THE DUKE DE RIVAS.
THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE.
I.
Magnificent is the Alcazar,
For which Seville is renown’d,
Delicious are its gardens,
With its lofty portals crown’d.
With woods all carved elaborate,
In a thousand forms about,
It raises high its noble front
With cornice jutting out;
And there in ancient characters
A tablet may be seen,
Don Pedro built these palaces,
The sculptures placed between.
But ill beseem in its saloons
The modern triflings rear’d,
And in its proud courts men without
The antique vest or beard.
How many a soft and balmy eve,
In pleasant converse there,
Have I with Seville’s mirthful sons,
And Seville’s daughters fair,
Traversed those blooming bowers along,
On entering which are rude
Gigantic shapes in myrtles cut,
Of various attitude;
And rose-bay trees, in long arcades,
With oranges unite,
And shady labyrinths form, the which
To thefts of love invite;
And hidden jets of water spring
All sudden from the floor,
When trod the painted pebbles laid
In rich mosaic o’er,
That sprinkle on the stranger there,
While shouts of laughter rise,
From those who warn’d by former fate
Now shun such pleasantries!
In summer time, at close of day,
When mid the light cloud’s fold,
The sun declines, encircling them
With scarlet and with gold,
That bright transparent heaven above,
With purple mists o’erspread,
Cut in a thousand varied hues,
By softest zephyrs led,
That glowing atmosphere, in which
One seems to breathe of fire,
How temper they the languid frame,
And soul divine inspire!
The view too of those baths, that gain
From all who know them praise,
And that proud edifice which Moors
And Goths combined to raise,
In some parts harsh, in some more light,
Here ruins, there repair’d,
The different dominations pass’d
Are thus by each declared;
With records, and remembrances
Of ages long pass’d by,
And of more modern years alike
To arrest the fantasy.
The lemon’s and the jasmine’s flowers,
While they the eyes enchant,
Embalm the circumambient air
With sweets they lavish grant.
The fountains’ murmurs, and afar
The city’s varied cries,
With those that from the river near,
Or Alameda rise,
From Triana, and from the bridge,
All lost, confused amain,
With sound of bells vibrating loud
In high Hiralda’s fane;—
A scene that never is forgot
Enchanted forms the whole,
The thoughts of which unceasing cause
To beat my heart and soul.
Many delicious nights, when yet
My now all-frozen breast
Beat warmly, have I seen those halls
By youthful footsteps press’d;
Fill’d with a chosen concourse gay
In country dance to meet,
Or light quadrille, while festive sounds
The orchestras repeat:
And from the gilded roofs rebound
The steps, the laugh perchance
And talk of happy pairs, by love
United in the dance;
With sound of music mix’d the while,
Confused and blended o’er,
As sent according echos forth
From the enamell’d floor.
[Yet, ah! those lovely bowers along]
I never once have stray’d,
But saw as in a mental dream
Padillia’s gentle shade,
Flitting before my view to pass,
Heaving a sigh profound,
Light as a vapour, or a cloud
That skims the trees around.
Nor ever enter’d I those halls,
But fancying arise
I saw the founder’s phantom, stain’d
With blood congeal’d the dyes.
Nor in that vestibule obscure,
Where with the cornice blend
The portraits of the kings, arranged
In columns to extend,
To that which is blue-tiled below,
And enamell’d is on high,
Which shows on every side around
A rich-set balcony,
And gilded lattice roof above
That crowns it with dark shade,
But thought I saw upon the ground
A lifeless body laid!
Yet on that pavement may be seen
A dark stain to this day!
Indelible, which ages pass
And never wash away:
’Tis blood that dark tenacious stain;
Blood of the murder’d dead:
Alas! how many throng it o’er,
Nor think on what they tread!
II.
Five hundred years shone younger
The Alcazar to the day,
Its lofty walls yet lustrous,
And faultless its array;
And brilliant were the enamels
Which its gilded roofs reveal,
It showed itself the mansion fit
Of the king of proud Castile;
When on one balmy morn it chanced
Of florid May betide,
In that saloon whose balcony
Is on the plaza’s side,
Two persons of illustrious mien
In silence deep were there;
One was a Cavalier, and one
A Lady passing fair.
A Barbary carpet richly wove
Upon the floor was laid,
The gift or tribute which the Moor
Granada’s king had paid;
A silken curtain, bright with flowers,
And ribbons curious wrought,
With various eastern colours deck’d,
Which to our Spain had brought
Venetian galleys, as perchance
Her Doge’s gift of state,
Was thrown across the balcony,
The light to moderate.
In the recess in front, with woods
Well carved, and richly graced
With mother-o’-pearl inlayings,
Was an Oratory placed;
Where of the sovereign Virgin
The image stood devout,
The sculpture somewhat rude, but yet
Attractions not without;
Which with a plate of silver,
For ornament was crown’d,
Its rim reflecting amethysts,
And emeralds around.
A manuscript of holy prayers,
Which miniatures adorn,
Precious with gold and ivory
Upon its coverings borne,
Was seen there placed upon a stand,
Form’d of an angel’s wings,
The figure badly sculptured,
But with neat finishings.
And on the floor of gold brocade
A cushion one might see,
Which by its sunken pressure show’d
The marks of bended knee.
And on the pure white walls were hung
Bright arms along the space,
And interspersed were banners,
And trophies of the chase.
An ornamental table stood
In the middle of the floor,
On which a well-tuned lute was placed,
Though partly covered o’er;
A rich-cut board for game of draughts,
And a coffer by its side
Of silver filigree, and jars
With chosen flowers supplied.
The Lady near the balcony
Sat very pensively,
In a great gilded chair of state,
Whose back was form’d to be
A canopy, or cover o’er,
And in gay curvings down
Were lions, castles, and the whole
Surmounted with a crown.
Her dress a silken robe of green,
Which show’d a various tinge,
In twisted threads, with pearls and gold
The embroidery and fringe.
Her head-dress than the snow appear’d
Ev’n whiter to behold,
And covering o’er the fine clear lawn
Her long dark tresses roll’d.
Her face was heavenly, and her neck
Divine, but in their hue
Like wax, the colour which fear paints,
And long-known sorrow too.
Her eyes were like two beaming suns
Beneath their lashes tall,
Where shone two precious pearly drops
As ready down to fall.
She was a lily fair, whom death
Was rudely threatening seen,
For a corroding worm the heart
Was tearing deep within.
Now in her thin pale hands, convulsed
It seems with fear or doubt,
Her kerchief white, of border’d lace
And points, she twists about;
Or with absorb’d distracted mien
She agitates the air,
With fan, whose feathers Araby
Had sent, the choicest there.
The Cavalier was slightly form’d,
And of the middle size,
With reddish beard, a restless mouth,
And most unquiet eyes.
His visage pale and dry appear’d,
Nose sharp and of a crook,
Noble his port, but sinister
And terrible his look.
In a red mantle he was wrapp’d,
With golden plates o’erspread,
And gracefully his cap was placed
On one side on his head.
With measured steps, from end to end,
He paced along the room,
And different passions o’er his face
Though silent seem’d to come.
At times he reddens, [darting round]
Fierce looks, that seem to tell,
As flames cast forth from eyes of fire,
The very deeds of hell.
And now a fierce and bitter smile
The extended lip displays,
Or on the gilded roof he fix’d
A darkly lowering gaze.
Now hastening on his course, from head
To foot he trembles o’er,
And now proceeds his noble mien
Of calmness to restore.
Thus have I seen a tiger fierce,
Now tranquil, now with rage
Revolve himself each side across,
And round his narrow cage.
Thus pacing o’er the carpet there
His footsteps are not heard,
But soundless they, yet were distinct
As ever that he stirr’d,
[The crackling of his arms and knees:]
In distant lands, ’tis said,
That with like noise has Heaven supplied,
For man to shun in dread,
O, wonder rare! a serpent, named
Thence Rattlesnake, that springs
Quick at the moment it comes nigh,
And kills whome’er it stings.
The Lady was Padillia,
That sat in mournful strain;
And the stern silent Cavalier
Don Pedro, King of Spain.
III.
As round some solitary tower,
At setting of the sun,
Fierce birds of prey are whirling seen,
Revolving one by one,
Thus with Don Pedro in their turn
Have various thoughts a trace,
Whose shadows darken as they pass
The expression of his face.
Now occupies his angry mind
His brother’s power and state,
Of those whose mother he had slain,
And birth would criminate.
Now of unquietnesses borne,
Great scorn and insult shown,
Or of his failing treasury,
Nor means to fill it known.
Now of the fair Aldonza’s charms,
His fortune ’twas to gain,
Or of the blood-stain’d forms of those
He had unjustly slain.
Now some projected enterprise,
Some treaty to defeat,
Faith-breaking with Granada’s Moor,
Or treason or deceit.
But as the birds the lonely tower,
The broken heights between,
Are all at length, as one by one,
Retiring hiding seen;
And constant only one remains,
Revolving it infest,
The fiercest, strongest on the wing,
That will admit no rest;
Thus all that multitude confused
Of passions wild and strange,
Of which Don Pedro for a while
Was tangled in the range,
At length from breast and head alike
Fled finding a retreat,
And living left distinct alone,
With horror great replete,
The image of Fadrique,
His eldest brother famed,
The pride of knights and Master those
Of Santiago named.
Now from Humillia’s conquer’d walls,
With matchless courage won,
In triumph had Fadrique come
O’er vanquish’d Aragon.
Where erst the bars, the castles now
He floating left abroad,
And to present the keys he brings
His brother, king and lord.
Well knows the king no rebel he,
But friend and ally true,
[And more than Tello madly hates,]
And more than Henry too.
’Twas he Fadrique had the charge
From France to bring the queen,
The Lady Blanche, but he allow’d
A year to intervene.
With her in Narbonne he delay’d,
And rumours thus of those,
Which whether true or false alike
Are poisonous, arose.
And in Medina’s tower the price
The Lady Blanche now pays,
Of all the palace whisperings,
And journey’s long delays.
And on his shoulders yet untouch’d
His head Fadrique wears,
Because of his great wealth and power
And honour’d name he bears.
But, woe for him! the ladies all
Him as their idol own,
For his gay port and gallant mien,
And manly courage known.
And if he cause the throne no fear,
In his fidelity,
He gives what’s worse, though that were bad,
The heart strong jealousy.
Meanwhile the fair Padillia,
Whose judgement clear and great,
Her royal lover’s secret thoughts,
Though deepest penetrate,
In whom the goodness of her heart
The enchantment still excels,
That in her beauteous face and form
So marvellously dwells,
Unhappy victim lives of fears,
That ever her attend,
Because she loves the king, and sees
His course in evil end:
She knows that based in blood and grief,
And persecution’s train,
A palace never is secure,
No throne can fix’d remain.
And she has two young tender girls,
Who with another sire,
Whate’er their lot, might all have gain’d
Their hearts could best require;
And in Fadrique’s worth she sees
A stay and partisan.
She knows he comes to Seville now,
And as from words can scan
Her fierce lord’s brow dark lowering,
In evil hour he came,
And to allay suspicions,
Or give them higher aim,
At length, though with a trembling lip,
The silence breaking dared
To speak, and thus the words that pass’d
Between the two declared:
“Your brother then, Fadrique,
Triumphant comes today?”
“And certainly in coming,
The wretch makes long delay.”
“He serves you well, and hero-like,
As does Humillia show,
Of loyalty gives proofs, and brave
He is”—“Sufficient so.”
“You may be sure, Sire, that his heart
Will ever true remain.”
“Tomorrow still more sure of that.”
Both silent were again.
IV.
With joy the Master to receive,
Through Seville’s streets along,
Great rumour spreads, and arms resound,
And men and horses throng.
And shouts of welcoming, amidst
Repeated echoes rise,
Which from Hiralda’s lofty tower
Are scattered to the skies.
Now comes the crowd approaching near,
But less the shouts resound,
And now the palace gates they reach
Mid silence all around:
As if the Alcazar had enjoy’d
The privilege to appear,
In sight, and still the enthusiast flow,
And turn it into fear.
Thus mute and breathless, motionless,
The people stood in dread,
As if with magical respect
The plaza’s bounds to tread;
And enters there the Master now,
With but a scanty train,
And of his order some few knights,
The palace gates to gain.
And forward on his course directs,
As one without alarms,
Who goes to meet a brother kind,
With open heart and arms:
Or as some noble chieftain comes,
For glorious deeds the cause,
From grateful monarch to receive
Due honours and applause.
Upon a dark and mettled steed,
That breathes of foam and fire,
And while the bridle scarce restrains,
Seems proud of its attire,
With a white mantle o’er him cast,
Flung loosely to the air,
O’er which the collar and red cross
His dignity declare;
And cap of crimson velvet girt
His brows, whereon unfold
The winds the feathers’ snowy plumes,
And tassels bound with gold.
All pale as death, the furious King
His brother saw from far,
When on the plaza entering first,
And fix’d as statues are,
Awhile he stood upon the floor,
And from his angry eyes
Seem’d burning horrid lightning thence
In flashes to arise.
But starting soon, himself around
He turn’d the room to leave,
As if he would some welcome guest
Right affably receive.
When thus Padillia saw him turn,
Her heart beyond relief
Of anguish full, and countenance
So beauteous mark’d with grief,
She rose, and to the balcony
Went troubled, by the square,
And to the Master motions wild,
With gestures to declare,
In evil hour he comes, and waves
Her kerchief him away,
And by mute signs thus bids him seek
Safety without delay.
Nothing of this he comprehends,
But for saluting takes
The warning, and discreetly thus
A gallant answer makes.
And to the open’d portal comes,
With guards and bowmen lined,
Who give him passage free, but leave
His followers behind.
If he knew not Padillia’s signs,
Don Pedro knew them well,
As he before the chamber door
A moment seem’d to dwell,
In deep suspense o’er his resolve,
When turning back his eye,
He saw the Lady warn him thus
By motions thence to fly.
O, heaven! then was that noble act,
Of pure intent to be
What call’d the executioners forth,
And seal’d the stern decree.
Follow’d by two esquires alone,
The Master scarce in haste
Upon the royal vestibule
His foot confiding placed,
Where various men-at-arms were seen,
In double iron barr’d,
Pacing along as sentinels
The entrance stairs to guard,
When over from the balcony,
Like fiendish shape of ill,
The King looks out, and “Mace-bearers,”
He shouts, “the Master kill.”
Quick as the lightning in a storm
Comes ere the thunders call,
Six well-appointed maces down
On Don Fadrique fall.
He raised his hand to grasp his sword,
But in his tabard’s gird
The hilt was bound, impossible
To draw it at the word.
He fell, a sea of blood around
Ran from the shattered brain,
Raising a cry which reached to heaven,
And doubtless not in vain.
Of deed so horrible the news
At once around was spread,
And thence the brotherhood and knights
Together quickly fled.
To hide them in their houses fled
The people, trembling sore
With horror, and the Alcazar’s bounds
Were desert as before.
V.
’Tis said, the sight of blood so much
Is wont to infuriate
The tiger, that he still rends on
With stomach satiate;
Solely because ’tis his delight
With blood the earth to stain,
So doubtless with the King it was
Such feelings grew amain.
For when he saw Fadrique laid,
Thus prostrate on the ground,
After the squires in search he ran
The palace all around;
Who tremblingly and livid fled
The apartments various o’er,
Nor find they any hiding-place,
Or whence to fly a door.
One happily at length succeeds,
To hide or fly outright;
The other, Sancho Villiegas,
Less happy or adroit,
Seeing the King still follow him,
Enter’d half dead with fear
Where was Padillia on her couch,
With her attendants near;
They trembling, as she senseless laid,
And by her side reclined
Her two young tender girls, who were
Angels in form and mind.
The unhappy youth still seeing there
The spectre following nigh,
That even this asylum mocks,
In his arms quickly high
Snatches the Lady Beatrice,
Who scarce six years has known,
The child for whom the King has e’er
The most affection shown.
But, ah! naught serves him this resource,
As in the desert naught
The holy cross avails, that clasps
The pilgrim hapless caught;
When roars the south wind, burns the sky,
And seems as if up-driven
A frightful sea, of waves of sand,
Commingling earth and heaven;
Thus with the child between his arms,
And on his knees compress’d,
The furious dagger of the King
Was planted in his breast.
As if that day had witness’d naught
The palace new or rare,
The King sat at the table calm
To eat as usual there;
Play’d afterwards a game of draughts,
Then went out pacing slow
To see the galleys, arming soon
To Biscay’s shores to go.
And when the night the hemisphere
Had with its mantle veil’d,
He enters in the Golden Tower,
Where he shut up has held
The fair Aldonza, whom he took
From Santa Clara’s walls,
And as in blind idolatry
Who now his heart enthralls.
With Levi then his treasurer,
Who though a Hebrew vile
Has all his confidence, he goes
On state affairs awhile;
And very late retires to rest,
With no attendants nigh,
Only a Moor, a wretch perforce,
His favourite waiting by.
Enter’d the lofty vestibule,
The Alcazar’s tranquil bound,
One moment paused the King and pass’d
His gaze in turn around.
A large lamp from the vaulted roof
Was hanging loose, and cast
Now lights, now shadows, as it swung,
As by the breezes pass’d.
Between the polish’d columns placed
Two men in armour were,
But only two dark figures show’d,
Watching in silence there.
And still was Don Fadrique laid
Extended on the ground,
With his torn mantle o’er him spread,
In a lake of blood around.
The King approach’d him, and awhile
Attentively survey’d,
And seeing that his brother yet
Was not entirely dead,
Since he perchance as breathing seem’d,
His breast a heave to make,
He gave him with his foot a push,
Which made the body shake;
Whereon he, giving to the Moor
His sharpen’d dagger bare,
Said, “Finish him,” and quietly
To sleep went up the stair.
IX.
MANUEL BRETON DE LOS HERREROS.
In the country of Lope de Vega and Calderon de la Barca, it was not to be supposed, that on the general revival of the national literature, the drama could be left neglected, in a state unworthy of its ancient reputation. From the time of those great writers until the present, notwithstanding the predilection of the Spanish people for the stage, and the encouragement consequently given for genius to exert itself, no dramas had been produced to equal them in the public admiration. The younger Moratin, who may be justly termed the Spanish Molière, had rather introduced into Spain a new style of drama, that which we call genteel comedy, than followed the track of the ancient masters. It was reserved for a later writer, the subject of this notice, to appear as a rival to them in the exuberance of composition, and possession of popular favour, though it may be a question for future ages to decide on his relative merit.
Breton de los Herreros was born at Quel, a small village in the province of Logronio, the 19th December, 1796. Of his early history, we are only informed that he was educated at the school of San Antonio Abad at Madrid, and that he entered a regiment of infantry as a volunteer, when yet a boy of fourteen. The world at large may be considered to be, with regard to contemporary characters of another nation, in the relation of posterity, making distance have, as Bishop Atterbury remarked to Lord Bolingbroke, the effect of time; and they will thus inquire eagerly into the particulars of the life of one distinguished for genius, however humble his birth, while they will pass heedlessly by the noblest born personage, who has given them no peculiar right of interest in his history. But, as on reading the life of the Duke de Rivas, we feel it a subject of congratulation, that the lance of a French marauder did not cut off one who was destined to be the ornament of his country’s literature, so we rejoice again equally that the chance passed away favourably, when a stray ball might have deprived the world of the works of Breton de los Herreros. Serving in his humble line, he was present at various skirmishes with the invaders on their final expulsion from Valencia and Catalonia, at the same time composing patriotic songs on the national triumphs. In 1812, when yet a boy of fifteen, he wrote an Ode to the Constitution, and distinguished himself as an orator among his comrades on the popular subjects of discussion. On the return of Ferdinand VII. to absolute power, he must have been compelled to restrain his tendencies for liberalism, and it may be supposed that his time was at least as well employed in noting the characters of those around him, and the scenes he had to witness, as a storehouse of useful observations for his future writings.
In 1822 he obtained his discharge from the army, and after various attempts made to obtain an eligible employment in the provinces, he went to Madrid, in the summer of 1824, for the same purpose. There again he was equally unsuccessful, and as a last resource, took to the director of the theatre, a comedy which he had written some years previously for pastime. Fortunately for him, the director happened to be in want of a new piece to bring out on the king’s birthday, and thinking the one presented would answer his purpose, he undertook its production with more than usual care, on account of the occasion. It was accordingly performed on the 24th October, 1824, and met with such decided success, that the literary fame of the author was at once secured.
The profits accruing from the representation of his comedies were exceedingly trifling; but his natural inclinations led him to writing for the stage, where he now found himself respected as a successful writer; and as he had no other resource for maintenance, he applied himself to this labour with better hopes. A succession of pieces he wrote were equally successful, produced with a rapidity that reminded the world of the fertility that had characterized the genius of Lope de Vega or Calderon. One of his pieces was so much relished, that at the close, the audience insisted on its being repeated all over a second time, with which extraordinary demand the actors had to comply. In 1831 he brought out his comedy of ‘Marcela, or Which of the Three?’—the most popular of all his productions, the subject being, which of three lovers, all unworthy of her, the heroine, who is amiability personified, should accept. It was repeated at all the theatres in the kingdom, and went through six editions on publication, besides several surreptitious ones, having some of the verses even passing into “household words,” as popular expressions.
In the same year, 1831, he published a small volume of poems, containing lyrical and miscellaneous pieces, and has since written many more of the same character in the different periodicals of Madrid. None of these are, however, deserving of note, except the satirical ones, many of which abound with the wit and humour for which his comedies are remarkable. He is now engaged in publishing at Madrid a collection of all his works, the last volume being intended to contain the miscellaneous poems, which, corrected and collected together from the different papers in which they at first appeared, will no doubt prove to be more worthy of his fame than those published in 1831. In the lyrical poems he is avowedly a follower of the so-called classical school, and rises no higher than those of the same class that had preceded him; their utmost praise being to be characterized as—
Coldly correct and classically dull.
In the satirical pieces, however, he seems in his proper element, playing on words and treating his rhymes with a command of language truly surprising. For this reason, and on account of the numerous local and national allusions contained in them, it is very difficult for a foreigner fully to understand, and almost impossible to be able to translate them. Those pieces attempted in this work may perhaps give some faint image of his style; but they have been chosen as most easy for translation, rather than as the best. Of the Satires published separately after the volume above mentioned, the most applauded have been those entitled, ‘Against the Philharmonic Rage;’ ‘Against the Mania for Writing for the Public;’ ‘Against the Abuses introduced into Theatrical Declamation;’ ‘Moral Epistle on the Manners of the Age;’ and ‘The Rage for Travelling.’ With the Spaniards of the present day as with their Roman ancestors, satire is a favourite species of composition, and it has been observed, that a manual of the history of the national dissensions might be composed out of the works of this popular author alone.
Breton, independently of his original writings, has had the editorship of one of the periodicals of Madrid, and occasional engagements connected with others. He also had at one time an appointment in one of the offices of the government, which he seems to have lost in 1840, on his writing some satirical effusion on the change that had then taken place. Literature has been in every age a grievous exaction, for those who had to follow it as a profession, except under peculiar circumstances. He had only his genius to befriend him, and apparently had not even the virtue of prudence for a counsellor. Thus he has had often to submit to circumstances, which though harassing at the time, he had the wisdom to make subjects of merriment afterwards, to the gain of his literary reputation.
In Spain there can scarcely yet be said to be formed a “reading public,” notwithstanding the great number of good works that have been lately published, to supply the demand whenever it shall arise. The most evident and flattering of all the applauses that a literary man can there receive, are those awarded to dramatic successes, and of these, he has had the reward that was certainly due to him. In such a climate as that of Spain, and with such a people, theatrical amusements are more a matter of popular necessity than they are in a colder climate, with people of more domestic requirements; and yet even in England it may be a cause of surprise, considering the honour given to the author of a successful play, that more works of genius have not been produced for the stage. In both countries there is a complaint of the public requiring “novelties;” but the fact is, that in seeking novelties, they are only seeking excellence. When any really good work is presented them, they know how to appreciate it, and in seeking for others even of the same author, they are only expressing their sense of his merits.
In the prospectus of the proposed new edition of his works, he had the satisfaction of stating he had to republish more than sixty original dramas, that had met with a successful reception from the audiences of Madrid. He has besides these produced several that have not been successful, and has translated from the French a great number of others. These have been principally tragedies, and he has adapted them for the Spanish stage, rather than translated them, showing a talent, it has been observed by Del Rio, in so doing equivalent to making them to be counted in the number of his original works. Del Rio cites as a particular example, the translation from Delavigne’s Tragedy of ‘The Sons of Edward.’ Breton’s talent is evidently pre-eminent for comedy; but he has written several tragedies also, of which one, the ‘Merope,’ brought forward in 1835, was received with much favour.
This work, as it has been more than once already intimated, is intended mainly to give an account of the lyrical poetry of Spain as nourishing at present; and, therefore, it would be entering on subjects foreign to our purpose, to inquire at large into the merits of any specific dramatic performances. The Spanish drama may, no doubt, be worthy of especial study, but I confess that I have not felt it deserving of the extravagant praises which some writers have bestowed on it. It would surely be much happier for the people of every country to seek their greatest enjoyments in those of a domestic nature, rather than in those miscellaneous congregations where the quieter virtues can have little exercise. But as human nature is constituted, and public amusements cannot be avoided, it is the duty of every friend of the popular interests to support their being given on the foundation of good taste and moral principles. Though Breton’s works do not appear free from all blame in this respect, and though sometimes his witticisms may be observed scarcely fitting even for the stage, yet they show, on the whole, compared with the dramatic productions of other countries, at least equal refinement, as they certainly do more inventive talent than we can point out elsewhere in our age.
Larra, the most discriminating critic of Spain, has observed of Breton, “that in nothing does his peculiar poetical talent shine more than in the simplicity of his plans. In all his comedies it is known that he makes a study and show of forming a plot extremely simple,—little or no action, little or no artifice. This is conceded to talent only, and to superior talent. A comedy, full of incidents, which any one invents, is easy to be passed off on a public always captivated by what interests and excites curiosity. Breton despises these trivial resources, and sustains and carries to a happy conclusion, amid the continual laughter of the audience, and from applause to applause, a comedy based principally on the depicting of some comic characters, in the liveliness and quickness of repartee, in the pureness, flow and harmony of his easy versification. In these gifts he has no rival, though he may have them in regard to intention, profoundness or philosophy.”
Ferrer del Rio says of him, “that he has cultivated a style so much his own, that at the first few verses of one of his works, the spectators cry out his name from all parts. Originality is thus one of the qualities that recommend him. He tyrannizes over the public, obliging them to cast away ill-humour, and laugh against their will from the time the curtain rises till the representation ends, and this the same whether in the comedies they applaud, or those they disapprove. He is consequently mirthful and witty in the extreme, and no one can dispute the palm with him under this consideration. None of his scenes fatigue from weariness; none of his verses fail of fullness and harmony; they do not appear made one after another, but at one blow, and as by enchantment. Thus all hail him as a perfect versifier and easy colloquist. Infinite are the matters he has introduced in his comedies, multiplied the characters sketched by his pen, innumerable the situations imagined, and undoubtedly there is due to him the well-founded ascription of a fertile genius. Originality, wit, easy dialogue, sonorous versification, an inexhaustible vein, would not be sufficient to form a good comic writer of manners without the criterion of observation, fit for filling up his pictures with exactness. This criterion also he possesses in a high degree.”
High as is this encomium, the writer says of him further, that if it were decreed by Providence that a new race of barbarians should overrun Spain, destroying libraries and other depositaries of human knowledge, yet the name of Breton de los Herreros would survive the disaster, and some vestige of his comedies would remain. “Histories, books of learning, works of legislation, science, philosophy and politics are, no doubt, more profound than his comedies, though from their peculiar nature not so popular. Thus what we have said is to be understood as a means of distinguishing between writings which, that they may not perish in the course of ages, require studious men to adopt them for a test, and learned men to illustrate them by their commentaries, and those compositions that, to succeed in obtaining the honours of immortality, require only a people to recite and transmit them verbally from father to son. The name of Breton may become traditional in Spain, that of other celebrated writers will belong to history.”
Breton has been elected a member of the Royal Spanish Academy, and certainly one so highly gifted as he is in his department, is well deserving of every literary honour. The times are gone by when a writer of comedies could be all in all with the public as their favourite author; but probably there is no other existing in Spain who enjoys so much popular regard. As such, notwithstanding the inferior merit of his lyrical and miscellaneous poetry, excepting his satirical writings, it would have been a blameworthy omission to have left his name out of the list of the modern poets of Spain. It was, however, for this reason more advisable to make the selections from those satirical writings; though independently of this consideration, it would have been also desirable, in a work attempting to give a general view of modern Spanish poetry, that so essential and popular a branch of it should not be left unnoticed.
For the poems under this head, Breton has only given the general term “Satirical Letrillias,” so that with those translated his numbering only could be adopted for reference. The Letrillia, it may be proper to observe, is what our musical writers call Motetts or small pieces, having generally some well-known proverbial saying for the close of each verse.