Chapter XII: Part II: VII (2)

As the morning broke, the drums were heard beating for action, announcing the advance of the enemy. The Duke had barely time to procure a common cart of the country into which to place his brother, who was found to have no fewer than eleven wounds upon him, and send him away with seven other wounded companions, before he had to join his troop. Going slowly along, the seven died by his side one after another, and in a few hours they were overtaken by fugitives, whose flight showed the ill-fortune of the day. Saavedra might have shared this ill-fortune further; but one of the escort knew the country well and took him along by-paths to a retired place, where his wounds were again dressed, and afterwards to Baeza, in which city he found better attendance. There, after three weeks, all his wounds were healed, except the one in the breast, and one in the hip, from which he was lame for some years afterwards. He then was enabled to proceed to his mother at Cordova, and there was received, in his native place, with marks of public respect, which could not fail of being very gratifying to his feelings, though at the expense of so much suffering.

In the beginning of 1810 the French came marching towards Cordova, and Saavedra and his mother fled to Malaga. He had frequent bleeding, apparently from the lungs, and his medical advisers were fearful that any extraordinary exertion would have a fatal result. Before they could embark at Malaga for any other place, the French had got possession of the city, and Saavedra and the Duchess had to take refuge, disguised, in a fisherman’s hut. In this extremity they were found by a Spanish officer in the French interest, who had formerly shared their hospitality at Cordova, and he repaid it now by procuring for them passports and giving them the means to get to Gibraltar, whence they passed over to Cadiz, then the last hope of Spain.

Arrived at Cadiz, Saavedra was received with the consideration due to his merits. He was put into active service, as far as his strength would allow, and on the staff his talents for drawing as well as for ready composition were found of great value. Many of the military reports were written by him; and he also wrote a defence of the military establishments against a pamphlet which had been published, conducting at the same time a military periodical, published weekly, at Cadiz, throughout 1811. Thrown into association with such men as the Conde de Noronia, Arriaza, Quintana, and Martinez de la Rosa, his love for poetry was further excited, and he composed verses like them, some of which have been preserved among his later works, while he has allowed others to be forgotten. He continued also cultivating his taste for drawing, attending the schools at Cadiz to draw from life as well as from the models; while at leisure moments on duty he amused himself with sketching portraits of his comrades, or of the scenes presented to their view.

But his military duties did not cease at Cadiz. Having been sent out on important commissions with orders, he was led away by his ardour to join in the encounter which took place with the French at Chiclana, in forgetfulness of the commission with which he was charged. Afterwards a division of the army being found in a state of resistance to the orders of the Regency, on account of their general refusing to acknowledge the Duke of Wellington as commander-in-chief, Saavedra was sent with full powers to arrest the disorder. This he did effectually, drawing the division out of Cordova in good order, after deposing the general and other chiefs of the insurrection, who but for this might have brought further reverses on the Spanish arms, such as so many other incapable officers had done previously, influenced in like manner by their presumption and self-conceit.

Saavedra, so far from joining in the vanity and folly of those of his countrymen, who fancied themselves competent to act independently of the British commander, on the contrary, sought to be employed on the staff under the immediate orders of Lord Wellington, but he could not effect it. The wound in his breast again occasioned large effusions of blood from the mouth, and he was obliged to return to Seville, and ultimately was quartered at Cordova. When the war came to an end, he, under these circumstances, retired from military service with the rank of lieutenant-colonel.

While at Cadiz, Saavedra had joined, unreservedly, in the councils of those who framed and attempted to establish in Spain the constitution of 1812. When Ferdinand VII. returned and set it aside, he therefore fully expected that he would be included in the proscription directed against Martinez de la Rosa and others who had distinguished themselves in the assertion of liberal opinions. But instead of this, the king, who probably considered him more of a military than a political character, received him favourably, and gave him the rank of colonel, assigning him Seville for his residence. There accordingly he retired, and while Spain was subjected to the rule of absolutism, employed himself in literary pursuits and drawing, for which the magnificent paintings of Murillo and other Spanish masters in that city gave one of his inclinations so great an incentive. In 1813 he published a volume of poems, and in the following six years brought forward several plays, some of which were represented at Seville with considerable applause, and one had the “marked honour of being prohibited by the censorship.” These he republished in a second edition of his works at Madrid in 1821, but though favourably received at the time, they are all acknowledged now to be of little merit. In fact, at that time, having studied principally the later poets of the classical school as it was termed, his mind had not yet attained that expansiveness and vigour which subsequent years of study were destined to give it.

In 1820 Saavedra happened to be in Madrid, probably engaged in superintending this edition of his works, when the events of that year brought into power the party with whom he had been associated at Cadiz at the time of the siege. With characteristic ardour he entered again into close alliance with them, resuming the principles he had previously maintained with them. But though now those friends were in office, he sought nothing for himself further than leave to travel into neighbouring countries, which permission he had sought in vain from the previous government. This favour he now obtained, with full salary allowed, and a commission to examine the military establishments of other nations, and to report to the government on their advances and improvements. He went accordingly to Paris, and after a careful attention to the duties entrusted to him, was about proceeding to Italy, when he was called back to Spain to engage in a new career of public importance.

Before going to Paris, Saavedra had paid a short visit to his native city, and there formed a close intimacy with Alcala Galiano, one of the most learned and talented men of his age, who, with Don Javier Isturitz (the present respected Minister of her Catholic Majesty at London), was now at the head of the government. Galiano, by the fascination of his eloquence, had completely won the good feelings of the young poet, and inspired by the desire of having so able and popular a follower in the legislature, had procured his election as Deputy to the Cortes from Cordova. Flattered by the favour shown him by his fellow-townsmen, Saavedra entered with his accustomed ardour on his duties, and was appointed Secretary to the Cortes, where he came forward as one of the most vehement speakers in the maintenance of liberal opinions. But those opinions were not responded to by the great mass of the people, and were opposed by the foreign courts of Europe. Saavedra had voted for the removal of the court to Seville, and there further voted for the suspension of the king and his transference to Cadiz, when the entry of the French army re-established Ferdinand on his throne. On the 1st October, 1822, Saavedra and Galiano had to take flight from Cadiz to Gibraltar, where he remained till the following May, when he proceeded to London to join the other emigrants there, Isturitz, Galiano, the celebrated Arguelles, whom his countrymen, on account of his remarkable eloquence, have termed the divine, and others.

Even during his short political career, Saavedra had continued his literary pursuits, and now in London he renewed them, writing his poem ‘Florinda’ and minor pieces, as well as continuing his recreative art of drawing. For his participation in the proceedings against the king, he had been sentenced to death, and his property had been sequestrated. This same measure had been visited on his brother, the Duke de Rivas, who had taken part also in the proceedings, and thus Saavedra had become reduced to very straitened circumstances. Their mother, with natural feeling, forwarded him all the supplies in her power; but these were scanty, and it was necessary for him to seek means of subsistence for himself. He therefore determined on going to Italy to perfect himself in the art of painting, as the best means of employment left him, finding the climate of England also too rigorous for his constitution.

As the Spanish emigrants were forbidden to go to Italy, the Duchess de Rivas besought the Pope’s Nuncio at Madrid to grant her son a passport and obtain for him permission to go there for the purposes specified. The Nuncio having communicated with Rome, was enabled to reply, that “as Don Angel Saavedra engaged neither to speak nor to write on political subjects in Italy, nor to frequent English society, his passport would be granted him, assuring him he would there find hospitality and protection.” The required securities having been given, and the Nuncio’s authorization obtained, on which he had himself written, “Given by express order of His Holiness,” Saavedra left London in December, 1824, for Gibraltar, where he remained till the June following. In the meantime he there married, according to previous arrangement, Donna Maria de la Encarnacion Cueto, daughter of a distinguished colonel of artillery, and then, with his young wife, proceeded to Leghorn. Arrived at this city, and presenting his passport to the Roman consul, he was told that, notwithstanding the assurances given him, he was now forbidden to go to Rome; besides which he received an order from the Tuscan government to leave their territories within three days. Finding all remonstrances useless, Saavedra now, in right of a passport from Gibraltar, applied for aid to the British consul, who took him to his house, and as the only means of putting him in safety, embarked him on board a small Maltese vessel then about to sail for that island. After a protracted voyage, with wretched accommodations and subjected to great peril in a storm, when the men abandoned their tasks, and the captain and Saavedra had to compel them by blows even to resume their labours, they at length reached Malta. Here Saavedra intended to have remained only until he could obtain the means of returning to Gibraltar; but the advantages of climate, of cheapness of living, and the reception he met with from the English authorities, induced him to continue there, until his stay at length extended to five years’ residence.

Fortunately for him, there happened then to be residing at Malta Mr. J. H. Frere, formerly British Minister at Madrid, who, in addition to a highly cultivated taste and great general knowledge, was well conversant with the Spanish language and literature also in particular. With this gentleman Saavedra soon entered into terms of intimate friendship, and was taught by him to turn his thoughts from the tame class of poetry he had copied from the French school, and elevate his mind to the high tone of the older poets of Spain, as well as to the study of English literature. These lessons he followed, and thus proved another instance of the remark of Plutarch, that the Muses often suggest the best and most approved productions of genius, taking exile as their means to aid them: Καὶ γὰρ τοῖς παλαιοῖς (ὥς ἔοικεν) αἱ Μοῦσαι τὰ κάλλιστα τῶν συνταγμάτων καὶ δοκιμώτατα, φυγὴν λάβουσαι σύνεργον, ἐπετέλεσαν.

At first Saavedra continued his former style of writing, but after a short time his mind seemed suddenly to expand, and to act under the influence of another genius. He finished, after his arrival at Malta, his poem of ‘Florinda,’ and wrote there several plays, of the same character as those he had formerly written, but at the same time showed that a change was coming over his mind, by an ‘Ode to the Lighthouse at Malta,’ known to the reader by Mr. Frere’s translation of it, which for spirit and range of thought proved itself the offspring of another and truer inspiration. The expectations thus raised were destined to be fully realized, and the poem he then began, and published subsequently, the ‘Moro Esposito,’ or ‘Foundling Moor,’ proved one of a class entirely unknown to Spanish literature, but quite in accordance with the national genius, so as to be at once accepted by the Spanish public, as entitled to their unqualified admiration. To use the words of his biographer, Pastor Diaz, himself a writer of considerable reputation, “This work, which had no model, nor has yet had a rival, is one of the most precious jewels of our literature, and in our judgement the most beautiful flower of his poetic crown.”

But it was not to poetry alone that Saavedra gave his attention at Malta. He continued also his application to painting, not having forgotten his original intention of adopting this art professionally. Notwithstanding the advantages he enjoyed there, however, he was anxious to be nearer his own country, and sought permission to go to France, for which purpose he had an English vessel of war assigned to take him to Marseilles. On arriving there, instead of being allowed to go to Paris as he desired, he was directed to fix his residence at Orleans, where, having exhausted the means afforded him for subsistence, he found it necessary to establish a school for drawing. In this he met with some success, having obtained various pupils and commissions for portraits, and a painting which he had finished with care and ability having been bought at a high price for the museum of the city. Four others of his paintings are in the choir of the cathedral at Seville.

After a few months’ residence at Orleans, the revolution of July, 1830, allowed him to go to Paris, where he found his valued friends Isturitz and Galiano, both, like himself, having moderated the warmth of early opinions by the effect of observation as well as of time. Instead of interfering in political questions therefore, he continued his artistic labours. Several portraits he had painted appeared in the Exhibition of 1831 at the Louvre, and his name is to be found in the list for that year of professional artists established in Paris. In consequence of the cholera having broken out there, Saavedra soon after retired to Tours, where he finished his poem, the ‘Moro Esposito,’ and the Tragedy, ‘Don Alvaro,’ publishing the former at Paris in two volumes, in 1833.

On the death of Ferdinand VII., under the milder sway of Queen Christina, the emigrants hitherto excluded from Spain were allowed to return to their country. Angel Saavedra hastened to take advantage of the amnesty, and arrived in Spain the 1st of January, 1834, to take the oaths required; after which he took up his residence at Madrid, and gave his adhesion to the government over which Martinez de la Rosa then presided. Now, however, an important change came over his fortunes, which brought him still more prominently before the world, and involved him again in the vicissitudes of public life.

On the 15th of May, 1834, his elder brother died without children; and Angel Saavedra thereupon succeeded to his honours as Duke de Rivas, and to the family estates entailed with the title. As a Grandee of Spain, the new Duke had to take his place in the Chamber of Peers, where he was chosen, on the 24th of July following, second Secretary, and shortly after, first Secretary of the Chamber and Vice-President. Here again, as formerly in the Cortes, he then took his part in the public debates, having on several occasions shown himself to possess great oratorical abilities. One speech he made on the exclusion of Don Carlos and his descendants from the Spanish throne, has been particularly mentioned as combining much eloquence with high political considerations.

But notwithstanding his elevation and parliamentary duties, he still continued his literary pursuits. Having finished the Tragedy of ‘Don Alvaro,’ he now brought it forward, and it is not too much to say that never had a drama been produced in Spain of so high a character, or that was attended with such success. At first it was received with wonder, then with long and loud applause; it was repeated at every theatre in Spain, and still continues to excite the admiration of audiences, casting into the shade all his former dramatic productions, and in fact causing a revolution in the dramatic art of the Spanish stage. The old worn-out characters and constantly recurring self-same incidents that had encumbered the scenes have since been swept away, and a higher tone has been in consequence adopted by later writers, though still this remarkable production remains without a rival on the Spanish stage. Yet it is not without faults, and it has been subjected to severe criticisms; but on the representation, so absorbing is the interest which it is said to excite, that all faults are lost sight of in admiration. The subject of the drama is that of the old Greek tragedy, Fatality. Don Alvaro is an Œdipus, destined for misfortune, and not even religion can save him from his mission of crime. “It is a character which belongs to no determinate epoch, perhaps more universal in this as it belongs to all, like the heroes of Shakespeare.” There can be no question but that it was the study of Shakespeare which elevated his genius to the production of this masterpiece of the modern Spanish theatre, as had the study of Walter Scott and Byron enabled him to give the world the great poem of the ‘Moro Esposito.’

On the 15th of May, 1836, the Duke de Rivas was called on to join the government formed by his friends Isturitz and Galiano, to which he consented with much reluctance. But this ministry was doomed to be of short duration, and was overthrown in the midst of popular commotions. The Duke had to take refuge in the house of the British Minister, the present Earl of Clarendon, where he remained twenty-four days, refusing to emigrate as others of his colleagues had done, though at last he felt himself compelled to do so. With much difficulty he then escaped, and after many perils, passing through Portugal, arrived at Gibraltar.

The moderate counsels of the Isturitz ministry were not agreeable to the temper of the public, and thus the Duke de Rivas was now driven into banishment by his former friends the liberals, as he had formerly been by their mutual enemies the Absolutists. At Gibraltar he thereupon remained a year, dedicating himself again to poetry and painting, having then composed much of his next, and perhaps most popular work, ‘Historical Romances.’ On the promulgation of the constitution of 1837, accepted by the Queen, the Duke gave in his adhesion to it, and was thus enabled to return to his family from his second exile, on the 1st of August of that year.

In the ensuing elections, the Duke was elected Senator for Cadiz, when, in consonance with his principles, he gave his general support to the ministry, and distinguished himself by several animated discourses he pronounced in the Chamber; particularly one in favour of returning to the nunneries their sequestrated properties, and another for maintaining to the Basque provinces their ancient privileges and rights. For this just and disinterested advocacy of their interests, the constituents inhabiting the two provinces of Biscay and Alava respectively elected him to the Senate in 1840, though the government which then existed did not think proper to sanction their choice.

Shortly after this, another change occurred in the government, and under the administration of Narvaez, the Duke de Rivas was appointed Minister from Her Catholic Majesty to the Court at Naples, in which city he continued upwards of five years in that mission; during also the residence of Pius IX. there, while a fugitive from Rome. On the marriage of the Conde de Montemolin, eldest son of Don Carlos, with a sister of the King of the two Sicilies, he demanded his passport, leaving his post, for which he received the approbation of his sovereign. Since his return to Spain, the Duke has been again appointed Vice-President of the Senate, but seems to have taken little part in public affairs.

Mr. Borrow, in his very amusing work, ‘The Bible in Spain,’ describes the Duke de Rivas, in 1836, as “a very handsome man;” and so his portraits represent him, agreeing with all the accounts of his personal appearance and courtly manners. Favoured by fortune with the possession of high rank and ample means, he has been still further favoured in his domestic relations, and with a large family, the solace of his age. We have thus traced him through life, distinguished, in every stage in which he has had to exert himself, for eminent ability as well as honourable conduct. As a soldier, engaged in the noblest of causes, the defence of his country, he showed himself conspicuous among the most active and bravest of her defenders. In public life, as an orator, a diplomatist and a statesman, he has proved equally eminent. In private life, he has been no less exemplary for the exercise of the domestic virtues, having in his needs exerted himself to discharge his duty to his family, by the practice of the talents with which he had been endowed, as an artist of superior proficiency. As a dramatist, his works have in that most difficult department gained the fullest success; and in poetry he is the only modern writer in Spain who has given the world a poem of the highest class, combining varied incidents with well-drawn characters and a sustained interest. Our greatest poet of modern days felt constrained to say,

I twine
My hopes of being remember’d in my line
With my land’s language;

and in such aspirations may the Duke de Rivas indulge in the retrospect of his past labours to ensure for him a like future remembrance.

Passing by the poems written under the influence of an adhesion to the rules of the classical school, we find the poem of the ‘Moro Esposito,’ or ‘Cordova and Burgos in the fifteenth century,’ well-deserving of being classed with the poetical romances of Sir Walter Scott, on the model of which it was written. The subject is the History of the Seven Infantes of Lara, made known to the English reader by Southey and Lockhart, and it contains many passages of extraordinary merit, though severe criticism would point out many faults. “To make felt,” says his biographer, “or to record all the beauties of this book, a book as large would be necessary, and they may well compensate for the defects, notwithstanding that at times those same beauties make us see at what small cost the author might have sent forth his work more finished.” As in every-day life, he has joined in his narration scenes of the most opposite character, the most magnificent descriptions with what is most ludicrous, and the tenderest with what is oppressing to sensibility. The passages referring to his native city of Cordova are peculiarly beautiful, and show the feelings of the exile, as they lean to his country, in all ages and under all circumstances,--to “sweet Argos” or sacred Athens--

γενοίμαν,
ἵν’ ὑλᾶεν ἔπεστι πόντου
πρόβλημ’ ἁλίκλυστον, ἄκραν
ὑπὸ πλάκα Σουνίου,
τὰς ἱερὰς ὅπως προσείποιμεν Ἀθάνας.

The dedication to Mr. Frere has the singularity of being written in the English language.

The ‘Ode to the Lighthouse at Malta’ is another exemplification of the Duke’s patriotic feeling, as well as the poem of ‘The Exile,’ which has been translated into English by Mr. Reade. One of his latest works is in the form of a drama, but, like those of Lord Byron, it is not intended for the stage. It is entitled, ‘Undeception in a Dream,’ and represents the life of man, contrasting its vicissitudes and events with his hopes and desires. Like the tragedy of ‘Alvaro,’ it is a highly poetical conception, and worthy of the reputation of the noble writer.

It has already been intimated that the most popular of the Duke’s works is one published at Madrid in 1841, ‘Historical Romances,’ from which has been taken, for translation, the ‘Alcazar of Seville.’ These romances are, in fact, ballads on various subjects in Spanish history, written in the ballad measure of octosyllabic lines, with asonante rhymes for the second and fourth of each quatrain, similar to our own ballads. In the prologue to this work the Duke has written a defence of this measure, which required no defence beyond his own adoption of it, with the example of such writers in it as Melendez and Arriaza in modern times, and almost all the best writers in the language previously. Ochoa has praised “above all” the romance of the Conde de Villa Mediana, and readers generally find most interesting the ‘Tale of a Veteran,’ so that it may require an explanation for the choice of the one taken, that the character of Pedro, surnamed the Cruel, was best known to the English public, as associated with English history. That of the Conde de Villa Mediana is a lively description of some scenes which led to his assassination by order of the king, who was influenced by jealousy; the ‘Tale of the Veteran’ gives an account of an adventure in a nunnery, where a nun invites an officer to her cell and poisons him in revenge for his slight to her sister. She then shows him the corpse of a brother officer, who had already fallen a victim to her arts for the like wrong to herself, and she tells him the whole history of her motives and conduct, while she induces him to dig a grave for the first victim, with whom, she tells her second, that he is also to be placed.

Few writers have given the world so many works of a superior order, distinguishable separately for varied excellence, as the Duke de Rivas. He has concentrated in his later productions all the chief merits of a poet, in the choice of his subjects, in the delineation of character and the power of maintaining throughout the interest of the narrative. If he has failed too often in the mechanical execution, in attending to the harmony of verse or poetic expression of the thoughts, these are faults which we may hope will be corrected in subsequent editions, so as to leave him still greater claims on the admiration of his readers.

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.