CHAPTER V.
Alfonso the Eleventh. — Treatise on Hunting. — Poetical Chronicle. — Beneficiary of Ubeda. — Archpriest of Hita; his Life, Works, and Character. — Rabbi Don Santob. — La Doctrina Christiana. — A Revelation. — La Dança General. — Poem on Joseph. — Ayala; his Rimado de Palacio. — Characteristics of Spanish Literature thus far.
The reign of Alfonso the Eleventh was full of troubles, and the unhappy monarch himself died at last of the plague, while he was besieging Gibraltar, in 1350. Still, that letters were not forgotten in it we know, not only from the example of Don John Manuel, already cited, but from several others which should not be passed over.
The first is a prose treatise on Hunting, in three books, written under the king’s direction, by his Chief-huntsmen, who were then among the principal persons of the court. It consists of little more than an account of the sort of hounds to be used, their diseases and training, with a description of the different places where game was abundant, and where sport for the royal amusement was to be had. It is of small consequence in itself, but was published by Argote de Molina, in the time of Philip the Second, with a pleasant addition by the editor, containing curious stories of lion-hunts and bull-fights, fitting it to the taste of his own age. In style, the original work is as good as the somewhat similar treatise of the Marquis of Villena, on the Art of Carving, written a hundred years later; and, from the nature of the subject, it is more interesting.[120]
The next literary monument attributed to this reign would be important, if we had the whole of it. It is a chronicle, in the ballad style, of events which happened in the time of Alfonso the Eleventh, and commonly passes under his name. It was found, hidden in a mass of Arabic manuscripts, by Diego de Mendoza, who attributed it, with little ceremony, to “a secretary of the king”; and it was first publicly made known by Argote de Molina, who thought it written by some poet contemporary with the history he relates. But only thirty-four stanzas of it are now known to exist; and these, though admitted by Sanchez to be probably anterior to the fifteenth century, are shown by him not to be the work of the king, and seem, in fact, to be less ancient in style and language than that critic supposes them to be.[121] They are in very flowing Castilian, and their tone is as spirited as that of most of the old ballads.
Two other poems, written during the reign of one of the Alfonsos, as their author declares,—and therefore almost certainly during that of Alfonso the Eleventh, who was the last of his name,—are also now known in print only by a few stanzas, and by the office of their writer, who styles himself “a Beneficiary of Ubeda.” The first, which consists, in the manuscript, of five hundred and five strophes in the manner of Berceo, is a life of Saint Ildefonso; the last is on the subject of Saint Mary Magdalen. Both would probably detain us little, even if they had been published entire.[122]
We turn, therefore, without further delay, to Juan Ruiz, commonly called the Archpriest of Hita; a poet who is known to have lived at the same period, and whose works, both from their character and amount, deserve especial notice. Their date can be ascertained with a good degree of exactness. In one of the three early manuscripts in which they are extant, some of the poems are fixed at the year 1330, and some, by the two others, at 1343. Their author, who seems to have been born at Alcalá de Henares, lived much at Guadalaxara and Hita, places only five leagues apart, and was imprisoned by order of the Archbishop of Toledo between 1337 and 1350; from all which it may be inferred, that his principal residence was Castile, and that he flourished in the reign of Alfonso the Eleventh; that is, in the time of Don John Manuel, and a very little later.[123]
His works consist of nearly seven thousand verses; and although, in general, they are written in the four-line stanza of Berceo, we find occasionally a variety of measure, tone, and spirit, before unknown in Castilian poetry; the number of their metrical forms, some of which are taken from the Provençal, being reckoned not less than sixteen.[124] The poems, as they have come to us, open with a prayer to God, composed apparently at the time of the Archpriest’s imprisonment; when, as one of the manuscripts sets forth, most of his works were written.[125] Next comes a curious prose prologue, explaining the moral purpose of the whole collection, or rather endeavouring to conceal the immoral tendency of the greater part of it. And then, after somewhat more of prefatory matter, follow, in quick succession, the poems themselves, very miscellaneous in their subjects, but ingeniously connected. The entire mass, when taken together, fills a volume of respectable size.[126]
It is a series of stories, that seem to be sketches of real events in the Archpriest’s own life; sometimes mingled with fictions and allegories, that may, after all, be only veils for other facts; and sometimes speaking out plainly, and announcing themselves as parts of his personal history.[127] In the foreground of this busy scene figures the very equivocal character of his female messenger, the chief agent in his love affairs, whom he boldly calls Trota-conventos, because the messages she carries are so often to or from monasteries and nunneries.[128] The first lady-love to whom the poet sends her is, he says, well taught,—mucho letrada,—and her story is illustrated by the fables of the Sick Lion visited by the other Animals, and of the Mountain bringing forth a Mouse. All, however, is unavailing. The lady refuses to favor his suit; and he consoles himself, as well as he can, with the saying of Solomon, that all is vanity and vexation of spirit.[129]
In the next of his adventures, a false friend deceives him and carries off his lady. But still he is not discouraged.[130] He feels himself to be drawn on by his fate, like the son of a Moorish king, whose history he then relates; and, after some astrological ruminations, declares himself to be born under the star of Venus, and inevitably subject to her control. Another failure follows; and then Love comes in person to visit him and counsels him in a series of fables, which are told with great ease and spirit. The poet answers gravely. He is offended with Don Amor for his falsehood, charges him with being guilty, either by implication or directly, of all the seven deadly sins, and fortifies each of his positions with an appropriate apologue.[131]
The Archpriest now goes to Doña Venus, who, though he knew Ovid, is represented as the wife of Don Amor; and, taking counsel of her, is successful. But the story he relates is evidently a fiction, though it may be accommodated to the facts of the poet’s own case. It is borrowed from a dialogue or play, written before the year 1300, by Pamphylus Maurianus or Maurilianus, and long attributed to Ovid; but the Castilian poet has successfully given to what he adopted the coloring of his own national manners. All this portion, which fills above a thousand lines, is somewhat free in its tone; and the Archpriest, alarmed at himself, turns suddenly round and adds a series of severe moral warnings and teachings to the sex, which he as suddenly breaks off, and, without any assigned reason, goes to the mountains near Segovia. But the month in which he makes his journey is March; the season is rough; and several of his adventures are any thing but agreeable. Still he preserves the same light and thoughtless air; and this part of his history is mingled with spirited pastoral songs in the Provençal manner, called “Cántigas de Serrana,” as the preceding portions had been mingled with fables, which he calls “Enxiemplos,” or stories.[132]
A shrine, much frequented by the devout, is near that part of the Sierra where his journeyings lay; and he makes a pilgrimage to it, which he illustrates with sacred hymns, just as he had before illustrated his love-adventures with apologues and songs. But Lent approaches, and he hurries home. He is hardly arrived, however, when he receives a summons in form from Doña Quaresma (Madam Lent) to attend her in arms, with all her other archpriests and clergy, in order to make a foray, like a foray into the territory of the Moors, against Don Carnaval and his adherents. One of these allegorical battles, which were in great favor with the Trouveurs and other metre-mongers of the Middle Ages, then follows, in which figure Don Tocino (Mr. Bacon) and Doña Cecina (Mrs. Hung-Beef), with other similar personages. The result, of course, since it is now the season of Lent, is the defeat and imprisonment of Don Carnaval; but when that season closes, the allegorical prisoner necessarily escapes, and, raising anew such followers as Mr. Lunch and Mr. Breakfast, again takes the field, and is again triumphant.[133]
Don Carnaval now unites himself to Don Amor, and both appear in state as emperors. Don Amor is received with especial jubilee; clergy and laity, friars, nuns, and jongleurs, going out in wild procession to meet and welcome him.[134] But the honor of formally receiving his Majesty, though claimed by all, and foremost by the nuns, is granted only to the poet. To the poet, too, Don Amor relates his adventures of the preceding winter at Seville and Toledo, and then leaves him to go in search of others. Meanwhile, the Archpriest, with the assistance of his cunning agent, Trota-conventos, begins a new series of love intrigues, even more freely mingled with fables than the first, and ends them only by the death of Trota-conventos herself, with whose epitaph the more carefully connected portion of the Archpriest’s works is brought to a conclusion. The volume contains, however, besides this portion, several smaller poems on subjects as widely different as the “Christian’s Armour” and the “Praise of Little Women,” some of which seem related to the main series, though none of them have any apparent connection with each other.[135]
The tone of the Archpriest’s poetry is very various. In general, a satirical spirit prevails in it, not unmingled with a quiet humor. This spirit often extends into the gravest portions; and how fearless he was, when he indulged himself in it, a passage on the influence of money and corruption at the court of Rome leaves no doubt.[136] Other parts, like the verses on Death, are solemn, and even sometimes tender; while yet others, like the hymns to the Madonna, breathe the purest spirit of Catholic devotion; so that, perhaps, it would not be easy, in the whole body of Spanish literature, to find a volume showing a greater variety in its subjects, or in the modes of managing and exhibiting them.[137]
The happiest success of the Archpriest of Hita is to be found in the many tales and apologues which he has scattered on all sides to illustrate the adventures that constitute a framework for his poetry, like that of the “Conde Lucanor” or the “Canterbury Tales.” Most of them are familiar to us, being taken from the old store-houses of Æsop and Phædrus, or rather from the versions of these fabulists common in the earliest Northern French poetry.[138] Among the more fortunate of his very free imitations is the fable of the Frogs who asked for a King from Jupiter, that of the Dog who lost by his Greediness the Meat he carried in his Mouth, and that of the Hares who took Courage when they saw the Frogs were more timid than themselves.[139] A few of them have a truth, a simplicity, and even a grace, which have rarely been surpassed in the same form of composition; as, for instance, that of the City Mouse and the Country Mouse, which, if we follow it from Æsop through Horace to La Fontaine, we shall nowhere find better told than it is by the Archpriest.[140]
What strikes us most, however, and remains with us longest after reading his poetry, is the natural and spirited tone that prevails over every other. In this he is like Chaucer, who wrote a little later in the same century. Indeed, the resemblance between the two poets is remarkable in some other particulars. Both often sought their materials in the Northern French poetry; both have that mixture of devotion and a licentious immorality, much of which belonged to their age, but some of it to their personal character; and both show a wide knowledge of human nature, and a great happiness in sketching the details of individual manners. The original temper of each made him satirical and humorous; and each, in his own country, became the founder of some of the forms of its popular poetry, introducing new metres and combinations, and carrying them out in a versification which, though generally rude and irregular, is often flowing and nervous, and always natural. The Archpriest has not, indeed, the tenderness, the elevation, or the general power of Chaucer; but his genius has a compass, and his verse a skill and success, that show him to be more nearly akin to the great English master than will be believed, except by those who have carefully read the works of both.
The Archpriest of Hita lived in the last years of Alfonso the Eleventh, and perhaps somewhat later. At the very beginning of the next reign, or in 1350, we find a curious poem addressed by a Jew of Carrion to Peter the Cruel, on his accession to the throne. In the manuscript found in the National Library at Madrid, it is called the “Book of the Rabi de Santob,” or “Rabbi Don Santob,” and consists of four hundred and seventy-six stanzas.[141] The measure is the old redondilla, uncommonly easy and flowing for the age; and the purpose of the poem is to give wise moral counsels to the new king, which the poet more than once begs him not to undervalue because they come from a Jew.
Because upon a thorn it grows,
The rose is not less fair;
And wine that from the vine-stock flows
Still flows untainted there.
The goshawk, too, will proudly soar,
Although his nest sits low;
And gentle teachings have their power,
Though ’t is the Jew says so.[142]
After a longer introduction than is needful, the moral counsels begin, at the fifty-third stanza, and continue through the rest of the work, which, in its general tone, is not unlike other didactic poetry of the period, although it is written with more ease and more poetical spirit. Indeed, it is little to say, that few Rabbins of any country have given us such quaint and pleasant verses as are contained in several parts of these curious counsels of the Jew of Carrion.
In the Escurial manuscript, containing the verses of the Jew, are other poems, which were at one time attributed to him, but which it seems probable belong to other, though unknown, authors.[143] One of them is a didactic essay, called “La Doctrina Christiana,” or Christian Doctrine. It consists of a prose prologue, setting forth the writer’s penitence, and of one hundred and fifty-seven stanzas of four lines each; the first three containing eight syllables, rhymed together, and the last containing four syllables unrhymed,—a metrical form not without something of the air of the Sapphic and Adonic. The body of the work contains an explanation of the creed, the ten commandments, the seven moral virtues, the fourteen works of mercy, the seven deadly sins, the five senses, and the holy sacraments, with discussions concerning Christian conduct and character.
Another of these poems is called a Revelation, and is a vision, in twenty-five octave stanzas, of a holy hermit, who is supposed to have witnessed a contest between a soul and its body; the soul complaining that the excesses of the body had brought upon it all the punishments of the unseen world, and the body retorting, that it was condemned to these same torments because the soul had neglected to keep it in due subjection.[144] The whole is an imitation of some of the many similar poems current at that period, one of which is extant in English in a manuscript placed by Warton about the year 1304.[145] But both the Castilian poems are of little worth.
We come, then, to one of more value, “La Dança General,” or the Dance of Death, consisting of seventy-nine regular octave stanzas, preceded by a few words of introduction in prose, that do not seem to be by the same author.[146] It is founded on the well-known fiction, so often illustrated both in painting and in verse during the Middle Ages, that all men, of all conditions, are summoned to the Dance of Death; a kind of spiritual masquerade, in which the different ranks of society, from the Pope to the young child, appear dancing with the skeleton form of Death. In this Spanish version it is striking and picturesque,—more so, perhaps, than in any other,—the ghastly nature of the subject being brought into a very lively contrast with the festive tone of the verses, which frequently recalls some of the better parts of those flowing stories that now and then occur in the “Mirror for Magistrates.”[147]
The first seven stanzas of the Spanish poem constitute a prologue, in which Death issues his summons partly in his own person, and partly in that of a preaching friar, ending thus:—
Come to the Dance of Death, all ye whose fate
By birth is mortal, be ye great or small;
And willing come, nor loitering, nor late,
Else force shall bring you struggling to my thrall:
For since yon friar hath uttered loud his call
To penitence and godliness sincere,
He that delays must hope no waiting here;
For still the cry is, Haste! and, Haste to all!
Death now proceeds, as in the old pictures and poems, to summon, first, the Pope, then cardinals, kings, bishops, and so on, down to day-laborers; all of whom are forced to join his mortal dance, though each first makes some remonstrance, that indicates surprise, horror, or reluctance. The call to youth and beauty is spirited:—
Bring to my dance, and bring without delay,
Those damsels twain, you see so bright and fair;
They came, but came not in a willing way,
To list my chants of mortal grief and care:
Nor shall the flowers and roses fresh they wear,
Nor rich attire, avail their forms to save.
They strive in vain who strive against the grave;
It may not be; my wedded brides they are.[148]
The fiction is, no doubt, a grim one; but for several centuries it had great success throughout Europe, and it is presented quite as much according to its true spirit in this old Castilian poem as it is anywhere.
A chronicling poem, found in the same manuscript volume with the last, but very unskilfully copied in a different handwriting, belongs probably to the same period. It is on the half-fabulous, half-historical achievements of Count Fernan Gonzalez, a hero of the earlier period of the Christian conflict with the Moors, who is to the North of Spain what the Cid became somewhat later to Aragon and Valencia. To him is attributed the rescue of much of Castile from Mohammedan control; and his achievements, so far as they are matter of historical rather than poetical record, fall between 934, when the battle of Osma was fought, and his death, which occurred in 970.
The poem in question is almost wholly devoted to his glory.[149] It begins with a notice of the invasion of Spain by the Goths, and comes down to the battle of Moret, in 967, when the manuscript suddenly breaks off, leaving untouched the adventures of its hero during the three remaining years of his life. It is essentially prosaic and monotonous in its style, yet not without something of that freshness and simplicity which are in themselves allied to all early poetry. Its language is rude, and its measure, which strives to be like that in Berceo and the poem of Apollonius, is often in stanzas of three lines instead of four, sometimes of five, and once at least of nine. Like Berceo’s poem on San Domingo de Silos, it opens with an invocation, and, what is singular, this invocation is in the very words used by Berceo: “In the name of the Father, who made all things,” etc. After this, the history, beginning in the days of the Goths, follows the popular traditions of the country, with few exceptions, the most remarkable of which occurs in the notice of the Moorish invasion. There the account is quite anomalous. No intimation is given of the story of the fair Cava, whose fate has furnished materials for so much poetry; but Count Julian is represented as having, without any private injury, volunteered his treason to the king of Morocco, and then carried it into effect by persuading Don Roderic, in full Cortes, to turn all the military weapons of the land into implements of agriculture, so that, when the Moorish invasion occurred, the country was overrun without difficulty.
The death of the Count of Toulouse, on the other hand, is described as it is in the “General Chronicle” of Alfonso the Wise; and so are the vision of Saint Millan, and the Count’s personal fights with a Moorish king and the King of Navarre. In truth, many passages in the poem so much resemble the corresponding passages in the Chronicle, that it seems certain one was used in the composition of the other; and as the poem has more the air of being an amplification of the Chronicle than the Chronicle has of being an abridgment of the poem, it seems probable that the prose account is, in this case, the older, and furnished the materials of the poem, which, from internal evidence, was prepared for public recitation.[150]
The meeting of Fernan Gonzalez with the King of Navarre at the battle of Valparé, which occurs in both, is thus described in the poem:—
And now the King and Count were met · together in the fight,
And each against the other turned · the utmost of his might,
Beginning there a battle fierce · in furious despite.
And never fight was seen more brave, · nor champions more true;
For to rise or fall for once and all · they fought, as well they knew;
And neither, as each inly felt, · a greater deed could do;
So they struck and strove right manfully, · with blows nor light nor few.
Ay, mighty was that fight indeed, · and mightier still about
The din that rose like thunder · round those champions brave and stout:
A man with all his voice might cry · and none would heed his shout;
For he that listened could not hear, · amidst such rush and rout.
The blows they struck were heavy; · heavier blows there could not be;
On both sides, to the uttermost, · they struggled manfully,
And many, that ne’er rose again, · bent to the earth the knee,
And streams of blood o’erspread the ground, · as on all sides you might see.
And knights were there, from good Navarre, · both numerous and bold,
Whom everywhere for brave and strong · true gentlemen would hold;
But still against the good Count’s might · their strength proved weak and cold,
Though men of great emprise before · and fortune manifold.
For God’s good grace still kept the Count · from sorrow and from harm,
That neither Moor nor Christian power · should stand against his arm, etc.[151]
This is certainly not poetry of a high order. Invention and dignified ornament are wanting in it; but still it is not without spirit, and, at any rate, it would be difficult to find in the whole poem a passage more worthy of regard.
In the National Library at Madrid is a poem of twelve hundred and twenty lines, composed in the same system of quaternion rhymes that we have already noticed as settled in the old Castilian literature, and with irregularities like those found in the whole class of poems to which it belongs. Its subject is Joseph, the son of Jacob; but there are two circumstances which distinguish it from all the other narrative poetry of the period, and render it curious and important. The first is, that, though composed in the Spanish language, it is written wholly in the Arabic character, and has, therefore, all the appearance of an Arabic manuscript; to which should be added the fact, that the metre and spelling are accommodated to the force of the Arabic vowels, so that, if the only manuscript of it now known to exist be not the original, it must still have been originally written in the same manner. The other singular circumstance is, that the story of the poem, which is the familiar one of Joseph and his brethren, is not told according to the original in our Hebrew Scriptures, but according to the shorter and less interesting version in the eleventh chapter of the Koran, with occasional variations and additions, some of which are due to the fanciful expounders of the Koran, while others seem to be of the author’s own invention. These two circumstances taken together leave no reasonable doubt that the writer of the poem was one of the many Moriscos who, remaining at the North after the body of the nation had been driven southward, had forgotten their native language and adopted that of their conquerors, though their religion and culture still continued to be Arabic.[152]
The manuscript of the “Poem of Joseph” is imperfect, both at the beginning and at the end. Not much of it, however, seems to be lost. It opens with the jealousy of the brothers of Joseph at his dream, and their solicitation of their father to let him go with them to the field.
Then up and spake his sons: · “Sire, do not deem it so;
Ten brethren are we here, · this very well you know;—
That we should all be traitors, · and treat him as a foe,
You either will not fear, · or you will not let him go.
“But this is what we thought, · as our Maker knows above:
That the child might gain more knowledge, · and with it gain our love,
To show him all our shepherd’s craft, · as with flocks and herds we move;—
But still the power is thine to grant, · and thine to disapprove.”
And then they said so much · with words so smooth and fair,
And promised him so faithfully · with words of pious care,
That he gave them up his child; · but bade them first beware,
And bring him quickly back again, · unharmed by any snare.[153]
When the brothers have consummated their treason, and sold Joseph to a caravan of Egyptian merchants, the story goes on much as it does in the Koran. The fair Zuleikha, or Zuleia, who answers to Potiphar’s wife in the Hebrew Scriptures, and who figures largely in Mohammedan poetry, fills a space more ample than usual in the fancies of the present poem. Joseph, too, is a more considerable personage. He is adopted as the king’s son, and made a king in the land; and the dreams of the real king, the years of plenty and famine, the journeyings of the brothers to Egypt, their recognition by Joseph, and his message to Jacob, with the grief of the latter that Benjamin did not return, at which the manuscript breaks off, are much amplified, in the Oriental manner, and made to sound like passages from “Antar,” or the “Arabian Nights,” rather than from the touching and beautiful story to which we have been accustomed from our childhood.
Among the inventions of the author is a conversation which the wolf—who is brought in by his false brethren, as the animal that had killed Joseph—holds with Jacob.[154] Another is the Eastern fancy, that the measure by which Joseph distributed the corn, and which was made of gold and precious stones, would, when put to his ear, inform him whether the persons present were guilty of falsehood to him.[155] But the following incident, which, like that of Joseph’s parting in a spirit of tender forgiveness from his brethren[156] when they sold him, is added to the narrative of the Koran, will better illustrate the general tone of the poem, as well as the general powers of the poet.
On the first night after the outrage, Jusuf, as he is called in the poem, when travelling along in charge of a negro, passes a cemetery on a hill-side where his mother lies buried.
And when the negro heeded not, · that guarded him behind,
From off the camel Jusuf sprang, · on which he rode confined,
And hastened, with all speed, · his mother’s grave to find,
Where he knelt and pardon sought, · to relieve his troubled mind.
He cried, “God’s grace be with thee still, · O Lady mother dear!
O mother, you would sorrow, · if you looked upon me here;
For my neck is bound with chains, · and I live in grief and fear,
Like a traitor by my brethren sold, · like a captive to the spear.
“They have sold me! they have sold me! · though I never did them harm;
They have torn me from my father, · from his strong and living arm,
By art and cunning they enticed me, · and by falsehood’s guilty charm,
And I go a base-bought captive, · full of sorrow and alarm.”
But now the negro looked about, · and knew that he was gone,
For no man could be seen, · and the camel came alone;
So he turned his sharpened ear, · and caught the wailing tone,
Where Jusuf, by his mother’s grave, · lay making heavy moan.
And the negro hurried up, · and gave him there a blow;
So quick and cruel was it, · that it instant laid him low;
“A base-born wretch,” he cried aloud, · “a base-born thief art thou;
Thy masters, when we purchased thee, · they told us it was so.”
But Jusuf answered straight, · “Nor thief nor wretch am I;
My mother’s grave is this, · and for pardon here I cry;
I cry to Allah’s power, · and send my prayer on high,
That, since I never wronged thee, · his curse may on thee lie.”
And then all night they travelled on, · till dawned the coming day,
When the land was sore tormented · with a whirlwind’s furious sway;
The sun grew dark at noon, · their hearts sunk in dismay,
And they knew not, with their merchandise, · to seek or make their way.[157]
The age and origin of this remarkable poem can be settled only by internal evidence. From this it seems probable that it was written in Aragon, because it contains many words and phrases peculiar to the border country of the Provençals,[158] and that it dates from the latter half of the fourteenth century, because the four-fold rhyme is hardly found later in such verses, and because the rudeness of the language might indicate even an earlier period, if the tale had come from Castile. But in whatever period we may place it, it is a curious and interesting production. It has the directness and simplicity of the age to which it is attributed, mingled sometimes with a tenderness rarely found in ages so violent. Its pastoral air, too, and its preservation of Oriental manners, harmonize well with the Arabian feelings that prevail throughout the work; while in its spirit, and occasionally in its moral tone, it shows the confusion of the two religions which then prevailed in Spain, and that mixture of the Eastern and Western forms of civilization which afterwards gives somewhat of its coloring to Spanish poetry.[159]
The last poem belonging to these earliest specimens of Castilian literature is the “Rimado de Palacio,” on the duties of kings and nobles in the government of the state, with sketches of the manners and vices of the times, which, as the poem maintains, it is the duty of the great to rebuke and reform. It is chiefly written in the four-line stanzas of the period to which it belongs; and, beginning with a penitential confession of its author, goes on with a discussion of the ten commandments, the seven deadly sins, the seven works of mercy, and other religious subjects; after which it treats of the government of a state, of royal counsellors, of merchants, of men of learning, tax-gatherers, and others; and then ends, as it began, with exercises of devotion. Its author is Pedro Lopez de Ayala, the chronicler, of whom it is enough to say here, that he was among the most distinguished Spaniards of his time, that he held some of the highest offices of the kingdom under Peter the Cruel, Henry the Second, John the First, and Henry the Third, and that he died in 1407, at the age of seventy-five.[160]
The “Rimado de Palacio,” which may be translated “Court Rhymes,” was the production of different periods of Ayala’s life. Twice he marks the year in which he was writing, and from these dates we know that parts of it were certainly composed in 1398 and 1404, while yet another part seems to have been written during his imprisonment in England, which followed the defeat of Henry of Trastamara by the Duke of Lancaster, in 1367. On the whole, therefore, the Rimado de Palacio is to be placed near the conclusion of the fourteenth century, and, by its author’s sufferings in an English prison, reminds us both of the Duke of Orleans and of James the First of Scotland, who, at the same time and under similar circumstances, showed a poetical spirit not unlike that of the great Chancellor of Castile.
In some of its subdivisions, particularly in those that have a lyrical tendency, the Rimado resembles some of the lighter poems of the Archpriest of Hita. Others are composed with care and gravity, and express the solemn thoughts that filled him during his captivity. But, in general, it has a quiet, didactic tone, such as beseems its subject and its age; one, however, in which we occasionally find a satirical spirit that could not be suppressed, when the old statesman discusses the manners that offended him. Thus, speaking of the Letrados, or lawyers, he says:[161]—
When entering on a lawsuit, · if you ask for their advice,
They sit down very solemnly, · their brows fall in a trice.
“A question grave is this,” they say, · “and asks for labor nice;
To the Council it must go, · and much management implies.
“I think, perhaps, in time, · I can help you in the thing,
By dint of labor long · and grievous studying;
But other duties I must leave, · away all business fling,
Your case alone must study, · and to you alone must cling.”[162]
Somewhat farther on, when he speaks of justice, whose administration had been so lamentably neglected in the civil wars during which he lived, he takes his graver tone, and speaks with a wisdom and gentleness we should hardly have expected:—
True justice is a noble thing, · that merits all renown;
It fills the land with people, · checks the guilty with its frown;
But kings, that should uphold its power, · in thoughtlessness look down,
And forget the precious jewel · that gems their honored crown.
And many think by cruelty · its duties to fulfil,
But their wisdom all is cunning, · for justice doth no ill;
With pity and with truth it dwells, · and faithful men will still
From punishment and pain turn back, · as sore against their will.[163]
There is naturally a good deal in the Rimado de Palacio that savors of statesmanship; as, for instance, nearly all that relates to royal favorites, to war, and to the manners of the palace; but the general air of the poem, or rather of the different short poems that make it up, is fairly represented in the preceding passages. It is grave, gentle, and didactic, with now and then a few lines of a simple and earnest poetical feeling, which seem to belong quite as much to their age as to their author.
We have now gone over a considerable portion of the earliest Castilian literature, and quite completed an examination of that part of it which, at first epic, and afterwards didactic, in its tone, is found in long, irregular verses, with quadruple rhymes. It is all curious. Much of it is picturesque and interesting; and when, to what has been already examined, we shall have added the ballads and chronicles, the romances of chivalry and the drama, the whole will be found to constitute a broad basis, on which the genuine literary culture of Spain has rested ever since.
But, before we go farther, we must pause an instant, and notice some of the peculiarities of the period we have just considered. It extends from a little before the year 1200 to a little after the year 1400; and, both in its poetry and prose, is marked by features not to be mistaken. Some of these features were peculiar and national; others were not. Thus, in Provence, which was long united with Aragon, and exercised an influence throughout the whole Peninsula, the popular poetry, from its light-heartedness, was called the Gaya Sciencia, and was essentially unlike the grave and measured tone, heard over every other, on the Spanish side of the mountains; in the more northern parts of France, a garrulous, story-telling spirit was paramount; and in Italy, Dante, Petrarca, and Boccaccio had just appeared, unlike all that had preceded them, and all that was anywhere contemporary with their glory. On the other hand, however, several of the characteristics of the earliest Castilian literature, such as the chronicling and didactic spirit of most of its long poems, its protracted, irregular verses, and its redoubled rhymes, belong to the old Spanish bards in common with those of the countries we have just enumerated, where, at the same period, a poetical spirit was struggling for a place in the elements of their unsettled civilization.
But there are two traits of the earliest Spanish literature which are so separate and peculiar, that they must be noticed from the outset,—religious faith and knightly loyalty,—traits which are hardly less apparent in the “Partidas” of Alfonso the Wise, in the stories of Don John Manuel, in the loose wit of the Archpriest of Hita, and in the worldly wisdom of the Chancellor Ayala, than in the professedly devout poems of Berceo and in the professedly chivalrous chronicles of the Cid and Fernan Gonzalez. They are, therefore, from the earliest period, to be marked among the prominent features in Spanish literature.
Nor should we be surprised at this. The Spanish national character, as it has existed from its first development down to our own days, was mainly formed in the earlier part of that solemn contest which began the moment the Moors landed beneath the Rock of Gibraltar, and which cannot be said to have ended, until, in the time of Philip the Third, the last remnants of their unhappy race were cruelly driven from the shores which their fathers, nine centuries before, had so unjustifiably invaded. During this contest, and especially during the two or three dark centuries when the earliest Spanish poetry appeared, nothing but an invincible religious faith, and a no less invincible loyalty to their own princes, could have sustained the Christian Spaniards in their disheartening struggle against their infidel oppressors. It was, therefore, a stern necessity which made these two high qualities elements of the Spanish national character,—a character all whose energies were for ages devoted to the one grand object of their prayers as Christians and their hopes as patriots, the expulsion of their hated invaders.
But Castilian poetry was, from the first, to an extraordinary degree, an outpouring of the popular feeling and character. Tokens of religious submission and knightly fidelity, akin to each other in their birth and often relying on each other for strength in their trials, are, therefore, among its earliest attributes. We must not, then, be surprised, if we hereafter find, that submission to the Church and loyalty to the king constantly break through the mass of Spanish literature, and breathe their spirit from nearly every portion of it,—not, indeed, without such changes in the mode of expression as the changed condition of the country in successive ages demanded, but still always so strong in their original attributes as to show that they survive every convulsion of the state and never cease to move onward by their first impulse. In truth, while their very early development leaves no doubt that they are national, their nationality makes it all but inevitable that they should become permanent.