But cruel fortune, whose avenging hate
Had fill'd so deep the martyr's cup of woe,
That soon the bitter draught must overflow,
Herself now urg'd the bloody stroke of fate;
And as her hand the straining bowstring press'd,
A hundred arrows pierced the chieftain's breast:
Nor fewer would suffice to free a way

For his great spirit from her home of clay,
And to his warrior soul give its eternal rest.

Mas fortuna cruel, que ya tenia
Tan poco por hacer, y tanto hecho,
Si tiro alguno avieso alli salia,
Forçando el curso le traïa derecho;
Y en breve, sin dexar parte vacia,
De cien flechas quedo pasado el pecho,
Por dó aquel grande espiritu hecho fuera,
Que por menos heridas no cupiera.

CHAPTER XXX.

On the Romantic Drama. Lope Felix de Vega Carpio.

IN treating of the various branches of the literature of the South, we have hitherto ventured to criticise, with the greatest freedom, authors whose reputation entitles them to the utmost respect. Without regard to mere arbitrary rules, we have not hesitated to express our praise or our censure, according to the impressions which we have received from the perusal of those works, which are admired as masterpieces of genius by other nations. If, in pursuing this course of criticism, we have exposed ourselves to the imputation of deciding in too peremptory a style, on subjects with which we have only a partial acquaintance, we may, perhaps on the other hand, justly claim the merit of candour and impartiality. By fully explaining the feelings with which we have been inspired by the study of individual works, we have discharged our duty with greater fidelity, than if we had only echoed the public sentiment, and added to the number of those who join with indifference the voice of common assent.

But the topic which it is now intended to discuss embraces considerations of peculiar delicacy. It cannot be altogether divested of national prejudices. On the subject of dramatic literature the nations of Europe have divided themselves into two conflicting parties; and, refusing to observe any degree of reciprocal justice, they exasperate each other with mutual insult and contempt. Each country has erected its favourite author into an idol, against whom all hostile criticism is prohibited. If the French pay their adorations to Racine, the English worship Shakspeare with no less devotion; while Calderon, in Spain, and Schiller, in Germany, are objects of equal veneration. To compare one of these authors with the others would be to offend at once all their admirers. Should it be practicable to point out a blemish in some favoured writer, it is not easy to urge the objection with success. Far from conceding the point, his partizans will convert into a beauty the fault which they cannot conceal. They imagine that the national honour depends upon a superiority which they hold to be too clear to admit of any question; for, in the warmth of controversy, the disputants reject the very idea that their own opinion may, by possibility, not be free from error.

It was our intention, in a work of this nature, to make an impartial display of the opposite systems adopted by different nations, and to ex

plain the peculiar tenets of each, as well as to detail the arguments upon which they founded their attacks upon the theory of their adversaries. We would gladly have believed that we had shown ourselves equally sensible to the beauties of these opposite sects, and that, whilst we endeavoured to catch and to indicate the point of view in which our subject is seen by foreign nations, we had succeeded in avoiding their prejudices. Without asserting a jurisdiction over the rules of other schools, we have treated, with due severity, those writers, however illustrious, who rejected indiscriminately all rules alike. Leaving to every theatre the observance of its own practical laws, it has been our aim to overlook national systems, and to prefer the contemplation of a general theory of poetry, which may embrace them all. Our anxious wish to observe a strict impartiality has not been properly appreciated. By both parties we have been considered as avowing hostile opinions. While the English critics have rebuked with severity the preference, which, in speaking of Alfieri, we have given to the classical school, the French have censured with no less asperity the taste for the productions of the romance authors, which we have not attempted to disguise, whilst remarking on the works of Calderon. The result of our exertions to interfere with neither party, has been, that each has, in its turn, disavowed

us, and endeavoured to drive us into the arms of the other.

We shall, however, persist in our determination not to range ourselves under any party-banner. We shall repeat our appeal to the enlightened minds of those who decide upon all other questions with impartiality and justice. We would ask, how it happens that great nations, as highly civilized as ourselves, to whom it is not possible to refuse the merit of erudition, of correct taste, of imagination, of sensibility, and of every mental faculty essential to perfection in criticism or in poetry, should maintain an opinion diametrically opposite to our own on subjects which they understand quite as well as ourselves? Is it not manifestly true that different nations, in their estimate of the dramatic art, consider it in detached portions, and that each selecting some favourite quality, proportions its praise or censure to the degree in which this requisite has been observed or neglected by the author? From the nature of this art, a certain degree of improbability must be submitted to by all; but different countries disagree as to the particular concessions which must in this respect be made; and, whilst they shut their eyes to the established licenses of their own stage, they are mutually disgusted by those which are allowed in foreign theatres. It cannot be disputed that the law of intrinsic beauty and genuine taste is paramount