Intellectual interaction between Spain and France is an inevitable outcome of geographical position. To the one or to the other must belong the headship of the Latin races; for Portugal is, so to say, but a prolongation of Galicia, while the unity of Italy dates from yesterday. This hegemony was long contested. During a century and a half, fortune declared for Spain: the balance is now redressed in France's favour. The War of the Succession, the invasion of 1808, the expedition of 1823, the contrivance of the Spanish marriages show that Louis XIV., Napoleon I., Charles X., and Louis-Philippe dared risk their kingdoms rather than loosen their grip on Spain. More recent examples are not lacking. The primary occasion of the Franco-German War in 1870-71 was the proposal to place a Hohenzollern on the Spanish throne, and the Parisian outburst against "Alfonso the Uhlan" was an expression of resentment against a Spanish King who chafed under French tutelage. Since there is no ground for believing that France will renounce a traditional diplomacy maintained, under all forms of government, for over two centuries, it is not rash to assume that in the future, as in the past, intellectual development will tend to coincide with political influence. French literary fashions affect all Europe more or less: they affect Spain more.

It is a striking fact that the great national poet of the War of Independence should be indisputably French in all but patriotic sentiment. Manuel JosÉ Quintana (1772-1857) was an offshoot of the Salamancan school, a friend of Jove-Llanos and of MelÉndez ValdÉs, a follower of Raynal and Turgot and Condorcet, a "philosopher" of the eighteenth-century model. Too much stress has, perhaps, been laid on his French constructions, his acceptance of neologisms: a more radical fault is his incapacity for ideas. Had he died at forty his fame would be even greater than it is; for in his last years he did nothing but repeat the echoes of his youth. At eighty he was still perorating on the rights of man, as though the world were a huge Jacobin Convention, as though he had learned and forgotten nothing during half a century He died, as he had lived, convinced that a few changes of political machinery would ensure a perpetual Golden Age. It is not for his Duque de Viseo, a tragedy based on M. G. Lewis's Castle Spectre, nor by his Ode to Juan de Padilla, that Quintana is remembered. The partisan of French ideas lives by his Call to Arms against the French, by his patriotic campaign against the invaders, by his prose biographies of the Cid, the Great Captain, Pizarro, and other Spaniards of the ancient time. We might suspect, if we did not know, Quintana's habit of writing his first rough drafts in prose, and of translating these into verse. Though he proclaimed himself a pupil of MelÉndez, nature and love are not his true themes, and his versification is curiously unequal. Patriotism, politics, philanthropy are his inspirations, and these find utterance in the lofty rhetoric of such pieces as his Ode to GuzmÁn the Good and the Ode on the Invention of Printing. Unequal, unrestrained, never exquisite, never completely admirable for more than a few lines at a time, Quintana's passionate pride of patriotism, his virile temperament, his individual gift of martial music have enabled him to express with unsurpassed fidelity one very conspicuous aspect of his people's genius.

Another patriotic singer is the priest, Juan Nicasio Gallego (1777-1853), who, like many political liberals, was so staunchly conservative in literature that he condemned Notre Dame de Paris in the very spirit of an alarmed Academician. Slight as is the bulk of his writings, Gallego's high place is ensured by his combination of extreme finish with extreme sincerity. His elegy On the Death of the Duquesa de Frias is tremulous with the accent of profound emotion; but he is even better known by El Dos de Mayo, which celebrates the historic rising of the second of May, when the artillerymen, Jacinto Ruiz, Luis Daoiz, and Pedro Velarte, by their refusal to surrender their three guns and ten cartridges to the French army, gave the signal for the general rising of the Spanish nation. His ode Á la defensa de Buenos Aires, against the English, is no less distinguished for its heroic spirit. There is a touch of irony in the fact that Gallego should be best represented by his denunciation of the French, whom he adored, and by his denunciation of the British, who were to assist in freeing his country.

Time has misused the work of Francisco MartÍnez de la Rosa (1788-1862) who at one time was held by Europe as the literary representative of Spain. No small part of his fame was due to his prominent position in Spanish politics; but the disdainful neglect which has overtaken him is altogether unmerited. Not being an original genius, his lyrics are but variations of earlier melodies: thus the Ausencia de la patria is a metrical exercise in Jorge Manrique's manner; the song which commemorates the defence of Zaragoza is inspired by Quintana; the elegy On the Death of the Duquesa de Frias, far short of Gallego's in pathos and dignity, is redolent of MelÉndez. His novel, DoÑa Isabel de SolÍs, is an artless imitation of Sir Walter Scott; nor are his declamatory tragedies, La Viuda de Padilla and Moraima, of perdurable value any more than his Moratinian plays, such as Los Celos Infundados. MartÍnez de la Rosa's exile passed in Paris led him to write the two pieces by which he is remembered: his ConjuraciÓn de Venecia (1834), and his Aben-Humeya (the latter first written in French, and first played at the Porte Saint-Martin in 1830) denote the earliest entry into Spain of French romanticism, and are therefore of real historic importance. Fate was rarely more freakish than in placing this modest, timorous man at the head of a new literary movement. Still stranger it is that his two late romantic experiments should be the best of his manifold work.

But he was not fitted to maintain the leadership which circumstances had allotted to him, and romanticism found a more popular exponent in Ángel de Saavedra, Duque de Rivas (1791-1865), the very type of the radical noble. His exile in France and in England converted him from a follower of MelÉndez and Quintana to a sectary of Chateaubriand and Byron. His first essays in the new vein were an admirable lyric, Al faro de Malta, and El Moro expÓsito, a narrative poem undertaken by the advice of John Hookham Frere. Brilliant passages of poetic diction, the semi-epical presentation of picturesque national legends, are Rivas' contribution to the new school. He went still further in his famous play, Don Álvaro (1835), an event in the history of the modern Spanish drama corresponding to the production of Hernani at the ThÉÂtre FranÇais. The characters of Álvaro, of Leonor, and of her brother Alfonso Vargas are, if not inhuman, all but titanic, and the speeches are of such magniloquence as man never spoke. But for the Spaniards of the third decade, Rivas was the standard-bearer of revolt, and Don Álvaro, by its contempt for the unities, by its alternation of prose with lyrism, by its amalgam of the grandiose, the comic, the sublime, and the horrible, enchanted a generation of Spanish playgoers surfeited with the academic drama.

To English readers of Mr. Gladstone's essay, the Canon of Seville, JosÉ MarÍa Blanco (1775-1841), is familiar by the alias of Blanco White. It were irrelevant to record here the lamentable story of Blanco's private life, or to follow his religious transformations from Catholicism to Unitarianism. A sufficient idea of his poetic gifts is afforded by an English quatorzain which has found favour with many critics:—

This is as characteristic as his Oda Á Carlos III. or the remorseful Castilian lines on Resigned Desire, penned within a year of his death. A very similar talent was that of Blanco's friend, Alberto Lista (1775-1848), also a Canon of Seville Cathedral, a most accomplished singer, whose golden purity of tone compensates for a deficient volume of voice and an affected method. But, save for such a fragment of impassioned, plangent melody as the poem Á la Muerte de JesÚs, Lista is less known as a poet than as a teacher of remarkable influence. His Lecciones de Literatura EspaÑola did for Spain what Lamb's Specimens of English Dramatic Poets did for England, and his personal authority over some of the best minds of his age was almost as complete in scope as it was gentle in exercise and excellent in effect.

The most famous of his pupils was JosÉ de Espronceda (1810-42), who came under Lista at the Colegio de San Mateo, in Madrid, where the boy, who was in perpetual scrapes through idleness and general bad conduct, attracted the rector's notice by his extraordinary poetic precocity. Through good and evil report Lista held by Espronceda to the last, and was perhaps the one person who ever persuaded him from a rash purpose. At fourteen Espronceda joined a secret society called Los Numantinos, which was supposed to work for liberty, equality, and the rest. The young Numantine was deported to a monastery in Guadalajara, where, on the advice of Lista (who himself contributed some forty octaves), he began his epical essay, El Pelayo. Like most other boys who have begun epics, Espronceda left his unfinished, and, though the stanzas that remain are of a fine but unequal quality, they in no way foreshadow the chief of the romantic school.

Returning to Madrid, Espronceda was soon concerned in more conspiracies, and escaped to Gibraltar, whence he passed to Lisbon. A suggestion of the Byronic pose is found in the story (of his own telling) that, before landing, he threw away his last two pesetas, "not wishing to enter so great a town with so little money." In Lisbon he met with that Teresa who figures so prominently in his life; but the Government was once more on his track, and he fled to London, where Byron's poems came upon him with the force of a revelation. In England he found Teresa, now married, and eloped with her to Paris, where, on the three "glorious days" of July 1830, he fought behind the barricades. The overthrow of Charles X. put such heart into the Spanish emigrados that, under the leadership of the once famous Chapalangarra—JoaquÍn de Pablo—they determined to raise all Spain against the monarchy. The attempt failed, Chapalangarra was killed in Navarre, and Espronceda did not return to Spain till the amnesty of 1833. He obtained a commission in the royal bodyguard, and seemed on the road to fortune, when he was cashiered because of certain verses read by him at a political banquet. He turned to journalism, incited the people to insurrection by articles and speeches, held the streets against the regular army in 1835-36, shared in the liberal triumph of 1840, and, on the morrow of the successful revolution which he had organised, pronounced in favour of a republic. He was appointed Secretary to the Embassy at the Hague in 1841, returning to Spain shortly afterwards on his election as deputy for AlmerÍa. He died after four days of illness on May 23, 1842, in his thirty-third year, exhausted by his stormy life. A most formidable journalist, a demagogue of consummate address, a man-at-arms who had rather fight than not, Espronceda might have cut out for himself a new career in politics—or might have died upon the scaffold or at the barricades. But, so far as concerns poetry, his work was done: an aged Espronceda is as inconceivable as an elderly Byron, a venerable Shelley.

Byron was the paramount influence of Espronceda's life and works. The Conde de Toreno, a caustic politician and man of letters, who was once asked if he had read Espronceda, replied: "Not much; but then I have read all Byron." The taunt earned Toreno—"insolent fool with heart of slime"—a terrific invective in the first canto of El Diablo Mundo:—

The gibe was ill-natured, but Espronceda's resentment goes to show that he felt its plausibility. If Toreno meant that Espronceda, like Heine, Musset, Leopardi, and Pushkin, took Byron for a model, he spoke the humble truth. Like Byron, Espronceda became the centre of a legend, and—so to say—he made up for the part. He advertised his criminal repute with manifest gusto, and gave the world his own portrait in the shape of pale, gloomy, splendid heroes. Don FÉlix de Montemar, in El Estudiante de Salamanca, is Don Juan Tenorio in a new environment—"fierce, insolent, irreligious, gallant, haughty, quarrelsome, insult in his glance, irony on his lips, fearing naught, trusting solely to his sword and courage." Again, in the famous declamatory address To Jarifa, there is the same disillusioned view of life, the same lust for impossible pleasures, the same picturesque mingling of misanthropy and aspiration. Once more, the Fabio of the fragmentary Diablo Mundo is replenished with the Byronic spirit of defiant pessimism, the Byronic intention of epical mockery. And so throughout all his pieces the protagonist is always, and in all essentials, JosÉ de Espronceda.

Whether any writer—or, at all events, any but the very greatest—has ever succeeded completely in shedding his own personality is doubtful. Espronceda, at least, never attempted it, and consequently his dramatic pieces—DoÑa Blanca de BorbÓn, for example—were foredoomed to fail. But this very force of temperament, this very element of artistic egotism, lends life and colour to his songs. The Diablo Mundo, the Estudiante de Salamanca, ostensibly formed upon the models of Goethe, and Byron, and Tirso de Molina, are utterances of individual impressions, detached lyrics held together by the merest thread. Scarcely a typical Spaniard in life or in art, Espronceda is, beyond all question, the most distinguished Spanish lyrical poet of the century. His abandonment, his attitude of revolt, his love of love and licence—one might even say his turn for debauchery and anarchy—are the notes of an epoch rather than the characteristics of a country; and, in so much, he is cosmopolitan rather than national. But the merciless observation of El Verdugo (The Executioner), the idealised conception of Elvira in El Estudiante de Salamanca, are strictly representative of Quevedo's and of CalderÓn's tradition; while his artificial but sympathetic rhetoric, his resonant music, his brilliant imagery, his uncalculating vehemence, bear upon them the stamp of all his race's faults and virtues. In this sense he speaks for Spain, and Spain repays him by ranking him as the most inspired, if the most unequal, of her modern singers.

His contemporary, the Catalan, Manuel de Cabanyes (1808-1833), died too young to reveal the full measure of his powers, and his Preludios de mi lira (1833), though warmly praised by Torres Amat, JoaquÍn Roca y Cornet, and other critics of insight, can scarcely be said to have won appreciation. Cabanyes is essentially a poet's poet, inspired mainly by Luis de LeÓn. His felicities are those of the accomplished student, the expert in technicalities, the almost impeccable artist whose hendecasyllabics, Á Cintio, rival those of Leopardi in their perfect form and intense pessimism; but as his life was too brief, so his production is too frugal and too exquisite for the general, and he is rated by his promise rather than by his actual achievement. MilÁ y Fontanals and Sr. MenÉndez y Pelayo have striven to spread Cabanyes' good report, and they have so far succeeded that his genius is now admitted on all hands; but his chill perfection makes no appeal to the mass of his countrymen.

Espronceda's direct successor was JosÉ Zorrilla (1817-1893), whose life's story may be read in his own Recuerdos del tiempo viejo (Old-time Memories). It was his misfortune to be concerned in politics, for which he was unfitted, and to be pinched by continuous poverty, which drove him in 1855 to seek his fortune in Mexico, whence he returned empty-handed in 1866. His closing years were somewhat happier, inasmuch as a pension of 30,000 reales, obtained at last by strenuous parliamentary effort, freed him from the pressure of actual want. It may be that it came too late, and that Zorrilla's work suffers from his straitened circumstances; but this is difficult to believe. He might have produced less, might have escaped the hopeless hack-work to which he was compelled; but a finished artist he could never have become, for, by instinct as by preference, he was an improvisatore. The tale that (like Arthur Pendennis) he wrote verses to fit engravings is possibly an invention; but the inventor at least knew his man, for nothing is more intrinsically probable.

His carelessness, his haste, his defective execution are superficial faults which must always injure Zorrilla in the esteem of foreign critics; yet it is certain that the charm which he has exercised over three generations of Spaniards, and which seems likely to endure, implies the possession of considerable powers. And Zorrilla had three essential qualities in no common degree: national spirit, dramatic insight, and lyrical spontaneity. He is an inferior Sir Walter, with an added knowledge of the theatre, to which Scott made no pretence. His Leyenda de Alhamar, his Granada, his Leyenda del Cid were popular for the same reason that Marmion and the Lady of the Lake were popular: for their revival of national legends in a form both simple and picturesque. The fate that overcame Sir Walter's poems seems to threaten Zorrilla's. Both are read for the sake of the subject, for the brilliant colouring of episodes, more than for the beauty of treatment, construction, and form; yet, as Sir Walter survives in his novels, Zorrilla will endure in such of his plays as Don Juan Tenorio, in El Zapatero y el Rey, and in Traidor, inconfeso, y mÁrtir. His selection of native themes, his vigorous appeal to those primitive sentiments which are at least as strong in Spain as elsewhere—courage, patriotism, religion—have ensured him a vogue so wide and lasting that it almost approaches immortality. In the study Zorrilla's slapdash methods are often wearisome; on the stage his impetuousness, his geniality, his broad effects, and his natural lyrism make him a veritable force. Two of Zorrilla's rivals among contemporary dramatists may be mentioned: Antonio GarcÍa GutiÉrrez (1813-1884), the author of El Trovador, and Juan Eugenio Hartzenbusch (1806-1880), whose Amantes de Teruel broke the hearts of sentimental ladies in the forties. Both the Trovador and the Amantes are still reproduced, still read, and still praised by critics who enjoy the pleasures of memory and association; but a detached foreigner, though he take his life in his hand when he ventures on the confession, is inclined to associate GarcÍa GutiÉrrez and Hartzenbusch with Sheridan Knowles and Lytton.

A much superior talent is that of the ex-soldier, Manuel BretÓn de los Herreros (1796-1873), whose humour and fancy are his own, while his system is that of the younger MoratÍn. His Escuela del Matrimonio is the most ambitious, as it is the best, of those innumerable pieces in which he aims at presenting a picture of average society, relieved by alternate touches of ironic and didactic purpose. BretÓn de los Herreros wrote far too much, and weakens his effects by the obtrusion of a flagrant moral; but even if we convict him as a caricaturist of obvious Philistinism, there is abundant recompense in the jovial wit and graceful versification of his quips. To him succeeds TomÁs RodrÍguez RubÍ (1817-1890), who aimed at amusing a facile public in such a trifle as El Tejado de Vidrio (The Glass Roof), or at satirising political and social intriguers in La Rueda de Fortuna (Fortune's Wheel).

A Cuban like Gertrudis GÓmez de Avellaneda (1816-1873), who spent most of her life in Spain, may for our purposes be accounted a Spanish writer. The proverbial gallantry of the nation and the sex of the writer account for her vogue and her repute. If such a novel as Sab, with its protest against slavery and its idealised presentation of subject races, be held for literature, then we must so enlarge the scope of the word as to include Uncle Tom's Cabin. Another novel, Espatolino, reproduces George Sand's philippics against the injustice of social arrangements, and re-echoes her lyrical advocacy of freedom in the matter of marriage. The Sra. Avellaneda is too passionate to be dexterous, and too preoccupied to be impressive; hence her novels have fallen out of sight. That she had real gifts of fancy and melody is shown by her early volume of poems (1841), and by her two plays, Alfonso Munio and Baltasar; yet, on the boards as in her stories, she is inopportune, or, in plainer words, is a gifted imitator, following the changes of popular taste with some hesitation, though with a gracefulness not devoid of charm. With her may be mentioned Carolina Coronado (b. 1823), a refined poetess with mystic tendencies, whose vogue has so diminished that to the most of Spaniards she is scarcely more than an agreeable reminiscence.

It is possible that the adroit politician, Adelardo LÓpez de Ayala (1828-1879), who passed from one party to another, and served a monarch or a republic with equal suppleness, might have won enduring fame as a dramatist and poet had he been less concerned with doctrines and theses. He was so intent on persuasion, so mindful of the arts of his old trade, so anxious to catch a vote, that he rarely troubled to draw character, contenting himself with skilful construction of plot and arrangement of incident. His Tanto por Ciento and his Consuelo are astute harangues in favour of high public and private morals, composed with extraordinary care and laudable purpose. If mere cleverness, a scrupulous eye to detail, a fine ear for sonorous verse could make a man master of the scene, LÓpez de Ayala might stand beside the greatest. His personages, however, are rather general types than individual characters, and the persistent sarcasm with which he ekes out a moral degenerates into ponderous banter. None the less he was a force during many years, and, though his reputation be now somewhat tarnished, he still counts admirers among the middle-aged.

A very conspicuous figure on the Spanish scene during the middle third of the century was Manuel Tamayo y Baus (1829-1898), who, beginning with an imitation of Schiller in Juana de Arco (1847), passed under the influence of Alfieri in Virginia (1853), venturing upon the national classic drama in La Locura de Amor (1855), the most notable achievement of his early period. The most ambitious, and unquestionably the best, of his plays is Un drama nuevo (1867), with which his career practically closed. He effaced himself, was content to live on his reputation and to yield his place as a popular favourite to so poor a playwright as JosÉ Echegaray. Compared with his successor, Tamayo shines as a veritable genius. Sprung from a family of actors, he gauged the possibilities of the theatre with greater exactness than any rival, and by his tact he became an expert in staging a situation. But it was not merely to inspired mechanical dexterity that he owed the high position which was allowed him by so shrewd a judge as Manuel de la Revilla: to his unequalled knowledge of the scene he joined the forces of passion and sympathy, the power of dramatic creation, and a metrical ingenuity which enchanted and bewildered those who heard and those who read him.

There is a feminine, if not a falsetto timbre in the voice of JosÉ Selgas y Carrasco (1824-1882), a writer on the staff of the fighting journal, El Padre Cobos, and a government clerk till MartÍnez Campos transfigured him into a Cabinet Minister. Selgas' verse in the Primavera is so charged with the conventional sentiment and with the amiable pessimism dear to ordinary readers, that his popularity was inevitable. Yet even Spanish indulgence has stopped short of proclaiming him a great poet, and now that his day has gone by, he is almost as unjustly decried as he was formerly overpraised. Though not a great original genius, he was an accomplished versifier whose innocent prettiness was never banal, whose simplicity was unaffected, whose faint music and caressing melancholy are not lacking in individuality and fascination.

A more powerful poetic impulse moved the Sevillan, Gustavo Adolfo BÉcquer (1836-1870). An orphan in his tenth year, BÉcquer was educated by his godmother, a well-meaning woman of some position, who would have made him her heir had he consented to follow any regular profession or to enter a merchant's office. At eighteen he arrived, a penniless vagabond, in Madrid, where he underwent such extremes of hardship as helped to shorten his days. A small official post, which saved him from actual starvation, was at last obtained for him, but his indiscipline soon caused him to be set adrift. He maintained himself by translating foreign novels, by journalistic hack-work in the columns of El Contemporaneo and El Museo Universal, till death delivered him.

The three volumes by which he is represented are made up of prose legends, and of poems modestly entitled Rimas. Though Hoffmann is BÉcquer's intellectual ancestor in prose, the Spaniard speaks with a personal accent in such examples of morbid fantasy as Los Ojos Verdes, wherein Fernando loses life for the sake of the green-eyed mermaiden: as the tale of Manrique's madness in El Rayo de Luna (The Moonbeam), as the rendering of Daniel's sacrilege in La Rosa de PasiÓn. And as Hoffmann influences BÉcquer's dreamy prose, so Heine influences his Rimas. It is argued that, since BÉcquer knew no German, he cannot have read Heine—an unconvincing plea, if we remember that Byron's example was followed in every country by poets ignorant of English. Howbeit, it is certain that Heine has had no more brilliant follower than BÉcquer, who, however, substitutes a note of fairy mystery for Heine's incomparable irony. His circumstances, and the fact that he did not live to revise his work, account for occasional inequalities of execution which mar his magical music. To do him justice, we must read him in a few choice pieces where his apparently simple rhythms and suave assonantic cadences express his half-delirious visions in terms of unsurpassable artistry. At first sight one is deceived into thinking that the simplicity is a spontaneous result, and there has arisen a host of imitators who have only contrived to caricature BÉcquer's defects. His merits are as purely personal as Blake's, and the imitation of either poet results almost inevitably in mere flatness.

During the nineteenth century Spain has produced no more brilliant master of prose than Mariano JosÉ de Larra (1809-1837), son of a medical officer in the French army. It is a curious fact that, owing to his early education in France, Larra—one of the most idiomatic writers—should have been almost ignorant of Spanish till his tenth year. Destined for the law, he was sent to Valladolid, where he got entangled in some love affair which led him to renounce his career. He took to literature, attempting the drama in his MacÍas, the novel in El Doncel de Don Enrique el Doliente: in neither was he successful. But if he could not draw character nor narrate incident, he could observe and satirise with amazing force and malice. Under the name of FÍgaro[30] and of Juan PÉrez de Munguia he won for himself such prominence in journalism as no Spaniard has ever equalled. Spanish politics, the weaknesses of the national character, are exposed in a spirit of ferocious bitterness peculiar to the writer. His is, indeed, a depressing performance, overcharged with misanthropy; yet for unflinching courage, insight, and sombre humour, Larra has no equal in modern Spanish literature, and scarcely any superior in the past. In his twenty-eighth year he blew out his brains in consequence of an amour in which he was concerned, leaving a vacancy which has never been filled by any successor. It is gloomy work to learn that all men are scoundrels, and that all evils are irremediable: these are the hopeless doctrines which have brought Spain to her present pass. Yet it is impossible to read Larra's pessimistic page without admiration for his lucidity and power.

An essayist of more patriotic tone is SerafÍn EstÉbanez CalderÓn (1799-1867), whose biography has been elaborately written by his nephew, Antonio CÁnovas del Castillo, the late Prime Minister of Spain. EstÉbanez' verses are well-nigh as forgotten as his Conquista y PÉrdida de Portugal, and his Escenas Andaluzas (1847) have never been popular, partly through fault of the author, who enamels his work with local or obsolete words in the style of Wardour Street, and who assumes a posture of superiority which irritates more than it amuses. A record of AndalucÍan manners and of fading customs, the Escenas has special value as embodying the impression of an observer who valued picturesqueness—valued it so highly, in fact, that one is haunted (perhaps unjustly) by the suspicion that he heightened his tones for the sake of effect. Another series of "documents" is afforded by RamÓn de Mesonero Romanos (1803-82), who is often classed as a follower of Larra, whereas the first of his Escenas Matritenses appeared before Larra's first essays. He has no trace of Larra's energetic condensation, tending, as he does, to a not ungraceful diffuseness; but he has bequeathed us a living picture of the native Madrid before it sank to being a poor, pale copy of Paris, and has enabled us to reconstruct the social life of sixty years since. Mesonero, who has none of EstÉbanez' airs and graces, though he is no less observant, and is probably more accurate, writes as a well-bred man speaks—simply, naturally, directly; and those qualities are seen to most advantage in his Memorias de un SetentÓn, which are as interesting as the best of reminiscences can be.

These records of customs and manners influenced a writer of German origin on her father's side, Cecilia BÖhl de Faber, who was thrice married, and whom it is convenient to call by her pseudonym, FernÁn Caballero (1796-1877), a village in Don Quixote's country. Her first novel, La Gaviota (1848), has probably been more read by foreigners than any Spanish book of the century, and, with all its sensibility and moralisings, we can scarcely grudge its vogue; for it is true to common life as common life existed in an AndalucÍan village, and its style is natural, if not distinguished. Even in La Gaviota there is an air of unreality when the scene is shifted from the country to the drawing-room, and the suspicion that FernÁn Caballero could invent without observing deepens in presence of such a wooden lay-figure as Sir George Percy in Clemencia. Her didactic bent increased with time, so that much of her later work is bedevilled with sermons and gospellings; yet so long as she deals with the rustic episodes which were her earliest memories, so long as she is content to report and to describe, she produces a delightful series of pictures, touched in with an almost irreproachable refinement. She is not far enough from us to be a classic; but she is sufficiently removed to be old-fashioned, and she suffers accordingly. Still it is safe to prophesy that La Gaviota will survive most younger rivals.

In all likelihood Pedro Antonio de AlarcÓn (1833-1891), who, like most literary Spaniards, injured his work by meddling in politics, will live by his shorter, more unambitious stories. His EscÁndalo (1875), after creating a prodigious sensation as a defence of the Jesuits from an old revolutionist, is already laid aside, and La PrÓdiga is in no better case. The true AlarcÓn is revealed in El Sombrero de tres Picos, a picture of rustic manners, rendered with infinite enjoyment and merry humour; in the rapid, various sketches entitled Historietas Nacionales; and in that gallant, picturesque account of the Morocco campaign called the Diario de un Testigo de la Guerra en África—as vivid a piece of patriotic chronicling as these latest years have shown.

Of graver prose modern Spain has little to boast. Yet the MarquÉs de Valdegamas, Juan Donoso CortÉs (1809-1853) has written an Ensayo sobre el Catolicismo, el Liberalismo y el Socialismo, which has been read and applauded throughout Europe. Donoso, the most intolerant of Spaniards, overwhelms his readers with dogmatic statement in place of reasoned exposition; but he writes with astonishing eloquence, and with a superb conviction of his personal infallibility that has scarcely any match in literature. At the opposite pole is the Vich priest, Jaime Balmes y Uspia (1810-48), whose Cartas Á un EscÉptico and Criterio are overshadowed by his Protestantismo comparado en el Catolicismo, a performance of striking ingenuity, among the finest in the list of modern controversy. Donoso denounced man's reason as a gin of the devil, as a faculty whose natural tendency is towards error. Balmes appeals to reason at every step of the road. With him, indeed, it is unsafe to allow that two and two are four until it is ascertained what he means to do with that proposition; for his subtlety is almost uncanny, and his dexterity in using an opponent's admission is surprising. If anything, Balmes is even too clever, for the most simple-minded reader is driven to ask how it is possible that any rational being can hold the opposite view. Still, from the Catholic standpoint, Balmes is unanswerable, and—in Spain at least—he has never been answered, while his vogue abroad has been very great. Setting aside its doctrinal bearing, his treatise is a most striking example of destructive criticism and of marshalled argument.