JOVELLANOS.

Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one,Have ofttimes no connexion. Knowledge dwellsIn heads replete with thoughts of other men;Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.

Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one,

Have ofttimes no connexion. Knowledge dwells

In heads replete with thoughts of other men;

Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.

In his hours of leisure, Jovellanos employed himself in composing occasional verses at times, for the amusement of the society in which he lived, without thinking of their being ever sought for publication. These, however, have been lately gathered together with much industry and exactness in thelast edition of his collected works, published by Mellado at Madrid in five volumes, 1845. As the last and fullest, it is also the best collection of them, four other editions of them previously published having been comparatively very deficient with regard to them. Besides those, there were various reprints of several others of his works, which were all received with much favour, both in Spain and abroad.

Jovellanos was never married, and in private life seems to have considered himself under the obligations of the profession for which he was originally intended. His character altogether is one to which it would be difficult to find a parallel, and is an honour to Spain as well as to Spanish literature. His virtues are now unreservedly admitted by all parties of his countrymen, who scarcely ever name him except with the epithet of the illustrious Jovellanos, to which designation he is indeed justly entitled, no less for his writings, than for his many public and private virtues and services to his country. These may be forgotten in the claims of other generations and succeeding statesmen; but his writings must ever remain to carry his memory wherever genius and worth can be duly appreciated.

The charge of writing a memoir of Jovellanos was entrusted by the Historical Society of Madrid to Cean Bermudez, who fulfilled it with affectionate zeal, Madrid, 1814; several other notices of his life have appeared in Spain, including that by Quintana, which has been copied by Wolf. The English reader will find an excellent one in the Foreign Quarterly Review, No. 10, February, 1830; and the Spanish scholar a further very eloquent encomium on his talents and merits in Quintana’s second Introduction to his collection of Spanish Poetry.

Arise, Bermudo, bid thy soul beware:Thee raging Fortune watches to ensnare;And, lulling others’ hopes in dreams supine,A fell assault she meditates on thine.The cruel blow which suffer’d from her rageThy poor estate will not her wrath assuage,Till from thy breast her fury may deposeThe blissful calm to innocence it owes.Such is her nature, that she loathes the sightOf happiness for man in her despite.Thus to thine eyes insidious she presentsThe phantasies of good, with which she paintsThe road to favour, and would fain employHer arts thy holds of virtue to destroy.Ah! heed her not. See her to rob thee standEv’n of the happiness now in thy hand.’Tis not of her; she cannot it bestow:She makes men fortunate;—but happy? No.Thou think’st it strange! Dost thou the names confoundOf Fortune with felicity as bound?Like the poor idiots, who so foolish gazeOn the vain gifts and joys which she displays,So cunning to exchange for real good.O cheat of human wisdom! say withstood,What does she promise, but what beings bornTo our high destiny should hold in scorn?In reason’s balance her best offers weigh,And see what worthless lightness they betray.There are who, burning in the track of fame,Wear themselves ruthless for a sounding name.Buy it with blood, and fire, and ruin wide;And if with horrid arm is death descried,Waving his pennon as from some high tower,Their hearts swell proud, and trampling fierce they scourThe field o’er brothers’ bodies as of foes!Then sing a triumph, while in secret flowsThe tear they shed as from an anguish’d heart.Less lofty, but more cunning on his part,Another sighs for ill-secure command:With flatteries solicitously plann’d,Follows the air of favour, and his prideIn adulation vile he serves to hide,To exalt himself; and if he gain his endHis brow on all beneath will haughty bend;And sleep, and joy, and inward peace, the priceTo splendour of command, will sacrifice:Yet fears the while, uncertain in his joy,Lest should some turn of Fortune’s wheel destroyHis power in deep oblivion overthrown.Another seeks, with equal ardour shown,For lands, and gold in store. Ah! lands and gold,With tears how water’d, gain’d with toils untold!His thirst unquench’d, he hoards, invests, acquires;But with his wealth increased are his desires;And so much more he gains, for more will long:Thus, key in hand, his coffers full among;Yet poor he thinks himself, and learns to knowHis state is poor, because he thinks it so.Another like illusion his to roamFrom wife and friends, who flying light and home,To dedicate his vigils the long nightIn secret haunts of play makes his delight,With vile companions. Betwixt hope and fearHis anxious breast is fluctuating drear.See, with a throbbing heart and trembling hand,There he has placed his fortune, all to standUpon the turning of a die! ’Tis done:The lot is cast; what is it? has he won?Increased is his anxiety and care!But if reverse, O Heaven! in deep despair,O’erwhelm’d in ruin, he is doom’d to knowA life of infamy, or death of woe.And is he happier, who distracted liesA slave beneath the light of beauty’s eyes?Who fascinated watches, haunts, and prays,And at the cost of troubles vast essays,’Mid doubts and fears, a fleeting joy to gain?Love leads him not: his breast could ne’er profaneAdmit Love’s purer flame; ’tis passion’s fireAlone that draws him, and in wild desireHe blindly headlong follows in pursuit:And what for all his toils can he compute?If gain’d at length, he only finds the prizeBring death and misery ev’n in pleasure’s guise.Then look on him, abandon’d all to sloth,Who vacant sees the hours pass long and lothO’er his so useless life. He thinks them slow,Alas! and wishes they would faster go.He knows not how to employ them; in and outHe comes, and goes, and smokes, and strolls about,To gossip; turns, returns, with constant stressWearying himself to fly from weariness.But now retired, sleep half his life employs,And fain would all the day, whose light annoys.Fool! wouldst thou know the sweetness of repose?Seek it in work. The soul fastidious growsEver in sloth, self-gnawing and oppress’d,And finds its torment even in its rest.But if to Bacchus and to Ceres given,Before his table laid, from morn to even,At ease he fills himself, as held in stall:See him his stomach make his god, his all!Nor earth nor sea suffice his appetite;Ill-tongued and gluttonous the like unite:With such he passes his vain days along,In drunken routs obscene, with toast and song,And jests and dissolute delights; his aimTo gorge unmeasured, riot without shame.But soon with these begins to blunt and loseStomach and appetite: he finds refuseOffended Nature, as insipid food,The savours others delicacies view’d.Vainly from either India he seeksFor stimulants; in vain from art bespeaksFresh sauces, which his palate will reject;His longings heighten’d, but life’s vigour wreck’d;And thus worn out in mid career the cost,Before life ends he finds his senses lost.O bitter pleasures! O, what madness soreIs theirs who covet them, and such imploreHumbly before a lying deity!How the perfidious goddess to agreeBut mocks them! Though perhaps at first she smile,Exempt from pain and misery the long whileShe never leaves them, and in place of joyGives what they ask, with weariness to cloy.If trusted, soon is found experience taughtWhat ill-foreseen condition they have sought.Niggard their wishes ever to fulfil,Fickle in favour, vacillating still,Inconstant, cruel, she afflicts today,And casts down headlong to distress a prey,Whom yesterday she flatter’d to upraise:And now another from the mire she swaysExalted to the clouds; but raised in vain,With louder noise to cast him down again.Seest thou not there a countless multitude,Thronging her temple round, and oft renew’d,Seeking admittance, and to offer fraughtWith horrid incense, for their idol brought?Fly from her; let not the contagion findThe base example enter in thy mind.Fly, and in virtue thy asylum seekTo make thee happy: trust the words I speak.There is no purer happiness to gainThan the sweet calm the just from her attain.If in prosperity their fortunes glide,She makes them free from arrogance and pride;In mid estate be tranquil and content;In adverse be resign’d whate’er the event:Implacable, if Envy’s hurricaneO’erwhelm them in misfortunes, even thenShe hastes to save them, and its rage control;With lofty fortitude the nobler soulEnduing faithful; and if raised to sight,At length they find the just reward requite,Say is there aught to hope for prize so greatAs the immortal crown for which they wait?But is this feeling then, I hear thee cry,That elevates my soul to virtue high,This anxious wish to investigate and know,Is it blameworthy as those passions low?Why not to that for happiness repair?Wilt thou condemn it? No, who would so dare,That right would learn his origin and end?Knowledge and Virtue, sisters like, descendFrom heaven to perfect man in nobleness;And far removing him, Bermudo, yes!From vice and error, they will make him free,Approaching even to the Deity.But seek them not, in that false path to goWhich cunning Fortune will to others show.Where then? to Wisdom’s temple only haste;There thou wilt find them. Her invoke; and traced,See how she smiles! press forward; learn to useThe intercession of the kindly MuseTo make her be propitious. But beware,That in her favour thou escape the snare,The worship, which the vain adorer pays.She never him propitiously surveys,Who insolently seeking wealth or fame,Burns impure incense on her altar’s flame.Dost thou not see how many turn asideFrom her of learning void, but full of pride?Alas for him, who seeking truth, for aidEmbraces only a delusive shade!In self conceit who venturing to confide,Nor virtue gain’d, nor reason for his guide,Leaves the right path, precipitate to strayWhere error’s glittering phantoms lead the way!Can then the wise hope happiness to feelIn the chimæras sought with so much zeal?Ah, no! they all are vanities and cheats!See him, whom anxious still the morning greets,Measuring the heavens, and of the stars that flyThe shining orbits! With a sleepless eye,Hasty the night he reckons, and complainsOf the day’s light his labour that detains;Again admires night’s wonders, but reflectsNe’er on the hand that fashion’d and directs.Beyond the moons of Uranus he bendsHis gaze; beyond the Ship, the Bear, ascends:But after all this, nothing more feels he:He measures, calculates, but does not seeThe heavens obeying their great Author’s will,Whirling around all silent; robbing stillThe hours from life, ungratefully so gone,Till one to undeceive him soon draws on.Another, careless of the stars, descriesThe humble dust, to scan and analyse.His microscope he grasps, and sets, and fallsOn some poor atom; and a triumph calls,If should the fool the magic instrumentOf life or motion slightest sign present,Its form to notice, in the glass to pore,What his deluded fancy saw before;Yields to the cheat, and gives to matter baseThe power, forgot the Lord of all to trace.Thus raves the ingrate.Another the meanwhileTo scrutinize pretends, in learning’s style,The innate essence of the soul sublime.How he dissects it, regulates in time!As if it were a subtile fluid, knownTo him its action, functions, strength and tone;But his own weakness shows in this alone.’Twas given to man to view the heavens on high,But not in them the mysteries of the sky;Yet boldly dares his reason penetrateThe darksome chaos, o’er it to dilate.With staggering step, thus scorning heavenly light,In error’s paths he wanders, lost in night.Confused, but not made wise, he pores about,Betwixt opinion wavering and doubt.Seeking for light, and shadows doom’d to feel,He ponders, studies, labours to unsealThe secret, and at length finds his advance;The more he learns, how great his ignorance.Of matter, form, or motion, or the soul,Or moments that away incessant roll,Or the unfathomable sea of space,Without a sky, without a shore to trace,Nothing he reaches, nothing comprehends,Nor finds its origin, nor where it tends;But only sinking, all absorb’d may seeIn the abysses of eternity.Perhaps, thence stepping more disorder’d yet,He rushes his presumptuous flight to setEv’n to the throne of God! with his dim eyesThe Great Inscrutable to scrutinize;Sounding the gulf immense, that circles roundThe Deity, he ventures o’er its bound.What can he gain in such a pathless courseBut endless doubts, his ignorance the source?He seeks, proposes, argues, thinking vain.The ignorance that knew to raise, must fainBe able to resolve them. Hast thou seenAttempts that e’er have more audacious been?What! shall an atom such as he excelTo comprehend the Incomprehensible?Without more light than reason him assign’d,The limits of immensity to find?Infinity’s beginning, middle, end?Dost Thou, Eternal Lord, then condescendTo admit man to Thy councils, or to beWith his poor reason in Thy sanctuary?A task so great as this dost Thou confideTo his weak soul? ’Tis not so, be relied,My friend. To know God in His works above,To adore Him, melt in gratitude and love;The blessings o’er thee lavish’d to confess,To sing His glory, and His name to bless;—Such be thy study, duty and employ;And of thy life and reason such the joy.Such is the course that should the wise essay,While only fools will from it turn away.Wouldst thou attain it? easy the emprise;Perfect thy being, and thou wilt be wise:Inform thy reason, that its aid impartThee truth eternal: purify thy heart,To love and follow it: thy study makeThyself, but seek thy Maker’s light to take:There is high Wisdom’s fountain found alone:There thou thy origin wilt find thee shown;There in His glorious work to find the place’Tis thine to occupy: there thou mayst traceThy lofty destiny, the crown declaredOf endless life, for virtue that’s prepared.Bermudo, there ascend: there seek to findThat truth and virtue in the heavenly mind,Which from His love and wisdom ever flow.If elsewhere thou dost seek to find them, know,That darkness only thou wilt have succeed,In ignorance and error to mislead.Thou of this love and wisdom mayst the raysDiscern in all His works, His power and praiseThat tell around us, in the wondrous scaleOf high perfection which they all detail;The order which they follow in the laws,That bind and keep them, and that show their cause,The ends of love and pity in their frame:These their Creator’s goodness all proclaim.Be this thy learning, this thy glory’s view;If virtuous, thou art wise and happy too.Virtue and truth are one, and in them boundAlone may ever happiness be found.And they can only, with a conscience pure,Give to thy soul to enjoy it, peace secure;True liberty in moderate desires,And joy in all to do thy work requires;To do well in content, and calmly free:All else is wind and misery, vanity.

Arise, Bermudo, bid thy soul beware:

Thee raging Fortune watches to ensnare;

And, lulling others’ hopes in dreams supine,

A fell assault she meditates on thine.

The cruel blow which suffer’d from her rage

Thy poor estate will not her wrath assuage,

Till from thy breast her fury may depose

The blissful calm to innocence it owes.

Such is her nature, that she loathes the sight

Of happiness for man in her despite.

Thus to thine eyes insidious she presents

The phantasies of good, with which she paints

The road to favour, and would fain employ

Her arts thy holds of virtue to destroy.

Ah! heed her not. See her to rob thee stand

Ev’n of the happiness now in thy hand.

’Tis not of her; she cannot it bestow:

She makes men fortunate;—but happy? No.

Thou think’st it strange! Dost thou the names confound

Of Fortune with felicity as bound?

Like the poor idiots, who so foolish gaze

On the vain gifts and joys which she displays,

So cunning to exchange for real good.

O cheat of human wisdom! say withstood,

What does she promise, but what beings born

To our high destiny should hold in scorn?

In reason’s balance her best offers weigh,

And see what worthless lightness they betray.

There are who, burning in the track of fame,Wear themselves ruthless for a sounding name.Buy it with blood, and fire, and ruin wide;And if with horrid arm is death descried,Waving his pennon as from some high tower,Their hearts swell proud, and trampling fierce they scourThe field o’er brothers’ bodies as of foes!Then sing a triumph, while in secret flowsThe tear they shed as from an anguish’d heart.

There are who, burning in the track of fame,

Wear themselves ruthless for a sounding name.

Buy it with blood, and fire, and ruin wide;

And if with horrid arm is death descried,

Waving his pennon as from some high tower,

Their hearts swell proud, and trampling fierce they scour

The field o’er brothers’ bodies as of foes!

Then sing a triumph, while in secret flows

The tear they shed as from an anguish’d heart.

Less lofty, but more cunning on his part,Another sighs for ill-secure command:With flatteries solicitously plann’d,Follows the air of favour, and his prideIn adulation vile he serves to hide,To exalt himself; and if he gain his endHis brow on all beneath will haughty bend;And sleep, and joy, and inward peace, the priceTo splendour of command, will sacrifice:Yet fears the while, uncertain in his joy,Lest should some turn of Fortune’s wheel destroyHis power in deep oblivion overthrown.

Less lofty, but more cunning on his part,

Another sighs for ill-secure command:

With flatteries solicitously plann’d,

Follows the air of favour, and his pride

In adulation vile he serves to hide,

To exalt himself; and if he gain his end

His brow on all beneath will haughty bend;

And sleep, and joy, and inward peace, the price

To splendour of command, will sacrifice:

Yet fears the while, uncertain in his joy,

Lest should some turn of Fortune’s wheel destroy

His power in deep oblivion overthrown.

Another seeks, with equal ardour shown,For lands, and gold in store. Ah! lands and gold,With tears how water’d, gain’d with toils untold!His thirst unquench’d, he hoards, invests, acquires;But with his wealth increased are his desires;And so much more he gains, for more will long:Thus, key in hand, his coffers full among;Yet poor he thinks himself, and learns to knowHis state is poor, because he thinks it so.

Another seeks, with equal ardour shown,

For lands, and gold in store. Ah! lands and gold,

With tears how water’d, gain’d with toils untold!

His thirst unquench’d, he hoards, invests, acquires;

But with his wealth increased are his desires;

And so much more he gains, for more will long:

Thus, key in hand, his coffers full among;

Yet poor he thinks himself, and learns to know

His state is poor, because he thinks it so.

Another like illusion his to roamFrom wife and friends, who flying light and home,To dedicate his vigils the long nightIn secret haunts of play makes his delight,With vile companions. Betwixt hope and fearHis anxious breast is fluctuating drear.See, with a throbbing heart and trembling hand,There he has placed his fortune, all to standUpon the turning of a die! ’Tis done:The lot is cast; what is it? has he won?Increased is his anxiety and care!But if reverse, O Heaven! in deep despair,O’erwhelm’d in ruin, he is doom’d to knowA life of infamy, or death of woe.

Another like illusion his to roam

From wife and friends, who flying light and home,

To dedicate his vigils the long night

In secret haunts of play makes his delight,

With vile companions. Betwixt hope and fear

His anxious breast is fluctuating drear.

See, with a throbbing heart and trembling hand,

There he has placed his fortune, all to stand

Upon the turning of a die! ’Tis done:

The lot is cast; what is it? has he won?

Increased is his anxiety and care!

But if reverse, O Heaven! in deep despair,

O’erwhelm’d in ruin, he is doom’d to know

A life of infamy, or death of woe.

And is he happier, who distracted liesA slave beneath the light of beauty’s eyes?Who fascinated watches, haunts, and prays,And at the cost of troubles vast essays,’Mid doubts and fears, a fleeting joy to gain?Love leads him not: his breast could ne’er profaneAdmit Love’s purer flame; ’tis passion’s fireAlone that draws him, and in wild desireHe blindly headlong follows in pursuit:And what for all his toils can he compute?If gain’d at length, he only finds the prizeBring death and misery ev’n in pleasure’s guise.

And is he happier, who distracted lies

A slave beneath the light of beauty’s eyes?

Who fascinated watches, haunts, and prays,

And at the cost of troubles vast essays,

’Mid doubts and fears, a fleeting joy to gain?

Love leads him not: his breast could ne’er profane

Admit Love’s purer flame; ’tis passion’s fire

Alone that draws him, and in wild desire

He blindly headlong follows in pursuit:

And what for all his toils can he compute?

If gain’d at length, he only finds the prize

Bring death and misery ev’n in pleasure’s guise.

Then look on him, abandon’d all to sloth,Who vacant sees the hours pass long and lothO’er his so useless life. He thinks them slow,Alas! and wishes they would faster go.He knows not how to employ them; in and outHe comes, and goes, and smokes, and strolls about,To gossip; turns, returns, with constant stressWearying himself to fly from weariness.But now retired, sleep half his life employs,And fain would all the day, whose light annoys.Fool! wouldst thou know the sweetness of repose?Seek it in work. The soul fastidious growsEver in sloth, self-gnawing and oppress’d,And finds its torment even in its rest.

Then look on him, abandon’d all to sloth,

Who vacant sees the hours pass long and loth

O’er his so useless life. He thinks them slow,

Alas! and wishes they would faster go.

He knows not how to employ them; in and out

He comes, and goes, and smokes, and strolls about,

To gossip; turns, returns, with constant stress

Wearying himself to fly from weariness.

But now retired, sleep half his life employs,

And fain would all the day, whose light annoys.

Fool! wouldst thou know the sweetness of repose?

Seek it in work. The soul fastidious grows

Ever in sloth, self-gnawing and oppress’d,

And finds its torment even in its rest.

But if to Bacchus and to Ceres given,Before his table laid, from morn to even,At ease he fills himself, as held in stall:See him his stomach make his god, his all!Nor earth nor sea suffice his appetite;Ill-tongued and gluttonous the like unite:With such he passes his vain days along,In drunken routs obscene, with toast and song,And jests and dissolute delights; his aimTo gorge unmeasured, riot without shame.But soon with these begins to blunt and loseStomach and appetite: he finds refuseOffended Nature, as insipid food,The savours others delicacies view’d.Vainly from either India he seeksFor stimulants; in vain from art bespeaksFresh sauces, which his palate will reject;His longings heighten’d, but life’s vigour wreck’d;And thus worn out in mid career the cost,Before life ends he finds his senses lost.

But if to Bacchus and to Ceres given,

Before his table laid, from morn to even,

At ease he fills himself, as held in stall:

See him his stomach make his god, his all!

Nor earth nor sea suffice his appetite;

Ill-tongued and gluttonous the like unite:

With such he passes his vain days along,

In drunken routs obscene, with toast and song,

And jests and dissolute delights; his aim

To gorge unmeasured, riot without shame.

But soon with these begins to blunt and lose

Stomach and appetite: he finds refuse

Offended Nature, as insipid food,

The savours others delicacies view’d.

Vainly from either India he seeks

For stimulants; in vain from art bespeaks

Fresh sauces, which his palate will reject;

His longings heighten’d, but life’s vigour wreck’d;

And thus worn out in mid career the cost,

Before life ends he finds his senses lost.

O bitter pleasures! O, what madness soreIs theirs who covet them, and such imploreHumbly before a lying deity!How the perfidious goddess to agreeBut mocks them! Though perhaps at first she smile,Exempt from pain and misery the long whileShe never leaves them, and in place of joyGives what they ask, with weariness to cloy.If trusted, soon is found experience taughtWhat ill-foreseen condition they have sought.Niggard their wishes ever to fulfil,Fickle in favour, vacillating still,Inconstant, cruel, she afflicts today,And casts down headlong to distress a prey,Whom yesterday she flatter’d to upraise:And now another from the mire she swaysExalted to the clouds; but raised in vain,With louder noise to cast him down again.Seest thou not there a countless multitude,Thronging her temple round, and oft renew’d,Seeking admittance, and to offer fraughtWith horrid incense, for their idol brought?Fly from her; let not the contagion findThe base example enter in thy mind.Fly, and in virtue thy asylum seekTo make thee happy: trust the words I speak.There is no purer happiness to gainThan the sweet calm the just from her attain.If in prosperity their fortunes glide,She makes them free from arrogance and pride;In mid estate be tranquil and content;In adverse be resign’d whate’er the event:Implacable, if Envy’s hurricaneO’erwhelm them in misfortunes, even thenShe hastes to save them, and its rage control;With lofty fortitude the nobler soulEnduing faithful; and if raised to sight,At length they find the just reward requite,Say is there aught to hope for prize so greatAs the immortal crown for which they wait?

O bitter pleasures! O, what madness sore

Is theirs who covet them, and such implore

Humbly before a lying deity!

How the perfidious goddess to agree

But mocks them! Though perhaps at first she smile,

Exempt from pain and misery the long while

She never leaves them, and in place of joy

Gives what they ask, with weariness to cloy.

If trusted, soon is found experience taught

What ill-foreseen condition they have sought.

Niggard their wishes ever to fulfil,

Fickle in favour, vacillating still,

Inconstant, cruel, she afflicts today,

And casts down headlong to distress a prey,

Whom yesterday she flatter’d to upraise:

And now another from the mire she sways

Exalted to the clouds; but raised in vain,

With louder noise to cast him down again.

Seest thou not there a countless multitude,

Thronging her temple round, and oft renew’d,

Seeking admittance, and to offer fraught

With horrid incense, for their idol brought?

Fly from her; let not the contagion find

The base example enter in thy mind.

Fly, and in virtue thy asylum seek

To make thee happy: trust the words I speak.

There is no purer happiness to gain

Than the sweet calm the just from her attain.

If in prosperity their fortunes glide,

She makes them free from arrogance and pride;

In mid estate be tranquil and content;

In adverse be resign’d whate’er the event:

Implacable, if Envy’s hurricane

O’erwhelm them in misfortunes, even then

She hastes to save them, and its rage control;

With lofty fortitude the nobler soul

Enduing faithful; and if raised to sight,

At length they find the just reward requite,

Say is there aught to hope for prize so great

As the immortal crown for which they wait?

But is this feeling then, I hear thee cry,That elevates my soul to virtue high,This anxious wish to investigate and know,Is it blameworthy as those passions low?Why not to that for happiness repair?Wilt thou condemn it? No, who would so dare,That right would learn his origin and end?Knowledge and Virtue, sisters like, descendFrom heaven to perfect man in nobleness;And far removing him, Bermudo, yes!From vice and error, they will make him free,Approaching even to the Deity.But seek them not, in that false path to goWhich cunning Fortune will to others show.Where then? to Wisdom’s temple only haste;There thou wilt find them. Her invoke; and traced,See how she smiles! press forward; learn to useThe intercession of the kindly MuseTo make her be propitious. But beware,That in her favour thou escape the snare,The worship, which the vain adorer pays.She never him propitiously surveys,Who insolently seeking wealth or fame,Burns impure incense on her altar’s flame.Dost thou not see how many turn asideFrom her of learning void, but full of pride?Alas for him, who seeking truth, for aidEmbraces only a delusive shade!In self conceit who venturing to confide,Nor virtue gain’d, nor reason for his guide,Leaves the right path, precipitate to strayWhere error’s glittering phantoms lead the way!Can then the wise hope happiness to feelIn the chimæras sought with so much zeal?Ah, no! they all are vanities and cheats!See him, whom anxious still the morning greets,Measuring the heavens, and of the stars that flyThe shining orbits! With a sleepless eye,Hasty the night he reckons, and complainsOf the day’s light his labour that detains;Again admires night’s wonders, but reflectsNe’er on the hand that fashion’d and directs.Beyond the moons of Uranus he bendsHis gaze; beyond the Ship, the Bear, ascends:But after all this, nothing more feels he:He measures, calculates, but does not seeThe heavens obeying their great Author’s will,Whirling around all silent; robbing stillThe hours from life, ungratefully so gone,Till one to undeceive him soon draws on.

But is this feeling then, I hear thee cry,

That elevates my soul to virtue high,

This anxious wish to investigate and know,

Is it blameworthy as those passions low?

Why not to that for happiness repair?

Wilt thou condemn it? No, who would so dare,

That right would learn his origin and end?

Knowledge and Virtue, sisters like, descend

From heaven to perfect man in nobleness;

And far removing him, Bermudo, yes!

From vice and error, they will make him free,

Approaching even to the Deity.

But seek them not, in that false path to go

Which cunning Fortune will to others show.

Where then? to Wisdom’s temple only haste;

There thou wilt find them. Her invoke; and traced,

See how she smiles! press forward; learn to use

The intercession of the kindly Muse

To make her be propitious. But beware,

That in her favour thou escape the snare,

The worship, which the vain adorer pays.

She never him propitiously surveys,

Who insolently seeking wealth or fame,

Burns impure incense on her altar’s flame.

Dost thou not see how many turn aside

From her of learning void, but full of pride?

Alas for him, who seeking truth, for aid

Embraces only a delusive shade!

In self conceit who venturing to confide,

Nor virtue gain’d, nor reason for his guide,

Leaves the right path, precipitate to stray

Where error’s glittering phantoms lead the way!

Can then the wise hope happiness to feel

In the chimæras sought with so much zeal?

Ah, no! they all are vanities and cheats!

See him, whom anxious still the morning greets,

Measuring the heavens, and of the stars that fly

The shining orbits! With a sleepless eye,

Hasty the night he reckons, and complains

Of the day’s light his labour that detains;

Again admires night’s wonders, but reflects

Ne’er on the hand that fashion’d and directs.

Beyond the moons of Uranus he bends

His gaze; beyond the Ship, the Bear, ascends:

But after all this, nothing more feels he:

He measures, calculates, but does not see

The heavens obeying their great Author’s will,

Whirling around all silent; robbing still

The hours from life, ungratefully so gone,

Till one to undeceive him soon draws on.

Another, careless of the stars, descriesThe humble dust, to scan and analyse.His microscope he grasps, and sets, and fallsOn some poor atom; and a triumph calls,If should the fool the magic instrumentOf life or motion slightest sign present,Its form to notice, in the glass to pore,What his deluded fancy saw before;Yields to the cheat, and gives to matter baseThe power, forgot the Lord of all to trace.Thus raves the ingrate.Another the meanwhileTo scrutinize pretends, in learning’s style,The innate essence of the soul sublime.How he dissects it, regulates in time!As if it were a subtile fluid, knownTo him its action, functions, strength and tone;But his own weakness shows in this alone.

Another, careless of the stars, descries

The humble dust, to scan and analyse.

His microscope he grasps, and sets, and falls

On some poor atom; and a triumph calls,

If should the fool the magic instrument

Of life or motion slightest sign present,

Its form to notice, in the glass to pore,

What his deluded fancy saw before;

Yields to the cheat, and gives to matter base

The power, forgot the Lord of all to trace.

Thus raves the ingrate.

Another the meanwhile

To scrutinize pretends, in learning’s style,

The innate essence of the soul sublime.

How he dissects it, regulates in time!

As if it were a subtile fluid, known

To him its action, functions, strength and tone;

But his own weakness shows in this alone.

’Twas given to man to view the heavens on high,But not in them the mysteries of the sky;Yet boldly dares his reason penetrateThe darksome chaos, o’er it to dilate.With staggering step, thus scorning heavenly light,In error’s paths he wanders, lost in night.Confused, but not made wise, he pores about,Betwixt opinion wavering and doubt.Seeking for light, and shadows doom’d to feel,He ponders, studies, labours to unsealThe secret, and at length finds his advance;The more he learns, how great his ignorance.Of matter, form, or motion, or the soul,Or moments that away incessant roll,Or the unfathomable sea of space,Without a sky, without a shore to trace,Nothing he reaches, nothing comprehends,Nor finds its origin, nor where it tends;But only sinking, all absorb’d may seeIn the abysses of eternity.

’Twas given to man to view the heavens on high,

But not in them the mysteries of the sky;

Yet boldly dares his reason penetrate

The darksome chaos, o’er it to dilate.

With staggering step, thus scorning heavenly light,

In error’s paths he wanders, lost in night.

Confused, but not made wise, he pores about,

Betwixt opinion wavering and doubt.

Seeking for light, and shadows doom’d to feel,

He ponders, studies, labours to unseal

The secret, and at length finds his advance;

The more he learns, how great his ignorance.

Of matter, form, or motion, or the soul,

Or moments that away incessant roll,

Or the unfathomable sea of space,

Without a sky, without a shore to trace,

Nothing he reaches, nothing comprehends,

Nor finds its origin, nor where it tends;

But only sinking, all absorb’d may see

In the abysses of eternity.

Perhaps, thence stepping more disorder’d yet,He rushes his presumptuous flight to setEv’n to the throne of God! with his dim eyesThe Great Inscrutable to scrutinize;Sounding the gulf immense, that circles roundThe Deity, he ventures o’er its bound.What can he gain in such a pathless courseBut endless doubts, his ignorance the source?He seeks, proposes, argues, thinking vain.The ignorance that knew to raise, must fainBe able to resolve them. Hast thou seenAttempts that e’er have more audacious been?What! shall an atom such as he excelTo comprehend the Incomprehensible?Without more light than reason him assign’d,The limits of immensity to find?Infinity’s beginning, middle, end?Dost Thou, Eternal Lord, then condescendTo admit man to Thy councils, or to beWith his poor reason in Thy sanctuary?A task so great as this dost Thou confideTo his weak soul? ’Tis not so, be relied,My friend. To know God in His works above,To adore Him, melt in gratitude and love;The blessings o’er thee lavish’d to confess,To sing His glory, and His name to bless;—Such be thy study, duty and employ;And of thy life and reason such the joy.Such is the course that should the wise essay,While only fools will from it turn away.Wouldst thou attain it? easy the emprise;Perfect thy being, and thou wilt be wise:Inform thy reason, that its aid impartThee truth eternal: purify thy heart,To love and follow it: thy study makeThyself, but seek thy Maker’s light to take:There is high Wisdom’s fountain found alone:There thou thy origin wilt find thee shown;There in His glorious work to find the place’Tis thine to occupy: there thou mayst traceThy lofty destiny, the crown declaredOf endless life, for virtue that’s prepared.

Perhaps, thence stepping more disorder’d yet,

He rushes his presumptuous flight to set

Ev’n to the throne of God! with his dim eyes

The Great Inscrutable to scrutinize;

Sounding the gulf immense, that circles round

The Deity, he ventures o’er its bound.

What can he gain in such a pathless course

But endless doubts, his ignorance the source?

He seeks, proposes, argues, thinking vain.

The ignorance that knew to raise, must fain

Be able to resolve them. Hast thou seen

Attempts that e’er have more audacious been?

What! shall an atom such as he excel

To comprehend the Incomprehensible?

Without more light than reason him assign’d,

The limits of immensity to find?

Infinity’s beginning, middle, end?

Dost Thou, Eternal Lord, then condescend

To admit man to Thy councils, or to be

With his poor reason in Thy sanctuary?

A task so great as this dost Thou confide

To his weak soul? ’Tis not so, be relied,

My friend. To know God in His works above,

To adore Him, melt in gratitude and love;

The blessings o’er thee lavish’d to confess,

To sing His glory, and His name to bless;—

Such be thy study, duty and employ;

And of thy life and reason such the joy.

Such is the course that should the wise essay,

While only fools will from it turn away.

Wouldst thou attain it? easy the emprise;

Perfect thy being, and thou wilt be wise:

Inform thy reason, that its aid impart

Thee truth eternal: purify thy heart,

To love and follow it: thy study make

Thyself, but seek thy Maker’s light to take:

There is high Wisdom’s fountain found alone:

There thou thy origin wilt find thee shown;

There in His glorious work to find the place

’Tis thine to occupy: there thou mayst trace

Thy lofty destiny, the crown declared

Of endless life, for virtue that’s prepared.

Bermudo, there ascend: there seek to findThat truth and virtue in the heavenly mind,Which from His love and wisdom ever flow.If elsewhere thou dost seek to find them, know,That darkness only thou wilt have succeed,In ignorance and error to mislead.Thou of this love and wisdom mayst the raysDiscern in all His works, His power and praiseThat tell around us, in the wondrous scaleOf high perfection which they all detail;The order which they follow in the laws,That bind and keep them, and that show their cause,The ends of love and pity in their frame:These their Creator’s goodness all proclaim.Be this thy learning, this thy glory’s view;If virtuous, thou art wise and happy too.Virtue and truth are one, and in them boundAlone may ever happiness be found.And they can only, with a conscience pure,Give to thy soul to enjoy it, peace secure;True liberty in moderate desires,And joy in all to do thy work requires;To do well in content, and calmly free:All else is wind and misery, vanity.

Bermudo, there ascend: there seek to find

That truth and virtue in the heavenly mind,

Which from His love and wisdom ever flow.

If elsewhere thou dost seek to find them, know,

That darkness only thou wilt have succeed,

In ignorance and error to mislead.

Thou of this love and wisdom mayst the rays

Discern in all His works, His power and praise

That tell around us, in the wondrous scale

Of high perfection which they all detail;

The order which they follow in the laws,

That bind and keep them, and that show their cause,

The ends of love and pity in their frame:

These their Creator’s goodness all proclaim.

Be this thy learning, this thy glory’s view;

If virtuous, thou art wise and happy too.

Virtue and truth are one, and in them bound

Alone may ever happiness be found.

And they can only, with a conscience pure,

Give to thy soul to enjoy it, peace secure;

True liberty in moderate desires,

And joy in all to do thy work requires;

To do well in content, and calmly free:

All else is wind and misery, vanity.

O silly little bird! who nowOn Galatea’s lap hast got,My unrequited love allowTo envy thee thy lot.Of the same lovely mistress bothAlike the captives bound are we;But thou for thy misfortune loth,Whilst I am willingly.Thou restless in thy prison art,Complaining ever of thy pains;While I would kisses, on my part,Ev’n lavish on my chains.But, ah! how different treating us,Has scornful Fate the lot assign’d!With me she’s always tyrannous,But with thee just as kind.A thousand nights of torment borne,A thousand days of martyrdom,By thousand toils and pains, her scornI cannot overcome.Inestimable happiness,A mere caprice for thee has got;So bathed in tears, in my distress,I envy thee thy lot.And there the while, with daring heel,Thou tread’st in arrant confidence,Without a heart or hope to feel,Or instinct’s common sense.In the embraces, which my thought,Not even in its boldest vein,Could scarce to hope for have been brought,Presumptuous to attain.

O silly little bird! who nowOn Galatea’s lap hast got,My unrequited love allowTo envy thee thy lot.

O silly little bird! who now

On Galatea’s lap hast got,

My unrequited love allow

To envy thee thy lot.

Of the same lovely mistress bothAlike the captives bound are we;But thou for thy misfortune loth,Whilst I am willingly.

Of the same lovely mistress both

Alike the captives bound are we;

But thou for thy misfortune loth,

Whilst I am willingly.

Thou restless in thy prison art,Complaining ever of thy pains;While I would kisses, on my part,Ev’n lavish on my chains.

Thou restless in thy prison art,

Complaining ever of thy pains;

While I would kisses, on my part,

Ev’n lavish on my chains.

But, ah! how different treating us,Has scornful Fate the lot assign’d!With me she’s always tyrannous,But with thee just as kind.

But, ah! how different treating us,

Has scornful Fate the lot assign’d!

With me she’s always tyrannous,

But with thee just as kind.

A thousand nights of torment borne,A thousand days of martyrdom,By thousand toils and pains, her scornI cannot overcome.

A thousand nights of torment borne,

A thousand days of martyrdom,

By thousand toils and pains, her scorn

I cannot overcome.

Inestimable happiness,A mere caprice for thee has got;So bathed in tears, in my distress,I envy thee thy lot.

Inestimable happiness,

A mere caprice for thee has got;

So bathed in tears, in my distress,

I envy thee thy lot.

And there the while, with daring heel,Thou tread’st in arrant confidence,Without a heart or hope to feel,Or instinct’s common sense.

And there the while, with daring heel,

Thou tread’st in arrant confidence,

Without a heart or hope to feel,

Or instinct’s common sense.

In the embraces, which my thought,Not even in its boldest vein,Could scarce to hope for have been brought,Presumptuous to attain.

In the embraces, which my thought,

Not even in its boldest vein,

Could scarce to hope for have been brought,

Presumptuous to attain.

Lovely Enarda! young and oldAll quarrel with me daily:Because I write to thee they scold,Perhaps sweet verses gaily.“A judge should be more grave,” they say,As each my song accuses;“From such pursuits should turn awayAs trifling with the Muses.”“How wofully you waste your time!”Preach others; but, all slighting,The more they scold, the more I rhyme;Still I must keep on writing.Enarda’s heart and mind to praise,All others far excelling,My rustic pipe its note shall raise,In well-toned measures telling.I wish, extolling to the skies,Her beauty’s high perfectionTo sing, and all her witcheriesOf feature and complexion:With master pencil to portrayHer snowy neck and forehead,And eyes that round so roguish play,And lips like carmine florid.And let the Catos go at will,To where they most prefer it,Who withering frowns and sneerings stillGive me for my demerit.In spite of all, with wrinkled pate,The censures each rehearses,Enarda I will celebrateFor ever in my verses.

Lovely Enarda! young and oldAll quarrel with me daily:Because I write to thee they scold,Perhaps sweet verses gaily.

Lovely Enarda! young and old

All quarrel with me daily:

Because I write to thee they scold,

Perhaps sweet verses gaily.

“A judge should be more grave,” they say,As each my song accuses;“From such pursuits should turn awayAs trifling with the Muses.”

“A judge should be more grave,” they say,

As each my song accuses;

“From such pursuits should turn away

As trifling with the Muses.”

“How wofully you waste your time!”Preach others; but, all slighting,The more they scold, the more I rhyme;Still I must keep on writing.

“How wofully you waste your time!”

Preach others; but, all slighting,

The more they scold, the more I rhyme;

Still I must keep on writing.

Enarda’s heart and mind to praise,All others far excelling,My rustic pipe its note shall raise,In well-toned measures telling.

Enarda’s heart and mind to praise,

All others far excelling,

My rustic pipe its note shall raise,

In well-toned measures telling.

I wish, extolling to the skies,Her beauty’s high perfectionTo sing, and all her witcheriesOf feature and complexion:

I wish, extolling to the skies,

Her beauty’s high perfection

To sing, and all her witcheries

Of feature and complexion:

With master pencil to portrayHer snowy neck and forehead,And eyes that round so roguish play,And lips like carmine florid.

With master pencil to portray

Her snowy neck and forehead,

And eyes that round so roguish play,

And lips like carmine florid.

And let the Catos go at will,To where they most prefer it,Who withering frowns and sneerings stillGive me for my demerit.

And let the Catos go at will,

To where they most prefer it,

Who withering frowns and sneerings still

Give me for my demerit.

In spite of all, with wrinkled pate,The censures each rehearses,Enarda I will celebrateFor ever in my verses.

In spite of all, with wrinkled pate,

The censures each rehearses,

Enarda I will celebrate

For ever in my verses.

Cruel Enarda! all in vain,In vain, thou view’st with joyful eyesThe tears that show my grief and pain,Thyself exulting in my sighs.The burning tears that bathe my cheek,With watching shrunk, with sorrow pale,Thy lightness and caprice bespeak,Thy guilt and perfidy bewail.Those signs of sorrow, on my face,Are not the obsequies portray’dOf a lost good, nor yet the traceOf tribute to thy beauties paid.They are the evidence aloneThere fix’d thy falsehood to proclaim;Of thy deceits the horror shown,Of my delirium the shame.I weep not now thy rigours o’er,Nor feel regret, that lost to meAre the returns, which false beforeThou gavest, or favours faithlessly.I weep o’er my delusions blind;I mourn the sacrifices made,And incense to a god unkindOn an unworthy altar laid.I weep the memory o’er debasedOf my captivity to mourn,And all the weight and shame disgracedOf such vile fetters to have borne.Ever to my lorn mind return’dAre thoughts of homage offer’d ill,Disdains ill borne, affection spurn’d,And sighs contemn’d, recurring still.Then, ah, Enarda! all in vainThou think’st to please thee with my grief:Love, who now looks on me againWith eyes of pity and relief,A thousand times has me accost,As thus my tears to censure now,“To lose them thou hast nothing lost;Poor creature! why then weepest thou?”

Cruel Enarda! all in vain,In vain, thou view’st with joyful eyesThe tears that show my grief and pain,Thyself exulting in my sighs.

Cruel Enarda! all in vain,

In vain, thou view’st with joyful eyes

The tears that show my grief and pain,

Thyself exulting in my sighs.

The burning tears that bathe my cheek,With watching shrunk, with sorrow pale,Thy lightness and caprice bespeak,Thy guilt and perfidy bewail.

The burning tears that bathe my cheek,

With watching shrunk, with sorrow pale,

Thy lightness and caprice bespeak,

Thy guilt and perfidy bewail.

Those signs of sorrow, on my face,Are not the obsequies portray’dOf a lost good, nor yet the traceOf tribute to thy beauties paid.

Those signs of sorrow, on my face,

Are not the obsequies portray’d

Of a lost good, nor yet the trace

Of tribute to thy beauties paid.

They are the evidence aloneThere fix’d thy falsehood to proclaim;Of thy deceits the horror shown,Of my delirium the shame.

They are the evidence alone

There fix’d thy falsehood to proclaim;

Of thy deceits the horror shown,

Of my delirium the shame.

I weep not now thy rigours o’er,Nor feel regret, that lost to meAre the returns, which false beforeThou gavest, or favours faithlessly.

I weep not now thy rigours o’er,

Nor feel regret, that lost to me

Are the returns, which false before

Thou gavest, or favours faithlessly.

I weep o’er my delusions blind;I mourn the sacrifices made,And incense to a god unkindOn an unworthy altar laid.

I weep o’er my delusions blind;

I mourn the sacrifices made,

And incense to a god unkind

On an unworthy altar laid.

I weep the memory o’er debasedOf my captivity to mourn,And all the weight and shame disgracedOf such vile fetters to have borne.

I weep the memory o’er debased

Of my captivity to mourn,

And all the weight and shame disgraced

Of such vile fetters to have borne.

Ever to my lorn mind return’dAre thoughts of homage offer’d ill,Disdains ill borne, affection spurn’d,And sighs contemn’d, recurring still.

Ever to my lorn mind return’d

Are thoughts of homage offer’d ill,

Disdains ill borne, affection spurn’d,

And sighs contemn’d, recurring still.

Then, ah, Enarda! all in vainThou think’st to please thee with my grief:Love, who now looks on me againWith eyes of pity and relief,

Then, ah, Enarda! all in vain

Thou think’st to please thee with my grief:

Love, who now looks on me again

With eyes of pity and relief,

A thousand times has me accost,As thus my tears to censure now,“To lose them thou hast nothing lost;Poor creature! why then weepest thou?”

A thousand times has me accost,

As thus my tears to censure now,

“To lose them thou hast nothing lost;

Poor creature! why then weepest thou?”

Of all the modern Spanish poets, Iriarte seems to have obtained for his writings the widest European reputation. He was born the 18th September 1750, at Teneriffe in the Canary Islands, where his family had been some time settled, though the name shows it to have been of Basque origin. His uncle, Juan de Iriarte, also a native of the same place, was one of the most learned men of his age, and to him the subject of this memoir was indebted for much of the knowledge he acquired, and means of attaining the eminence in literature he succeeded him in possessing. Juan de Iriarte had been partly educated in France, and had afterwards resided some time in England, so as to acquire a full knowledge of the language and literature of those countries. He was also a proficient in classical learning, and wrote Latin with great precision, as his writings, published by his nephew after his death, evince; Madrid, two volumes, 4to. 1774. Having been appointed keeper of the Royal Library at Madrid, he enriched it with many valuable works, in upwards of 2000 MSS. and 10,000 volumes. He was an active member of the Royal Spanish Academy, and one of the principal assistants in compiling the valuable dictionary and grammar published by that learned Society, as well as other works.

At the instance of this uncle, Tomas Iriarte went to Madrid in the beginning of 1764, when not yet fourteen years of age, and under that relative’s able guidance completed his studies, learning at the same time the English and other modern languages. He was already far advanced in a knowledge of classical literature, and it is stated that some Latin verses he wrote, on leaving his native place, showed such proficiency as to surprise his friends, and make them entertain great expectations of his future success. Some of his Latin compositions, published afterwards among his works, prove him to have been a scholar of very considerable acquirements. Classical literature does not seem in modern times to be much studied in Spain, and Iriarte is the only distinguished writer among the modern Spanish poets who can be pointed out as conspicuous for such attainments. Thus they have failed in apprehending one of the chief beauties of modern poetry, so remarkable in Milton and Byron, and our other great poets, who enrich their works with references that remind us of what had most delighted us in those of antiquity.

In 1771 his uncle died, and Tomas Iriarte, who had already been acting for him in one of his offices as Interpreter to the Government, was appointed to succeed him in it. He was afterwards, in 1776, appointed Keeper of the Archives of the Council of War; and these offices, with the charge of a paper under the influence of the government, seem to have been the only public employments he held. From one of his epistles, however, he appears to have succeeded to his uncle’s property, and thus to have had the means as also the leisure to give much of his time to the indulgence of literary tastes. He was very fond of paintings and of music, to which he showed his predilection, not only by his ability to play on several instruments, but also by writing a long didactic poem on the art, entitled ‘Musica.’ This he seems to have considered as giving him his principal claim to be ranked as a poet, though the world preferred his other writings.

When yet under twenty years of age, Iriarte had already appeared as a writer of plays, some of which met with considerable approbation. Of these it will be sufficient for us here to observe, that Moratin, the first great dramatic poet of Spain in modern times, pronounced one of them, ‘The Young Gentleman Pacified,’ to have been “the first original comedy the Spanish theatre had seen written according to the most essential rules dictated by philosophy and good criticism.”

Besides several original plays, Iriarte translated others from the French, from which language he also translated the ‘New Robinson’ of Campe, which passed through several editions. From Virgil he translated into Spanish verse the first four books of the Æneid, and from Horace the Epistle to the Pisos. These, though censured by some of his contemporaries so as to excite his anger, were altogether too superior to those attacks to have required the vindication of them he thought proper to publish. Horace seems to have been his favourite author; but he had not learned from him his philosophical equanimity, wherewith to pass over in silent endurance the minor miseries of life. Thus he allowed himself, throughout his short career, to be too much affected by those ungenerous attacks, which mediocrity is so apt to make on superior merit. The names of those censurers are now principally remembered by his notices of their writings; an honour, which men of genius, in their hours of irritation, too often confer on unworthy opponents. Thus a large portion of his collected works consists of these controversial notices, which, as usual in such cases, only impair the favourable effect produced by the remainder on the mind of the reader.Those works were first published in a collected form in six volumes, in 1786; afterwards in eight volumes, in 1805.

From Iriarte’s poetical epistles, which are eleven in number, he appears to have been a person of a very kindly disposition, as Quintana describes him, living in friendly intercourse with the principal literary characters of Spain, especially with the amiable and ill-fated Cadahalso, to whom, in one of those epistles, he dedicated his translations from Horace. The others also are mainly on personal topics, and display his character advantageously, though, as poetical compositions, they have not been received so favourably as some of his other works.

The fame of Iriarte may be said to rest on his literary fables, which have attained a popularity, both at home and abroad, equalled by few other works. They are eighty-two in number, and all original, having, as their title indicates, a special reference to literary questions, though they are also all sufficiently pointed to bear on those of ordinary life. Like Sir Joshua Reynolds’s Discourses on Painting, they convey general instructions to all, while professing an application to one particular pursuit. They are written with much vivacity and ease, yet with an appropriate terseness that adds to their effect. Martinez de la Rosa, equally eminent as a statesman, a poet and a critic, observes of them, that if he had not left compositions of any other class, they would have extended his reputation as a poet; and adds, “that they abound in beauties, though frequently wanting in poetical warmth, so as to recommend this valuable collection, unique in its class, as one of which Spanish literature has to be proud.”

Of these fables, first published in 1782, so many editions have appeared, that it would be a very difficult task to enumerate them. There is scarcely a provincial town in Spain, of any consequence, in which they have not been reprinted.Several editions have appeared in France, two in New York, and three in Boston, where they have been used in teaching Spanish. Several of the fables have been imitated by Florian, and translations have been made into other languages. Of these translations, one in French verse was published by M. Lanos, Paris, 1801, and another, in prose, by M. L’Homandie, ibid. 1804: into German they were translated by Bertuch, Leipzic, so early as 1788, and into Portuguese, by Velladoli, in 1801.

I am not aware of more than one edition of them in England, that published by Dulau, 1809; but there have been no fewer than three translations of them into English verse; first by Mr. Belfour, London, 1804, another by Mr. Andrews, ibid. 1835, and a third by Mr. Rockliff, ibid. 1851.

The same popularity attended another work which Iriarte prepared for the instruction of youth, named ‘Historical Lessons,’ published posthumously, about twenty editions of which have since appeared, principally from its having been adopted as a text-book for schools. Of this also an edition has been published in London by Boosey, and a translation into English. Iriarte’s industry appears to have been of the most practical character, and his endeavours were as wisely as they were unremittingly directed to make his countrymen wiser and better in their future generations. If a man’s worth may be estimated by such labours, few persons have ever lived who were so entitled to the gratitude of posterity, as few have ever effected so much as he did in the short career that was afforded him.

In private life, in the leisure allowed from his studies and duties, he indulged much, as has been already stated, in the recreation of music; and in praise and explanation of that favourite art he wrote his largest work, ‘Music,’ a didactic poem, in five cantos. Of this work, which was first published in 1780, the fifth separate edition appeared in 1805, since which I have not heard of any other. It has, however, had the good fortune to be translated into several foreign languages; into German by Bertuch, in 1789; into Italian by the Abbé Garzia, Venice, 1789; into French by Grainville, Paris, 1800; and into English by Mr. Belfour, London, 1807. The last-mentioned translation is made with much exactness and elegance into heroic verse; though, as the original had the fault usual to all didactic poems of not rising to any high poetical power, the translation must share the fault to at least an equal extent.

In the Italian version, a letter is quoted from the celebrated Metastasio, in which he speaks of the style of Iriarte’s poem as “so harmonious, perspicuous and easy, as to unite the precision of a treatise with the beauties common to poetry.” It is said also that Metastasio further pronounced the poem to be “not only excellent, but to be considered uncommon, in having successfully treated a subject so difficult, and apparently so little adapted to poetry.” It is to be observed that Iriarte had warmly eulogized Metastasio in the book, so as to merit the commendation. The first canto is confined to treating the subject artistically, and will therefore prove less to the taste of the general reader than the other cantos, which are of a more interesting character, and may be read with pleasure by persons who do not understand music as a science. The third canto especially is written with much spirit in its praise, as connected with devotion. The second canto treats of the passions as they may be expressed by music, including martial music. The fourth minutely discusses theatrical music, with its excellences and defects. The fifth explains it, as calculated for the amusement of societies, or individuals in solitude. The poem concludes with pointing out what ought to be the study of a good composer, and by a proposal for the establishment of an academy of music, or scientific body of musicians, anticipating the benefit to science that would result from such an institution.

This poem, the ‘Musica,’ and the Epistles, are written in a very favourite style of versification in Spain, denominated the Silva, which consists of lines of eleven syllables, varied occasionally with others of seven, rhyming at the pleasure of the writer. The ‘Literary Fables’ are written in various metres; Martinez de la Rosa observes in upwards of forty different kinds, appropriate to the characteristics of the subjects, which may be more perceptible to a native ear than to a foreigner’s. It is certainly true that this gives a variety to the work which is well suited to the purposes the author had in view. He was wise enough to know that truths hidden in the garb of fiction will often be felt effectually, where grave precepts would not avail,

Καὶ τοῦ τι καὶ Βρότων φρενὰςὙπὲρ τὸν ἀληθῆ λόγον,Δεδαιδαλμένοι ψεύδεσι ποικίλοιςἘξαπάτωντι μύθοι,

Καὶ τοῦ τι καὶ Βρότων φρενὰς

Ὑπὲρ τὸν ἀληθῆ λόγον,

Δεδαιδαλμένοι ψεύδεσι ποικίλοις

Ἐξαπάτωντι μύθοι,

and thus conveyed his lessons in examples, with a moral, which could be quickly understood and easily remembered.

With regard to the objection made to these fables, that they are often deficient in poetical warmth or colouring, it may be observed that the subjects would scarcely admit of any. Iriarte was certainly a writer of more poetic taste than talent, and it must be acknowledged that his genius, judging by the works he left, was not one to soar to the higher flights of poetry. He felt this himself, as he intimates in his Epistle to his brother; and, choosing a subject like Music for a didactic poem, or writing familiar epistles on occasional subjects, did not give himself much scope for fancy, much less for passion. But as applied to the fables, the objection was unnecessary. If they deserved praise for their vivacity of style, that very circumstance, independent of the subjects, rendered them passionless, ἀπαθέστατα, as Longinus remarks, where stronger feelings could scarcely be brought into connexion with such discussions. The great difficulty in such cases is, when metres are chosen to suit the subject, abounding in pyrrhics, trochees, and such measures, as the same great critic adds, to guard, lest the sense be lost in too much regard to the sound, raising only attention to the rhythm, instead of exciting any feeling in the minds of the hearers.

Of the five fables chosen for translation, the two first were taken from Bouterwek, and the third on account of its having been particularly noticed by Martinez de la Rosa. The Epistle to his Brother was selected partly on account of its notices of other countries, as a foreigner’s judgement of them; and partly as being most characteristic of the writer, showing his tastes and dispositions more perhaps than the rest. The reader generally feels most interested in such parts of the works of favourite writers, especially when their private history gives the imagination a right to ask sympathy for their sufferings.

Nothing is to be found in Iriarte’s works to show any peculiar opinions on religion, though the tendency of his mind is everywhere clearly seen, as leading to freedom of thought, instead of subjection to dogmas. In his poem on Music, as already intimated, some devotional rather than free-thinking principles are developed; yet it is said that it was from a suspicion of his being affected by the French philosophy of the day he fell under the censure of the Inquisition, and was seized in 1786, and imprisoned three years in the dungeons of that institution. What was the particular offence imputed to him has not been stated. It could be no question of a political character, for he was in the employment of thegovernment, and was amenable to it for any misdeeds. It probably was from some private cause, under the cloak of a question of faith, that he had to undergo this imprisonment, during which it is said he had to submit to severe penances before he could obtain his liberty. After he had obtained it, he returned to his studies and wrote further, a monologue, entitled ‘Guzman,’ and some Latin maccaronic verses on the bad taste of some writers then in vogue. But his spirits were no doubt broken down, as his health and strength were undermined; and thus it was that he died two years after, though his death was imputed to his sedentary habits and gout, the 17th of September, 1791, when he had just completed his forty-first year.

This untimely death was a serious loss to Spanish literature. With his great and varied acquirements and unremitting industry, the world might have expected still more valuable works from him, when, at the age of thirty-six, in the best period of a man’s existence for useful labours, he was cast into that dungeon, from which he seems to have been permitted to come out only to die. The last Auto da fe in Spain was celebrated in 1781; but the Inquisition had other victims whose sufferings were no less to be deplored, though not made known. If Iriarte was one, he had unquestionably the consciousness of being enabled to feel, though not dying “an aged man,” yet that in his comparatively short life, he had not lived in vain for his own good name, and the benefit of posterity.

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