LOPE DE VEGA

1562-1635.

There is a vulgar English proverb of such a one being born with a silver

spoon in his mouth. We are reminded of it when we compare the several

careers of Cervantes and Lope de Vega. If we judged without inquiry, we

should imagine no man more likely to obtain popularity through his

works, than the author of "Don Quixote." His disposition was cheerful

and unrepining; to the last hour of his life he displayed lightness of

heart, even to the censure of a dull envious rival (Figueroa), who

remarks, that such was his weakness, that he wrote prefaces and

dedications even on his death bed,--prefaces, as we have shown, full of

animation and wit. Yet he lived in penury, died obscurely, and went to

his grave unhonoured, except by his friends; while all Madrid flocked to

do honour to the funeral of Lope; and two volumes of eulogiums and

epitaphs form but a select portion of all that was written to

commemorate his death. It is true that posterity has been more just:

great pains have been taken to give forth correct editions of

Cervantes's works, and to ascertain the events of his life; while the

twenty-one volumes of Lope's "Obras Sueltas" are full of errors, and his

plays are only to be obtained in single pamphlets, badly printed, both

to sight and sense.

It is curious to read the epithets of praise heaped on this favourite of

his age, during his life and immediately on his death. His friend and

disciple Montalvan adopts a phraseology very similar to that in use with

the emperor of China, when he is styled "Brother of the sun" and "Uncle

of the stars." He with all the pomp of Spanish hyperbole, names him "the

portent of the world; the glory of the land; the light of his country;

the oracle of language; the centre of fame; the object of envy; the

darling of fortune; the phoenix of ages: prince of poetry; Orpheus of

sciences; Apollo of the muses; Horace of poets; Virgil of epics; Homer

of heroics; Pindar of lyrics; the Sophocles of tragedy; and the Terence

of comedy. Single among the excellent, and excellent among the great:

great in every way and in every manner." Such was the usual style of

speaking of Lope,--his common appellation being the phoenix of Spain.

And now, while editions of "Don Quixote" are multiplied, and each hour

adds to the fame of Cervantes, we inquire concerning Lope, principally

for the sake of discovering the cause of the excessive admiration with

which he was regarded in his own time. The life written by Montalvan,

the biography compiled with such care and elegance by Lord Holland, and

various researches given to light in several numbers of the "Quarterly

Review," (written we believe, by Mr. Southey), are (in addition to the

works of Lope himself) our principal guides in tracing the following

pages.

Lope de Vega Carpio was born at Madrid[74], in the house of Geronimo de

Soto, near the gate of Guadalaxara, on the 26th of November, 1562, on

the day of St. Lope, bishop of Verona, and was baptized on the 6th of

December following, in the parish church of San Miguel de les Octeos.

His parents were in the same situation as these of Cervantes--hidalgos,

but poor. We have an account of Felix de Vega, father of the poet, which

shows him to have been a good and pious man, and a careful father. He

was very attentive to his religious duties, and had rooms in the

Hospital de la Corte, whither his children accompanied him, and they

performed several menial offices, and washed the feet of the

poor--comforting and helping the convalescent with clothes and money.

The good example thus implanted imparted a charitable and pious turn to

Lope's life,--and still more to that of his elder sister, Isabel de

Carpio, who was singularly pious, and died in 1601.[75] Felix de Vega

was also a poet, as his son informs us in the "Laurel de Apolo," in some

verses of respectful and graceful allusion[76]; so that he added the

inheritance of a poetical temperament to his pious instructions.

The boy early displayed great tokens of talent. What we are told of him

does not exceed the accounts given of other young prodigies, and we are

willing to believe the relations handed down of this wonderful child,

who, whatever his other merits were, showed himself to the end of his

life the prince of words, having written more than any other man ever

did, and we may believe, therefore, that he acquired the art of using

them earlier than others. At two years old he was remarkable for the

vivacity of his eyes, and the drollness of his ways, showing even thus

early, tokens of his after career; he was eager even then to learn; and

knew his letters before he could speak, repeating his lessons by signs

before he could utter the words. At five years old he read Spanish and

Latin--and such was his passion for verses, that before he could use a

pen he bribed his elder schoolfellows with a portion of his breakfast,

to write to his dictation, and then exchanged his effusions with others

for prints and hymns. Thus truly he lisped in numbers; as he says of

himself in the epistle before referred to, "I could scarcely speak when

I used a pen to give wings to my verses and is another proof, (if proof

were wanting that the sun shines at noon day) of innate talent. At

twelve he was master of rhetoric and grammar, and of Latin composition,

both in prose and verse. To the latter accomplishment we must put the

limit, that probably he was as learned as his masters; and that was not

much, for the Latin verses he published in later life are excelled by

any clever Etonian of the fourth form. In addition to these classical

attainments, he had learned to dance, and fence, and sing.

He was left early an orphan, and his vivacious disposition led him into

various scrapes and adventures. The most important among these was an

elopement from school when fourteen years of age, impelled by a desire

of seeing the world. He concerted with a friend of his, Fernando Muñoz,

who was filled with a similar desire: they both provided as well as they

could for the necessities of the journey, and went on foot as far as

Segovia, where they bought a mule for 15 ducats; with this they

proceeded to Lavañeza, and Astorga--where meeting, we may guess, with

several of those various discomforts we find detailed in "Lazarillo

de los Tormes," and other _picaresco_ works, as inevitable in Spanish

inns, they became disgusted, and made up their minds to return. When

they had got back as far as Segovia, their purses were emptied of small

money, and they had recourse to a silversmith, the one to sell a chain

and the other to change a doubloon. The silversmith's suspicions were

awakened and he sent for a judge, and the judge, a miracle in Spain, was

a just judge, as Montalvan says, "he must have had a touch of conscience

about him"--for he neither robbed nor threw them into prison; but

questioning them and finding them agree in their story, and that their

fault was that of youth, not of vice, he sent them back to Madrid, with

an alguazil, who restored them, doubloons, chain and all, into the hands

of their relations, "which," says Montalvan, "he did at small cost. Such

then was the honesty of the ministers of justice, who now-a-days would

have thought they had not gained enough had they not made an eight-days'

lawsuit about it."

The youth soon after became an inmate in the house of the grand

inquisitor, don Geronimo Manrique, bishop of Avila; it would appear that

he was there as a _protegé_, and that the bishop thought his talents

deserving protection and encouragement. His own expression is, "Don

Geronimo Manrique educated me." He delighted the prelate with various

eclogues that he wrote, and a comedy called the "Pastoral of

Jacinto,"--from which Montalvan dates the change Lope de Vega operated

in the Spanish theatre. This comedy is not extant, therefore it is

impossible to pass a judgment upon it; but the name of pastoral rather

seems to limit it to an imitation of the plays then in vogue; indeed his

eulogist only mentions this difference, that he had reduced the number

of acts to three. Montalvan goes on to speak as if he, at this time,

brought out successful plays, but this arises rather from the confusion

of his expressions, than mistake: he wrote them, it is true, for he

tells us so himself; but there is no trace of any being played.

Meanwhile, feeling that his knowledge was slight, and his education

unfinished, with the assistance of the bishop, he entered the university

of Alcala, where he remained four years, until he graduated, and was

distinguished among his companions in the examinations.

On leaving the university of Alcala, he entered the service of the duke

of Alva[77], who became attached to him, and made him not only his

secretary but his favourite. A doubt is raised as to which duke this is;

whether it be the oppressor of the Low Countries, or his successor:

chronology seems to determine that it was the former. It has already

been mentioned in this work, that the duke of Alva,--whose name in the

Netherlands, and with us, is stamped with all the infamy that

remorseless cruelty, blind bigotry, and faithlessness bestows--was

regarded in Spain as the hero of the age. Lope introduces the mention of

a statue in the "Arcadia," and says, "This last, whose grey head is

adorned by the ever verdant leaves of the ungrateful Daphne, merited by

so many victories, is the immortal soldier, don Fernando de Toledo, duke

of Alva, so justly worthy of that fame, which you behold lifting herself

to heaven from the plumes of the helmet, with the trump of gold, through

which for ever she will proclaim his exploits, and spread his name from

the Spanish Tagus to the African Mutazend; from the Neapolitan Sabeto to

the French Garonne. He is a Pompilius in religion; a Radamanthus in

severity; Belisarius in guerdon; Anaxagoras in constancy; Periander in

wedlock; Pomponius in veracity; Alexander Severus in justice; Regulus in

fidelity; Cato in modesty; and finally a Timotheus in the felicity which

attended all his wars."

At the request of the duke of Alva he wrote his "Arcadia." It has been

mentioned how the imitations of Sannazaro's pastoral had become the

fashion in Spain. The "Diana" of Montemayor, its continuation by Gil

Polo, and the "Galatea" of Cervantes, were all read with enthusiasm.

What the charm of this composition is, we can scarcely guess; yet we

feel it ourselves when we read the "'Arcadia" of sir Philip Sidney. The

sort of purely sentimental life of the shepherds and shepherdesses, with

their flocks, pipes, and faithful dogs, appears to shut out the baser

portion of existence, and to enable us to live only for the

affections,--a state of being, however impracticable, always alluring;

and when to this is added the delightful climate of Spain, which

invested pastoral life with all the loveliness and amenity of nature, we

are the less surprised at the prevalence of the taste. Lope was very

young when he entered the lists, and wrote his "Arcadia." There is

exaggeration in its style, and in its sentiments; yet no one can open it

without becoming aware of the talent of the author. The poetry with

which it is interspersed possesses the peculiar merit of

Lope--perspicuity, and an easy artless flow in its ideas; as for

instance, the cancion imitated from the ancients, beginning,

"O libertad preciosa

No comparada al oro."

The story is meagre, and inartificial to a singular degree. But we

follow an example set us, of giving some slight detail of it, for the

sake of introducing a coincidence of a singular nature.[78] Anfrisio and

Belisarda are lovers; Anfrisio is of so high descent that he believes

Jupiter to be his grandfather; but Belisarda is designed by her parents

to be the bride of the rich, ignorant, and unworthy Salicio. Anfrisio is

forced to remove to a distant part of the country; but by a fortunate

circumstance, thither also Belisarda is brought by her father, and the

lovers meet and enjoy each other's society till scandal begins to busy

herself with them, and, at the request of his mistress, Anfrisio sets

out for Italy, so to baffle the evil thoughts of the malicious. He loses

his way during his wanderings, and comes to a cavern, wherein resides

Dardanio, a magician, who promises to grant him any wish he may express,

however impossible. Anfrisio, with a moderation astonishing to our more

grasping minds, asks only to see the object on whom he has placed his

affections. He beholds her in conversation with a rival, whom, in pure

pity, she presents with a black ribbon; which sight transports Anfrisio

with jealousy, and he meditates revenging her perfidy by putting her to

death; but Dardanio carries him off in a whirlwind. Soon after he

returns home, and to annoy Belisarda, pretends to be in love with the

shepherdess Anarda; while she in revenge openly favours Olimpio. They

are both very miserable; and still more so when driven to desperation,

Belisarda marries Salicio. Soon after, an explanation ensues between her

and Anfrisio, but it is too late. Anfrisio's sole resource is to forget;

and by means of the sage Polinesia, through a visit to the Liberal Arts,

and an acquaintance with the lady Grammar and the young ladies Logic,

Rhetoric, Arithmetic, and Geometry, and others not less

agreeable--Perspective, Music, Astrology, and Poetry--he arrives at the

temple of Disengaño, or Dis-illusion; where things are seen as they

are, the passions cease to influence, the imagination to deceive, and

the lovelorn shepherd becomes a rational man.

The composition of this story has given rise to a singular conjecture.

When Montemayor wrote "Diana," and Gil Polo continued it, and Cervantes

composed "the robe in which the lovely Galatea appeared to the eyes of

men," it is known that they embodied their own passions and sorrows in

the pastoral personages they brought on the scene; but Lope is not the

hero of his tale. Anfrisio is supposed to represent the duke of Alva

himself--the tyrant, the destroyer--who, it would seem, requested his

young _protegé_ to immortalise his early loves in the manner other

poets had done their own. A good deal of testimony is brought in support

of this hypothesis.[79] In the commendatory verses prefixed to the

"Arcadia" there is a sonnet from Anfrisio to Lope de Vega, which

addresses him by the name of Belardo, under which he personified himself

in the pastoral; and which shows by its context that it was written by a

man of consequence, and a protector of the poet. "Belardo," he says, "it

has proved fortunate for my loves, that you came to my estate and became

one of my shepherds; for now neither time nor oblivion will cover them.

You have dwelt upon my sorrows, yet not to the full; since they are

greater than you have described, though the cause wherefore I suffered

lessened them. Tagus and my renowned Tormes listen to you. They call the

shepherd of Anfrisio, Apollo. If I am Anfrisio, you are my Apollo!" The

painter Francisco Pacheco, in the eulogy that accompanies his portrait

of Lope, speaking of the "Arcadia," says that the poet "had succeeded in

what he designed, which was to record a real history to the pleasure of

the parties."

Montalvan hints at the same thing, when he says that Lope wrote this

work at the command of the duke, and calls it a "mysterious enigma of

elevated subjects, concealed in the disguise of humble shepherds." And

Lope himself says, "The 'Arcadia' is a true story;" and again, in the

prologue to the work itself, he insists several times on the fact that

he describes the sorrows of another, not his own. He assumes the name of

Belardo for himself, but introduces himself only as a Spanish shepherd,

poor and pursued by adversity. At the conclusion he comes forward as

Belardo, addressing his pipe, and taking leave of the tale on which he

was occupied. In this he talks of leaving the banks of the Manzanares

(the river of Madrid), and seeking a new master and a new life. "What is

better," he says, "when one has lost a blessing, than to fly from the

spot where one enjoyed it, so not to see it in the possession of

another? My fortunes are dubious; but what evil can befall him who has

once known happiness? I lost that which was mine, more from not being

worthy of it, than from not knowing its value; but I console myself with

the expectation of fresh disasters."[80]

As the "Arcadia" was written in early life, but not published till 1598,

it is impossible to say to what particular period of his career or to

what misfortunes the above alludes.

It were a subject for a painter to portray the old grey-headed duke--the

persecutor of heroes, the slayer of the innocent, but retaining

throughout a satisfied conscience, and the dignity of virtue--pouring

his love-tale in the young Lope's ear, or listening with delight while

Lope read to him the tale of his early love, clothed in the fantastic

costume of a pastoral and the ideal imagery of poetry.

Lord Holland has given a specimen of the poetry of the "Arcadia" in his

life; but we refer to his pages, and will only conclude by mentioning

that, despite the conceits, the false taste, and exaggeration, there is

much genius, much real poetry, simplicity, and truth—lines full of

sweetness and grace, and a lucidness of expression, which reminds the

reader of Metastasio, who was indeed a lover of Spanish verse, and who

has never been surpassed in the crystal clearness of his expressions,

and the chiseled perfection (so to express ourselves) with which he

represents his ideas.

The "Arcadia," though written thus early, was not published, as has

been mentioned, till 1598; and it is conjectured that the death of its

hero, the duke of Alva, was the cause of the delay. But it may be added,

that Lope wrote a great deal but published nothing before that period,

when, his plays having made him popular, he printed most of his early

works.

He left the service of the duke of Alva, when he married a lady of rank,

donna Isabel de Urbino, daughter of don Diego de Urbino, king-at-arms.

The marriage took place to the satisfaction of the friends of both

parties; and the lady is praised as beautiful and discreet. He did not

however, long enjoy his domestic happiness. "It happened," says

Montalvan, "that there was a sort of half-and-half hidalgo[81] (for

there is a twilight in the origin of nobility as well as in the break of

day) of small fortune, but of great skill in contriving to dress and eat

as well as the rest of the world, without other employment than

frequenting society, when with little trouble to himself he lived

cheaply by flattering those present and back-biting the absent. Lope

heard that on one occasion he had entertained a company at his expense.

He passed over the impertinence, not from fear, but contempt; but seeing

that the man persisted in his attacks, he grew tired; so without

quarrelling with him by sword or word--the first being impious, the

second foolish--he depicted him in a song so pleasantly, that every body

laughed." The would-be wit grew angry--none being more easily offended

than those who take licence to offend--and he challenged Lope. They met;

and the cavalier was dangerously wounded. This was the immediate cause

that obliged Lope to quit Madrid; though Montalvan mentions other

scrapes which he had got into in his youth, and which his enemies took

this occasion to bring against him. He left wife and home with a heavy

heart, and took up his residence in Valencia, where he was treated with

distinction and kindness.

He remained at Valencia for some years, and doubtless wrote a great

deal, though at that time he published nothing. He formed a friendship

there with Vicente Mariner, himself a voluminous poet, whose

compositions remain inedited in the king of Spain's libraries. Among

these are many to the honour and memory of Lope, and in fierce attack of

his enemies--so fierce that they deserve the name of abuse, and show

that the Spanish cavalier could descend, as so many literary men have

before, to calling names, as argument.[82]

After a few years, Lope returned to Madrid; and such was his joy in

revisiting the scenes of his youth, and being reunited to his wife, that

even his health was affected by it. He did not, however, long enjoy this

newfound happiness: his wife died shortly after his return. The death of

this lady was celebrated in an eclogue, written conjointly by Lope and

Medina Medinilla. The strophes, composed by Lope, are full of the

tenderest grief and impatient despair, but there is not a word relative

to their separation; he exclaims at Death for having divided them, and

implores her to take him to where she is--to where they might live for

ever secure together.

[Sidenote: 1588.

Ætat.

26.]

Almost immediately after he became a soldier, and joined the

Invincible Armada.

The causes of this apparent freak are differently represented. Montalvan

attributes it chiefly to his grief on losing his wife. In the eclogue to

Claudio, which Lope writes with the avowed intention of recording the

events of his early life, but in which he mentions no adventures

anterior to this period, he speaks of being banished from Filis, and

that he sought relief from his tender sorrows by changing climate and

element; and Mars coming to his aid, he marched to Lisbon with the

Castilian troops, with a musket on his shoulder, and tore up for

cartridges the verses he had written in his mistress's praise. In

several of his sonnets also he gives the same reason for his military

career.[83]

It is the fashion of the present day to ransack every hidden corner of a

man's life, and to bring to light all the errors and follies which he

himself would have wished to consign to oblivion. A writer offers a

fairer mark than any other for these inquiries, as we can always fancy

at least that we trace something of the man himself in his works, and so

form a tissue of some sort from these patchwork materials; Lope felt

this, and in one of his epistles, laments that by publishing his verses,

he has perpetuated the memory of his follies. "My love-verses," he says,

"were the tender error of my youth; would I could cover them in

oblivion! Those poets do well who write in enigmas, since they are not

injured by the hidden." We do not know that we should have enlarged on

this portion of his life, but for some conjectures given in the article

before quoted in the eighteenth volume of the "Quarterly Review." The

author of that article, in mentioning Lope's second marriage, says,

"Lope speaks of this marriage as a happy one; yet among the sonnets

there are two which may excite a suspicion that his heart was placed on

another object. The inference from the first of these poems is, that he

did not love the woman whom he married; and from the second that he had

formed a miserable attachment to the wife of another man. This last

inference will be much strengthened if there be any reason for supposing

that he shadowed out his own character in the 'Dorotea;' one of the most

singular, and, unless such a supposition be admitted, the most

unaccountable of all his works."

Taking it for granted that these sonnets and the 'Dorotea' refer to

himself, we think there is every proof to show that they allude to his

early life, his first marriage, and all those subsequent disasters, to

fly from which he embarked on board the Armada. Certainly great

obscurity hangs over the period of his first marriage, and the causes of

his long exile at Valencia. His antagonist in the duel was a man of no

consequence, and merely wounded; so, although that duel might have

occasioned him to fly, it would not have forced so protracted an

absence. He does not allude to any of these circumstances in his eclogue

to Claudio. In his epistle to doctor Gregorio de Angulo he seems to

imply that being married, he loved another woman, or that he was not

happy in his first marriage.[84] Montalvan, in speaking of his flight to

Valencia, mentions, in addition to the duel, youthful scrapes, which his

enemies took that opportunity of bringing against him.[85] In a funeral

eulogium, written on Lope by don Joseph Pellicer, there are these

expressions:--"The excellent qualities of Lope excited the animosity of

several powerful enemies, who forced him several times to become a

wanderer. His pen was his faithful companion in his disasters and exile,

and secured him shelter and welcome in distant provinces."[86]

Putting all these circumstances and hints together, it is plain that

Lope suffered a good deal of adversity at this time. His illustrious

patron, the duke of Alva, died soon after his marriage. When the duel

and other circumstances caused him to fly, he had no powerful friend to

assist him, but was driven to absent himself even for years. During so

long a separation from home, and being only about four-and-twenty at

this period, it is not impossible nor strange that he should have formed

an unfortunate attachment.

The sonnets Mr. Southey mentions, and which he translates, are the

following:--

"Seven long and tedious years did Jacob serve,

And short had been the term if it had found

Its end desired. To Leah he was bound,

And must by service of seven more deserve

His Rachael.--Thus will strangers lightly swerve

From their pledged word. Yet Time might well repay

Hope's growing debt, and Patience might be crowned,

And the slow season of expectance passed,

True Love with ample recompense at last,

Requite the sorrows of this hard delay.

Alas for me--to whose unhappy doom,

No such blest end appears! Ill fate is his,

Who hopes for Rachael in the world to come,

And chained to Leah drags his life in this."[87]

"When snows before the genial breath of spring

Dissolve--and our great Mother reassumes

Her robe of green; the meadow breathes perfumes,

Loud sings the thrush, the birds are on the wing,

The fresh grass grows, the young lambs feed at will.

But not to thee, my heart, doth nature bring

The joy that this sweet season should instil:

Thou broodest alway on thy cherished ill.

Absence is no sore grief--it is a glass,

Wherein true love from falsehood may be known;

Well may the pain be borne which hath an end;

But woe to him whose ill-placed hopes attend

Another's life, and who till that shall pass

In hopeless expectation wastes his own."[88]

These sonnets are two among many, all addressed to a lady whom he calls

Lucinda. Generally speaking, they treat only of her cruelty and his

sufferings: there is no date given to certify at what period they were

written; but they were published in 1604, during the life of his second

wife--with whom there is every proof that he lived in harmony, and he

would never have pained her by publishing his desire for her death. This

circumstance renders it conclusive that they referred to the passions of

his youth.

The "Dorotea" is indeed a singular performance, and we have read it with

some care to discover what it contains that gives the idea that he

shadowed forth himself. And we will give some account of the work, which

diffuse and tedious, will hardly attract the reader, but which at least

presents a vivid picture of Spanish manners, and if relating to Lope

himself, must be regarded with increased interest. We must premise that

though this work was one of the last that he published, and that he

mentions it as the favourite his of old age[89], yet that it was written

at Valencia in his youth.[90]

"Dorotea" is not a play; it is a story told in dialogue, a sort of

composition which has lately been named "Dramatic Scenes." It is in

prose, with a few poems interspersed. It is, as usual, very diffuse, and

even incoherent and obscure in parts, and contains the story of the

intrigues of a young man, whom it has been conjectured Lope intended for

himself.

Don Fernando, the hero of the piece, says of himself that his parents

dying, and leaving him in poverty, he went to the Indies to try his

fortune, but not prospering he returned to Madrid, where he was

hospitably received by a rich relation. This lady had in her house a

daughter and a niece; with the niece, named Marfisa, Fernando fell, in

some sort, in love. Unfortunately she was obliged to marry a gentleman

of some rank and merit, but aged. The lovers parted with tears; but the

marriage was of short duration, the husband dying soon after. Meanwhile

Fernando, on the very day of Marfisa's wedding, was introduced to

Dorothea. He was then, he tells us, two-and-twenty, Dorothea fifteen,

and beautiful beyond description. They seemed formed for each other, and

though they now met for the first time, yet they felt as if they had

known one another for years.

Dorothea was already married, but her husband was far away in India. She

was courted by a foreign prince, whom she coquetted with, giving him

large hopes, and slight favours. This powerful rival Fernando at length

gets rid of: but he suffers from another evil, the evil of poverty; and

the thoughts engendered by want of money fill him with melancholy.

Dorothea observes his sadness, and he confesses its cause; she promises

at once to give up all feasts and amusements, and sends to his house her

jewels and plate in two coffers. He disposes of these, and even so draws

on his mistress's resources, that she is obliged to deny herself fitting

dress, and to betake herself to unaccustomed labour for her maintenance.

This lasted for five years; and the piece begins at this period, when an

officious neighbour, Gerarda (who is set on by don Belia, a creole, who

is another and a rich admirer of Dorothea) attacks Theodora, the mother

of Dorothea, on the scandal the neighbours promulgate with regard to her

daughter's life. Theodora is alarmed, and commands Dorothea to see

Fernando no more. She, in despair, hurries (accompanied by her maid) to

his house, to impart the sad intelligence. Fernando takes it very

coolly, and dismisses her in a manner to make her believe that he no

longer loves. But when she is gone, he falls into a transport of

despair; and partly piqued at her daring to think of obeying her mother,

and partly too miserable to stay longer in a town where he may no longer

behold her, he resolves to quit Madrid, and go to Seville. Being in want

of means, he applies to his old friend Marfisa; and trumping up a story

of having killed a man, and being obliged to fly (which, he says, is

true, since he himself was dead, and at the same time obliged to absent

himself), Marfisa gives him "the gold she possessed, and the pearls of

her tears;" and thus enriched, Fernando departs for Seville.

Dorothea remains: she talks of her lover, and her hard fate, with her

maid Celia. Among other things, Celia says, "The scandal that arose was

greatly occasioned by Fernando writing verses in his lady's praise."

Dorothea replies, "What greater riches can a woman possess, than to have

herself immortalised? Her beauty fades, but the verses written in her

honour are eternal witnesses of it. The Diana of Montemayor was a lady

of Valencia; and the river Ezla and herself are immortalised by his pen.

And the same has happened to the Philida of Montalvo, the Galatea of

Cervantes, the Camila of Garcilaso, the Violante of Camoens, the Silvia

of Bernaldes, the Philis of Figueroa, and the Leonora of Corte-real."

But though Dorothea loves Fernando, and is grateful for his verses, she

proves false, and admits to her favour his rich rival, don Belia.

Meanwhile Fernando, unable to endure his absence from her, returns. They

meet by accident, and Dorothea feels all her affection revive. She

exclaims on the cruelty of her mother, and the misery of her fate, and

then intimates her falsehood. "All were against me," she says; "my

mother with ill usage, Gerarda with flattery, you by leaving me, and a

cavalier by persuading me." However, notwithstanding this, they are for

a time in some sort reconciled. But Fernando becomes cold and uneasy;

assured that Dorothea loves him, he grows indifferent; certain of her

falsehood, he is annoyed: he fancies that his honour is injured in the

eyes of the world by his toleration, and he resolves to break with her.

He sees in Marfisa the love of his early years. "We had been brought up

together," he says; "but although it is true that she was the object of

my first attachment in the early season of my youth, her unlucky

marriage, and the beauty of Dorothea, caused me to forget her charms as

much as if I had never seen them. She returned home after the untimely

death of her husband; and she regarded me with eyes of favour, but I

vainly tried to admire her: yet I resolved to cultivate my attachment

for her without giving up Dorothea. She (Dorothea) perceived a change,

but attributed it to my honour being offended by the pretensions of don

Belia; and in this she was right, since for that cause I had resolved to

hate her. She indeed would have been willing to love me alone, but that

was impossible--her fortunes forbade it."

Meanwhile an unlucky encounter with his rival, to whom he is forced to

give way, rouses him to revenge against Dorothea; and fate puts the

occasion in his hands. By mistake he sends her a letter from Marfisa to

himself; a violent quarrel ensues; and they part to meet no more. A

friend of Fernando prophesies to him the sequel of these disasters; he

tells him that he will be persecuted by Dorothea and her mother, and

thrown into prison, but afterwards liberated and banished; before this

he will have become attached to a young lady, whom he will marry to the

discontent of the relations on both sides. She will accompany him in his

banishment with great constancy and love, but will die. He will then

return to Madrid, Dorothea being then a widow, and will wish to marry

him, but his honour has more influence over him than her riches, and he

will refuse her. He will afterwards be very unfortunate in love, but by

help of prayer will extricate himself, and enter another state of life.

Marfisa will again marry a literary man, who will leave the kingdom with

an honourable employment, but she will soon again be a widow, and then

marrying a Spanish soldier, she will be very unhappy, and at last be

assassinated by her husband in a fit of jealousy. Fernando is astonished

at these prophecies, and announces his intention of joining the

Invincible Armada. Dorothea, on her side, is teaching herself no longer

to love him; she breaks his portrait, and burns his letters. But while

she is looking forward to happiness with don Belia, he is killed in a

duel. She rushes out in despair, and Gerarda falls into a well, and is

drowned. "And thus ends Dorothea," says the author, "the rest being only

the misfortunes of Fernando; the poet could not fail in the truth, for

the story is true. Look at the example, for which end it is written."

All this strange medley of a story is told in dialogue, much of which is

spirited and natural, but much, very much, pedantic, and beyond

expression tedious. By some means, despite her misconduct, we are

interested in Dorothea; she is so frank, so beautiful, so generous;

while Fernando is, on the contrary, an object of contempt. He takes the

money of Dorothea, and then angry at the first mention she makes of her

mother's interference, he flies from her rather in revenge than in

grief: throughout he is selfish and ungenerous.

Whether Lope shadowed forth himself is very doubtful. There is a sort of

dwelling upon trifles, and a reality in the situations, that makes the

whole look as if it were founded on fact; yet the facts do not accord

with the circumstances known of his life. If it be himself that he

portrays, it is himself at two or three and twenty, in the first

inexperienced dawn of life, in all the heyday of the passions, when love

was life, and moral considerations and the softer affections still

lingered far behind in the background. To this period he often alludes

in his epistles, when he mentions the troubled sea of love in which he

was lost before his second marriage; from which period he dates his

peace and felicity. And all this together proves to us that his

allusions to an unfortunate attachment have no reference to that happier

time. We deduce also from this various evidence that his taking up the

life of a soldier, and joining the Armada, arose from his desire to fly

from the adversity he had fallen into, "to change clime and element," to

begin a new career, in the hope of becoming a new man. Montalvan

strengthens this view, when he says that this enterprise was undertaken

in a fit of desperation, when he was desirous of finishing life and its

sorrows at the same time; and thus driven by adversity, he enlisted

under the banners of the duke of Medina Sidonia. Leaving Madrid, he

traversed Spain to Cadiz, and thence repaired to Lisbon, where he

embarked with a brother, who was an alferez de marina, a title probably

answering to our midshipman, unless it be that he was ensign in a marine

corps. Lope was a simple volunteer.[91]

It is well known with what sanguine expectations of glorious victory the

Invincible Armada sailed. The privateering or piratical expeditions of

Drake and Hawkins though in accordance with the manners of the times,

and, indeed, disgracefully imitated in late years, had excited feelings

full of burning animosity and fierce vengeance in the hearts of the

Spaniards. Added to these natural feelings, was the odium of English

heresy, which, deep rooted and rankling in Philip II.'s heart, was

participated in by his subjects; they considered the expedition of the

Armada as holy, as well as patriotic. Lope felt the full force of these

sentiments; he bade the invincible fleet go forth and burn the world;

wind would not be wanting to the sails, nor fire to the artillery, for

his breast, he said, would supply the one, and his sorrow the other.

Such was his ardour and such his sighs.

Twelve of the largest vessels, according to the favourite Spanish

custom, were named after the twelve apostles. Lope's brother had a

commission in the galleon San Juan, and he embarked on board the same

vessel. In accordance with the crusading spirit of the expedition, all

persons sailing in it were called upon to be duly shriven, and receive

the sacrament with humility and repentance; and the general order went

on to forbid all blasphemy against God, our Lady, and the saints; all

gambling, all quarrels, all duels. Lope felt the enthusiasm of such an

hour, and of such a character: a soldier of God going to relieve many

contrite spirits oppressed by heretics,--a patriot about to avenge the

disasters brought on his country by her enemies.

Lope gives an animated description of the setting forth of the

Armada,--its drums and clarions, its gay pendants, the ploughing up of

the waves by the keels, and the gathering together of the busy

crews.[92] Of himself, he says that Aristotle slept, with matter, forms,

causes, and accidents; but he was not idle; and in another work, he

mentions that in this expedition, in which, for a few years, he followed

the career of arms, "my inclination prompted me to use my pen, and the

general finished his enterprise when I did mine; for there, on the

waters upon the deck of the San Juan, beneath the banners of the

Catholic king, I wrote, 'The Beauty of Angelica.'" Thus, amidst storms

and disasters, when his brother died in his arms, struck by a ball in a

skirmish with the Dutch at the very commencement of the expedition;

while the ships around them were a prey to winds, and waves, and the

enemy; and the fury of the violent tempests spread destruction around,

Lope wrapped himself in his imagination, and beguiled his sorrows and

anxieties by the pleasures of composition. "The Beauty of Angelica" is a

continuation of Ariosto's poem. The Italian leaves the heroine on her

road to Cathay, and Lope brings them to Spain. His tale is unconnected.

Carried away by Spanish diffuseness, he frames neither plot nor story,

but rambles on as his fancy leads. It opens with the marriage of Lido, a

king of Andalusia with Clorinarda, a daughter of the king of Fez, who,

meanwhile, loves Cardiloro, a son of Mandricardo and Doralice; a pair

familiar to all the readers of Ariosto. The unhappy bride dies of grief,

and her husband follows her to the tomb, leaving his kingdom to the most

beautiful, be that either man or woman. The judges sit in judgment, and

give their stupid opinions, on which Lope exclaims--

"O dotards! through your spectacles who pry,

And ask the measure of a lovely face;

Measure the influence of a woman's eye,

And ye may then I ween compute the space;

That intervenes between the earth and sky."[93]

Many candidates arrive,--the old and ugly and decrepit, leaving their

homes, and braving every danger,--to claim the reward of beauty. Among

them, but surpassing all in charms, Angelica and Medoro appear. Angelica

is described with the greatest minuteness,--brow, eyes, nose, ears, and

teeth are all depicted. But more beautiful than this sort of Mosaic

portraiture are the verses that portray her companion.

"Scarce twenty years had seen the lovely boy,

As ringlet locks and yellow down proclaim;

Fair was his height, and grave to gazers seemed

Those eyes, which where they turned with love and softness beamed."

The judges decide in favour of Angelica, and she and her husband are

crowned. But their beauty gives rise to many a passion in the bosoms of

others; and various are the incidents, brought about by enchantments and

other means, which for a time disunite the beautiful pair, who, at last,

discover their mistakes, and the poem ends with their happiness. This

work possesses little merit, except here and there in short passages;

but it is a singular specimen of Lope's power of composition, amidst

circumstances so foreign to the subject in hand.

[Sidenote: 1590.

Ætat.

28.]

On his return from the Armada, he quitted the career of arms, and

entered the service, first, of the marquis de Malpica, and soon after of

the count of Lemos, leaving him only on occasion of his second marriage

to donna Juana de Guardio, a lady of Madrid, of whom he thus speaks:--

"Who could have thought that I should find a wife,

When from that war I reached my native shore,

Sweet for the love which ruled her life,

Dear for the sorrows which she bore?

Such love which could endure through cold and hot,

Could only have been mine or Jacob's lot."[94]

The sorrows to which Lope alludes, we conjecture to have arisen from

straitened means. He brought out a vast quantity of plays at this time,

and received no scanty remuneration; still he was not risen to the

zenith of his fame, when on every side he received donations and

pensions. He was extravagant we know, and prodigality might easily

produce a gap between his expenses and his chance receipts as an author.

This view is strengthened by his dedication of his play "El Verdadero

Amante," The True Lover, to his little son Carlos. This was not

published till 1620, but must have been written long previous, as Carlos

died before (how long, we know not) 1609, and is dedicated to him _while

he was learning the rudiments of the Latin language._ He bids him follow

his studies without impeding them with poetry, because he who had

addicted himself to it was ill rewarded. He continues--"I possess only,

as you know, a poor house, with table and establishment in proportion,

and a small garden, whose flowers divert my cares and inspire me with

ideas. I have written 900 plays, and twelve volumes on various subjects

in prose and verse, so that the printed will never equal in quantity the

unprinted; and I have acquired enemies, critics, quarrels, envy,

reprehension, and cares; having lost precious time, and arrived nearly

at old age without leaving you any thing but this useless advice."

Notwithstanding this repining. Lord Holland is probably right in

supposing that the years of Lope's second marriage were the happiest of

his life, though, perhaps, he felt at the commencement some pecuniary

embarrassments. Through life he was extravagant, and on first setting

out as an author might easily be in debt; yet, as he rose in fame his

fortunes mended, and affection and content enshrined the family circle.

The period of his domestic happiness did not last long. At six years

old, his little son died; his wife soon followed her child to the tomb,

and Lope was left with two daughters.[95] From his own pen we give an

account of his wedded happiness, and his grief when his home again

became desolate. In the Eclogue to Claudio, he says:--

"I saw a group my board surround,

And sure to me, though poorly spread,

'T was rich with such fair objects crowned--

Dear bitter presents of my bed!

I saw them pay their tribute to the tomb,

And scenes so cheerful change to mourning and to gloom."

In addition to this affecting picture, he makes frequent mention of

these circumstances in his epistles, and we subjoin extracts, which we

are sure must interest the reader.

One of these epistles is addressed to doctor Mathias de Porras, who had

been appointed corregidor of the province of Canta in Peru. These

epistles are in verse; but as their length is great, the abstract made

from them might as well be in prose:--

Since you left me, Señor Doctor, and without dying went to the other

world, I have passed my life in melancholy solitude; the evils of my lot

increasing in proportion to the blessings of which you saw me deprived.

Did not my new office (of priest) give me breath, the prop of my years

would fall to the ground. O vain hopes! How strange are the roads that

life passes through, as each day we acquire new delusions!" He then goes

on to speak of his early loves and sorrows, and of the power of beauty,

and continues, "But the vicissitudes of a life of passion were then

over, and my heart was liberated from its importuning annoyances, when

each morning I saw the dear and sincere face of my sweet wife at my

side, and when Carlos--his cheeks all lilies and roses--won my soul by

his charming prattle. The boy gambolled about me as a young lamb in a

meadow at the morning hour. The half-formed words of his little tongue

were sentences for us, interpreted by our kisses. I gave thanks to

Eternal Wisdom, and content with such mornings after such dark nights, I

sometimes wept my vain hopes, and believed myself secure--not of

life--but of reserving this felicity. I then went to write a few lines,

having consulted my books. They called me to eat, but I often bade them

leave me, such was the attraction of study. Then bright as flowers and

pearls, Carlos entered to call me, and gave light to my eyes and

embraces to my heart. Sometimes he took me by the hand, and drew me to

the table beside his mother. There, doctor, without pomp, an honest and

liberal mediocrity gave us sufficing sustenance. But fierce Death

deprived me of this ease, this cure, this hope. I lived no longer to

behold that dear society which I imagined mine for ever. Then I disposed

my mind for the priesthood, that asylum might shelter and guard me.

The Muses were idle for a time, and I refrained from all things worldly,

and humbly attained the sacred stole."

Another epistle is written under the feigned name of Belardo, the

appellation he had assumed in his "Arcadia," to Amaryllis.[96] In this

he gives a sketch of portions of his life. He speaks of his early turn

for poetry and his predilection for study, and continues:--"Love, and

love ever speaks false, bade me incline to follow him. What then befell

me I now feel; but as I loved a beauty never to be mine, I had recourse

to study, and thus the poet destroyed the love that destroyed him.

Favoured by my stars, I learned several languages, and enriched my own

by the knowledge I gained through them. Twice I married; from which you

may gather that I was happy--for no one tries twice a painful thing. I

had a son whom my soul lived in. You will know by my elegy that this

light of my eyes was called Carlos. Six times did the sun retrocede,

equalling day and night, counting thus the time of his birth, when this

my sun lost its light. Then expired life that was the life of Jacinta.

How much better it had been that I had died, than that Carlos in his

very morning should encounter so long a night! Lope remained, if it be

Lope who now lives. Marcella at fifteen obliged me to offer her to God,

although, and you may believe me, though a father's love might be

supposed blind, she was neither foolish nor ugly. Feliciana showed me in

her words and eyes the image of her lost mother, who died in giving her

birth. Her virtues enforce tears, and time does not cure my sorrow. I

left the gaieties of secular life; I was ordained. Such is my life; and

my desires aspire to a good end only, without extravagant pretensions."

In his epistle to don Francisco de Herrera he enlarges on the vocation

of Marcella. "Marcella," he says, "the first care of my heart, thought

of marrying, and one evening she spoke freely to me of her betrothed. I,

seeing that it was prudent to examine her wish, since accident might

have swayed it, grew attentive; at the same time that I desired to avoid

shaking her intention if it were founded in the truth of her heart. But

her anxiety increasing each day, I resolved to give her the husband to

whom she aspired with so much love." He then explains the Son of God to

be her bridegroom--vows of chastity her nuptial benediction. He

describes the whole ceremony of her taking the veil. The marchioness de

la Tela was her godmother; the duke of Sesa and many other nobles being

present. Hortensio preached the sermon. "She asked me," he says, "leave

to conclude the marriage, and she whom I had loved, and whose lovely

person I had adorned more like a lover than a father, in gold and

silk--like a rose that fades and falls to pieces at the close of day,

losing the pomp of her crimson leaves--now sleeps upon rough straw, and

barefoot and ill clad sits at a poor table."

The dates of the various events of Lope's life are very uncertain, and

none more so than that of his second marriage. He mentions it as

happening soon after his return from the expedition to England. Yet he

speaks of taking orders soon after his wife's death, and he took orders

1609. The term of his second marriage, however, endured only for eight

years. It would therefore appear that several years elapsed after his

return to Madrid before he married a second time. As diligent a

researcher as M. Viardôt in old parish books and official documents,

would clear up this obscurity. As it is, we can only give the facts, as

we find them stated, obscurely.

The effect of his bereaved condition was, as has been mentioned, to

induce him to take vows, and be ordained. He prepared himself, by

retiring from gay society, assumed a priestly dress, served in

hospitals, and performed many acts of charity; and finally, visiting

Toledo, took orders, and said his first mass in a Carmelite church. He

entered a fraternity of priests dedicated to the performance of good

works and the assistance of the poor, and fulfilled his duties

zealously, so that he became named head chaplain, and was as generous as

conscientious in the exercise of his office. To his other sacred

employments he added that of being a familiar of the inquisition. His

piety, which was catholic and excessive, led to this; but it is a

painful circumstance, in our times especially, when we are told that he

presided over the procession of the confraternity of familiars of the

holy office, on the occasion of an _auto da fé_, when a relapsed

Lutheran was burned alive. We feel sure that Cervantes would never have

been led to a similar act.

Meanwhile his reputation as an author was rising to that height which it

afterwards reached. In 1598, the canonisation of St. Isidro, a native of

Madrid, was the occasion of prizes being given to the authors of verses

written in his honour. Each style of poetry gained its reward, but above

one could not be gained by the same person. Lope succeeded in the hymns;

but he had tried in all. He wrote a poem of ten cantos in short verse,

numberless sonnets and ballads, and two comedies. These were published

under the feigned name of Tomé de Burguillos, and are among the best of

Lope's compositions. Already his dramas were in vogue, and the public

were astonished by their number and excellence. In this year also he

published the "Arcadia," written long before. Afterwards he published

others of his younger productions; for it is singular that he printed

nothing while a very young man, and that he had established his

reputation by his plays before he deluged the world with his lyric and

epic poetry. The "Hermosura de Angelica" did not see light till 1604;

and thus was it with many other of his productions, which he wrote

probably at Valencia during his exile, and which when he found profit by

so doing, he bestowed on the public.

The reputation he attained awakened the enmity of rivals and critics.

When Cervantes published "Don Quixote," in 1605, Lope was risen high in

popular estimation; he was generally applauded--almost adored. The

abundance and facility of his verses, and the amiableness of his

character, were in part the occasion of this; but the eminent cause was

his theatre, which we delay considering, not too much to interrupt the

thread of his history, but whose originality, novelty, vivacity, and

adaptation to the Spanish taste, secured unparalleled success. Cervantes

did not feel the merits of his innovations, and he considered himself

also the unacknowledged originator of many of the improvements

attributed to Lope. We have seen in what Cervantes's dramatic

pretensions consisted--high wrought and impassioned scenes connected,

not by the intricacies of a methodical plot, but by the simple texture

of their causes and effects, such as we find in life itself. He felt

that he had written well; he was unwilling to acknowledge that Lope

wrote better, nor did he, as a master of the human heart, and as

presenting more affecting situations; but he did, as comprehending and

representing more to the life the manners and feelings of his day.

Cervantes easily perceived the faults of his rival; he discovered his

incongruities, and noted the vanity or cupidity which made him more

abundant than correct, and the currying to the depraved taste of the

times, through a desire of popularity. In short, Lope was not perfect,

but he had something that while he lived stood in the stead of

perfection--he hit the public taste; he supplied it with ever fresh and

ever delightful food; he pleased, he interested, he fascinated. To act

posterity, and judge coolly of his works, was an invidious task; and

though it was natural that a man so profound and sagacious as Cervantes

should be impelled so to do, yet, by attacking him and proving him in

the wrong, he could not weaken his influence, while he made an enemy.

There is a sonnet against Lope attributed to him, of which the point is

not acute; but it displays contempt for his pastorals and epics, and

sarcastically alludes to his superabundant fertility. However, it is

more than probable that Cervantes did not write this sonnet; for he

wrote in praise of Lope in other works, and it was unlike the noble

disposition of that single-hearted and excellent man to have

contradicted himself. Still less likely is it that Lope wrote the

answer. It is vulgarly abusive and ridiculously assuming: he calls

Cervantes the horse to Lope's carriage; bids him do Lope honour, or evil

will betide him; and sums up by saying that "Don Quixote" went about the

world in wrappers to parcels of spices. It looks more like the spurt of

an over-zealous disciple than of a man of Lope's judgment and

character.[97]

His war with Gongora was of a more grave description, and we defer

farther mention of it till in the life of Gongora we give some account

of his poetic system.

Meanwhile Lope rose higher and higher in the estimation of the public.

There is scarcely an example on record of similar popularity. Grandees,

nobles, ministers, prelates, scholars--all solicited his acquaintance.

Men came from distant lands to see him; women stood at their balconies

as he passed, to behold and applaud him. On all sides he received

presents; and we are even told that when he made a purchase, if he were

recognised, the seller refused payment. His name passed into a proverb;

it became a synonyme for the superlative degree,--a Lope diamond, a Lope

dinner, a Lope woman, a Lope dress, was the expression used to express

perfection in its kind. All this might well compensate for attacks; yet

as these were founded in truth, and he must sometimes have dreaded a

reaction of popularity, he felt at times nettled and uneasy.

[Sidenote: 1616.

Ætat.

54.]

His part was, however, warmly taken by his adherents. Their intolerance

was such that they gravely asserted that the author of the "Spongia,"

who had severely censured his works and accused him of ignorance of the

Latin language, deserved death for his heresy.[98]

His works were more numerous than can be imagined. Each year he gave

some new poem to the press; each month, and sometimes every week, he

brought out a play; and these at least were of recent composition,

though the former consisted frequently in the productions of his early

years, corrected and finished. He tried every species of writing, and

became celebrated in all. His hymns and sacred poems secured him the

respect of the clergy, and showed his zeal in the profession he had

embraced. When Philip IV. came to the crown, he immediately heaped new

honours on Lope; for Philip was a patron of the stage; and several plays

of considerable-merit, published as written "By a Wit of the Court" (Por

un Ingenio de esta Corte), are ascribed to him.

[Sidenote: 1621.

Ætat.

59.]

Lope published at this time his novels, imitated from Cervantes--whom he

graciously acknowledges to have displayed some grace and ease of style,

and whom he by no means succeeds in rivalling--and several poems--which

that they were ever read is a sort of miracle; and the Lope mania must

have been vehement indeed that could gift readers with patience for his

diffuseness.

Still the taste was genuine, (though it seems to us perverted), as is

proved by a rather dangerous experiment which he made. He published a

poem without his name, for the sake of trying the public taste. It

succeeded; and the favour with which his unacknowledged "Soliloquies on

God," were received must have inspired him with great reliance on his

own powers. The death of the unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots at this

time spread a very general sensation of pity for her and hatred for her

rival through Spain. Lope made it the subject of a poem, which he called

the Corona Tragica, which he dedicated to pope Urban VIII.; who thanked

him by a letter written in his own hand, and by the degree of doctor of

theology. This was the period of his greatest glory. Cardinal Barberini

followed him in the streets; the king stopped to look at him as he

passed; and crowds gathered round him whenever he appeared.

The quantity of his writings is incredible. It is calculated that he

printed one million three hundred thousand lines, and this, he says, is

a small part of what he wrote.

"The printed part, though far too large, is less

Than that which yet unprinted still remains."[99]

Among these it is asserted that 1800 plays and 400 sacramental dramas

have been printed. This account long passed as true. Lord Holland

detected its fallacy; and the author of the article in the Quarterly

follows up his calculations, and proves the absurdity of the account. He

himself says, in the preface to the "Arte de Hacer Comedias," that he

had brought out 483. There are extant 497. Some may be lost certainly,

but not so many as this computation would assume. Many of his pieces for

the theatre, indeed, consist of loas and entremeses, small pieces in

single acts, which may have been taken in to make up this number, but

which do not deserve to rank among plays.

With regard to the number of verses he wrote there is also exaggeration.

He says he often wrote five sheets a day; and the most extravagant

calculations have been made on this, as if he had written at this rate

from the day of his birth, till a month or two after his death. It is

evident, however, that the period when he wrote five sheets a day, and a

play in the twenty-four hours, was limited to a few years. With all this

he is doubtless, even in prolific Spain, the most prolific of writers,

and the most facile. Montalvan tells us, that when he was at Toledo, he

wrote fifteen acts in fifteen days, making five plays in a fortnight;

and he adds an anecdote that fell under his own experience. Roque de

Figueroa, a writer for the theatre of Madrid, found himself on an

occasion without any new play, and the doors of his theatre were obliged

to be shut--a circumstance which shows the vast appetite for novelty

that had arisen, and the cause wherefore Lope was induced to write so

much, since the public rather desired what was new than what was good.

But to return to Montalvan's story. Being carnival, Figueroa was eager

to open his theatre, and Lope and Montalvan agreed to write a play

together; and they brought out the "Tercera Orden de San Francisco,"

dividing the labour. Lope took the first act and Montalvan the second,

which they completed in two days; and the third they partitioned between

them, eight pages for each; and as the weather was bad, Montalvan

remained all night in Lope's house. The scholar finding that he could

not equal his master in readiness, wished to surpass him by force of

industry, and rising at two in the morning, finished his part by eleven.

He then went to seek Lope, and found him in the garden, occupied by an

orange-tree, which had been frost-bitten in the night. Montalvan asked

how his verses speeded? Lope replied, "I began to write at five, and

finished the act an hour ago. I breakfasted on some rashers of bacon,

and wrote an epistle of fifty triplets, and having watered ray garden, I

am not a little tired." On this he read his act and his triplets, to the

wonder and admiration of his hearer.

He gained considerable profit by his writings. The presents made him by

various nobles amounted to a large sum. His plays and autos, and his

various publications, brought him vast receipts. He had received a dowry

with each wife. The king bestowed several pensions and chaplaincies. The

pope gifted him with various preferments. With all this he was not rich;

his absolute income apparently amounted to only 1500 ducats, and profuse

charities and prodigal generosity emptied his purse as fast as it was

filled. He spent much on church festivals; he was hospitable to his

friends, extravagant in his purchase of books and pictures, and

munificent in his charities, so that when he died he left little behind

him. We cannot censure this disposition; indeed it is inherent in

property gained as Lope gained it, to be lost as soon as won; for being

received irregularly, it superinduces irregular habits of expense. That

Lope, the observed of all, he to whom nature and fortune had been so

prodigal, should have been grasping and avaricious would have grated on

our feelings. We hear of his profusion with pleasure: the well-watered

soil, if generous in its nature, gives forth abundant vegetation; the

receiver of so much showed the nobility of his mind in freely imparting

to others the wealth so liberally bestowed on him.

In his epistles and other poems, Lope gives very pleasing pictures of

the tranquillity of his life as he advanced in age. Addressing don Fray

Placido de Tosantos, he says: "I write you these verses, from where no

annoyance troubles me. My little garden inspires fancies drawn from

fruits and flowers, and the contemplation of natural objects." In the

epistle before quoted to Amaryllis, he says, "My books are my life, and

humble content my actions--unenvious of the riches of others. The

confusion sometimes annoys me; but, though I live in Madrid, I am

farther from the court than if I were in Muscovy or Numidia. Sometimes I

look upon myself as a dwarf, sometimes as a giant, and I regard both

views with indifference; and am neither sad when I lose, nor joyful when

I gain. The man who governs himself well, despises the praise or blame

of this short though vile captivity. I esteem the sincere and pure

friendship of those who are virtuous and wise; for without virtue, no

friendship is secure; and if sometimes my lips complain of ingratitude,

this is no crime." To Francisco de Rioja he writes: "My garden is small;

it contains a few trees, and more flowers, a trained vine, an orange

tree, and a rose hush. Two young nightingales dwell in it, and two

buckets of water form a fountain, playing among stones and coloured

shells." "My hopes are fallen," he says in another place, "and my

fortune shuts herself up with me in a nook, filled with books and

flowers, and is neither favourable nor inimical to me." In the "Huerto

Deshecho," or Destroyed Garden, he gives further testimony of his love

for his garden, which had just been laid waste by a tempest. He thus

addresses his fair retreat:--

"Dear solace of my weary sorrow,

Unhappy garden, thou who slept,

Foreseeing not the stormy morrow,

The while the tears that night had wept,

Morning drank up, and all the flowers awoke,

And I the pen that told my thoughts up took."

and he goes on bitterly to grieve over the desolation the storm had

made.

If there is a touch of melancholy, and a half-checked repining in any of

these quotations, I do not see that he is to be reprehended. Covered

with renown and gifted with riches--it is said, who can be happy, if

Lope de Vega were not? But we must remember that neither wealth nor fame

are in themselves happiness. Lope had through death lost the dearest

objects of life; in a spirit of piety he had shut himself out from

forming others. His heart was the source of his disquiet--but he had

recourse to natural objects for its cure, and often found repose among

them. That his disposition was amiable and his temper placid, there is

ample proof. He says of himself, "I naturally love those who love me,

and I cannot hate those who hate me:" and we may believe him: for this

is a virtue a man never boasts of without possessing it; to a nature

formed to hate and to revenge, hatred and revenge seem natural and

noble. That he was vain is evident: his sort of character, vivacious,

kindly and expansive, tends to vanity. He would have been more than man

not to have been vain, flattered as he was. Lord Holland mentions his

complaints of poverty, obscurity, and neglect, in the preface to the

"Peregrino," but they do not amount to much. He certainly writes in a

very ill temper, nettled, it would appear, by some plays having appeared

with his name, which were not written by him. There is more of complaint

in his poem of the "Huerto Deshecho," one of the most elegant and

pleasing of his poems. Alluding to his love of study, he says, "Though

that be a work of praise, it was but the fatal prelude of the unhappy

result of my hopes, since, in conclusion, my verses were given to the

winds. Strong philosophy, and retired, but contented old age animate me

on my way. If I do not sing, it is enough that others sing what I

deplore--devouring time destroys towers of vanity and mountains of gold;

one only thing, divine grace, suffers no change."

It is strange, indeed, that he should say that he had given his verses

to the winds--but he says himself,

"No he visto alegre de su bien ninguno--"

I ne'er saw man content with what he had.

Thus he passed many years, living according to the dictates of his

conscience, with moderation and virtue; unmindful of life, but deeply

mindful of death, so that he was ever prepared to meet it. His piety

indeed was tinged with superstition; but he was a catholic and a

Spaniard, and dwelt fervently on the means of satisfying the justice of

God in this world, so as to secure a greater stock of happiness in the

next. Charitable he was to prodigality; and as he grew old he used his

pen on religious subjects only, repenting somewhat of his labours for

the stage.

[Sidenote: 1635.

Ætat.

73.]

His health was good, till, within a very short time before he died, he

fell into a state of hypochondria, which clouded the close of his

existence.[100] His friend, Alonzo Perez de Montalvan, seeing him thus

melancholy, asked him to dine with him and a relation, on the day of

Transfiguration, which was the 6th of August. After dinner, as all three

were conversing on several subjects, he said, that such was the

depression of spirits by which he was afflicted that his heart failed

him in his body, and that he prayed God to ease him by shortening his

life. On which, Juan Perez de Montalvan (his biographer, friend, and

pupil) remarked, "Do not feel thus, I trust in God and in your healthy

looks, that this indisposition will pass away, and that we shall see you

again in the health you enjoyed twenty years ago." To which Lope replied

with some emotion, "Ah, doctor, would to God, I were well over it!"

His presentiments were verified: Lope was soon to die; this his feelings

foretold, and so prepared him for the event. On the 18th of the same

month he rose very early, recited the divine service, said mass in his

oratory, watered his garden, and then shut himself up in his study. At

mid-day he felt chilled, either from his work among his flowers, or from

having, as his servants averred, used the discipline on himself with

severity, as was proved by the recent marks of blood being found on the

discipline, and staining the walls of the room. Lope was indeed a rigid

catholic, as this circumstance proves, and also his refusing to eat any

thing but fish, though he had a dispensation to eat meat, and it was

ordered him during his indisposition. In the evening he attended a

scientific meeting, but being suddenly taken ill, he was obliged to

return home. The physicians now gathered round with their prescriptions;

and it happened that doctor Juan de Negrete, the king's physician,

passed through the street, and he was told that Lope de Vega was

indisposed, on which he visited him, not as a doctor, as he had not been

called in, but as a friend. He soon perceived his danger, and intimated

that it were better that he should take the sacrament, with the usual

excuse, that it was a relief to any one in danger, and could only

benefit him if he lived. "If you advise this," said Lope "there must be

a necessity;" and that same night he received the sacrament. Extreme

unction followed but two hours after. He then called for his daughter,

and blessed her, and took leave of his friends as one about to make so

long a journey; conversing concerning the interests of those left

behind, with kindness and piety. He told Montalvan, that virtue was true

fame, and that he would exchange all the applause he had received, for

the consciousness of having fulfilled one more virtuous deed; and

followed up these counsels with prayers and acts of catholic piety. He

passed the night uneasily, and expired the next day, weak and worn, but

alive to a sense of religion and friendship to the last.

His funeral took place the third day after his death, and was conducted

with splendour by the duke of Sesa, the most munificent of his patrons,

whom he had named his executor. Don Luis de Usategui, his son-in-law,

and a nephew, went as mourners, accompanied by the duke of Sesa and many

other grandees and nobles. The clergy of all classes flocked in crowds.

The procession attracted a multitude; the windows and balconies were

thronged, and the magnificence was such, that a woman going by,

exclaimed, "This is a Lope funeral!" ignorant that it was the funeral of

Lope himself, and so applying his name as expressive of the excess of

all that was splendid. The church was filled with lamentation when at

last he was deposited in the tomb. For eight days the religious

ceremonies were kept up, and on the ninth, a sermon was preached in his

honour, when the church was again crowded with the first people of

Spain.

By his will, his daughter, donna Feliciana de Vega, married to don Luis

de Usategui, inherited the moderate fortune he left behind. He added in

his will a few legacies of pictures, books, and reliques to his friends.

In person Lope de Vega was tall, thin, and well made; dark complexioned,

and of a prepossessing countenance; his nose aquiline; his eyes lively

and clear; his beard black and thick. He had acquired much agility, and

was capable of great personal exertion. He always enjoyed excellent

health, being moderate in his tastes, and regular in his habits.

To gather Lope's character from the events of his life, and his accounts

of himself, it may be assumed that while young his disposition had all

the vivacity of the south--that his passions were ardent, his feelings

enthusiastic--that he was heedless and imprudent perhaps, but always

amiable and true. Generous to prodigality--pious to bigotry--patriotic

to injustice, he was given to extremes, yet he did not possess the

higher qualities, the cheerful fortitude, and fearless temper of

Cervantes. Time and sorrow softened in after times some portions of his

character; but still in his garden, among his flowers and books, he was

vivacious, perhaps petulant (for his complaints of neglect are to be

attributed to petulancy rather than to a repining temper); warm-hearted,

charitable and social, vain he might also be, for that we all are. The

activity of his mind resembled more a spontaneous fertility of soil,

than the exertion of labour: "plays and poetry were the flowers of his

plain," as he says: and this seems an unexaggerated picture of the ease

with which he composed. We need scarcely allude to the hypochondria that

darkened his last hours, as Montalvan seems to mention it as a mere

precursor of death. If it were more, it is only another proof that the

mind must not work too hard, while it has this fragile body for its

instrument and prop.

In drawing up Lope's character, Montalvan[101] praises him as agreeable

and unpresuming in conversation. He was zealous in the affairs of

others, careless of his own; kind to his servants, courteous, gallant

and hospitable, and exceedingly well bred. His temper, he says, was

never ruffled but by those who took snuff before company; with the grey

who dyed their locks; with men who, born of women, spoke ill of the sex;

with priests who believed in gipsies; and with persons who without

intentions of marriage asked others their age. Good taste as well as

good feeling is displayed in most of these slight intimations of

character: it is to be cleanly to dislike to see snuff taken; it is

being unusually just always to speak well of women.

As no writer ever surpassed him in quantity, so it will be impossible to

give a full account of his works. We have already mentioned

several:--His "Arcadia," the production of his youth, which may be

considered the best of such of his writings as are not dramas;--"The

Beauty of Angelica," is chiefly remarkable as showing how superior the

Italian romantic poets are to any that Spain has produced. The

"Dragontea" is another poem of which Sir Francis Drake is the hero, and

the poet has not been sparing of vituperation. It is founded on the last

expedition of Drake, when, to revenge the armada, and to inflict a deep

blow on the Spanish power, injured by the destruction of its fleet, he

scoured the Spanish coast, and did immense injury to the shipping. The

poem of Lope is very patriotic; the hatred felt in Spain for the English

queen was furious and personal; the marriage of Philip II. with bloody

queen Mary, having caused much intercourse between the two nations, and

the accession of Elizabeth being the signal of our island again falling

off from the Roman Catholic faith; all therefore that could be imagined

of horror for her heresy and wickedness, and that of her ministers,

animated the soul, and directed the pen of Lope.

The "Jerusalem" was his next attempt at an epic; of this Richard Cœur

de Lion is the hero, though the English of course are rendered

subordinate to the Spaniards. We have not read it. Lord Holland

pronounces it a failure; and the critic of the Quarterly observes, "A

failure indeed it is, and a total one; the plan, when compared to that

of the 'Angelica' is as 'confusion worse confounded,'--it has neither

beginning, middle, nor end; neither method, nor purpose, nor proportion;

and many of the parts might be extirpated, or, what is more

extraordinary, might change places without any injury to the whole. But

there is more vigour of thought in it, and more felicity of expression

than in any other of his longer poems." And thus Spaniards alone write;

with them a poem resembles a pathless jungle: you come to a magnificent

tree, a wild and balmy breathing flower, a mossy pathway, and clear

bubbling fountain; and beside these objects you linger a moment, but

soon you plunge again among tangled underwood and uncultivated

interminable wilds. When Lope takes a subject in hand he does not follow

it up as a traveller who has a bourne in view; but he scrambles up every

mountain, visits every waterfall, and plunges into every cavern; and

like a tourist without a guide in an unknown country, he often loses his

way, and often leads his reader a wild chase after objects, which, when

reached, were not worth visiting.

This prodigality of verse, which caused him to be named the Potosi of

rhymes, was indulged in to the utmost, when, on the canonisation of St.

Isidro, he entered into the lists to win the prize instituted for poems

in celebration of the event. Isidro had been elevated into a saint at

the solicitation of Philip III., who had been cured of a fever by the

body of the defunct miracle-maker being brought to him. Every Spanish

poet of the age, and they were all but innumerable, entered the lists.

There are two volumes of Lope's productions, some in his own name,

consisting of a sort of epic, composed in quintillas, or stanzas of five

short lines each, a measure more suited to the genius of the Spanish

language than longer ones; and a play, and a vast quantity of lyrics

given under the name of Burguillos. These were all burlesque; but

subsequently Lope continued to adopt the name, and published several

poems under it, among others, the "Gatomaquia, or War of Cats," a mock

heroic, which is a great favourite in Spain. The "Corona Tragica," a

poem written on the death of Mary, queen of Scots, brought him an

increase of reputation: it is bigoted to the excess of blind Spanish

inquisitorial bigotry, and, except in a few passages, does not rise

above mediocrity. It is impossible to give even a cursory account of

Lope's lyrics and sacred poems. The best of the former are to be found

in the "Arcadia" and the "Dorotea."

But it is not on any of these productions that the reputation of Lope

really rests. That was founded on his theatre, and on that it must

continue to subsist. There he showed himself master of his art:

original, fecund, national, universal, true and spirited, he produced a

form of dramatic writing that, to this day, rules the stage of every

country of the world.

It was with considerable difficulty that the theatre established itself

at all in Spain, the church setting itself against theatrical

representations. This prejudice has continued even to modern days. No

Spanish monarch since Philip IV. has entered a theatre; and Philip V.,

when he found in Farinelli the solace of his painful distemper, not only

never heard him in a theatre, but caused him to give up the public

stage, when he was admitted to sing privately before him. In the early

day of which we are writing, the clerical outcry was furious, and the

drama only became tolerated by making over the theatres to two religious

corporations, one a hospital, and the other of flagellants; and the

wickedness of the stage was permitted[102] for the sake of the benefits

to charity and religion to result therefrom. The sites of the theatres

then consisted of two open court yards, _corrales_--corral is the

Spanish term for farmyard, or any enclosure for cattle, and long

continued to be synonymous with a theatre. The representations took

place at first in the open air. Alberto Gavasa, an Italian, who brought

over a company of buffoons, was enabled by the greatness of his success

to cover his corral with an awning, the court yard itself was paved and

provided with movable benches, and called the _patio_, or pit, which no

women ever entered. The grandees sat looking out of the windows of the

houses that looked into the court yard, which government appropriated

and distributed on this occasion. A prince or very great man having a

room allotted to him, and minor gentlemen a single window, and this

primitive arrangement was we are told the origin of our boxes. In

addition, there were several galleries, into some of which women only

were admitted. It was called the _cazuela_, and open to all classes.

Yet even this pious dedication of the proceeds of the theatre did not

silence the clergy. In 1600, Philip III. ordered the subject to be

referred to a junta of theologians. This council established certain

conditions on which the performances were to be tolerated, the principal

being that women were not to act, nor to mingle with the audience. It

was at this time, and with this licence that Lope's career was run. He

alone furnished all Spain with plays; and so great a favourite was he,

that none but his were received with any approbation. On the accession

of Philip IV., a man of pleasure, the theatre was more frequented than

ever. Yet still, it maybe observed, the clergy nourished a prejudice

against it, censured Lope for being the occasion of much sin, and caused

him on his death bed to express his regret at having written for the

stage, and to promise that if he recovered he would do so no more.

Cervantes boasts of the improvements he occasioned in theatrical

representations. Still his plays, though they have great merit from the

passion and poetry they display, are inartificial in their construction,

while Lope on the contrary, became popular from the admirable nature of

his plots. His dramas are praised by a Spanish critic for "the purity

and sweetness of his language, for the vivacity of his dialogue, for the

propriety of many of the characters, for his invention, his exact

description of national manners, for his serious passages, his merriment

and his wit." There is often something barbaric in his carelessness of

time and place, and also in the hinging on of his incidents: still the

plot was preserved carefully throughout, and the catastrophe showed the

intention of the author to have been always in his mind, even when he

most seemed to swerve from it. The number of plays that Lope wrote has

been alluded to, and is really astonishing: there is something of

sameness, perhaps, at the bottom of all, but this is joined to

prodigious variety and novelty within the circle by which his invention

is circumscribed. He says himself--

"Should I the titles now relate

Of plays my endless labour bore,

Well might you doubt, the list so great,

Such reams of paper scribbled o'er;

Plots, imitations, scenes, and all the rest,

To verse reduced, in flowers of rhetoric drest.

The number of my fables told

Would seem the greatest of them all;

For strange, of dramas you behold

Full fifteen hundred mine I call,

And full an hundred times--within a day,

Passed from my muse, upon the stage, a play."

And so entirely did he possess the ear and favour of the audience, that

many a play of which he was innocent was brought out under his name, and

thus obtained applause.

The causes of his success are easily discovered. The Spaniards had

hitherto wanted a national literature. Their poetry and their pastorals

did not express the heroism, the bigotry, the tenacious honour and

violent prejudices that formed their character. Their ballads did, and

so did the romances of chivalry; but the latter had become mere

imitations, and while they echoed some of the sentiments they

entertained, did not mirror their manners. It was like a new creation

when the poetic genius of Spain embodied itself in the drama, and under

the guise of tragedy and comedy, each romantic, made visible to an

audience the ideal of their prejudices and passions, their virtues and

vices; and these, in connection with a story that engaged their interest

and warmed their hearts with sympathy.

The plays of Lope were either romantic tragedies, or plays of la Capa y

Espada, of the sword and cloak, sometimes tragic and sometimes comic,

but which were founded on the manners of the day. Of course there is a

great deal of killing and slaying, but none of the horrors that startle

the reader of Titus Andronicus, and other English tragedies of that

period.

The point of honour, loyalty, love, and jealousy, form the standard

groundwork of the dramas of Lope. Lord Holland has analysed the "Star of

Seville," in which the interest depends on an affianced lover killing

the brother of his betrothed at the instance of the king, and then

refusing to betray his royal master's secret. Love and jealousy take

singular forms. It was the custom of the lover to watch beneath the

barred windows of the house of his lady, and she, if she favoured him,

descended and conversed with him from her casement. They never hesitate

to acknowledge their love, but it must never be suspected by others.

Were it known that a cavalier were thus favoured, the relations of the

lady would at once assassinate him, and stab her or shut her up in a

convent. Yet when the lovers have escaped these dangers, they marry, and

at the sound of wedlock the honour of the family is secured; the injury,

to be so mortally avenged, is no longer an injury, and all is well and

happy. If a husband is jealous, it is not that he doubts the fidelity of

his wife, or even her attachment, but that she has been placed in a

situation which might have led to dishonour. Others know this, and she

must expiate the fault with her life. In the "Certain for the Doubtful,"

a lady wishing to dissuade the king from marrying her, confesses that

his brother, who is his rival, had once kissed her without her

permission. The king instantly resolves to have him assassinated, since

he cannot marry the lady till his brother's death has freed her from the

dishonour that must accrue, while the perpetrator of such an act lives.

He says at the same time "I know that there is no reality in what you

tell me, but, although this strange incident be a falsehood invented for

the purpose of inducing me not to marry you, it suffices that it has

been said, to force me to revenge it. If love makes me in any manner

give credit to your story--Henriquez shall die, and I marry his widow;

for then, if what you tell me shall be discovered, we shall neither of

us be dishonoured; for you will be the widow of this kiss, as others are

of a husband." Accordingly assassins are commissioned to waylay his

brother. Meanwhile Henriquez and the lady marry, and the king seeing the

evil without remedy, and his honour safe, pardons the lovers.

Schlegel observes, "Honour, love, and jealousy are uniformly the

motives: the plot arises out of their daring and noble collision, and is

not purposely instigated by knavish deception. Honour is always an ideal

principle, for it rests, as I have elsewhere shown, on that higher

morality which consecrates principles without regard to consequences:

the honour of the women consists in loving only one man, of pure,

unspotted honour, and loving him with perfect purity: inviolable secrecy

is required till a lawful union permits it to be publicly declared. The

power of jealousy, always alive, and always breaking out in a dreadful

manner,--not like that of eastern countries, a jealousy of possession,

but of the slightest emotions of the heart, and its most imperceptible

demonstrations, serves to ennoble love. In tragedies, this jealousy

causes honour to become a hostile destiny for him who cannot satisfy it,

without either annihilating his own felicity, or becoming even a

criminal."

Schlegel, in his hatred of the French, espouses with too much warmth,

and elevates too highly the nobleness of the passions on which the

interest of the Spanish drama is founded. Where jealousy is the main

spring of every action, there is little tenderness; however, it is in

the comedies that this passion displays itself in the worst light. In

tragedies, death, hovering over the scene, gives dignity and elevation

to that which otherwise must seem the excess of self-love. The comedies

present a tissue of intrigues and embroglios; but these are arranged

with so much art, carried on with so much spirit, and aided by sparkling

and natural dialogue, that it is impossible not to be amused, and even

interested.

To these subjects are added plays in which religion is the master

passion, where Catholicism is raised to the height which makes its

assumed truth a justification for the worst crimes; and the vengeance

which Moor or Jew pursue for infinite injuries, be considered a crime to

be expiated by a cruel death. In the same way, the point of honour led

to falsehood and dishonourable actions, all of which were considered

venial, as founded on, or tending to, a lofty aim. Even in the lighter

comedies, there is a dangerous and ticklish sense of honour always on

the alert to create danger, and enliven the interest.

Lope also wrote many sacred dramas and Autos Sacramentales. Some of

these are allegorical; others founded on the lives of the saints. God

Almighty, the Virgin, the Saviour, and Satan are among his dramatis

personæ. But in this species of writing he was far surpassed by

Calderon. It required sublimity to give a proper tone to such subjects,

and to this quality Lope cannot pretend. His _entremeses_ or interludes,

farces they may be called, are full of merriment; his vast facility in

inventing plots enabled him to bestow a subject that might easily be

drawn out into a comedy of five, on a piece of one act. French and

English writers have consulted him as a mine. In him originated also the

introduction of the Grazioso, or jester--a clown who makes ludicrous

observations on what is going on, and turning tragic sentiment into

burlesque, acts as censor upon the motives and actions of the

personages, and often disturbs the current of interest excited; but

often also the sprightly wit he thus introduces, relieves the monotony

of passion on stilts, and he is always a convenient personage in

explaining away a difficulty, and disclosing a secret.

Lope, of course, wholly disregards unity of time and place. The

incongruities of his plots are manifold. Success, popular success, was

what he aimed at, and he gained it; but he was aware of the barbarism of

many of his dramas, and has himself warmly censured his plays. In his

"Arte de hacer Comedias" he says[103]:--

"I, doomed to write, the public taste to hit,

Resume the barbarous dress 'twas vain to quit:

I lock up every rule before I write,

Plautus and Jerome drive from out my sight,

Lest rage should teach those injured wits to join,

And their dumb books cry shame on works like mine.

To vulgar standards then I square my play,

Writing at ease, for, since the public pay,

'Tis just methinks we by their compass steer,

And write the nonsense that they love to hear:"