.

There is scarcely a provincial town in Spain, of any consequence, in

which they have not been reprinted. Several editions have appeared in

France, two in New York, and three in Boston, where they have been

used in teaching Spanish. Several of the fables have been imitated by

Florian, and translations have been made into other languages. Of these

translations, one in French verse was published by M. Lanos, Paris,

1801, and another, in prose, by M. L’Homandie, ibid. 1804: into German

they were translated by Bertuch, Leipzic, so early as 1788, and into

Portuguese, by Velladoli, in 1801.

I am not aware of more than one edition of them in England, that

published by Dulau, 1809; but there have been no fewer than three

translations of them into English verse; first by Mr. Belfour, London,

1804, another by Mr. Andrews, ibid. 1835, and a third by Mr. Rockliff,

ibid. 1851.

The same popularity attended another work which Iriarte prepared

for the instruction of youth, named ‘Historical Lessons,’ published

posthumously, about twenty editions of which have since appeared,

principally from its having been adopted as a text-book for schools.

Of this also an edition has been published in London by Boosey, and a

translation into English. Iriarte’s industry appears to have been of

the most practical character, and his endeavours were as wisely as they

were unremittingly directed to make his countrymen wiser and better

in their future generations. If a man’s worth may be estimated by

such labours, few persons have ever lived who were so entitled to the

gratitude of posterity, as few have ever effected so much as he did in

the short career that was afforded him.

In private life, in the leisure allowed from his studies and duties,

he indulged much, as has been already stated, in the recreation of

music; and in praise and explanation of that favourite art he wrote

his largest work, ‘Music,’ a didactic poem, in five cantos. Of this

work, which was first published in 1780, the fifth separate edition

appeared in 1805, since which I have not heard of any other. It has,

however, had the good fortune to be translated into several foreign

languages; into German by Bertuch, in 1789; into Italian by the Abbé

Garzia, Venice, 1789; into French by Grainville, Paris, 1800; and into

English by Mr. Belfour, London, 1807. The last-mentioned translation is

made with much exactness and elegance into heroic verse; though, as the

original had the fault usual to all didactic poems of not rising to any

high poetical power, the translation must share the fault to at least

an equal extent.

In the Italian version, a letter is quoted from the celebrated

Metastasio, in which he speaks of the style of Iriarte’s poem as “so

harmonious, perspicuous and easy, as to unite the precision of a

treatise with the beauties common to poetry.” It is said also that

Metastasio further pronounced the poem to be “not only excellent, but

to be considered uncommon, in having successfully treated a subject so

difficult, and apparently so little adapted to poetry.” It is to be

observed that Iriarte had warmly eulogized Metastasio in the book, so

as to merit the commendation. The first canto is confined to treating

the subject artistically, and will therefore prove less to the taste

of the general reader than the other cantos, which are of a more

interesting character, and may be read with pleasure by persons who

do not understand music as a science. The third canto especially is

written with much spirit in its praise, as connected with devotion. The

second canto treats of the passions as they may be expressed by music,

including martial music. The fourth minutely discusses theatrical

music, with its excellences and defects. The fifth explains it, as

calculated for the amusement of societies, or individuals in solitude.

The poem concludes with pointing out what ought to be the study of a

good composer, and by a proposal for the establishment of an academy

of music, or scientific body of musicians, anticipating the benefit to

science that would result from such an institution.

This poem, the ‘Musica,’ and the Epistles, are written in a very

favourite style of versification in Spain, denominated the Silva,

which consists of lines of eleven syllables, varied occasionally with

others of seven, rhyming at the pleasure of the writer. The ‘Literary

Fables’ are written in various metres; Martinez de la Rosa observes in

upwards of forty different kinds, appropriate to the characteristics

of the subjects, which may be more perceptible to a native ear than to

a foreigner’s. It is certainly true that this gives a variety to the

work which is well suited to the purposes the author had in view. He

was wise enough to know that truths hidden in the garb of fiction will

often be felt effectually, where grave precepts would not avail,

Καὶ τοῦ τι καὶ Βρότων φρενὰς

Ὑπὲρ τὸν ἀληθῆ λόγον,

Δεδαιδαλμένοι ψεύδεσι ποικίλοις

Ἐξαπάτωντι μύθοι,

and thus conveyed his lessons in examples, with a moral, which could be

quickly understood and easily remembered.

With regard to the objection made to these fables, that they are often

deficient in poetical warmth or colouring, it may be observed that the

subjects would scarcely admit of any. Iriarte was certainly a writer

of more poetic taste than talent, and it must be acknowledged that his

genius, judging by the works he left, was not one to soar to the higher

flights of poetry. He felt this himself, as he intimates in his Epistle

to his brother; and, choosing a subject like Music for a didactic poem,

or writing familiar epistles on occasional subjects, did not give

himself much scope for fancy, much less for passion. But as applied to

the fables, the objection was unnecessary. If they deserved praise for

their vivacity of style, that very circumstance, independent of the

subjects, rendered them passionless, ἀπαθέστατα, as Longinus remarks,

where stronger feelings could scarcely be brought into connexion with

such discussions. The great difficulty in such cases is, when metres

are chosen to suit the subject, abounding in pyrrhics, trochees, and

such measures, as the same great critic adds, to guard, lest the sense

be lost in too much regard to the sound, raising only attention to the

rhythm, instead of exciting any feeling in the minds of the hearers.

Of the five fables chosen for translation, the two first were

taken from Bouterwek, and the third on account of its having been

particularly noticed by Martinez de la Rosa. The Epistle to his Brother

was selected partly on account of its notices of other countries, as a

foreigner’s judgement of them; and partly as being most characteristic

of the writer, showing his tastes and dispositions more perhaps than

the rest. The reader generally feels most interested in such parts of

the works of favourite writers, especially when their private history

gives the imagination a right to ask sympathy for their sufferings.

Nothing is to be found in Iriarte’s works to show any peculiar opinions

on religion, though the tendency of his mind is everywhere clearly

seen, as leading to freedom of thought, instead of subjection to

dogmas. In his poem on Music, as already intimated, some devotional

rather than free-thinking principles are developed; yet it is said

that it was from a suspicion of his being affected by the French

philosophy of the day he fell under the censure of the Inquisition,

and was seized in 1786, and imprisoned three years in the dungeons of

that institution. What was the particular offence imputed to him has

not been stated. It could be no question of a political character, for

he was in the employment of the government, and was amenable to it

for any misdeeds. It probably was from some private cause, under the

cloak of a question of faith, that he had to undergo this imprisonment,

during which it is said he had to submit to severe penances before he

could obtain his liberty. After he had obtained it, he returned to his

studies and wrote further, a monologue, entitled ‘Guzman,’ and some

Latin maccaronic verses on the bad taste of some writers then in vogue.

But his spirits were no doubt broken down, as his health and strength

were undermined; and thus it was that he died two years after, though

his death was imputed to his sedentary habits and gout, the 17th of

September, 1791, when he had just completed his forty-first year.

This untimely death was a serious loss to Spanish literature. With

his great and varied acquirements and unremitting industry, the world

might have expected still more valuable works from him, when, at the

age of thirty-six, in the best period of a man’s existence for useful

labours, he was cast into that dungeon, from which he seems to have

been permitted to come out only to die. The last Auto da fe in Spain

was celebrated in 1781; but the Inquisition had other victims whose

sufferings were no less to be deplored, though not made known. If

Iriarte was one, he had unquestionably the consciousness of being

enabled to feel, though not dying “an aged man,” yet that in his

comparatively short life, he had not lived in vain for his own good

name, and the benefit of posterity.

TOMAS DE IRIARTE.

EPISTLE TO DON DOMINGO DE IRIARTE, ON HIS TRAVELLING TO VARIOUS FOREIGN

COURTS.

He who begins an instrument to play,

With some preludings, will examine well

How run the fingers, how the notes will swell,

And bow prepares, or breath for his essay;

Or if to write the careful penman’s aim,

He cuts and proves his pen, if broad or fine;

And the bold youths, to combat who incline,

Strike at the air, as trial of the game:

The dancer points his steps with practised pace;

The orator harangues with studied grace;

The gamester packs his cards the livelong day;

I thus a Sonnet, though worth nothing, trace,

Solely to exercise myself this way,

If prove the Muse propitious to my lay.

It seems to me, dear brother, that Apollo

A course divine now does not always follow,

Nor please to dictate verses of a tone,

Worthy a sponsor such as he to own;

But rather would be human, and prefer

To prose in rhymes of warmthless character;

Without the enthusiasm sublime of old,

And down the wings of Pegasus would fold,

Not to be borne in flight, but gently stroll’d.

You who forgetful of this court now seek

Those of the east and north to contemplate,

Forgive me, if in envy I may speak,

That to indulge it has allow’d you fate

The tasteful curiosity! to view

With joy the land, so famed and fortunate,

Which erst a Tully and a Maro knew,

To which Æmilius, Marius service paid,

Which Regulus and the Scipios obey’d.

Long would it be and idle to recall

The triumphs, with their blazonries unfurl’d,

Matchless of her, that once of Europe all

Was greater part, metropolis of the world.

I only ask of you, as you may read,

How in Avernus, destined to succeed,

Anchises show’d Æneas, in long line,

The illustrious shades of those, who were to shine

One day the glory of the Italian shore,

Now you, more favour’d than the Trojan chief,

Not in vain prophecy, but tried belief,

From what you see, by aid of history’s lore,

To admire the lofty state which Rome possess’d,

The which her ruins and remains attest.

From our Hispanian clime I cannot scan

With you the column of the Antonine,

The fane or obelisk of the Vatican,

Or the Capitol, and Mount Palatine;

I cannot see the churches, or the walls,

The bridges, arches, mausoleums, gates,

The aqueducts, palaces, and waterfalls,

The baths, the plazas, porticos, and halls,

The Coliseum’s, or the Circus’ fates;

But still the immortal writings ’tis for me,

Of Livy, Tacitus, Cicero, to see;

I see Lucretius, Pliny, Juvenal,

Augustus, Maro and Mæcenas all;

With their names is the soul exalted high,

Heroic worth and honour to descry;

And so much more that model imitates

A nation now, so much more to be gain’d,

Is seen it but to approach the lofty heights

Of splendour, wealth, fame, power, that Rome attain’d.

From the benignant lands that richly gleam

Beneath the Tiber’s fertilizing stream,

You next will pass, where borne as he arose,

Through colder realms the mighty Danube flows.

Girded in pleasant borders ’tis for you

The Austrian Vienna there to view;

To admire the monarch, warlike, good and wise,

With the magnanimous Prussian king who vies

An army brave and numerous to sway;

Chosen and hardy, forward to obey,

Whom as companions honour’d he rewards,

And not as slaves abased a lord regards.

There agriculture flourish you will see;

Public instruction is promoted free;

The arts extended rapidly and wide;

And these among, in culture and esteem,

That with which Orpheus tamed the furious pride

Of forest beasts, and cross’d the Lethe’s stream:

There all the tales of wonderful effect,

Of music’s art divine, with which are deck’d

The ancient Greek and Latin histories,

No longer will seem fables in your eyes,

When near you may applaud the loftiness,

The harmony, and the consonance sublime,

All that in varied symphonies to express

Has power the greatest master of our time;

Haydn the great, and merited his fame,

Whom to embrace I beg you in my name.

But now the confines of the German land

I see you leaving, for the distant strand

Of Britain’s isle your rapid course to take,

And tour political around to make.

There in the populous court, whose walls’ long side

Bathes the deep Thames in current vast and wide,

A nation’s image will before your eyes

In all things most extraordinary rise.

Not rich of old, but happy now we see

By totally unshackled industry.

A nation liberal, but ambitious too;

Phlegmatic, and yet active in its course;

Ingenuous, but its interests to pursue

Intent; humane, but haughty; and perforce

Whate’er it be, the cause it undertakes,

Just or unjust, defends without remorse,

And of all fear and danger scorn it makes.

There with inevitably great surprise,

What in no other country we may see,

You will behold to exert their energies

Men act and speak with perfect liberty.

The rapid fortune too you will admire

Which eloquence and valour there acquire;

Nor power to rob has wealth or noble birth

The premiums due to learning and to worth.

You will observe the hive-like multitude

Of diligent and able islanders,

Masters of commerce they have well pursued,

Which ne’er to want or slothfulness defers;

All in inventions useful occupied,

In manufactures, roads, schools, arsenals,

Experiments in books and hospitals,

And studies of the liberal arts to guide.

There you will know in fine what may attain

An education wise; the skilful mode

Of patriotic teaching, so to train

Private ambition, that it seek the road

Of public benefit alone to gain:

The recompense and acceptation just,

On which founds learning all its hope and trust;

And a wise government, whose constant aim

Is general good, and an eternal fame.

Midst others my reflections I would fain,

In some description worthy of the theme,

(If it were not beyond my powers) explain,

The varied scenes, enchantment all that seem,

Which the Parisian court on your return

Prepares, and offers you surprised to learn.

Polish’d emporium of Europe’s courts,

The which with noble spectacles invites,

With public recreations and resorts,

That give to life its solace and delights;

Brilliant assemblages! and these among,

The chief and most acceptable to gain,

Of all to this new Athens that belong,

To enjoy the fellowship of learned men;

With useful science, or with taste alone,

Who enlighten foreign nations, and their own.

But I, who from this narrow corner write,

In solitude, while shaking off the dust

From military archives, ill recite

What I, O travelling Secretary! trust

Yourself will better practically see,

Whilst I can only know in theory.

Continue then your journey on in health;

From tongue to tongue, from land to land proceed:

To be a statesman eminent your meed.

Acquire each day with joy your stores of wealth,

Of merit and instruction; I the while,

As fits my mediocrity obscure,

Will sing the praise of quiet from turmoil;

Saying, as Seneca has said of yore;--

“Let him, who power or honours would attain,

On the high court’s steep precipice remain.

I wish for peace, that solitude bestows,

Secluse to enjoy the blessings of repose.

To pass my life in silence be my fate,

Unnoticed by the noble, or the great:

That when my age, without vain noise or show,

Has reach’d the bounds allotted us below,

Though a plebeian only to pass by,

Perhaps I yet an aged man may die.

And this I do believe, no death of all

Than his more cruel can a man befall,

Who dying, by the world too truly known,

Is of himself most ignorant alone.”

FABLES.

THE BEAR, THE MONKEY AND THE HOG.

A Bear, with whom a Piedmontese

A wandering living made,

A dance he had not learn’d with ease,

On his two feet essay’d:

And, as he highly of it thought,

He to the Monkey cried,

“How’s that?” who, being better taught,

“’Tis very bad,” replied.

“I do believe,” rejoin’d the Bear,

“You little favour show:

For have I not a graceful air,

And step with ease to go?”

A Hog, that was beside them set,

Cried, “Bravo! good!” said he;

“A better dancer never yet

I saw, and ne’er shall see.”

On this the Bear, as if he turn’d

His thoughts within his mind,

With modest gesture seeming learn’d

A lesson thence to find.

“When blamed the Monkey, it was cause

Enough for doubting sad;

But when I have the hog’s applause,

It must be very bad!”

* * * * *

As treasured gift, let authors raise

This moral from my verse:

’Tis bad, when wise ones do not praise;

But when fools _do_, ’tis worse.

THE ASS AND THE FLUTE.

This little fable heard,

It good or ill may be;

But it has just occurr’d,

Thus accidentally.

Passing my abode,

Some fields adjoining me,

A big Ass on his road

Came accidentally;

And laid upon the spot,

A Flute he chanced to see,

Some shepherd had forgot,

There accidentally.

The animal in front,

To scan it nigh came he,

And snuffing loud as wont,

Blew accidentally.

The air it chanced around

The pipe went passing free,

And thus the Flute a sound

Gave accidentally.

“O! then,” exclaim’d the Ass,

“I know to play it fine;

And who for bad shall class

The music asinine?”

* * * * *

Without the rules of art,

Ev’n asses, we agree,

May once succeed in part,

Thus accidentally.

THE TWO RABBITS.

Some shrubs amidst to shun

The dogs he saw pursue,

I will not call it run,

But say a rabbit flew.

From out his hiding-place

A neighbour came to see,

And said, “Friend, wait a space:

What may the matter be?”

“What should it be?” he cried;

“I breathless came in fear,

Because that I espied

Two scoundrel greyhounds near.”

“Yes,” said the other, “far

I see them also there;

But those no greyhounds are!”

“What?”--“Setters, I’ll declare.”

“How, setters do you say?

My grandad just as much!

They are greyhounds, greyhounds, they;

I saw them plainly such.”

“They are setters; get along:

What know you of these matters?”--

“They are greyhounds; you are wrong:”--

“I tell you they are setters.”

The dogs while they engage

In these contentious habits,

Come up, and vent their rage

On my two thoughtless rabbits.

* * * * *

Who minor points affect,

So much about to quarrel,

And weightier things neglect,

Let them take the moral.

THE LAMB AND HIS TWO ADVISERS.

A farm there was, with a poultry-yard,

Where roved an old bantam about;

And laid at his ease, a pig was barr’d

In a sty close by without.

A lamb moreover was raised up there;

We know it does so befall:

Together in farms these animals fare,

And in good company all.

“Well, with your leave,” said the pig one day

To the lamb, “what a happy life!

And healthful too, to be sleeping away,

One’s time without cares or strife!

“I say there is nothing, as I am a pig,

Like sleeping, stretch’d out at ease;

Let the world go round with its whirligig,

And cares just as it may please.”

The other the contrary chanced to tell

The same little lamb, to take heed;

“Look, innocent! here, to live right well,

Sleep very little indeed.

“Summer or winter, early to rise

With the stars the practice seek;

For sleeping the senses stupefies,

And leaves you languid and weak.”

Confused, the poor lamb the counsels compares,

And cannot perceive in his mind,

That contrary each advising declares,

But how he himself is inclined.

* * * * *

And thus we find authors the practice make,

To hold, as infallibly true,

The rules they fancy themselves to take,

And in their own writings pursue.

THE FLINT AND THE STEEL.

Cruelly bent, it chanced the Flint

Ill-treated the Steel one day;

And wounding, gave it many a dint,

To draw its sparks away.

When laid aside, this angry cried

To that, “What would your value be

Without my help?” the Flint replied,

“As much as yours, sir, but for me.”

* * * * *

This lesson I write, my friends to incite;

Their talents, however great,

That they must study with them unite,

To duly cultivate.

The Flint gives light with the help of the Steel,

And study alone will talent reveal;

For neither suffice if found apart,

Whatever the talent or the art.

III.

JUAN MELENDEZ VALDES.

For a hundred years after the time of Calderon de la Barca, who died

in 1687, there appeared in Spain no writer of sufficient merit to be

classed among those eminent characters, who had done so much honour to

Spanish literature in the seventeenth century. Verses were published

in sufficient abundance, which found readers and even admirers, merely

from the necessity the public felt of having something to read and

to admire, as of the fashion of the day. But they were written with

a perversion of taste and a deficiency of talent, which was truly

astonishing, in the successors of such authors, as had immediately

preceded them.

This depression of literature, however, could not be expected to

continue long, among a people of such imaginative and deep passioned

character as the Spanish, whose native genius was by far too buoyant,

to be affected for any length of time by inferior models, even under

dynastic influences. Accordingly, towards the end of the eighteenth

century, it might have become apparent to an attentive observer, that

another order of writers was about to be called forth, and that the

nation was prepared to welcome the advent of true genius whenever it

was to be recognized. Learned societies had been established throughout

Spain; education on a sound basis had been sedulously promoted; and the

country was wealthy, and sufficiently flourishing to give incitement to

the arts, which are the attendants of public prosperity.

At this epoch appeared Melendez Valdes, the restorer of Spanish poetry,

as his admirers with much justice termed him; who then showed by his

writings, that the old inspiration of the national genius was yet

capable of being revived in all its former grace and strength; and who

by the influence of his example further roused the energies of other

men of genius to follow in his steps.

This highly gifted poet was born the 11th of March, 1754, at Ribera del

Fresno in the province of Estremadura, where his parents were of what

was called noble families, and, what was more important, in respectable

circumstances. The good disposition noticed in the son determined

them to destine him for study, and to award him a becoming education.

Thus, having learned the rudiments of Latin at home, he was sent to

study philosophy, or what was called philosophy, at Madrid, under the

charge of the Dominican Fathers of St. Thomas, where his application

and advancement gained him the esteem of his tutors and fellow-pupils.

Thence he was sent by his parents in 1770 to Segovia, to study with his

only brother, who was private secretary to the bishop of that city, and

with whom he was confirmed in that fondness for reading, and taste for

acquiring books, which might be called the passion of his whole life.

The bishop, who was a distant relation, pleased with his talents and

inclination for study, sent him in 1772 to Salamanca, the alma mater

of Spain, and assisted him to proceed in the study of law, in which he

distinguished himself wherever he had an opportunity; so that, says his

biographer, “appearing absorbed in the pursuit of that career, no one

would have judged him the same young man, whose inclination for poetry

and learning was soon after to place him at the head of the elegant

literature of his country.”

Fortunately for Melendez, continues his biographer, there happened

then to be at Salamanca Don Josè de Cadalso, “a man celebrated for

extensive erudition, combined with more than ordinary talent for poetry

and letters, and a zeal for the glory and advancement of his country,

learned in the school, and under the inspiration of virtue. Generous

and affable, always lively, and at times satirical without branching

off into maliciousness, his conversation was kind and instructive,

and his principles indulgent and steadfast.” This eminent individual,

already well known in the literary world by several works published in

1772 and 1773, immediately recognized the value of Melendez: he took

him to his house to live with him, showed him the beauties and defects

of the older writers, taught him how to imitate them, and opened to

him the road to become acquainted with the literature of the learned

nations of Europe. “He afforded him an instruction yet more precious,

in the beautiful example he gave him to love all writers of merit,

to rise superior to envy, and to cultivate letters without degrading

them by unworthy disputations. The eulogies Cadalso bestowed on his

contemporaries are a public testimony of this noble character; and the

works of Melendez, where there is not a single line detracting from

the merit of any one, and his whole literary career, exempt from all

attack, show how he profited by the lessons of his master.”

The Anacreontic style, in which Cadalso excelled, was also that first

cultivated by Melendez; and the former, seeing the progress of his

pupil, and the first efforts of his Muse, unreservedly acknowledged him

his superior, and in prose and verse announced him as the restorer of

good taste and the better studies of the University. This kindly union

was maintained until the death of Cadalso, at the siege of Gibraltar;

and the “Elegiac song of Melendez on this misfortune, will be, as long

as the Spanish language endures, a monument of affection and gratitude,

as well as an example of high and beautiful poetry.”

Beyond the instructions which he received from Cadalso, Melendez was

aided by the example and counsels of other distinguished persons then

residing at Salamanca, among whom were two, favourably known as writers

of verse, Iglesias and Gonzalez. These, though they were soon eclipsed

by the young poet, admitted him to their friendship. By the latter

he was brought into communication with the illustrious Jovellanos,

then Judge of the High Court at Seville; and between them soon was

instituted a correspondence, which has been in great part preserved,

though as yet unpublished; a valuable monument, says Quintana, in which

are seen, “livingly portrayed, the candour, the modesty and virtuous

feelings of the poet, the alternate progress of his studies, the

different attempts in which he essayed his talents, and above all, the

profound respect and almost idolatry with which he revered his Mæcenas.

There may be seen how he employed his time and varied his tasks. At

first he applied himself to Greek, and began to translate Homer and

Theocritus into verse; but learning the immense difficulty of the

undertaking, and not stimulated to it by the bent of his genius, he

shortly abandoned it.”

He then dedicated himself to the English language and literature, for

which he was said to have ever had an exceeding great predilection,

observing, “that to the Essay on the Human Understanding, he should owe

all his life the little he might know how to acquire.” As books came to

his hands, he went on reading and forming his judgements upon them,

the which he transmitted to his friend. Thus “by all the means in his

power he endeavoured to acquire and increase that treasury of ideas,

which so much contributes to perfection in the art of writing, and

without which verses are nothing more than frivolous sounds.”

His application to study, however, soon proved more than his health and

strength would permit. He was obliged to leave Salamanca, and repair

to the banks of the Tormes, which he has made famous in song, and

there, by long attention to the regimen imposed on him, he fortunately

recovered. About this time his brother died in 1777, their parents

having died previously; and Melendez suffered much grief, as might

naturally be expected, on being thus left alone of his family, the more

painful in his state of health. Jovellanos urged him to join him at

Seville, but he declined the invitation, observing, that “the law of

friendship itself, which commands us to avail ourselves of a friend in

necessity, also commands that without it, we should not take advantage

of his confidence.”

Study, to which he now returned to engage himself with more intensity

than ever, was the best alleviant of his sorrow, and time as usual at

length allayed it. “He then gave himself up to the reading and study

of the English poets: Pope and Young enchanted him. Of the former, he

said that four lines of his ‘Essay on Man’ were worth more, taught

more, and deserved more praise than all his own compositions.” The

latter he attempted to imitate, and in effect did so, in the poem on

‘Night and Solitude,’ but in remitting it to his friend, expressed with

much feeling his sense of its deficiencies compared with the original.

Thomson also he studied, and Gesner, in his lonely exercises by the

Tormes, and acknowledged how much he was indebted to the former for

many thoughts with which he subsequently enriched his pastoral poems.

Thus having prepared himself to appear before the literary world as

a candidate for fame, an opportunity soon occurred for him to obtain

distinction. The Spanish Academy had been proposing subjects for

prizes, and then having given one for an Eclogue, ‘On the happiness of

a country life,’ Melendez felt himself in his element, and sent in his

Essay for the prize. This succeeded in receiving the first. The second

was awarded to Iriarte, who showed his mortification on account of the

preference, more sensibly than was becoming, under the circumstances.

In the following year, 1781, Melendez went to Madrid, where his friend

Jovellanos had already been appointed Councillor of the Military

Orders, when for the first time they met. Melendez was already in the

road to fame, which his friend had foretold for him; and Jovellanos,

delighted with the realization of his hopes and endeavours, received

him into his house, introduced him to his society, and took every

opportunity of advancing his interests. It was the custom of the

Academy of San Fernando to give triennial celebrations, with much

solemnity, for the distribution of prizes, when eloquence, poetry

and music were tasked to do honour to the fine arts. One of these

celebrations was about to take place; Jovellanos was engaged to

pronounce a discourse, and Melendez was invited to exercise his genius

on the same subject, as the first literary characters of preceding

times had already given the example. Melendez acceded, and delivered

accordingly his Ode on the Glory of the Arts, which was received with

rapturous admiration, and ever since seems to have been considered his

masterpiece.

In the midst of these successes, Melendez received the Professorship

of Humanities in his University, and in the following year, 1782,

proceeded to the degree of Licentiate, and in 1783 to that of Doctor

of Law, having shortly before the last married a lady of one of the

principal families of Salamanca. But as his professorship gave him

little occupation, and his marriage no family, he remained free to

continue his favourite studies.

In 1784, on the occasion of peace being made with England, and the

birth of twin Infantes, to give hopes of secure succession to the

throne, the city of Madrid prepared magnificent celebrations of

rejoicings, and among the rest, a prize was proposed for the two best

dramatic pieces that might be offered within sixty days, under the

condition that they should be original, appropriate, and capable of

theatrical pomp and ornament. Out of fifty-seven dramas that were

offered, the prize was awarded to the one sent in by Melendez, ‘The

Bridals of Comacho the Rich,’ a pastoral comedy, which, however, though

abounding in poetical passages, was found on representation wanting

in effect, so as to be coldly received on the stage, where it has not

since been attempted.

This ill-success gave occasion to several detractors of Melendez to

pour forth the effusions of envy or disappointment against him, to

which he gave no other answer than by the publication of his poems

in a collected form. This was in 1785; and the manner in which they

were received, it could be said, had had no parallel in Spain. Four

editions, of which three were furtive, were at once taken up, and all

classes of persons seemed to have the book in hand, commenting on its

excellences. The lovers of ancient poetry, who saw so happily renewed

the graces of Garcilasso, of Leon and Herrera, and “even improved

in taste and perfection,” saluted Melendez as the restorer of the

Castillian Muses, and hailed the banishment of the prosaic style which

had previously prevailed. The applauses extended beyond the kingdom,

and found especially in Italy the admiration repeated, as well as in

France and England, where several of the poems are said to have been

imitated.

Great as was his success in literature, it was not enough provision

for his daily needs, notwithstanding the help of his professorship;

and Melendez accordingly applied for and obtained an office as a local

judge at Zaragoza, of which he took possession in September 1789. The

duties of this office were too onerous to admit of much study; but he

was soon removed, in 1791, to the chancery of Valladolid, where he had

more leisure, and where he remained till 1797, when he was appointed

Fiscal of the Supreme Court at Madrid. During this time he wrote

apparently little; but he prepared, and in 1797 published, another

edition of his works with two additional volumes, enriched with many

new poems, in which he “had elevated his genius to the height of his

age;”--“descriptive passages of a superior order, elegies powerful and

pathetic, odes grand and elevated, philosophic and moral discourses and

epistles, in which he took alternately the tone of Pindar, of Homer, of

Thomson, and of Pope, and drew from the Spanish lyre accents she had

not previously learned.”

But notwithstanding the great merit of many of these poems, the

biographer of Melendez had it to confess that this publication was

not so favourably received as the first had been; and attempts to

account for it partly by the circumstances of the times, and partly

by what was new not being on the whole so finished and well-sustained

in interest as his former poems. Some of them also met with decided

disfavour; especially one, ‘The Fall of Lucifer,’ which showed that his

genius was not of the severer cast calculated for graver and higher

subjects allied to the epic, any more than to the dramatic. But the

merits of Melendez in his own sphere are too great, and his fame is

too well-founded to lose by acknowledgements which must be made in

truth and justice. It is not improbable that he had been urged by

his admirers to these attempts, to which his own inclinations would

not have led him, and it might thus have been the easiness of his

disposition that made him yield to suggestions which ended in failure.

In the prologue which he affixed to this edition, Melendez attempted to

prove that poetic studies derogated nothing from the judicial dignity,

and that they had no incompatibility with the duties and talents of

a public man or man of business. But without following him or his

biographer into such a discussion, we may concede the point so far,

that any one undertaking responsible duties from the State, is bound

to give them his best and undivided energies. If, however, he has

any hours of leisure free from those responsibilities, it is surely

only an extension of his duty for him to employ them in attempting to

make his fellow-men wiser and better, or happier, in the manner most

congenial to his disposition or talents. Melendez certainly had no need

to exculpate himself in this respect, having been “long remembered

at Zaragoza and Valladolid as a model of integrity and application,

for his zeal in arranging amicably all disputations in his power, for

his affability and frankness in listening to complaints, and for the

humane and compassionate interest with which he visited the prisoners,

accelerating their causes, and affording them assistance, with an

inseparable adhesion to justice.” It was for his detractors,--and

Melendez had them, notwithstanding the amiability of his character

and the superiority of his talents,--to make these objections, if

they could have done so. His resorting to such apologies only gave

the appearance of a consciousness of weakness, which was not becoming

either in the one character or the other.

Shortly after the publication of this edition, Melendez went to

Madrid to take possession of his new office. The advanced age of his

predecessor in it had for some time prevented his due attention to its

duties, so that Melendez had many arrears to dispose of in addition

to the ordinary services, through all which he laboured with much

assiduity and credit. But they were the last satisfactory events of

his life, which was henceforth to be passed in reverses and misery.

Yet at that time he seemed to be in the height of prosperity. Holding

an elevated post under the government, of which his friend Jovellanos

was a member, and respected both at home and abroad as one of the

first literary characters of the age, he might have justly hoped to

be free from any of the darker misfortunes of life. This exemption,

however, was not to be his lot, serving under a despotic government, of

which the head, Charles IV., was one of the weakest-minded of mortals,

guided by a favourite such as Godoy. When Jovellanos fell under this

favourite’s resentment, to make the blow inflicted on that illustrious

individual more poignant, it was extended to others, whose only fault

was that they shared his esteem. Melendez was ordered away from Madrid

within twenty-four hours, though his friends procured for him soon

after a commission from the government as inspector of barracks at

Medina del Campo, where he gave himself up again to study and such

duties as were assigned him. Beyond these, however, he particularly

exerted himself, it is recorded, in attending to the sick at the

hospitals, providing that they should not be sent out into the world,

as had often been previously the case, imperfectly cured or clothed,

and unable to effect their livelihood.

In this humble occupation he might have been supposed exempt at least

from further malignity, but unfortunately some sycophant of power

thought it would be pleasing to the favourite to have a frivolous

accusation forwarded against him, which had the effect of his being

sent on half salary to Zamora. There he was fortunate enough to have

the intrigues against him made known, and in June 1802, he received a

royal order to have his full salary allowed, with liberty to reside

where he pleased. He would have preferred Madrid, but he found it most

prudent to return to Salamanca, and there, arranging his house and

library, began to enjoy a more peaceful life than what he had passed

since he left the University.

The literary world might now have hoped for further efforts of

genius in this asylum, and perhaps some superior work worthy of his

talents and fame; but his spirits had been broken down by adversity

and injustice, and his attention was distracted by hopes and fears,

from which he could never free himself. A poem on Creation, and a

translation of the Æneid, were the fruits of six years’ retirement from

the world; and he proposed another edition of his works, which however

he did not accomplish, on the rapid succession of events which again

called him forth to a short period of active life, and subsequent years

of suffering.

The revolution of Aranjuez brought Melendez to Madrid, in the hopes of

recovering his former employments; but in the troubled state of the

country, he soon wished to return to his house, without being able to

effect it. The French had now made themselves masters of the capital,

and Melendez was unfortunately induced to take office under them. This

conduct was contrary, not only to the course taken by Jovellanos and

his other friends, but also to the whole tenor of his former life and

opinions. His easy temper, which had at all times led him submissive

to the wishes of those who had his confidence, no doubt on this

occasion had been influenced by persons near him, and he might have

thought it a hopeless struggle to contend with Napoleon.

Having however engaged in this unpatriotic service, he was sent as a

commissioner, on the part of the intrusive government, to the Asturias,

where the people had already risen in vindication of the national

independence. Melendez and his colleague were seized by the populace,

notwithstanding the efforts of the local authorities, who had placed

them for security in the prison, the doors of which were forced, and

they were led out to be put to death. All entreaties were in vain.

Melendez protested his attachment to the national cause, and even began

reciting some patriotic verses he had been writing, but the excited

multitude would not hear him. They added insults to menaces, and as

a great favour only permitted them to confess before they should

be executed. Thus a little time was gained; but this was at length

concluded and they were tied to a tree, and the party prepared to shoot

them, when a dispute arose whether they should be shot from in front

or behind as traitors, a piece of etiquette in such cases considered

of importance. The latter counsel prevailed, and the prisoners had

to be loosened and tied again accordingly, when the authorities and

religious orders of the place, with a particular Cross famous among

them, appeared approaching for their rescue. The people hereon became

calmed, and Melendez and his colleague were taken back to the prison,

whence they were soon permitted to return to Madrid.

On the success of the Spanish army at Bailen, the French retired

from the capital, and Melendez remained at Madrid, hoping, through

the influence of Jovellanos, to be taken into favour with the

constitutional party. But fortune again seemed to side with the

French, and they returned to Madrid, when Melendez was again induced to

join them, and accepted office as Councillor of State and President of

a Board of Public Instruction. Thus he inevitably compromised himself

in a cause which was not that of his heart or principles, and whose

apparently irresistible strength could only have excused his adhesion

to it. This supposition, however, also proved erroneous; and when

the French armies had to abandon Spain, Melendez, with their other

principal adherents, had to fly with them also, having had the further

misfortune to have his house plundered, and his valuable library

destroyed, by the very marauders for whose sake he had lost all his

hopes of the future at home.

Before entering France, Melendez, kneeling down, kissed the Spanish

soil, saying, “I shall not return to tread thee again.” His

apprehensions, notwithstanding his anxiety to do so, proved correct.

He passed four years in France, residing at Toulouse, Montpelier,

Nismes and Alaix, as circumstances compelled him, in great privation

and with bodily sufferings, the more aggravating, in his advanced

age, the bitter remembrances of the past. A paralytic affection first

incapacitated him from all exertion, and finally, an apoplectic attack

terminated his existence, at Montpelier, on the 24th May, 1817, in the

arms of his wife, who had followed him through all the vicissitudes of

life, and surrounded by the companions of his exile. A monument was

afterwards placed to his memory in the cemetery by the Duke de Frias.

Notwithstanding the indecision of his character in public life,

Melendez was in private remarkable for laborious application to his

studies and duties. His reading was immense, and his desire unceasing

to be useful, and to contribute, by all the means in his power, to the

well-being of his fellows. His kindness of heart is conspicuous in all

his writings, which also portray the diffidence of his own powers,

ascribed to him by his biographer.

His principal objects of veneration seem to have been the writings of

Newton and Locke. The former, as the “Great Newton,” is often named by

him. Pope he took for his model avowedly in poetry, and he strove to

imitate the moral and philosophic tone of that great poet’s writings,

whose elegance of style he certainly rivalled. Nothing in Spanish verse

had been ever produced to equal the sweetness of his verses, their

easy tone, and sparkling thoughts and expression. He was much attached

to drawing, but had no inclination for music, not even to the charms

of song, the more singular in one whose ear for the melody of verse

appears to have been so sensitive. To the very last he seems to have

been endeavouring to improve his poems, which have been thus observed

to have often lost in strength and expression what they gained in

cadence.

“The principles of his philosophy were benevolence and toleration;

and he belonged to that race of philanthropists who hope for the

progressive amelioration of the human race, and the advent of a period,

when civilization, or the empire of the understanding, extended

over the earth, will give men that grade of perfection and felicity

compatible with the faculties and the existence of each individual.

Such are the manifestations of his philosophic poems, and such a state

he endeavoured to aid in producing by his talents and labours.”

His influence as a poet has certainly been very great. All the writers

in Spain, who immediately succeeded him, especially Quintana, showed

evident proofs of having profited by the lessons his example gave them,

and those lessons seem to have sunk deeply into the minds of successive

generations, so as to leave no doubt of their continuing in the same

course.

After his arrival in France, Melendez wrote a few short poems, which,

notwithstanding his age and failing health, showed his spirit was still

the same, and his imagination as lively as ever. At Nismes he prepared

an edition of his works, which the Spanish government published at

their cost after his death, when they also gave his widow the pension

allotted for her, as according to her husband’s former rank. This

edition has been the one subsequently several times reprinted, with a

biography by the eminent Quintana, worthy of himself and of his master.

The prologue to it, by Melendez, is very interesting, and from it we

learn, with regret, that upon the destruction of his library, “the most

choice and varied he had ever seen belonging to a private individual,

in the formation of which he had expended a great part of his patrimony

and all his literary life,” he had lost what he considered some of his

best poems, and some tracts, in prose, which he had prepared for the

press, on Legislation, on Civil Economy, the Criminal Laws, on Prisons,

Mendicancy and other subjects.

The misfortunes of Melendez were certainly much to be lamented, but

throughout them he could unquestionably console himself with the

conviction of having been actuated ever by upright motives, and of

leaving to his country an imperishable name. His literary career had

been an eminently successful one, and he had felt the full enjoyment

of fame. In the prologue, above mentioned, he refers very feelingly to

the reverses to which he had been subjected, but also with apparent

satisfaction to the various editions and notices of his works,

published both in Spain and abroad.

In leaving revised his works, published afterwards by the government,

Madrid 1820, Melendez left also this positive direction: “Although I

have composed many other poems, these appear to me the least imperfect,

and I therefore forbid the others to be reprinted under any pretext.

I earnestly request this of the editor, and expect it of his probity

and good feeling, that he will fulfil this, my will, in every respect.”

In accordance with this request, many of his earlier works have been,

with much propriety, omitted, and the remainder have been considerably

corrected; at the same time that a great number of poems are added,

that had not been previously published. The best edition of his works

is that by Salva, Paris 1832.

Melendez enjoyed in his day a higher reputation than readers at present

are willing to concede him, comparing him with the other poets that

have since appeared in Spain. But the merits of writers should be

considered, in justice, relatively only to those who have preceded

them, and by this standard he is certainly fully entitled to the

eulogiums which his contemporaries awarded him.

MELENDEZ VALDES.

JUVENILITIES.

When I was yet a child,

A child Dorila too,

To gather there the flowerets wild,

We roved the forest through.

And gaily garlands then,

With passing skill display’d,

To crown us both, in childish vein,

Her little fingers made.

And thus our joys to share,

In such our thoughts and play,

We pass’d along, a happy pair,

The hours and days away.

But ev’n in sports like these,

Soon age came hurrying by!

And of our innocence the ease

Malicious seem’d to fly.

I knew not how it was,

To see me she would smile;

And but to speak to her would cause

Me pleasure strange the while.

Then beat my heart the more,

When flowers to her I brought;

And she, to wreathe them as before,

Seem’d silent, lost in thought.

One evening after this

We saw two turtle-doves,

With trembling throat, who, wrapt in bliss,

Were wooing in their loves.

In manifest delight,

With wings and feathers bow’d,

Their eyes fix’d on each other bright,

They languish’d, moaning loud.

The example made us bold,

And with a pure caress,

The troubles we had felt we told,

Our pains and happiness.

And at once from our view

Then, like a shadow, fled

Our childhood and its joys, but new,

Love gave us his instead.

THE TIMID LOVER.

In the sharp pains the tyrant Love

Since first I saw thee made me feel,

To thee a thousand times above,

I come those pains to heal,

My village girl! but soon as nigh

To thee I find my way,

If e’er so bold to be I try,

I know not what to say.

My voices fail, and mournful sighs,

Malicious phrenzy watching o’er,

The place of them alone supplies;

While mocks my efforts more

The traitor god, when anxious by

My thoughts to speak I pray;

If e’er so bold to be I try,

I know not what to say.

Then feels his fire so strong my soul,

Meseems to die my only fate,

My tears in torrents freely roll,

And with deep groanings wait,

To move thy feeling heart’s reply;

But vainly, all astray,

If e’er so bold to be I try,

I know not what to say.

I know not what, in trembling fear,

That seals my lips, as yet to learn

A foolish hope, thou mayst ev’n here

My hapless love discern.

I feel I must for ever fly

From thy side far away;

If e’er so bold to be I try,

I know not what to say.

Alas! if thou couldst, my adored!

But hear those sighs, and thoughts express’d,

What happiness ’twould me afford!

I should be, Phyllis, blest.

But woe is me! beneath thine eye,

To sink in mock’d dismay,

If e’er so bold to be I try,

I know not what to say.

MY VILLAGE LIFE.

When able happily am I

To my poor village to escape,

From all the city’s noise to fly,

And cares of every shape;

Like a new man my spirits give

Me then to feel, in joyous link;

For only then I seem to live,

And only then to think.

The insufferable hours that there

In weariness to me return’d,

Now on a course so gently bear,

Their flight is scarce discern’d.

The nights that there in sloth and play

Alone their occupations keep,

Here with choice books I pass away,

And in untroubled sleep.

With the first dawn I wake, to change

Rejoiced the soft bed’s balmy rest,

Through the life-giving air to range,

That free dilates the breast.

It pleases me the heavens to view,

O’erspread with red and golden glows,

When first his lustres to renew,

His splendours Phœbus shows.

It pleases me, when bright his rays,

Above the zenith fiery shine,

To lose me in the thick wood’s maze,

And in their shade recline.

When languidly he hides his head,

In last reflection, even then

The mountain heights I eager tread,

To follow him again.

And when the night its mantle wide

Extends around of beaming lights,

Their motions, measuring as they glide,

My watchful eye recites.

Then to my books return’d, with awe,

My wondering thoughts, to trace, rehearse

The course of that portentous law,

That rules the universe.

From them, and from the lofty height

Of such my thoughts, I then descend

To where my rustic friends await,

My leisure to attend.

And with them taking up the part,

They give me in their toils and cares

To share, with jokes that merry start,

Away the evening wears.

About his crops one tells me all,

Another all about his vines,

And what their neighbours may befall

Each many a tale combines.

I ponder o’er each sage advice;

Their proverbs carefully I store;

Their doubts and quarrels judge concise,

As arbitrator o’er.

My judgements all extol they free,

And all together talking loud;

For innocent equality

Reigns in their breasts avow’d.

Then soon the servant comes to bring

The brimming jugs, and next with these

The mirthful girl supplies the ring

With chestnuts, and the cheese.