century, disappears, and the tinkling of their little rhymes is heard no more; but the barren waste is around us still, and at the commencement of the eighteenth century, like the Sphinx half buried in the sand, lies the "Henriqueida" of Ericeyra, in all its epic ponderosity. Francisco Xavier de Menezes, Conde da Ericeyra, was president of the Spanish Academy, and a man of distinction and letters. He was mainly instrumental in introducing into Portuguese literature the French taste, which prevailed extensively, though not universally, during the first part of this period. His principal work is the "Henriqueida," an epic poem, of which Henry of Burgundy, the founder of the Portuguese monarchy, is the hero. "In his theoretical introduction," says Bouterwek, "Ericeyra declares that he has, in a certain measure, endeavoured to imitate all epic poets, and to imbibe a portion of the manner of each; but had he withheld this acknowledgment, no reader acquainted with other epic poems could have failed to recognize in the 'Henriqueida' the styles of Homer, Virgil, Ariosto, Tasso, and, progressively, of Lucan, Silius Italicus, and Statius, but without ever discerning the animating spirit of genuine poetry. The tedious coldness which pervades the whole poem destroys the effect of those incidental beauties of style which it must be allowed to possess."* Five counts of Ericeyra, in succession, were distinguished as men of letters; till at length a degenerate scion of the race scattered the magnificent library that five generations had accumulated, and even bartered a portion of its treasures for "a great Spanish ass." +

This was the iron age of Portuguese song. But in the latter half of the eighteenth century sublime and more harmonious strains were heard, welcome as music at night, in the odes of Pedro Antonio Correa Garçaõ. He was the founder of the Arcadian Society, and the first to renovate the spirit of poetry in his benighted country; and he perished miserably in a dungeon. He was followed by Antonio Diniz da Cruz, also an Arcadian, who wrote a "Century of Sonnets," and a heroi-comic poem, entitled "O Hysope," the Hyssop, or Holy-water Sprinkler. Then came Domingos dos Reis Quita, the barber's apprentice, and author of eclogues, idyls, odes, and a new tragedy of "Ignez de Castro." Then Claudio Manoel da Costa, the earliest of the Brazilian poets, who, first as a student under the cork-trees of Coimbra, and afterwards among the gold and diamond mines of his native country, imitated the songs of Petrarch and Metastasio, and sang so melodiously, that "the reader cannot fail sometimes to fancy he recognizes the simple tone of the old Portuguese lyric poetry, reflected by an Italian echo." Then the reckless and dissolute improvvisatore, Barbosa

History o. Portuguese Literature, p. 342. + Quarterly Review, Vol. I., p. 255.

du Bocage, the gay Lothario of Setubal, who, like Byron, died old at thirty-nine; and finally, Francisco Manoel do Nascimento, who probably did more for Portuguese poetry than any man since Camoens, and who, from the bosom of wealth and literary ease, was driven into exile by the Inquisition, and died in Paris, a poor old man, of more than eighty years. Surely, if ever a country dishonoured itself by stoning its prophets, that country is Portugal.

The state of Portuguese literature since the commencement of the present century is far from brilliant. Among the most distinguished of the living poets are Curvo Semedo, J. A. de Macedo, Evangelista Moraes Sarmento, the Chevalier de Almeida Garrett, Silva Mozinho de Albuquerque, Pina Leitao, a Brazilian, and Medina e Vasconcellos, a native of Madeira. To these may be added the names of four female writers who have distinguished themselves in poetry, Dona Marianna Maldonado, Dona Francisca da Costa, Dona Leonor de Almeida, and the Viscondessa de Balsemaõ, an ancient lady, whom we lose sight of between the ages of seventy and eighty, still warbling songs of love. Many of these writers have a mournful destiny, and are of that class which Dante thought most of all men to be pitied, "who, being in exile and affliction, behold their native land in dreams only."

Speaking of the Portuguese poetry, and that of the other Romance languages, Sismondi gracefully remarks: "Its writers do not attempt to engage our attention with ideas, but with images richly coloured, which incessantly pass before our view. Neither do they ever name any object that they do not paint to the eye. The whole creation seems to grow brighter around us, and the world always appears to us through the medium of this poetry as when we gaze on it near the beautiful waterfalls of Switzerland, while the sun is upon their waves. The landscape suddenly brightens under the bow of heaven, and all the objects of nature are tinged with its colours. It is quite impossible for any translation to convey a feeling of this pleasure. The romantic poet seizes the most bold and lofty image, and is little solicitous to convey its full meaning, provided it glows brightly in his verse. In order to translate it into another language, it would first of all be requisite to soften it down, that it might not stand forward out of all proportion with the other figures; to combine it with what precedes and follows, that it might neither strike the reader unexpectedly nor throw the least obscurity over the style."

Driftwood;

A COLLECTION OF ESSAYS.

So must I likewise take some time to view
What I have done, ere I proceed anew.
Perhaps I may have cause to interline,
To alter, or to add; the work is mine,
And I may manage it as I see best.

QUARLES.

DRIFTWOOD.

RURAL LIFE IN SWEDEN.

THERE is something patriarchal still lingering about rural life in Sweden, which renders it a fit theme for song. Almost primeval simplicity reigns over that Northern_land,almost primeval solitude and stillness. You pass out from the gate of the city, and, as if by magic, the scene changes to a wild woodland landscape. Around you are forests of fir. Over head hang the long, fan-like branches, trailing with moss, and heavy with red and blue cones. Under foot is a carpet of yellow leaves; and the air is warm and balmy. On a wooden bridge you cross a little silver stream; and anon come forth into a pleasant and sunny land of farms. Wooden fences divide the adjoining fields. Across the road are gates, which are opened by troops of children. The peasants take off their hats as you pass; you sneeze, and they cry, "God bless you." The houses in the villages and smaller towns are all built of hewn timber, and for the most part painted red. The floors of the taverns are strewn with the fragrant tips of fir boughs. In many villages there are no taverns, and the peasants take turns in receiving travellers. The thrifty housewife shows you into the best chamber, the walls of which are hung round with rude pictures from the Bible, and brings you her heavy silver spoons,—an heirloom,—to dip the curdled milk from the pan. You have oaten cakes baked some months before; or bread with aniseseed and coriander in it, or perhaps a little pine bark.

Meanwhile the sturdy husband has brought his horses from the plough, and harnessed them to your carriage. Solitary travellers come and go in uncouth one-horse chaises. Most of them have pipes in their mouths, and hanging around their necks in front a leather wallet, in which they carry tobacco and the great bank notes of the country, as large as your two hands. You meet, also, groups of Dalekarlian peasant women, travelling howeward or town-ward in pursuit of work. They walk barefoot, carrying in their hands their shoes, which have high heels under the hollow of the foot, and soles of birch bark. Frequent, too, are the village churches, standing by the roadside, each in its own little garden of Gethsemane. In the parish register great events are doubtless recorded. Some old