The other contemporary poem of the same class is better, but does not rise to the dignity of success. It is by Zarate, a poet long attached to Rodrigo Calderon, the adventurer who, under the title of Marques de Siete Iglesias, rose to the first places in the state in the time of Philip the Third, and employed Zarate as one of his secretaries. Zarate, however, was gentle and wise, and, having occupied himself much with poetry in the days of his prosperity, found it a pleasant resource in the days of adversity. In 1648, he published “The Discovery of the Cross,” which, if we may trust an intimation in the “Persiles and Sigismunda” of Cervantes, he must have begun thirty years before, and which had undoubtedly been finished and licensed twenty years when it appeared in print. But Zarate mistook the nature of his subject. Instead of confining himself to the pious traditions of the Empress Helena and the ascertained achievements of Constantine against Maxentius, he has filled up his canvas with an impossible and uninteresting contest between Constantine and an imaginary king of Persia on the banks of the Euphrates, and so made out a long poem, little connected in its different parts, and, though dry and monotonous in its general tone, unequal in its execution; some portions of it being simple and dignified, while others show a taste almost as bad as that which disfigures the “Macabeo” of Silveira, and of quite the same sort.[823]
But there was always a tendency to a spirit of caricature in Spanish literature,—perhaps owing to its inherent stateliness and dignity; for these are qualities which, when carried to excess, almost surely provoke ridicule. At least, as we know, parody appeared early among the ballads, and was always prominent in the theatres; to say nothing of romantic fiction, where Don Quixote is the great monument of its glory for all countries and for all ages.[824]
That the long and multitudinous narrative poems of Spain should call forth mock-heroics was, therefore, in keeping with the rest of the national character; and though the number of such caricatures is not large, they have a merit quite equal to that of their serious prototypes. The first in the order of time seems to be lost. It was written by Cosmé de Aldana, who, in the latter part of the sixteenth century, was attached to the Grand Constable Velasco, when he was sent to govern Milan. In his capacity of poet, Aldana, it is said, plied his master with flattery and sonnets, till one day the Constable jestingly besought him to desist, and called him “an ass.” The cavalier could not draw his sword on his friend and patron, but the poet determined to avenge the affront offered to his genius. He did so in a long poem, entitled the “Asneida,” which, on every page, seemed to cry out to the governor, “You are a greater ass than I am.” But it was hardly finished when the unhappy Aldana died, and the copies of his poem were so diligently sought for and so faithfully destroyed, that it seems to be one of the few books we should be curious to see, which, after having been once printed, have entirely disappeared from the world.[825]
The next mock-heroic has also something mysterious about it. It is called “The Death, Burial, and Honors of Chrespina Maranzmana, the Cat of Juan Chrespo,” and was published at Paris in 1604, under what seems to be the pseudonyme of “Cintio Merctisso.” The first canto gives an account of Chrespina’s death; the second, of the pésames or condolences offered to her children; and the third and last, of the public tributes to her memory, including the sermon preached at her interment. The whole is done in the true spirit of such a poem,—grave in form, and quaint and amusing in its details. Thus, when the children are gathered round the death-bed of their venerable mother, among other directions and commands, she tells them very solemnly:—
Up in the concave of the tiles, and near
That firm-set wall the north wind whistles by,
Close to the spot the cricket chose last year,
In a blind corner, far from every eye,
Beneath a brick that hides the treasure dear,
Five choice sardines in secret darkness lie;—