embarrassing predicament, not being able to exhibit the productions of Lope and Calderon, these being stigmatized with the anathema of the schools, nor those of Moratin the elder, or Yriarte,* as attracting no audience to witness them. How, then, were they to live, but by doing precisely what they did,-by consigning to the chest what was ill-received on the stage, and by adopting exclusively what was found to produce money, regardless of its being regular or irregular? For the attainment of this object, recourse was had, of necessity, to representations capable of calling back the runaways, and attaching them anew by the charm of amusement. If their hearts and their imaginations were not interested, their eyes and their ears were. In the same piece were jumbled together combats and masked balls, bonfires and burials, serenades and judicial trials. History was strangely tortured and dislocated, in order to confiscate to theatrical advantage any eligible dramatic circumstance, such as the thirty years' war, or the earthquake at Lisbon. The gazettes and journals were rummaged for the discovery of striking anecdotes; and if, by a lucky chance, a calumniated princess, or a disguised emperor, travelling through his dominions, could be pitched upon to figure in the principal part, such an acquisition was deemed inestimable. On such a canvass any colouring could be worked in at pleasure-love, politics, morality, the palace, the cottage, and the scaffold.

Of all the dramatic ravings that were poured upon the Spanish stage during this interregnum, we will only notice those of Don Lucian Comella, who was the most conspicuous on the list, and whose very defeat has rendered him famous in the modern theatrical annals of Spain. Comella had written upwards of one hundred plays, all of which were represented with success. So high was the estimation he enjoyed, that the appearance of his name on the nightly bills invariably assured a handsome receipt; and the old comedians declare to this day, that the most inferior of his pieces has produced more money at the door than the most approved of those by Lope, or any other poet. Yet has Comella written nothing better, in fact, than miserable rhapsodies and tawdry romances thrown into dialogue. His versification is mean and inharmonious. How, then, are we to reconcile such poverty of claim with the rich popularity he obtained? To explain this, it must be observed that Comella, with all his faults, his paltry style and corrupt taste, had certain qualities that may be held sufficient to have brought him into vogue. He wrote with rapidity and copiousness, and was thus easily enabled to satisfy the daily cravings of the players, ever restless after novelty. He well understood the mechanical portion of his art, whether in the distribution of scenes or the gradual developement of the plot. Endued with some share of sensibility, he occasionally, and perhaps unconsciously, presented situations allied to genuine emotion, and optical exhibitions that might affect for a moment those who care but to gratify their eyes. Honour

* Yriarte virtually pleaded guilty himself when he animadverted on a piece by Trigueros, that had been damned on the stage, after having been crowned by the Academy:—

Patio, aposento gradas y luneta

Eso si que son jueces imparciales,

Y no los que ofrecia la Gaceta !

(Pit, boxes, and gallery are your true arbiters in the drama, and not those whom the government places in judgment over it.)

able in his private character, he always rendered homage, as a writer, to misfortune and to virtue. Accordingly, in every subject he selected, we meet with a spotless victim, persecuted by a vicious potentate, suffering with exemplary patience throughout the play, and recompensed precisely at the last lines of the last act. In all events there is some wrong supposed to be redressed by a magnanimous prince, some traitor punished, or some unhappy love-smitten girl restored to the kindness of her parents, from whom she had fled with the favourite of her heart, to escape a detested match with another man, rich, of course, and silly and deformed. Subjects of this popular stamp entered into ready combination with the sentimental jargon of the period, and were sure to please with the addition of a few trite maxims of morality, and the support of some pretty actress; a Spanish audience being always especially indulgent to the latter sex. Several years after Comella had invaded the inheritance of Thalia, and whilst his reputation was at its most colossal height, appeared Don Leandro Fernandez de Moratin, son of him whom we have previously mentioned. He first presented to the public his delightful comedy, in the style of Moliere, called El Viejo y la Niña, (the Old Man and the Young Maiden) wherein he has sketched in the most forcible colours, a picture of the unhappiness resulting to the marriage state, from disproportion of age. This production has been always exalted and decried with the utmost violence. On one side it has been declared perfect; on the other, cold, insipid, and affected. Yet we must freely express our opinion, that if it be not a model in every critical proportion-if certain minute deformities may be detected by the scrutinizing eye of the critic, it contains passages so beautiful, fascinating and striking, as to stamp very high worth upon it. If the plot linger a little in its progress, we have a dialogue lively and spirited enough to prevent our being sensible of it. If there be a feebleness of delineation in one or two of the characters, those most essential to the developement of the action are admirable, both in conception and execution. There are two of the personifications which are in the extreme of excellence that of the master of the family, and of his confidential servant:- the first, a peevish, suspicious old fellow, desperately uxurious, quarrelling with his young wife out of jealousy, and pardoning her from weakness;-the other, an old Rodrigo, mischievous, grumbling and heavy, attached to his master by habit, but aware, from experience, that he is indispensable to him, and indulging in a free spirit of contradiction accordingly. These two characters appearing nearly always on the stage, always talking on the same business, and scarcely ever in action, are missed and looked for with anxiety every time they quit the scene, and are received with delight and applause when they reappear. What a fund of merit must exist in creations like this! What abundantly rich stores must that writer possess, who can amuse during three very long acts, by the sole power and delicacy of his own original fancy!

This comedy, however, in despite of all its brilliant qualities, met with very little notice at the tasteless period when it was first represented. But Moratin did not suffer himself to be discouraged. Convinced of his own power, he resolved to beat out of the field Comella and his satellites, and taking up the keen weapons of ridicule, he brought out the piece entitled "The Coffee-house, or the New Comedy*." The hero is a paltry poet, made to resemble Comella with the

* In two acts, and written in prose.

most unequivocal exactness, while the other interlocutors are portraits of individuals of his family, and a few literary originals that were very well known in Madrid. It is even asserted that the author himself figures in the piece, under the gay mask of Don Pedro.

The plot is extremely simple. An unhappy fellow with a large family, and little bread to give them, suddenly tries to make himself a poet. He writes a comedy, in which he gets his wife to help him. This performance is received and extolled by a learned wiseacre, brimful of Greek and Latin, whose main object all the while is to marry the poet's sister, a damsel exceedingly ignorant and pretty, and at the same time most perversely mistrustful as to the success of her papa's bold achievement; which is, amongst other things, to purchase for her the means to marry. The family are supposed to reside in a coffeehouse, which is daily frequented by two gentlemen who are unknown to them. One of these strangers (Don Antonio) belongs to that class who divert society by their lively spirit of satire, and who affect to sympathize with those whom they are laughing at. The other, Don Pedro, is the reverse of that stamp; plain, severe, abrupt, but intrinsecally kind and sensible-a species of rough philanthropist. All the first act and half the second are filled with the pompous projects of the poet and his coterie, the scientific dogmas of the pedant, the pleasant sallies of Don Antonio, the sound remarks of Don Pedro, and the recital of sundry fragments of the momentous comedy, which are, in fact, parodies of so many passages in Comella's plays. In the last scenes, they go to witness the play, which is damned; the poor poet falls from the clouds; his learned friend insults and then avoids him in his misfortune, and the family is in the most woeful dilemma, till the generous Don Pedro relieves them, and promises future support, stipulating only that the poetaster shall totally abandon his luckless mania.

Nothing indeed now remained for poor Comella, but to abdicate his theatrical sovereignty; so decisive was the victory gained by his adversary *. It is indeed wonderful how such an union of interest, gaiety, neatness, and wit, could have been attained in the short compass of two acts. This little piece is even now constantly witnessed with pleasure; what, then, may we not imagine its original effect to have been upon an audience to whom every character and every allusion contained in it were perfectly familiar? No efforts of criticism have availed to overthrow its popularity. In vain has it been asserted that "The Coffee-house," being destitute of the essential point, action, can be no comedy, but a mere pleasant dissertation on the dramatic art. These, and the like specimens of acumen, have been all thrown away. The production continues a stock-piece, and will do so whilst a theatre shall exist in the Peninsula. The sanction of posterity is additionally insured to it, from its having proved itself the Don Quixote of the Spanish stage.

Since the period in question, Moratin's dramatic career has been a constant series of success. Five-and-twenty years have witnessed him

We cannot avoid noticing here an error in M. de Bouterwek's justly esteemed History of Spanish Literature, and which has been copied by other writers. He asserts that "Comella was the rival of Moratin in dramatic poetry, as may be collected from the expressions in the peninsular journalists." Our readers may have well perceived Comella to have been the butt of Moratin. But as to any question of rivalry, the approach of the one to the other was but as that of the hammer to the anvil.

without a rival, and during the greater portion of that time his productions alone have supplied the national stage. All other candidates were as pigmies compared to him, and competition was sure to be beheld with aversion by the public, and to end in defeat. A comedy of considerable merit was condemned the first night, solely because the author had ventured on a story which Moratin had likewise selected *. Those persons who feel surprise at a dearth in this department of the modern Spanish drama, will probably find that feeling much lessened by what we have just remarked. This dearth it is that has recently brought back a taste for the productions of the old school. The question of permitting fresh intruders, or recalling those who had been banished, has been decided in favour of the latter.

Moratin's third play, which may be termed his master-piece, was La Mogigata (the Female Tartuffe.) The story is exceedingly well conceived and managed, the characters well defined and sustained, the dialogue clever and sparkling, and the denouement so happily and naturally contrived, as to form at once the admiration and despair of succeeding aspirants. It has been objected by some, that Moratin has taken from Terence the substance of two of the characters in La Mogigata, as well as the chief part of the first scenes in the first act. this accusation, which applies as well to Moliere, who has done the same kind of thing in his comedy of L'ecole des Maris, far from lessening the merit of both imitators, is in itself a merit. Surely those who have succeeded in rendering better the best of Terence's creations, may be naturally supposed to exhibit no mean excellence.

But

The last-mentioned comedy of Moratin's did not fail to excite alarm among the prudes and false devotees;

"Monsieur le Président ne veut pas qu'on le joue,"

and it was forbidden by the Inquisition. The author would have obtained the honours of martyrdom, had not his Mæcenas, the Prince of Peace, stood openly in the way between him and the holy hangmen. The secret machinations, however, of his enemies seem to have created in him a disgust of some duration with the theatre-for it was not till several years afterwards that he produced his Baron, from which (were it not for the Si de las Niñas, since written) we might almost conclude his imagination to have lost its fire, and his genius to have become half eclipsed. The Baron is, in fact, the feeblest of his plays. Its plot is bad, and its too farcical denouement destroys all interest by the readiness with which it is anticipated. Its characters are not original, and it shews nothing worthy of Moratin, except in the dialogue.

We have now to speak of the most popular and most striking, although not the best written, of all the plays of this Spanish Moliere,— namely, the Si de las Niñas (the Female Assent). A most happy combination of wit and sensibility runs throughout it, and (however the critics may possibly condemn such an union) compels, in a pre-eminent degree, the approbation of the spectator, who laughs and weeps alternately, and goes away delighted with this double excitement. The fame of this production was further aided by another circumstance of a singular nature. It had become usual to find fault with Moratin for an alleged feebleness in his delineations of the passion of love through

* The subject of La Lugarina orgollosa (the Proud Village-girl), by M. Mendoza, corresponds with one adopted in the Baron of Moratin. We shall notice the former i our next and concluding article.

out his dramatic works, and to doubt his ability to pourtray a genuine picture of that kind. How agreeable, then, was the surprise of the public, on finding in this instance a plot entirely romantic, and a pair of lovers as tender and as passionate as are to be found within the verge of rationality? Of the story we will give a brief idea. A young maiden, daughter of a poor, prejudiced, gossiping, ignorant old lady, is educated in a convent, where she finds an opportunity of forming an acquaintance with a young officer of cavalry, the result of which is a mutual passion. Just at this interesting point the mother removes her daughter from the convent, in the design of marrying her at Madrid to a very rich, sensible, and worthy, but very aged gentleman. The two ladies in their journey stop to pass the night at an inn at Alcala, and there the officer likewise arrives, with the hope of rescuing his beloved. Discovering, however, that the rival is his own uncle and benefactor, he makes an honourable but painful resolution to forego the wish of his heart, without divulging the secret-but this becomes fortuitously known to the uncle by means of a letter, which leads to an éclaircissement. The good old gentleman hereupon not only compassionates the suffering lovers, but pleads their cause with the mother, unites them in marriage, and finally makes them his heirs. Within this confined and simple scope of subject has Moratin, with a merit truly remarkable, contrived to introduce an infinity of details abounding in life. The interest is worked up with admirable gradation to the end of the piece. The scene wherein the lovers are compelled to part, without the power of mutually explaining the cause of their separation, is highly skilful. That where the interview takes place between the uncle and nephew, is a masterly contrivance. One is here forcibly led to remark the author's profound and extensive knowledge of the human heart. The scene, too, in which the uncle extracts from the timid girl her secret, is a model of sentiment and delicacy. Of the characters specifically, we scarcely need to speak: were they not natural portraits, the picture could never convey to our minds so lively an interest. In one of the personages, however, (the mother,) we discover a little too much of caricature:-as for the dialogue, it is even more captivating and natural than that of the other comedies of the same author.

Moratin has besides translated two of Moliere's plays, and with his accustomed talent-L'ecole des Muris, and Le Medecin malgré lui. He has also made a translation, or a paraphrase of Shakspeare's Hamlet. This last has never been performed, nor indeed do we think it has, by any means, embodied either the genius or the expression of the original. It is now some years since the author of El Viejo y la Niña, El Café, La Mogigata, and El si de las Niñas, has written any thing for the stage. He chooses to repose under the shade of his laurels, doubtless fearful of that ill effect which the infirmities of age are apt to produce in efforts depending so entirely on the power of the imagination, and unwilling to incur those mortifications which visited the author of the Cid in the decline of his days. In this he has acted well. Moratin has written enough for his country's fame, as well as for his own. To the first he can bequeath four dramatic masterpieces that will abide comparison with the best of any modern theatre, whilst he has acquired for himself the title of regenerator of his own national drama. Could he aspire to a more fortunate distinction?

G.