The piece embraces many incidents, but the chief interest turns upon the persecutions experienced by Aurelio and Silvia, a young married couple, who have been captured by the Moors, on a voyage from Spain to Milan. The history of their captivity is nearly similar to that of Ricardo and Leonisa in "The Generous Lover," which we shall by-and-by have occasion to refer to. Silvia becomes an object of passionate love to her master, Izuf; and Aurelio is importuned by the solicitations of his mistress, Fatima. They meet at the house of Izuf, and, discovering that each is employed to seduce the other, they mutually agree to practise deception, by encouraging false hopes in their adorers, and thus to gain time till they can negotiate their ransom. In the interim, Fatima, the confidante of Zara, who has witnessed the obstinate refusals of Aurelio, has recourse to magic, which Cervantes supposes the Moors to have learnt from Zoroaster, in order to win him to the will of her mistress. By that strange mixture of different creeds, which we have seen displayed in "Numantia," she raises by her spells one of the Furies, through whom it is revealed to her that witchcraft has no power over Christians, who can only be tempted by Necessity and Opportunity. These then she invokes, but their allurements are exercised in vain upon the virtue of Aurelio. Azan, King of Algiers, having conceived some cause of offence against Izuf, ultimately causes him to bring his captives into the royal presence, and then compels him to dispose of them to him, offering at the same time to release them both, if Aurelio will bind himself, by oath, to repay him the moderate profit of cent per cent, on his arrival in Spain. Izuf's remonstrances are useless, and Aurelio has joyfully acceded to the proposal, when a captive enters with

the intelligence that two Brethren of the Holy Trinity* have just arrived with a sum of money to be applied to purposes of redemption. This is the general outline of the main plot; but, as the unity of action is no more observed than the unities of time and place, the play embraces several detached occurrences. In the first act, there is a long description, by Sebastian, of an event which actually took place at Algiers, and which was nothing less than the sacrifice of Miguel de Aranda, a Valentian knight of the order of Montesa, who was burnt alive by the Moors, in retaliation for a similar punishment inflicted by the Inquisition on a renegade of Sargel, formerly of Arragon, who fell into their hands. The adventure of Pedro Alvarez forms another episode. He communicates, early in the fourth act, to his fellow captive, Saavedra, a plan that he has formed for escaping by the sea-coast to Oran; and declares that he has provided himself with ten pounds of biscuit and meal cake, and also procured three pair of shoes for the journey. The same act, after a change of scene, discovers him in the desert, with his clothes torn by briars, his shoes worn, his courage failing, and his strength nearly exhausted by hunger. He offers up a prayer to our Lady of Monserat, and a lion appears to guide and protect him on his way. Another episode is that of the Father, Mother, and their two Sons. They are first exhibited in the slave-market; and the Crier proclaiming a public sale, a scene takes place, from which, as it is one of the best in the piece, we will attempt to translate a passage:

Francisco. (To his Father) Since our hard fate has doom'd us thus to part,

Let me at least bear with me, in my woe,

Your fatherly direction and commands.

Father. My son, I have but one command to give thee:

Live a good and faithful Christian.

Mother. Then let me speak. I charge thee, let not threats,
Bribes, nor allurements of enticing pleasure,

Nor scourge, nor blow, nor cunning artifice,
Nor any treasure, which this earth contains,
Draw thee, a renegade from Christian faith,
To yield thyself a convert to these Moors.
Francisco. Mother, if my weak powers their

purpose hold,

* These two holy friars are not fictitious characters; they were Father Gil and Father Antonio de la Vella, to whom Cervantes himself was indebted for his redemption from slavery, by means of the funds deposited in their hands by his mother and sister, with the addition of a sum of money which Father Gil, who is eulogized by name in the play, had the generosity to borrow in order to complete the ransom. This appears from some very curious documents which were discovered and extracted from the Archives of Redemption, in the Convent of the Holy Trinity at Madrid, through the zeal and perseverance of Don Vicente de los Rios, who wrote the Life of Cervantes prefixed to the edition of his Don Quixote, published by the Royal Spanish Academy.

And heavenly aid be added, 'twill be seen
That threats are futile, and that bribes will fail
To shake the faith, in which my soul delights.

Crier. A pretty, obstinate young Christian this!
Now, I'll be bound that we shall find a way
To make him raise his hand and point his finger.*
These Christian youths are very coy at first;

But when the fit is over, they turn Moors,

And keep our creed much better than the old ones,

Jornada 2. Francisco, however, continues firm; but the Crier's prediction is fulfilled as regards the other boy (Juanico, literally Johnny), who re-appears, in the fifth act, metamorphosed into a complete Mahometan.

With one more passage we will close our extracts. It is from the scene wherein Aurelio is tempted by Necessity and Opportunity. There is something grand in the conception, wild and extravagant as it is considered with a view to theatrical representation, which embodies an immaterial agency, visible to the audience, but invisible to the person acted upon, and appearing to prompt the suggestions that rise uncalled for-those suggestions of evil, which into the mind of man will come and go," like the dreams of Banquo,

66

"Cursed thoughts that Nature Gives way to in repose!"

The phantoms have departed, and Aurelio thus soliloquizes:

Aurelio (solus). Aurelio, whither strayest thou? Where bend Thy wandering steps their course? What hand conducts thee? Wouldst thou indulge thy mad and wild desires,

And cast aside the fear of God for ever?

Can light and easy opportunity

So far provoke thy soul to guilty pleasure,
That thou wouldst trample virtue down at once,
And yield thyself a prey to wanton love?
Is this the elevated thought? is this

The firm intent, which thou didst vow to keep,
That no offence to God should stain thy path,
Though tortures rack'd the remnant of thy days?
So soon hast thou offended, to the winds
Released the anticipations of a lawful passion,
And taken to thy memory instead

Thoughts vain, dishonest, light and infamous?
Begone, ye base suggestions, far away
Each wish impure of evil! let the hand

The action with which the Mahometans accompany their profession of faith: "There is but one God, and Mahomet is his prophet." For this note, we are indebted to the Editor of this play in the correct and neatly printed "Teatro Espanol," published by Messrs. Boosey and Sons.

Of chaste and blameless love destroy the web,
Which the seducer strives to wind around thee.
The faith which I profess, that faith I'll follow;
And, though it lead to dark extremity,
Nor gift, nor promise, artifice, nor guile,

Shall make me swerve one instant from my God.

Such are the two plays of Cervantes. They were written ere the dramatic muses had shaken off their long slumber. They are literary curiosities, and, as such only, we present them to our readers. In the passages we have translated, we have sacrificed every attempt at poetry, and have only aimed to give the sense in a version as literal as the rhythm would permit were we indeed equal to the task of perfect translation, we should despair of transferring to English blank verse the happy simplicity of the Spanish redondillas. We should be glad to tread still farther within the pleasing precincts of the Spanish drama; but in our next we must proceed to notice other productions of the author of Don Quixote, in that style of composition wherein he has few, if any competitors; and which the English public, who have successively patronised the translations of that most popular novel by Motteux, by Jarvis, and by Smollet, and republications of them in every form, from the splendidly embellished quarto to the humble duodecimo, have hitherto suffered to lie in neglect, and almost oblivion.

M.

ON THE CONFESSION OF IGNORANCE.

"WHOEVER Would be cured of ignorance," says Montaigne, "must confess it." If every one were to act on the Seigneur's recommendation, what a strange revelation of ignorance would there be! In justice, however, to this most candid of all philosophers, who has stripped his heart naked with his own hands, and presented it without any covering, either of shame or falsehood, to the gaze of all posterity, it should be remembered that he has, with the strictest impartiality, declared his own deficiencies in knowledge. “Great abuse in the world is begot," says he," or, to speak more boldly, all the abuses in the world are begot, by our being taught to be afraid of professing our ignorance." Accordingly, he tells us that people, who hear him declare his ignorance in husbandry, whisper in his ear that it is disdain, and that he only neglects to know the instruments of husbandry, its season and order-how they dress his vines-the names and forms of herbs and fruits-how meat is dressed-the names and prices of the stuffs he wears-because he has set his heart on higher knowledge. "They kill me," says the philosopher, "in saying so. This is folly, and rather brutishness

than glory: I had rather be a good horseman than a good logician." Seigneur Michael can afford to make these confessions, but how few are there among the common herd that can speak such truths without injury to their reputation-and ought they to do this? Nay, would it even be useful?

That ode of Anacreon, which describes the attributes which nature has conferred on different animals, might be well applied to the present subject; and it might be shown how the various species of knowledge are confined to certain individuals or classes of men. A Divine, for instance, if he were consulted on a point of law, might very well answer that he knew nothing about the matter; and the lawyer in his turn, if questioned in divinity, might generally reply, with too much truth, that he was wholly ignorant on the subject; and this want of information may certainly be acknowledged without any feeling of shame. The question, therefore, which Sir Thomas More, when abroad, undertook to argue against all the doctors and learned men of Italy, "Anne averia caruca capta in vetito namio sint irreplegibilia," that is to say, whether beasts of the plough taken in withernam are irreplevisable," was not a fair one, because no one could argue it but a lawyer, and he too an English lawyer. In fact, he might as well have propounded that very abstruse and philosophical query Anne chimera_bombinans in vacuo possit comedere secundas intentiones?" But when I enquire from a divine, whether I ought rather to tell a lie or commit a theft; or from a gentleman of the long robe, whether I am most nearly related to my paternal grandfather or my maternal grandmother, I expect to receive an answer; and if either the former or the latter is unable to give me one, I consider him as ignorant of what it is his duty to know; and if he scruples not to confess his ignorance, I say he is also devoid of shame. There is a certain degree of knowledge, which from the daily occupations of life, and from an intercourse with the world, it is almost impossible, that we should not attain: such is the knowledge of common substances and the general operations of nature; yet Montaigne, it seems, was ignorant of many of these things. You see this ignorance in children, and it sometimes happens that they do not lose it when of a larger growth. This continued ignorance proceeds from different causes; sometimes, and perhaps frequently, it is merely the effect of dull perception and slow observation; sometimes it proceeds from the want of proper opportunities of improvement, and occasionally it is the consequence of the mind being too exclusively devoted to one pursuit. An occupation, which necessarily directs all the rays of the intellect to one centre, must prevent them from being diffused over a more extensive field; and, in this view, I believe all professions, strictly pursued, tend to incapacitate the mind from higher and