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Her dismissal of Galician appears in UC By , the Gaelic League had been responsible for the introduction of the teaching of Irish into 13, national schools Ward [] , Perhaps Lynch was playing to her evangelical readers but placed alongside other criti- cal comment in her writing, sympathy towards a protestant ethos is vis- ible. Ledger, Huntley St. Consider, too, Huntley St. The scholarly, mischievous Fr. Therefore, she had acquired personal experience there too.

Judging from her comments with regard to the Spanish nobility and repre- sentatives of the bourgeoisie, the encounters were not rewarding. Thus, Lynch further illustrates the backwardness of the country, in contrast to achievements in Britain as a consequence of the late nineteenth century struggle for suffrage, which had already contributed to specific material advancement in the acquisi- tion of rights for women. There were 2, wom- en graduates, 1, certificated students, and 8 women had received honorary degrees. Married women owned all their earnings and other property.

Women served on various public bodies. Blackburn in Marlow , 27 Spain lagged painfully behind. However, four articles in particular, published in , , and , hone in on what is perceived as an unsatisfactory, unjust existence: one of intellectual deprivation, within the aristocracy and bourgeoisie, and of physical exploitation and domestic violence, specifically in relation to proletarian women in Galicia. None of the Spanish women portrayed by Lynch, from working to ruling class, are formally educated.

The fastidious traveller, vividly, somewhat comically at her own expense and, finally, tartly, explains how she was subjected to a show of expectoration, a practice repeatedly highlighted on the part of men in the Spanish articles: Two of them, to the uninterrupted music of throat-scraping, spat so continuously on the strip of bright new carpet at our feet that it would be difficult to say if the acuter suffering lay in sight or sound, and I was obliged to make a paper covering for the degraded carpet in order to beat a retreat.

The absurd notion that such a habit might be a severe trial for a lady would never act as a deterrent influence in its pursuance in Spain. The world, you see, was made for men — railway carriages, carpets and women included. ST, 6 64 A note which is also struck in this article is that of acceptance or resigna- tion on the part of women. She mysteriously connects a book with the loss of your immortal soul, and supposes Heaven to be the Elysium of the illiterate.

People from Kudus Regency

She dislikes literature in every form. Much as the persuasion might merit the praise expressed, it may well be argued in the light of subsequent commentary in the article that the pronouncement has less to do with Spanish mothers and daughters and more with the longer criticism which follows of Irish mothers and the vulnerable status of Irish aristocratic and middle-class daughters left without means. However, neither respect nor admiration can be afforded the barren pursuit to which the Spanish aristocracy and bourgeoisie condemn their daughters; Lynch registers exasperation and makes a claim for im- morality in the practice: To train girls […] to sit hour after hour stitching uselessly away at use- less stuffs, with empty minds and emptier hearts, with no ideas, hopes, aspirations, thoughts, above this miserable futility, which consists in decorating washing towels and dusters with all sorts of hideous devices in coloured threads, is surely a national iniquity.

The feminist rambler observes: What strikes you most in all your rambles throughout Galicia is the obvi- ous fact that all the outdoor labour is accomplished by the women [who] are old and tanned and wrinkled at twenty-five, […] If husband and wife move anywhere, you will see […] the woman […] carrying on the top of her head all the family belongings in a big trunk.

The women work in the fields, are the porters, itinerant merchants, the water-carriers and fruit-growers of the land. By sunrise they throng the markets, carry your luggage to and from train or boat, and walk behind the squealing Gifra-Adroher, Hurtley. However, as has been seen, her articles on Spain show the southern land not to lag far behind. It is worth pondering, then, what the failure to criticize in both cultures might be rooted in. Certainly what the two territories held in common was the power of Catholic conserva- tism. However, she does single out the so-called Hunchbacked Virgin, La Geperudeta, honoured in Va- lencia.

What a beautiful lesson in vanity and extravagance these shrines preach to the women of the Iberian Peninsula! Morning mass is as regular as breakfast; but I doubt if the result be in the least spiritual. Yet, paradoxically, there is a note of resistance to change in the Spanish articles, moreover, with regard to women. Such instances relate to woman as an object of desire.

Furthermore, a traditional representation of Spain is embraced and regret expressed at its passing: Here at least, the guitar twangs and the mantilla is still worn, sometimes even with the traditional rose; and often a dark-eyed nymph passes with her slight Andalucian swagger and its message of charming provocation, flaunting a rose between her lips. But only sometimes, alas! The fashions of Paris have encroached so far, and the ladies of Cadiz are not unac- quainted with a passion for the shoddier articles of England. Her walk was certainly a swagger but it was noble and even picturesque in its way.

She did not wear a dagger in her garter, according to the leg- end, but she looked quite capable of stabbing a rival or a troublesome lover. She was, however, aboundingly good-natured, and not even her swagger and strident voice could destroy her magnetic and penetrative charms. The Rational Dress Society might be guided by her miraculous instinct in choice of raiment. Her dainty, high-topped boots, her white leggings re- vealing without impropriety or abandoned charm a matchless perfection of slim form, and a beautifully fitting yellow and brown satin and plush jacket, as long as a Louis XV coat, with cap to match, made a whole of bewitching effect.

That she, too, was beautiful goes without saying. She remains in memory as the single instance of a delicately refined and feminine creature, flashing a queer inexplicable poetic grace, without any trace of boldness, of vulgarity, through the malodorous atmosphere of circus and music-hall. She was apple- cheeked, with clear grey eyes that danced with the pleasure of blithe blood running through her healthy veins.

It would be calumny to call so cheering a creature merely pretty. She was the embodiment of practical gaiety and full-blooded youth, and was vividly lovely in her quaint Valen- cian head-dress; black hair plaited widely just above the neck, and run through with four pearl and emerald pins, two on either side between ear and temple, parted in the middle and frizzed along either side of the narrow brow.

This divinity presided over bags and sacks of the delicious pistachio nut, from which the chufa is made. Lynch was writing at a time when gender boundaries were breaking down. Wom- en became men. It may be claimed that Lynch was plagued by doubts about her country of origin and the power of patriarchy within it as well as by its deprived status within the Union.

She is bewitched by moonscapes, experienced under skies void of industrial smoke or smog, charmed by simple folk and, particularly, by the beauty of Spanish women. On occasion, the representation of such beauty may veer towards Romantic stereotype, though the specific detail and the surrender on the part of the narrator are far from trite. The narrative is centred on the young female protagonist, Jinny, the volatile daughter of an actor on the London stage, Herbert Blake, and his Irish 64 Gifra-Adroher, Hurtley. Aided by his American wife-to-be, the widowed Lady Jewsbury, Jinny will be taken abroad, where she will initially succumb to the charms of a dashing Span- ish aristocrat before returning home earlier than expected.

It is from here that Jinny and her party travel to Madrid with the aristocratic Spaniards met in the French resort. The wonder and excitement of it held her silent, […] she felt so completely under the spell of enchantment […] Her glance pierced onward through the thickening shadows, and her mind peered backward through the half-forgotten pages of history. This, then, was Spain! The party at least thought so and carried away a picture of opalescent serrated mountain-tops against a glitter- ing azure, Moorish lanes aglow with every precious hue, the mighty Alhambra — magic letters woven out of a dream of romance — upon a consecrated hill, a mass of stone to crowd the thought of every other palace of the world out of memory; fountains and chattering streams shot with coloured flames like the facets of a diamond, and over all cool scented airs blowing from the mountains and laden with the poignant sweetness of every southern shrub.

Her intelligence is also recognised and voiced by a variety of characters, some of whom are far from tolerant of her waywardness. I may go unmated for life. Why not? Lawrence The Rainbow, Her observations with regard to the frivolous behaviour and pursuits of middle-class Spanish women are present in the novel as is the more egalitarian nature of the Spanish aristocracy in contrast to the British. Thus, a further foregrounding of Irish culture is achieved.

Lynch refers to the presence of Irish nannies in Spain in GS, Profusely illustrated by Helen M. James, who also contributed to other titles in the same series, it was reprinted on two more occasions, in and A few years later Francis W. Halsey included several extracts from it in Seeing Europe with Famous Authors.

Volume IX: Spain and Portugal The efforts to preserve the local heritage initially faced a number of difficulties, ranging from the controversial practice of selling paintings to foreign collectors to the putting forward of question- able urban plans envisioning the destruction of historic quarters Storm However, it was finally agreed by a number of intellectuals and politicians that in the face of modern tourism the city could benefit from its architectural and artistic treasures.

Foreign visitors found access to new travel facilities that allowed a day trip from Madrid or a longer stay at one of the local fondas or the more sophisticated Hotel Castilla. Lynch did not stay in Toledo merely to see the sights. She spent time in the city in in local libraries and institutions gathering information.

She observed that the working conditions sometimes proved difficult due to restricted opening hours and the occasional discourtesy of civil serv- ants. Moreover, as an unchaperoned foreign woman, on certain occasions she found it challenging to walk around Toledo given the harassment of beggars and impertinent locals.

Several years later, one A. During her stay she managed to examine a number of relevant sources and held conversations with local guides, officials and clergymen, who occasionally appear in her travel book. Lynch appears to have written the volume quite swiftly, producing a hybrid text drawing on the guidebook as well as the historical and artistic monograph. Toledo: the Story of an Old Spanish Capital is evenly structured, the first five chapters focusing mainly on historical information and the remaining six principally dealing with artistic issues.

Lynch devotes the first four chapters to the history of Toledo, from pre-Roman times to the sixteenth- century Revolt of the Comuneros, paying special attention to the Visigoth and Muslim periods. Her gaze focuses on the cathe- dral Ch. The volume carries an appendix providing useful information for potential tourists. Like many travel narratives, the text begins with an opening section signalling the moment of symbolic entry into a new milieu whilst evoking a threshold experience. She contemplates the magnifi- cent old town and contrasts both its stillness and legendary status to the bustling experience of Madrid.

Moreover, she employs familiar Romantic rhetoric though seasoned with a painter-like conscious- ness. Further reviews revolved around different aspects of Toledo that might easily be recognizable to readers. In spite of all these qualities, not all critics regarded Toledo as well- crafted.

Possibly haste led to more than a handful of glaring mistakes, detected by more than one reviewer. For all its blunders, echoes of the publication also reached Spain and the United States. One Spanish reviewer, albeit briefly, expressed approval: Lynch was widely travelled and, therefore, could claim competence in her assessment.

By that time, her status as a writer had received an increasing degree of recognition, as an anonymous admirer of her work bore witness in It may be said that through her Spanish journalism and other writings related to the country she had earned her right to be assessed as one of its most insightful Irish commentators.

Lynch wrote as if travelling alone and in so doing her writing challenged the norms of travel for women. In a highly charged masculinist society formerly penetrated by Romantic male travellers, she created more than a room of her own. Even though she ap- pears to have frequented the company of the higher echelons of Spanish society, the articles reveal empathy with the population at large and more particularly with the plight of women. In spite of a status quo that recalled her country of origin, for this noteworthy Irish New Woman Spain came to signify not only a means of financial support and, perhaps, the promise of health restored but also, paradoxically, a territory of possibility: a space for independent self-expression and a place for exploring otherness.

Bibliography Primary Sources Lynch, Hannah a. Through Troubled Waters. Lynch, Hannah b. Dublin Evening Tel- egraph, 14 January, n. Lynch, Hannah a. George Meredith: a Study. The Prince of the Glades. Rosni Harvey. Lynch, Hannah c. Daughters of Men. London: William Heinemann. Contemporary Review, 64 Oct. Good Words, 35 Dec. Portsmouth Evening News, Monday, 17 Feb.

The Speaker, 11, The Speaker, 12 Nov. London: J. London: John Macqueen. Good Words, 37, Contemporary Review, 69 Feb. An Odd Experiment. Lynch, Hannah d. Jinny Blake. Toledo: the Story of an Old Spanish Capital. Lon- don: J. Autobiography of a Child. London: John Milne. Good Words, 41 Dec.

French Life in Town in Country. London: George Newnes. Lynch, Hannah The Contemporary Review, 82 July-Dec. John Bull, July 12, Murphy, James H. Oxford: Oxford University Press, Militaria, 13, Atkinson, Damian ed. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Baedeker, Karl Spain and Portugal. Handbook for Travellers. Leip- zig: Karl Baedeker. Balcells, Albert Catalan Nationalism: Past and Present. London: Palgrave. Bew, Paul Ireland: The Politics of Enmity, Oxford: Ox- ford University Press. Binckes, Faith Welch, Robert ed. Oxford: Oxford Univer- sity Press. Binckes, Faith; Laing, Kathryn Binckes, Faith; Laing, Kathryn a.

Bern: Peter Lang, Binckes, Faith; Laing, Kathryn b. English Literature in Transi- tion, , 55 2 , Hansson, Heidi; Murphy, James H. Binckes, Faith; Laing, Kathryn forthcoming. Cork: Cork University Press. Brown, Alfred Samler Madeira and the Canary Islands. Revised ed. London: Sampson Low, Marston and Company.

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Brown, Stephen J. Ireland in Fiction. Dublin; London: Maunsel. The Orlando Project. Butler, Judith Gender Trouble. Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. London; New York: Routledge. Calzadilla, A. El Eco Toledano, 23 febrero, Carr, Raymond [] Modern Spain, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Clarke, Frances McGuire, James; Quinn, James eds. Cambridge: Cam- bridge University Press, Comerford, Richard Vincent Vaughan, W. Oxford: Oxford University Press, xliii-lvii. Revista de Bellas Artes, 1 Dec.

Houndmills, Basingstoke: Macmillan. Counahan, Desmond R. Davison, Jane Delafield, Catherine Serialization and the Novel in Mid-Victorian Magazines. London: Routledge.

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The Great Galeoto. Folly or Saintliness. London: John Lane. Esdaile, Charles J. Spain in the Liberal Age. From Constitution to Civil War, Oxford: Blackwell. Handbook for Travellers in Spain. London: John Murray. Foster, John W. Foster, R. Charles Stewart Parnell. The Man and his Family. Has- socks, Sussex: Harvester Wheatsheaf. Cuadernos de Turismo, 27, Anales de Historia del Arte, 12, Gibbs, John P.

Gaelic American, Feb. Elizabeth Houndmills, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Guerrero, Ana Clara Madrid: Aguilar. Hansson, Heidi ed. Halsey, Francis Volume 9 of Seeing Europe with Famous Authors. Hearne, Dana ed. The Tale of a Great Sham. Dublin: Arlen House. Hurtley, Jacqueline Walter Starkie: An Odyssey. Dublin: Four Courts. Hyde, Douglas Storey, Mark ed.

London: Routledge, Ingman, Heather Dublin: Irish Academic Press. Irish Cultures of Travel: Writing on the Conti- nent, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Innes, Catherine L. Woman and Nation in Irish Literature and Society, Brighton: Harvester Wheatsheaf. London: Hod- der Arnold, Jagoe, Catherine Barcelona: Icaria, Johnson, Roberta Gender and Nation in the Spanish Modernist Novel.

Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press. Kent, Susan K. Gender and Power in Britain, Laing, Kathryn Walsh, Brendan ed. Dublin: The History Press, New Hibernia Review, 20 1 , Irish Migration Studies in Latin America, 9 1 , Larkin, Felix History Ireland, 14 3 , Laverty, Maura [] No More Than Human. London: Virago Press. Jef- ferson NC : McFarland. Barcelona: Labor. Low, Frances H. Speaker, 15 Dec. Lyons, Francis S. Ireland since the Famine. London: Fontana Press. Marlow, Joyce ed. Votes for Women. The Virago Book of Sufra- gettes. London: Virago. McCartney, Donald; Lowe, Fred [] McCormack, W.

Oxford: Blackwell, Mittermaier, Ute Anna Images of Spain in Irish Literature. Oxford: Peter Lang. Moradiellos, Enrique London: Hodder Arnold, Moruzi, Kristine Constructing Girlhood through the Periodical Press, London: Ashgate.

the 20th and 21st centuries

Mulligan, Adrian N. Historical Geography, 37, Irish Novelists and the Victorian Age. O'Brien, Kate [] Mary Lavelle. Catholics of Consequence. Pilz, Standlee , Hansson , The Irish New Woman. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, Schiavo, Leda ed. Madrid: Editora Nacional, Land and Labour. History of Feminism. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge. Pilz, Anna; Standlee, Whitney eds. Manchester: Manchester Uni- versity Press. Robertson, Ian Los curiosos impertinentes.

Barcelona: Ediciones del Serbal. Rodgers, Beth Victorian Periodicals Review, 45, Serrano, Carlos Barcelona: PPU, Showalter, Elaine Sexual Anarchy. Standlee, Whitney Stephenson, P. Dublin Historical Record, 1 2 , Poetry and Ireland since a Source Book. Storm, Eric Hispania, 73, Torres Campos, Rafael Tynan, Katharine Twenty-Five Years: Reminiscences.

Ward, Margaret [] Unmanageable Revolutionaries. Women and Irish Nationalism. London: Pluto Press. Ward, Margaret ed. In Their Own Voice. Cork: Attic Press. Webster, W. Welch, R. The Oxford Companion to Irish Literature. The title page of Jinny Blake , Figure 9. The title page of Toledo , partially set in Spain.

The Montevideo, bound for Mexico from Barcelona, possesses a captain who speaks French and two officers who are kind enough to imag- ine that they speak English. On the other hand, unlimited good nature and good humour supply the deficiency. It would be exaggeration, perhaps, to describe the replacement as adequate. Admitting the insufficiency of service, a palpable deficiency when you wake of a morning and find water for washing lacking, a smile and an incomprehensible phrase may soften the hardship but will scarcely suffice for cleanliness.

MELIS - Definition and synonyms of melis in the Spanish dictionary

True, there is an electric bell in your cabin, but the use of an electric bell is hardly explained if no sound ensues from pressure. These are the minor drawbacks of life aboard a Spanish liner. One wonders how the days pass at home, wherever that may be, for a race so perfectly unserviceable for cabined existence, when cast upon its own resources, as the Spanish.

We are assured that they are gay; that they play the guitar, the mandolin, dance and sing eternally. But let them con- gregate under circumstances when these accomplishments are peculiarly in demand, and such resources as dancing, singing, guitar playing, even sociable converse, become as things that are not. They sit and look at each other in complete silence, or they twirl their thumbs, and scream common- places across deck or saloon with less notion of spontaneous amusement than unexercised marionettes.

They are all limitlessly good-natured, and ask nothing better than an occasion to be kind to somebody, but they lack initiative, still more woefully lack brains. Whenever you catch their eye, they will smile most warmly. Perhaps they will even gesticulate and venture an amiable observation. But of passing the time they have no notion, and are dull beyond words. Our ship fortunately carried troops. This was our sole source of gaiety. Soldiers are not hampered by any conventional notions of respectability, and it would be difficult to match Spanish troops in noise, laughter, and childish roughness.

All the first class passengers crowded over the rail- ings above the stern where the soldiers and emigrants made a variegated medley. It is almost as much fun to watch them as to be of them. The Spanish soldier is more childish, more happy, and infinitely less tidy and clean than Tommy Atkins. In the way of dirt or barbarism nothing comes amiss with him; but how he enjoys a dance! His favourite game is to sit round in a circle of feet to feet, the bodies of twelve men forming a pretty wide outer rim, their joined feet just a hole big enough for one man to stand therein.

Then the onlookers clap hands and sing a melancholy tune, upon which somebody jumps into the small aperture formed by the circle of soles, stiffens his body like a corpse, falls backward, and is flung round the circle like a bag of bones to the cheering sound of laughter, hand-clapping, shouted speech, and rough, sad music. When the body falls all of a heap in the middle of the circle the soldiers become as voluble and excited as if they had just been distributed glasses of brandy.

The first thing we did on coming a-deck of a morning, after mutual greetings, was to go and see what the soldiers were doing. The railings above their quarter was our boulevard, our cafe, our theatre, our club, our amusement, and our work. We watched them play, eat, clean up, sing, dance, and turn in with avidity. Detained in front of the lovely coast of Malaga of a soft October day they so distracted us that we forgot to land. Already employed during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, it became increasingly familiar during World War I and continued to be used over World War II.

The commanding officer who travelled with us was a Biscayan, with a Moorish face, Andalusian liveliness, and the manners of Castille. Never before have I thought it possible for a man to have such tiny feet and hands, and look a man. And despite this peculiarity you had a firm convic- tion that his feet and hands would be extremely serviceable in warfare.

He had a wife with him and two little girls, whom he attended with real but perhaps disconcerting devotion.

National Anthem of Spain ( Marcha Real )

His wife was just as small as himself, but fat and abnormally helpless. He led her about from chair to chair, from cabin to saloon, on deck with grotesque tenderness. It was touching, but you were forced to smile, they looked so old, so absurd, so quaintly unable to stand alone, that the mystery was how the general had ever faced an enemy without his wife on his arm. But it is not to be denied that a voyage of nine days on the Montevideo was an excellent object lesson in the daily habit of a race.

The passengers expectorated freely, and left not a clean spot as large as a penny on the whole vessel. They even expectorated at table, and not always between courses. Our cabins were left to clean themselves, unless the passen- gers preferred to turn stewards and do their own cleaning, and as we were packed like herrings, three or four in the same cabin, each with the necessary complement of cabin luggage and wraps, the discomfort may be imagined without realistic description.

However, I was able to assure myself on landing at Las Palmas that the expectorating Spaniard is not by any means the worst thing in male humanity. At his worst, he is only a dirty gentleman, but the clean, well-washed English cad who swaggers about a foreign hotel, informs the foreign waiter who understands English that there is nothing decent or civilised, no honesty save the mark! This form of manhood is indigenous to the soil, and not to be grown out of England. At sunrise this appalling young man had been holding forth on glorious Britain and Spanish savages.

From Cadiz to Las Palmas the sea was so tempestuous that even the soldiers were prostrated with sickness, and only began to dance and sing again the evening before we reached the beautifully-named Puerto de la Luz. An officer showed me their accommodation downstairs, and awful is an appropriate adjective in commenting upon their miseries. Thirty sleep together in one big iron cage, upon narrow slips of canvas, ten abreast, in three layers. Each cabin holds five hundred, and there are two. When humanity, good fellowship and kindness survive such housing, it may not be doubted that goodness in the rough is indestructible.

As far as Cadiz we were upon sunnier waters, the sea of indigo depth against a pearl-tinted or faintly blue horizon, with nothing to disturb the placidity except the play of the dolphins at intervals. If ever there was reason to accept the childish notion that there is a man within that cold white lamp of heaven, it was the look of grim inspec- tion upon the face of that three-quarter moon, as it stared so unmoved upon the sea miseries of rocked humanity that lay groaning in heaps upon deck, upon saloon couches, and in cabins. Meanwhile the air was soft and warm; the stars shone with an exquisite radiance; rivers of silver light ran from our vessel to the horizon, and the sombre blue in shadow was relieved by shooting phosphorescence above the enormous ridges of foam.

Each wave, as it broke and bounded back- ward, made a slant of shining granite or big slabs of green-streaked mar- ble. Built in the early s, it could accommodate the large ships that plied between Europe, Africa and the Americas. It would have been delightful enough, once you learned to keep your balance and to anticipate the disasters of the dining room, if there was anyone to tell stories or sing songs, or invent any other means of making this time pass. But the liveliest person will soon tire of the monotony of ship bells and the song of the sea.

He had travelled the world over and found no place like Scotland, no race like the Scotch race, and no liquor like Scotch whiskey. But for Scotland, he asserted, England would be no- where, as all her men of genius were Scotch. But if not, the Scotch could afford to yield the Divine William, having in Scott and Burns produced two men infinitely greater than the Swan of Avon.

She is not popular in Scotland, which fact to him seemed the final word upon Queen Bess. This was a sore point to insist upon to an Irishwoman; but tenderness has never been a feature in the Scotch character. As a balm, he was kind enough to say that he preferred the Irish to the English, and that in Scotland our men of genius are more appreciated than those of our mighty enemy. We were still rolling desperately upon the bosom of the deep when, at about two a. Here the Montevideo and I parted.

It is not virgin soil, like the drama of the north which has so lately caught the ear of Europe. True, it is dominated by the modern need and its restless searching note; it must prove its mission as something more than the mere desire to divert. And it may be questioned if Echegaray, a Professor of Mathematics as well as a dramatist and poet, could be induced to accept Mr. Something of a prodigy in the field of science, he soon established himself as a mathematician and engineer of standing. He would abandon politics for a career in the theatre with the restoration of the Bourbon monarchy.

To live by a pleasure is not a high calling; it involves patronage, however veiled; it numbers the artist, however ambitious, along with dancing girls and billiard markers. The French have a romantic evasion for one employment, and calls its practitioners the Daughters of Joy. With Other Memories and Essays. He bears no resemblance to the new geniuses hailed with such delight. He has none of the subtlety of Maeterlinck, and certainly offers entertainment by means of tricks less reminiscent of our start in modern languages.

His literary baggage reveals neither the depth nor the flashes of luminous thought with which Ibsen startles us through an obscurity of atmosphere, a childish baldness, and an unconventional disregard of all the old-fashioned theories upon which the laws of dramatic criticism have been formed. But if Echegaray is less original, he is creditably more sane. The lack of depth carries with it a corresponding absence of crudeness, and an artlessness often so bewildering as to leave us imperfectly capable of distinguishing the extreme fineness of the line between genius and insanity.

The lucid air of the South clarifies thought, and produces nothing less sober than Latin bombast and the high-phrased moods of the Don. An artist in the polished, complete sense he cannot be de- scribed. Poetry is his favourite form of dramatic expression, but it is not the suave measured poetry of M. Richepin,11 and while he often takes his inspiration from the Middle Ages, he offers us nothing like the ethereal and fanciful verse of M. Echegaray is poet enough to delight in these thrilling ages. But his treatment of them leaves us cold. It lacks fancy and buoyancy.

The women are puppets and the men little better than belted ranters. Sombre passion does not adequately fill the place of absent humour. It is thin and false, and glaringly artificial, like the mediaeval romance of an inefficient author. It is a remarkable fact that such a play as Mar sin Orillas Shoreless Sea should have achieved popu- larity in a town so imitatively, not intellectually, modern as Madrid. It has no originality whatever, and offers nothing as compensation for dulness. It is pure Middle Ages, but without the captivating atmosphere of those plumed and belted centuries.

His first volume, La chanson des gueux [Song of the Poor], revealed his interest in and concern with the lot of the underprivileged. His Rimes neuves et vieilles [Rhymes Old and New] was well received. He later turned to fiction. This is familiar ground, and we are ever pleased to welcome a new combatant. That the Spanish dramatist brings a novel note may be accepted after reading the curious prologue to his Gran Galeoto.

In its printed form it is dedicated to Everybody, which is the crowning in- sistence on the motif of the prologue. This is in two scenes, in the form of a dialogue between Ernest, the hero, and his friend and benefactor, Don Julian, a middle-aged and wealthy banker, with a young wife, Teodora. Don Julian interrupts Ernest in a laborious effort of composition, and the irritated author explains his troubles; he thought he had hit on an excel- lent idea, but the attempt to give it form, clothed in appropriate terms and scenery, revealed it strange, impossible, anti-dramatic, and beset with difficulties.

So repugnant or bad? Neither good nor bad, and truly not repugnant. What do you mean? Is it by chance a mythologi- cal drama with Titans in it? It is modern. You are right. There is no room for everybody on the stage. It is an inconvertible truth that has more than once been demonstrated. Everybody may be condensed in a few types and characters.

This is matter beyond my depth, but such, I under- stand, has been the practice of the masters.

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Give me a few. Each individual of this entire mass, each head of this monster of a thousand heads, of this Titan of the century, whom I call Everybody, takes a part in my play. It may be for a flying moment, to utter but one word, fling a single glance. Perhaps his action in the tale consists of a smile, seen but to vanish. If I represent the whole by a few types or symbolical personages, I bestow upon each one that which is really dispensed among many, and such a result distorts my idea. Suppose a few types on the stage, whose guile repels and is the less natural because evil in them has no object; this exposes me to a worse consequence, to the accusation of meaning to paint a cruel, corrupted, and debased society, when my sole pretension is to prove that not even the most insignificant actions are in themselves insignificant or lost for good or evil.

For, added to the mysterious influences of modern life, they may reach to immense effects. All this is metaphysics.

Meaning of "melis" in the Spanish dictionary

A glimmer of light, perhaps, but an infinitude of cloud. However, you understand these things better than I do. There ought to be a way out of the difficulty. Then in my play there can be little or no love. Though I know nothing of your play, I suspect it will interest nobody. It will be all simple, flowing, almost vulgar… so that the drama cannot be shown upon the surface. Drama runs between the lines, advances slowly; to-day takes hold of the mind, tomorrow of a heart-beat, undermines the will by infinitesimal degrees.

How are these interior ravages manifested? Who recounts to the audience? In what way are they evident? Must we spend a whole evening hunting for a glance, a sigh, a gesture, a single word? My dear boy, this is not amusement. To cast us into such depths, is to hurl us upon philosophy. Hardly, and that just upon the fall of the curtain. But I will endeavour to give it a little warmth. For the other, according to your description, is not worth the trouble of writing.

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And what is the name? I can find none. No name either? You have been dreaming nonsense. I talk both dreams and nonsense. But you are sensible and always right. Such, he adds, will prove the modest crystal of his intelligence, the lens which will bring light and shade to a focus, and lead up to dramatic conflagration and the tragic catastro- phe. He enumerates the conclusions of the critics.

That the passions it deals with are more appropriate to Northern climes than to the South. That it treats of the problem of hereditary madness. That it discusses the law of heredity. That it is gloomy and lugubrious, with no other object than that of inspiring horror. That it is a purely pathological drama. That it contains nothing but the process of madness. And so on. Echegaray regards all this as the lamentable exercise of dramatic criticism.

The underlying thought of his work is different, but he declines to enter into further explanation of it, each scene and each phrase sufficiently explaining it already. To touch more closely upon the matter would be perilous. Once written, he casts them to their fate, without material or moral defence, and the critics are free to tear themselves to pieces over them.

He continues, quite in the modern spirit: A generation consumed by vice, which carries in its marrow the veins of impure love, in whose corrupted blood the red globules are mixed with putrid matter, must ever fall by degrees into the abysm of idiotcy. At that very hour Nature awakes, and the sun rises; it is another twilight that will soon be all light. Both twilights meet, cross, salute in recognition of eternal farewell, at the end of the drama. Reason, departing, is held in the grip of corrupt- ing pleasure. The sun, rising, with its immortal call, is pushed forward by the sublime force of Nature.

Down with human Reason, at the point of extinction: hail to the sun that starts another day! Don Juan also begs it through the tresses of the girl of Tarifa. On this subject there is much to be said; it provokes much reflection. Let each one solve the problem as best he can, and ask for the sun, the horns of the moon, or whatever takes his fancy.

Respectful salutations to the children of Don Juan. From all this it will be understood that Echegaray presses into the service of pleasure the desperate problems of our natural history, and instead of laughter confronts us with mournful gravity; asks us to stand aghast at inherited injustice, and to doubt with him the wisdom of Providence at [the] sight of such undiminished and idle wickedness in man, and such an accumulation of unmerited suffering. Nowadays we are inordinately engrossed by such issues, and life weighs more heavily upon our shoulders than it did upon our fathers.

The good old spirit of fun is fast being trod- den out of us by the pervading sense of a mission, and the laborious duty of converting somebody to something. We go to study what we are pleased to call life; to sip at the founts of philosophy, to hear a sermon. It is not exhilarating, but we thankfully take the draught of wisdom offered us, and go our ways without a murmur that we have been depressed rather than entertained.

Cervantes, with old-fashioned sanity of judgment, condemned the practice of preaching sermons through the veil of fiction. What sort of reflection would the pathological novel and drama inspire in so wise and witty an author? He might be led to create a type of character even more mad than the Knight Errant.

The characters themselves are more carefully drawn, and we have a closer actual acquaintance with them. Here there is not one victim only, but two. Upon this Don Juan launches into poetry and describes the single moment in which his soul soared above material enjoyments and sighed for the glorious and impos- sible. Not, as he explains himself when complaining of broken health, that he has been a saint because he has eschewed excesses.

The scene where he first appears ailing and stupid is singularly painful, above all, towards the end, when, after an outburst of lucid eloquence, he falls drowsily upon the sofa, and feeling sleep upon him, begs that Carmen, his betrothed, should not be permitted to see him in a ridiculous attitude. The second act is somewhat livelier, and contains more spirited contrasts.

École Française d'Athènes

That Echegaray could excel in lighter comedy may be seen in an amusing scene between the serious son and the dissipated good-natured father. Don Juan is alone with his son, who is walking restlessly about. The father asks his son what he is thinking of, and then apologises for disturb- ing weighty thought.

Full of salt; hot as red pepper. Gil Blas is the only paper worth reading. What is it about? Let me see. I must only finish it later. Takes up Nana Stupendous!