SIR,
I NOW proceed to perform the promise I made, of presenting the
public with farther particulars relative to the poetry of Spain and
Portugal.
Towards the close of the fifteenth century, was born Mosen Juan
Boscan Almogavar, [1] the reformer of Spanish poetry; and, in the year 1503,
his more celebrated assistant and friend Garcilaso de la Vega. [2] Boscan was tutor to the great duke of
Alva: [3] “the heroic virtues that adorned the mind of the pupil
prove with what diligence and success the tutor performed his duty;” so says one
of his biographers. [4] Let not the reader detest the poet Boscan because he had the
misfortune to educate the detestable duke of Alva! Alexander had listened to the
lessons of Aristotle, [5] and the son of Antoninus must have heard the precepts of his
father; [6] but no culture can
render the night-shade innocent.
Before this period, the poetry of Spain was harsh and barbarous;
some of their old ballads, indeed, possess that simplicity which is superior to
all art, and which no art can bestow; there is, however, in the art of
versification something which, though it may fail to charm us, will at least
prevent us from being disgusted; how would the insipidity of Addison’s [7] poems been received, had they been
dressed in the rhymes of Dr. Donne? [8]
Boscan himself tells us, in his dedication to the duchess de
Soma, that it was by the advice of Andres Nabagero, the Venetian ambassador,
that he introduced Italian metres and Italian taste into the Castilian poetry.
“We were conversing together at Grenada (says he) upon literary subjects, and
particularly upon the difference of languages, when he observed to me, that in
the Castilian tongue we had never attempted sonnets, and other kinds of
composition used by the best authors of Italy; and he not only said this to me,
but urged me to set the example. A few days afterwards, I departed for my home,
and musing upon many things during the long and solitary journey, frequently
thought upon what Nabagero had advised: and thus I began to attempt this kind of
verse. At first I found some difficulty, because it is very complex (muy artificioso) and has many peculiarities different from
our own: afterwards, from the partiality we naturally feel towards our own
productions, I thought that I had succeeded well, and gradually grew warm and
eager in the pursuit. This, however, would not have been sufficient to stimulate
me to proceed, had not Garcilaso encouraged me, whose judgment, not only in my
opinion, but in that of the whole world, is esteemed as a certain rule.” [9]
This innovation, like all other improvements, was not introduced
without opposition. Inigo Lopez de Mendoza, [10] the celebrated marquis of Santillana, had made use of
the Italian metres many years before. Don Diego de Mendoza, [11] of the same noble house, had the honour of co-operating
with Boscan and Garcilaso in a more successful attempt; though such is the
caprice of Fame, that he is better known in England as the author of Lazarillo
de Tormes, [12] than as the historian, the poet, and one of the
reformers of his country’s literature: to the disgrace of mankind, whatever work
is lively and loose, will certainly be popular. The name of Garcilaso has
eclipsed that of his assistants, and he is to this day esteemed the best of the
Spanish poets, yet the little volume of Garcilaso’s productions is more
distinguished by melody of versification than sublimity of thought. The volume
consists of 184 pages, of which 110 are taken up by three eclogues! [13] In the
present æra of taste, no poet possessed of common sense would ever commit a pastoral; and none but a Spanish or Portuguese
poet would ever have extended one to upwards of seventeen hundred lines!
All persons of unvitiated tastes love the country: descriptions
of rural scenery, and images drawn from rural life, never worry us; but a
shepherd and a crook, and a pipe, is quite as unnatural as one of the cannibal
giants of romance, and infinitely less agreeable as a companion by the
fire-side. The Spanish Parnassus is very much infested by these gentry, and they
are equally troublesome on the Portuguese side of the mountain. Yet, if the
following defence of shepherds be not convincing, it is at least curious and
amusing. It is prefixed to the Eclogues of Francisco Rodriguez Lobo. [14]
“Nature has hidden in rough shells, at the bottom of the sea,
those pearls to which man has affixed such value; she has hidden that gold with
which our souls are fettered, in the bowels of the earth, amid barbarous
nations, and in distant countries: she has guarded the sea with rocks, and sown
it with dangers, to place boundaries to our desires, and lengthen the period of
our lives: but Evil, to deprive us of our tranquillity, laid open these secrets,
and hid from us the true knowledge where real tranquillity is to be found. Then
did this malignant spirit disfigure the shepherds with coarse vile garments, and
represent their life of contentment as a life of mean and despicable labour; and
by these magical delusions were we taught to despise the only treasure which the
earth affords to render the mind happy: but when this fascination is removed,
and we see things clearly, how much more beautiful appear the various colours
with which the fields are apparelled, and the trees, and the sun, and the
horizon beautiful when he sets, than all the deceitful trappings of Vanity! How
much more delightful to our ears is the song of innocent birds, than the sound
of flattering tongues, that endeavour to entrap our reason! Is not the rock that
hangs over the stream, in whose caverns the birds dwell, and under whose shade
the fishes sport, more to be admired than the sumptuous and superb edifice, that
cannot so well resist the force of the tempest, or the secret sap of time? Where
can life pass more delightfully or more tranquilly than among the flocks and
herds? How much more secure is the enjoyment of these than the hopes of the
court, and the deceits of the city! And if we have so often sighed for that
happy age of gold, it is for this advantage, exceeding all others, that men
lived then like shepherds, and followed their flocks, and cultivated the earth:
and this truth is clearly proved; for the first man whom God created held this
office, and the title which God gave him, was that of lord of the animal world;
and Abel, the first martyr, in whom the church began, and the other children of
Adam, tended their flocks: so likewise did Abraham and Isaac, and Jacob with his
beloved Rachel, and Esau; Joseph and his brethren were shepherds, as they
confessed to Pharaoh. Moses and Zipporah, Saul and David, kings of Israel, and
Mesa, king of Moab, had executed this honourable office; and king Cyrus had
exercised it among the ancient Persians. Romulus and Remus, the founders of
Rome, with Faustulus, who educated them, kept sheep; and among those valiant
Romans, the fame of whose exploits has echoed over the world, we read of many
whose names discover their origin, such as the Vituli, the Vitellii, the Porcii,
the Capri, the Tauri and the Bubulci. Many persons have risen to the highest
dignities, from the pastoral state: Giges, king of Lydia; Sophy, king of the
Turks; Primislaus, king of Bohemia; Tamerlane, emperor of the Scythians; Justin,
emperor of the Romans; Viriatus, captain of the Portuguese; and Sixtus the
first, the Roman pontiff: and, in truth, what is the life of a shepherd, but the
similitude of empire? but a system of government, with moderation and mildness?
For what can be more similar to the government of a kingdom than the management
of a flock? To defend them from wild beasts, to secure them from robbers, to
guide them to good pastures, cool shades, and clear waters; to threaten them
with his voice, to chastise with the crook those who stray; to amuse them with
the pipe and with the song, to cure them with herbs when they are sick; to be
clothed with their wool, to feed upon their milk, and thus to pass peaceably
through life? Among the vain deities whom the blinded Gentiles worshipped,
Apollo, Mercury, Daphne, and Pan, and Proteus, and Paris, and Polyphemus, were
shepherds; and the true God whom we serve, is frequently styled a shepherd, in
the holy Scriptures; so ancient and so honourable is the pastoral life, which
the avarice of men has now made despicable!
“Much knowledge is certainly necessary for a shepherd; an
acquaintance with the nature of soils and pastures, the virtues of herbs, the
changes of weather, the movements of the heavenly bodies, the effects of the
sun, and the qualities of animals; and this life, though the most quiet,
produces in its employments all things necessary for our subsistence: wool,
milk, skins, the flesh of animals, herbs, grain, fruit. What life, then, can be
more delightful than the pastoral life? or what prejudice can be greater than
that which denies this truth?
“What style can be more conformable to reason, or less vitiated,
than the simple style of the shepherd? and therefore is it that the ancient
writers have delivered their precepts in the pastoral language, as being most
pure and natural. Under this allegory, Solomon veiled the mysteries of our
faith, in his Songs to his beloved; instructing us, by his lofty theme, and by a
strain of poetry as sublime in itself, as it is humble in its similitude; which
example alone would be sufficient, with the men of this age, to dignify pastoral
productions. In this style the Greeks and Romans, and the Italians, the
Spaniards, and our Portuguese, have written works, many in number, and rare in
quality; marvellous works, to enumerate which would be another new undertaking!
Therefore, curious reader, I present to you the manners and language of
shepherds, as the true doctrine of wisdom. I do not give you gilded pills of
poison, nor offer to you flowers that conceal a viper; instead of these you have
pearls in the shell, and plain honesty instead of polished falsehood.” [15]
So curiously has this ingenious Portuguese defended pastoral
poetry! But though we may agree with him that the life he describes is the most
natural and most honourable state of man, we shall be very far from
acknowledging, that either his eclogues, or those of any other poet, fairly
represent it.
Garcilaso de la Vega, in the most enormous of his eclogues, has
introduced almost action enough for a drama. [16] Albanio opens it, with a soliloquy of lamentations, and then he
falls asleep. Salicio then enters, singing a translation of Horace’s favourite
ode, “Beatus ille qui procul negotiis,” [17] of which there are above twenty
versions in the Spanish language. In the middle of it, he stops short, on seeing
a man sleeping, dilates upon the excellence of sleep; and then, recognizing
Albanio, informs the reader, that he knows him, that he was once very happy, and
is now very miserable, but that he had not yet learned the cause. Albanio now
talks in his sleep and Salicio interrupts and wakes him. He now requests him to
relate his history, and Albanio tells a very long story of his being the
intimate friend of a young female relation, with whom he used to hunt; how he
one day told his love; she left him, and he is dying with despair. After they
are gone out, Camille enters, and lies down by a fountain to take her siesta — her evening’s nap. Albanio finds her, and seizes
her, but releases her on her solemn promise to remain and hear him, which she,
as soon as released, breaks, and runs away, and Albanio runs mad. Salicio now
enters, with Nemoroso: Nemoroso tells a long story about a magician, which is a
panegyric upon the family of Alva; and the eclogue concludes with their
resolution to get Albanio cured by this magician.
In this very ill-planned poem, Garcilaso has perpetuated his
friendship for Boscan, and perhaps no lines in the poem can be perused with more
pleasure than these, in which he bears testimony to the virtues of his
friend:
“Then, hand in hand,
A youth approach’d, with Phoebus; in his face
The skilful eye might read benevolence
And wisdom; he was perfected in all
The lore and various arts of courtesy
That humanize mankind: the graceful port,
And the fair front of open manliness,
Discover’d Boscan; and that fire illumin’d
His generous face that animates his song,
With never-fading splendour there to shine.
[18]
Garcilaso has, in his second eclogue, introduced a Moorish metre,
which has been seldom imitated, and, indeed, which did not deserve to be
imitated at all: it is making the middle of the second line rhyme to the end of
the first: the middle of the third to the end of the second, &c. Sir
Philip Sidney, who was always trying experiments in versification, and making
innovations instead of improvements, has left us some specimens of this:
Thy safety sure is wrapped in destruction,
For that construction thine own words do
bear;
A man to fear a woman’s moodie eye
Makes reason lie a slave to servile sense,
A weak defence, where weakness is thy force;
So is
remorce in folly dearly bought.
[19]
This novelty, however, is to the eye and not to the ear; it is
only rhyming regularly in short and irregular lines. A peculiarity similar to
this, though infinitely superior, is much used by the Welsh poets; and the Welsh
bard, Edward Williams, has given a very happy specimen in English: [20]
Retir’d amongst our native hills,
And far from ills of greatness,
We live, delighted with our lot,
And trim our cot with neatness.
We wisdom seek and calm content,
They both frequent our dwelling;
From these a deathless comfort springs,
The joys of kings excelling.
In this the objection to the Moorish metre is removed, by the alternation of a
regular rhyme.
Both Boscan and Garcilaso possessed more learning than taste, and
more taste than genius. Their poems, particularly those of the latter, are full
of imitations from the ancients; they seldom disgust the reader by bombast, but
they never elevate his mind by the sublime. There is more prettiness in Boscan,
more tenderness in Garcilaso. The following little piece of Boscan is not
unhappy, and by the many imitations of it, it appears to have been a favourite
conceit:
TO A MIRROR.
Since still my passion-pleading strains
Have fail’d her heart to move,
Show, Mirror! to that lovely maid,
The charms that make me love.
Reflect on her the thrilling beam
Of magic from her eye,
So, like Narcissus, she shall gaze,
And self-enamour’d die.
[21]
The sonnets of Garcilaso are the most interesting of his works:
there are some as beautiful, but none superior, to the following:
As when the mother, weak in tenderness,
Hears her sick child with prayer and tears implore
Some seeming good, that makes his pain the less,
Yet, with short ease! the future evil more;
Even as her fondness yields to his vain will
She hastes to gratify her sickly son —
Anticipating then the coming ill,
Sadly she sits, and weeps what she has done.
Thus have I pamper’d my distemper’d mind;
And yielded thus to fancy’s wayward mood,
Poor dupe of Fancy! self-condemn’d to find
The future anguish in the present good. —
Thus do I waste a wretched life away,
And nightly weep the errors of the day!
[22]
Boscan paraphrased the Hero and Leander of Musæus, of course he
injured it; for to paraphrase is to dilate, and to dilate, to weaken. [23] He survived his friend, Garcilaso
(who was killed in battle) but a few years: they both died young; but their
celebrity will always last; for though Spain may hereafter produce better poets,
the glory of reforming the national poetry must still remain.
T. Y.
