TOWARDS the close of the sixteenth century we find two great names lords of the drama of the world Shakspeare and Lope de Vega - both about the same age, Lope being only two years older than his illustrious cotemporary, and both equally the worshipped idols of their respective nations, and the flattered, honoured, petted, caressed favourites of a court. Shakspeare was dazzling and delighting the brilliant Elizabeth of England, while Lope was winning smiles even from the gloomy Philip of Spain, amid the chill horrors of the Inquisition, and the flames of the heretic autos.

No author of any age or country ever equalled the Spanish Lope in fertility and fluency. Shakspeare left but thirty-six dramas; Lope left a thousand to the world. They poured forth from his brain with the facility of improvisation; all full of powerful scenes, broad, reckless fun, and exciting life and force. With such qualities it is not surprising that he lived adored by his nation, and has remained ever since the most popular dramatist with the multitude.

Like most men of his era he began life as a soldier; nerve in the arm and fire in the brain. He served in the great Armada sent against England, and wrote a long poem while going as an enemy to the land of Shakspeare. Tall, dark, and handsome, with bright loving eyes-so he is described — full of genius, warmth, life, and brilliancy; ever warring or writing, loving or loved; pouring forth the inexhaustible fulness of his human heart with exuberant joy into the channels of all life: and thus he stands out like sunlight thrown upon the dark fanatic spirit of his age. But sorrows fell upon him; he was left wifeless, almost childless; then he, too, became infected with the gloomy religion of his country. He took orders, was made a monk of St. Francis, and a familiar of the Inquisition; and later in life grew so fanatical, that he often fasted till he fainted from weakness, and scourged

himself till the walls of the room were sprinkled with his blood.

Spain was ever a loving mother to Lope-honoured by her in life, and glorified in death; for when he died, such a funeral train followed him to the grave that still runs the proverb in Spain, to express the acmê of pomp, "It was a burial of Lope."

But let us turn back to the year of grace 1600, when both Lope and Shakspeare were in the prime of life, glory, and mental power. Lope was then thirty-eight, Shakspeare thirtysix, and Cervantes, their great cotemporary, fifty-three. It was a brilliant literary era, and no doubt the world thought it impossible successors should ever rise fit to wear the laurel wreath when death lifted it from such brows. Shakspeare indeed left no successor; his mantle fell on no second prophet; but in that year 1600, a child was born in Spain, destined for greater celebrity even than Lope de Vega, and surpassing him in genius and power as much as Shakspeare excels all who have borne the title of English dramatist. That child was Pedro Calderon De La Barca. Four years later the great Corneille was born in France. So, just as the twin stars of the sixteenth century were declining from the zenith, those of the seventeenth century were rising to the meridian. They might even have met

had an entente cordiale subsisted then amongst the nations, such as we have witnessed lately, when the chief names of Europe congregated from all meridians to one focus; and let us suppose a dinner given to the congregate literati at such a time, say about the year 1615. Cervantes might have presided in virtue of his age he was then sixty-eight. On either hand are Lope de Vega and Shakspeare, in the prime of life, fame, and manhood; while the younger and less gifted poets, Ben Johnson, Massinger, and Ford, Beaumont, and Fletcher fill the sides; last of all, we see two youths, one fifteen, the other but ten, yet of both already have

2 vols. small 8vo.

London: Dolman. 1853.

been heard prophecies of fame. The elder, with the beautiful face of genius, dark, lustrous eyes, and flowing hair, is Calderon from Spain. Though but fifteen, he has already written a play which Lope praised. The younger youth has a low, stunted, shopkeeper aspect-no beauty in him, only a grave equanimity and self-possession, that saves him from being called vulgar. Though but ten, he has written verses that men have talked about, and so people turn the head to look at him; he is the young Corneille from Paris; his future glory already the vision of his youth. But one still younger, a beautiful child of seven years old, with long golden curls, rests his arm on Shakspeare's knee, and looks up into the great poet's face, with large, blue, worshipping eyes the child is John Milton; he who afterwards wrote of Shakspeare's works that

"Kings for such a tomb might wish to die."

Now let us just add Rubens in a corner to sketch the scene, for he was then too in the prime of life; and the whole galaxy, without any anachronism, might thus have been handed down to posterity. But if we suppose a similar dinner organised the following year, we find two places vacant that none dared to fill, and the rilling course of centuries has never filled them since-Shakspeare and Cervantes were in their graves.

We are not going, however, to discuss these vast celebrities of a memorable age, these Titans of literature with "the large utterance of the early gods;" our glance rests only on the handsome Spanish youth; and of him let us try to gather from the past all that is worthy to live in the present.

Calderon came of a good family. Aristocrats all of them, and devout Catholics, who had held office at court under a succession of royal fanatics. He himself was educated by the Jesuits; hence, perhaps, the serious, profoundly grave tone of his mind. While yet a child he learned all, conquered all, and at fourteen had written a drama. Then he entered the army, as Cervantes, and Lope, and Ercilla had done before him, and served twelve years; but unlike them, he seems to have been not much of a warrior. We hear of him still writing, not fighting. Finally, when Lope died, and the court found existence impossible with

out a dramatic poet, he was recalled from the army, and made superintendent of court festivities at Madrid. After which, to the end of life, we find him living, as Goethe at Weimar, the idol and oracle of a court, that brilliant court of Philip IV. of Spain, the patron of poets, and himself a poet and dramatist. But all this time there is no mention of Love in Calderon's life. Lope loved many times, and married twice; Shakspeare married, at nineteen, a farmer's daughter, eight years older than himself; Cervantes married; Corneille married, and left six children; and Camoens, though he remained single, yet it was for the undying love he bore his lost Catarina. But Calderon-did he ever love? We know not. Little can be gathered of his inner emotional life from the records left of him; at all events he never married. Yet his nature was neither severe nor morose; rather was it a serious, mournful nature-full of grave, calm tenderness, as of one who sympathised with all human weakness, yet was himself above all. Very kindly too, if not loving; for we read how he was wont to gather the young children round him on his birthdays, and tell them tales of his own early life, or recite verses to them with that sweet voice of his, which has been specially eulogised by his biographers. writings indeed show that he deeply studied human suffering and passionhad laid his hand on the quivering fibres of human hearts; but then it was as a physician who notes symptoms, or as a stern judge who examines to condemn. There seems no pity in his stern justice. With such a nature it is not surprising that when youth and middle age were passed, he should seek the grave, dignified sanctity of sacerdotal life; and so we find him at the age of fifty-one taking priests' orders, as Lope had done when heart-crushed by the suffering that comes of love and death.

His

Afterwards Calderon became Court Chaplain and Grand Inquisitor; and thus lived for thirty years, still enchanting Spain with his brilliant dramas, and honoured as poet was never honoured before, by king, court, and nation.

Oh destiny! what a capricious weaver of fortunes art thou! Cervantes fought and suffered, lost an arm in battle, and was sold as a slave