Of the authors of this group with whom I am myself acquainted, none seems to me to stand higher than Gonzales de Salas on the Aristotelian-Senecan side; while few exhibit rehashings of the common stuff to be found in all the Italian books more strikingly than Carvallo in his Cisne de Apolo.^[448]

Gonzales de Salas,^[449] on the contrary, strikes me as having shown distinct and original critical power. Gonzales de Salas. A foreigner is not likely to be greatly disturbed, even if he be a better Spanish scholar than I am, by the “palpable” darkness,^[450] the “accumulation of obscurity and troublesomeness” in style, with which Señor Menéndez reproaches Salas. It is an odd thing, but might be paralleled elsewhere, that the foreigner, who does not know what the man ought to have said in order to convey his meaning properly, can, in nearly all languages, arrive at that meaning more easily than the native, who is “put off” by eccentricity and barbarisms. Words, for instance, like lucifugas and parasangas, which Don Marcelino holds up to special reproach, are to an Englishman, with his Virgil and his Xenophon in his head, perhaps easier reading than some of the bluest-blooded words of pure Spanish. The critic is further enraged by Salas’s devotion to Seneca, whose Troades he actually translated, with observations and exercitations thereon. But (as students of English at least should know) there is much Romantic virtue in your Seneca along with his Classical vice. The curious thing about Gonzales is that—fervent Aristotelian as he is in theory, and devotee of the ancient theatre down to the Tragic Boot—he has singular “pluckings of apples by the banks of Ulai,” strange glimpses of the truths which his countrymen were the best situated of all men in Europe (with hardly the exception of Englishmen) for seeing, but which as a rule they would not see. Both Pinciano and Cascales had eulogised Nature or Naturaleza; but as the foundress or foundation of Laws which Cascales at any rate would have as those of the Medes and Persians. Gonzales, Aristotelian as he is, on the other hand, says in so many words,^[451] “You are not bound to follow the ancients,” “Time and taste may improve and alter art.” Señor Menéndez thinks this liberty a Spanish trait; but we find it in some Italians, though not many, and we certainly do not find it in all or many Spaniards, who are much rather inclined to divide their attentions, or, as the impudent old Greek definition has it, “to keep the wife for convenience and decency, the mistress for pleasure.” Gonzales, I think, saw a higher law.

These authors, however, and others who succeeded them, though worthy wights and good workers in labouring the lea of Spanish criticism, in no case possess the interest which attaches in all literatures to those who are at once eminent in creation and careful in criticism. The place of Corneille in French, of Jonson and Dryden in English, is taken, earlier than any of these, by one of the great and three of the greatest writers of Spain—Tirso de Molina, Lope, Cervantes, and Calderon.

The contribution of the “creator of Don Juan” to criticism is not large, and it comes in an odd place, but it is of importance. In the curious medley called Cigarrales [say "tales of a country-house"] de Toledo,^[452] Tirso has included a play of his own, El Vergonzoso en Palacio, and has given us a discussion of it by the company at p. 184 of the book. The Cigarrales of Tirso de Molina. A “presumptuous person” attacks the poet for “licentiously deserting” the limits and laws of comedy. He has stated the strict Unities, and is contrasting the action of the play with them, when he is interrupted by a certain Don Alejo, who carries the war into the enemy’s quarters bravely. Comedy must be ended in twenty-four hours, must it? It is quite decent and probable, is it not, that a gallant shall fall in love with a lady, court her, treat her, win her, and marry her all in a day? Where are all the delightful accidents of love—the hopes and the despairs—to go? A real lover must be proved by days and months and years of constancy. Why may not comedy present to the eye what history presents to the understanding—much time in little? The ingenuity of the playwright consists [I abbreviate here a good deal] in making things probable as they are related. The very difference of nature from art is that the one, from its creation, cannot vary—a pear-tree always producing pears, an ilex its own acorns, influenced only by soil, climate, &c. But drama varies its own laws, and grafts tragedy on comedy. And he then boldly sets Lope, to whom he gives the title of reformador de la comedia nueva, as an example of modern art against Æschylus and Euripides and Seneca and Terence, explaining the dramatist’s declaration, v. infra, that he had deserted the ancients to please the Popular taste, as due only to his natural modesty. This is real plain speaking: and the speech is worthy of the author of the Burlador de Sevilla and the striking Condenado por Desconfiado.

Tirso’s apology for his great craftsfellow was not more superfluous than his defence of him was bold and well framed. Lope’s Arte Nuevo, &c. Not merely in the verse Arte Nuevo de hacer Comedias,^[453] but elsewhere, does Lope make the somewhat undignified and pusillanimous, but, as we have said, widely entertained, excuse referred to. Señor Menéndez himself can only plead (a little obviously, perhaps) that “there were two men in Lope,” the great popular Spanish poet, and the educated versesmith, full of academic tradition. Very much the same mixture is seen in Dryden, from whom, as we shall see, inconsistencies quite as great as Lope’s, and much more numerous, can be quoted. But the contrast, I think, brings out the characteristic weakness of the Spanish critical spirit. Its historian admits frankly that there is a good deal in Lope that is “infantine.” I should add that he seems to me never to have taken any side of criticism with seriousness, whereas Dryden successively took many. Both had to confess that they had been sometimes traitors to their own best ideals of poetry, to please the multitude; but Dryden, at least, never committed the blasphemy of condemning his own best things as Lope did, and thanking God that he himself knew the precious “precepts,” according to which he did not write them. The simple fact seems to be that a man of Lope’s extraordinary facility and fecundity could not be critical. In the time that Dryden took to write Alexander’s Feast the Spanish poet would have done you an Epic, half-a-dozen plays, and minor poems enough to fill a volume. Señor Menéndez himself avows that he cannot pretend to be acquainted with all the critical remarks interspersed in Lope’s enormous and never yet collected work: and who shall venture to rival his extensive knowledge? But we shall probably not be rash in thinking that any real doctrine, except on details of craft, would be hard to extract from them. The man was a genius, but not a critical genius: and it certainly was within the resources of a very humble critical faculty to note, as it is his chief critical glory to have noted, in theory, as he expressed it in practice, the fact that “Points of honour move all people mightily” on the [Spanish] stage.^[454]

The tractate consists of not quite 400 hendecasyllabic lines, arranged in irregular stanzas from five to fifty lines long, and blank except for the last two lines of each stanza, which form a rhymed couplet. It has a rather erudite air at first sight; but M. Morel-Fatio has ruthlessly shown that almost all, if not all, the passages which give it this appearance are translated literally from Robortello^[455] or from Donatus. It begins by a complimentary address to the Academy of Madrid, which had, it seems, asked the poet for the treatise, and then passes into the slightly ignoble apology-boast, already referred to, as to his own knowledge of the preceptos and the barbarism, the rudeza, of the established and popular notion of drama. He defines comedy as imitating actions and manners of men—not royal and lofty actions like tragedy, but humble and plebeian—gives an exceedingly perfunctory sketch of Spanish, and a much fuller one of ancient, drama, and then relapses into his exercises and denunciations of

with a promise to “gild” the error of the vulgar, and discover, if possible, a sort of via media. But one is not surprised to find that he has almost directly to blaspheme one of the very chief of his revered preceptos by admitting that

of the mixing of the tragic and the comic. So, too, like a new Naaman, he bows in the House of Rimmon by admitting that the Unity of Time must be broken, though you are to hide the breach if you can. Minor details of dramaturgy fill a large part of the piece, with an especial recommendation of keeping the interest of the audience on the tenterhooks. But he cannot finish (the finale includes a boast of having written 483 comedies

without another ungracious fling at the “vulgarity” and the “barbarism” of the Muse he serves, and a confession, in which some have seen humour, that all the 483, “except six,” sin gravely against true art. Certainly humour is not an unknown quality with Spaniards; but it cannot be said that, if Lope uses it here, he uses it gracefully.

Still Lope, if not very critical himself, was the cause of some noteworthy criticism from others. His assailants and defenders. From the lively controversy which arose over the character of his work, Señor Menéndez has extracted some documents, so exceedingly rare, that in one instance, at any rate, they consist of a unique copy of a reply to a libel, the original of which has perished altogether. This is the Expostulatio Spongiæ (1618) (the original and lost attack on Lope having been called Spongia), by a Julius Columbarius, who seems to have been the shadow of several gentlemen at once, the chief of them Lope’s friend, Francesco López de Aguilar. Appended to this is a dissertation by Alfonso Sanchez, professor of Hebrew at Alcalá, in which the clear method and universally intelligible Latin of the schools are utilised to put part of the Romantic case, as it was seldom put before the end of the eighteenth century. “Nature,” says Sanchez, “gives laws; she does not accept them.” Spaniards are men, and, for the matter of that, Roman citizens as well. And times change: and, for all our worship of Cicero, he would be a dinner-bell^[456] if he orated in the Theatre of Alcalá. Let poetry follow the requirements of its time. Another of these documents is the Apology for Spanish drama, prefixed to a collection of plays by Valencian authors in 1616, and signed by Ricardo de[l] Turia, a nom de guerre not yet certainly identified, which is a special defence of Spanish comedy (i.e., “drama”) as such.

In face of these remarkable utterances (which could be multiplied greatly, and the answers to them supplied) it may seem hard, if not altogether unjustifiable, to limit the importance of Spanish criticism, as has been done above. The fight over the Spanish drama. But it has to be observed that all this was a merely passing, and in great part a merely personal, literary dispute, which had no real effect. While the great Spanish dramatists lasted, the drama was popular, and men invented reasons to defend it. But they founded no school, either acceptedly orthodox or strong-reasoned in its heterodoxy: and, when the great age passed, instead of a sounder criticism, as in Dryden’s case, founding itself upon the results, the formal and petrifying neo-classicism of Luzán froze all these reasonings up, just as Boileau had earlier frozen those of the Ogiers and the Saint-Sorlins in France. If we could validate that connection between Dryden himself and the Spanish critics, it would be something like a Missing Link: but we cannot.

The author of Don Quixote and the author of the Vida es Sueño contribute more irregularly to our matter. Cervantes and Calderon. The chief critical documents furnished by the former are the long poem of the Viaje del Parnaso, and not so much the world-famous passage of the burning of the romances of chivalry in Don Quixote, as the whole problem and purpose of that immortal book itself.^[457] The Viaje,^[458] putting aside the debated question of its literary value, is rather a disappointing book, in its allegory of the poetic ship, with glosses for portholes, and tercets for sweeps, and its endless, but rather pointless, citation, generally flattering, but sometimes the reverse, of poets and poetic kinds. Both praise and blame appear to be distributed very much on the principle of Miss Edgeworth’s Frank, when he proposed to give the odd piece of tart to good Henry, who had mended his bat, or to kind Edward, who had lent him his ball. As for the burning question of the libros de caballerías, Cervantes was beyond all question right in preferring Amadis and Palmerin; but it must be a very matter-of-fact reader who does not see that in fact he loved them all, however he might laugh at them. Indeed, the scene itself (D. Q., I. i. 6), though it ends in almost the whole library being left to the untender mercies of the housekeeper and the niece, makes constant exceptions both in favour of the romances themselves (including even such a dubious example as Tirante the White) and of other pieces in verse and prose from the Diana to the Araucana. And when the subject is taken up again much farther on (I. iv. 21) by the Canon of Toledo, his severe strictures on the Romances as they are change suddenly into a splendid panegyric of what they might be. This latter passage indeed shifts into one of the most remarkable of Cervantes’ critical deliverances, the attack (in rougher language than Lope’s own) on “irregular” plays, and the famous and very curious passage in which, immediately afterwards, the curate condemns the improbabilities of the chronicle-drama in words almost precisely similar to those which Sir Philip Sidney had used twenty years and more earlier, and adopts the whole “preceptist” view, with a special reference to Lope’s own compromises and a demand for rigid licensing of plots and romances alike, according to the principles of taste and learning, of Tully (secundum Donatum) and “eloquence.” One may entertain a passing doubt whether the chances of Don Quixote itself would have been altogether happy under such a censorship; and in this there is probably more following of the Italians^[459] than deliberate critical preference. It, however, and other things (the famous contention that epics may be written in prose as well as in verse, though important from its actual illustration in the Don and its effect on Fielding, is in no sense original, and as an opinion hardly more than an echo of Scaliger) no doubt give Cervantes a certain status. But Calderon can hardly be said to give us anything except the odd inconsistency (to be paralleled, though in a different kind, with Lope’s) of his alternate ridicule and patronage of the Gongorist style.

This last name introduces us to another controversy, which, though connected in the most intimate way with our subject, is a sort of appendix to it, and one of those appendices which, in some cases, one must ruthlessly cut short. Gongorism, Culteranism, &c. The quarrels over Lope (whom, by the way, Góngora himself savagely attacked) were succeeded by the battle of culteranismo, again distinguished by that curious see-sawing which, as we have seen, marks the Spaniards on almost all critical points. Quevedo, for instance, and the above-mentioned Gonzales de Salas, behave like those capricious knights of Spenser’s, who were always changing sides in the battle, and running tilt at the very champions by whose side they had lately charged. Quevedo. Quevedo in particular has a most extraordinary record in this matter. I do not think that, in my limited reading of Spanish, I have ever laughed more over anything than over his Cuento de Cuentos,^[460] and his Catechism to help to translate the jargonizing ladies, where he addresses himself Al caro, diáfano, transparente e mediano Lector, gives instructions in the best manner of precious speech, and advises that a wife should call her husband mi quotidio, and he her su sempiterna, while neither will dream of speaking of a “gota de agua,” but will, of course, denominate it a podagra. Yet Quevedo at other times did more than condescend to cultism, or culteranism, as it seems to be indifferently called.

The great prose apostle of the cult, as Góngora was its poet, was Balthasar Gracián, who has not a little for us in his famous Agudeza y arte de ingenio,^[461] the Bible of preciosity, with its motto, En Nada Vulgar, and its doctrine (II. 49), that La semejança es origen de una immensidad conceptuosa tirar principio de agudeza sin limite. His name gives an opportunity of illustrating the difficulty of treating cosas de España. The limitations of Spanish criticism. I am not aware of any living English authorities on Spanish literature who can be placed above Mr David Hannay and Mr Fitzmaurice Kelly. Of these, the first says^[462] that it was Gracián’s “chosen function to be the critic, prophet, and populariser of Gongorism”; the second,^[463] that “No man ever wrote ... with more scorn of Gongorism and all its work.” Who shall decide when doctors of this degree disagree to this extent? I am, so far as my very poor and imperfect knowledge of the texts goes, with Mr Hannay: but that is not to the point.

What, I think, is to the point, and what I may say with some general knowledge of criticism, if with little particular knowledge of Spanish, is that the very nature of the subject invites, excuses, necessitates such differences. The Spaniards, if I may be pardoned a rough and ugly metaphor, never “digested themselves,” never either kept creation and criticism separate, or waited for the one till the other had ceased. Naturaleza and Agudeza jostle each other constantly in them, with a result of truceless war. One may even wonder whether cultismo, culteranismo, conceptismo,^[464] coming as they did after the great period of natural freedom, in Lope, and Tirso, and Cervantes at his best, did not do far more than the harm that the much-abused “Metaphysicals” did in English. The practice of Góngora and Gracián, even of Calderon, not seldom belied the arguments of Tirso and of the shadowy Turia and Sanchez. When a Luzán comes in such cases it is too fatally easy for him to say, “Well! whatever the ancients did, they did not do this! There is at any rate no jerigonza in Aristotle or in Horace!” And the Spaniards had no Milton, no Shakespeare to carry them through, as ours carried us through the worst times. Their Cervantes in his great work was of an “off” kind, as yet not fully recognised; their Lope was too fluent, facile, voluminous, unconvincing; their Calderon, with all his marvellous poetical and specially lyrical power, too unequal and perhaps too rhetorical.

Above all, they had the misfortune to have no critic of real authority. The Arte Nuevo is partly clever enough “technical education,” partly bookwork, partly ignoble or inartistic compromise: and if we compare Tasso and Lope, at no such great distance of time, we can only be struck by the enormous advantage of the Italian in serious critical weight. The others, the Pincianos, the Gonzales de Salas, and the rest, were persons, if not exactly of no mark or likelihood, at any rate of no commanding and authoritative importance, like Ben Jonson and Dryden in England, like Boileau in France. Even such comparatively slight examination of the actual texts as I have been able to give has shown me that many most interesting and independently striking aperçus, passages, phrases may be taken from the Spanish critics. But I cannot say that, even after duly perusing and perpending the admirably competent and loving examination of Señor Menéndez, I have been able to form any high opinion of Spanish seventeenth-century criticism as a whole.