solid fare of philosophy, theology, and
mathematics, taking at the same time, by way of a
relish, the Italian, Portuguese and French
languages.  But even all this was insufficient
for his voracious appetite.  So—to carry out
the simile—he flew to the occult sciences, as
to a lump of bread and cheese to finish up
with.  And now he was never happy but
when in the midst of crucibles, furnaces, and
alembics.  If any one could have found out
the grand secret, it would surely have been
Lope de Vega.  He didn't; so we must
needs suppose the alchemists were labouring
under a mistake.

Next, Lope de Vega fell in love.  Some
say with one lady; some say with two.  We
should incline to think the latter—one at a
time could hardly be enough for him.  He
didn't marry them, nor either of them.  Some
time afterwards, thinking it time to settle
down in life, he made his mind up to become
a priest.  He underwent the necessary
preparations, and was on the very eve of being
ordained, when he fell in love again.  The
church and priestly vows were no more to be
thought of.  He married.  This was in fifteen
hundred and eighty-four.

Scarcely was he married, however, than—
just by way of a change—he got into prison,
owing to a duel.  He escaped, of course; it
was not likely he could wait until his time
of imprisonment was over.  He went to
Valencia, remained there some time writing,
until upon the death of his wife he flew once
more to battle, for excitement, and embarked
on board the Invincible Armada, which
Philip the Second was then fitting out to
invade the English coasts.  The Invincible
Armada being thoroughly destroyed, Lope
next visited Italy, spending some years in
Naples, Parma, and Milan.  Returning once
more to Madrid, he married again, and by his
second wife was soon made a happy father.

Now he was writing in earnest for the
stage, poverty and himself, as he tells us,
"having entered into partnership as traders
in verses;" and a very large proportion of
his plays were the production of this trading
firm during the tranquil years of his second
marriage.  He lost his second wife in the year
sixteen hundred and seven, some sixteen years
after he had married her, and then he joined
the Inquisition, and finally became a priest.

His priestly duties were numerous, but
even yet he managed to find time for the
theatre, and the very year that he was made
a priest (sixteen hundred and nine) he wrote
his Arte Nuevo de hacer Comedias, and
we would rather not venture upon saying
how many plays.

But we are not writing the life of Lope de
Vega.  We have already gone at a much greater
length than we intended into the story of his
travels and adventures.  One more short
anecdote in illustration of the wonderful
rapidity of Lope's pen, and we have done.
We find it in Montalvan.

The writer for the theatre at Madrid was
at one time at such a loss for comedies that
the doors of the Theatre de la Cruz were
shut; but as it was in the Carnival, he was
extremely anxious on the subject, so Lope
and his friend Montalvan were applied to,
and they agreed to compose a joint comedy
as fast as possible. It was the Tercera Orden
de San Francisco, and is the very one in
which Arias acted the part of the Saint (we
beg the pardon of leading tragedians now
living—the criticism is Montalvan's, not our
own) more naturally than was ever witnessed
on the stage.  The first act fell to Lope's lot,
the second to Montalvan's.  These were
despatched in two days, and the third act
was to be divided equally between the two
authors, each doing eight leaves. Montalvan
went home at night, and being well aware
that he could not equal Lope in the execution,
he thought (misguided Montalvan!) that
he would try and beat him in the despatch of
the business.  For this purpose he got up at
two o'clock in the morning, and managed to
complete his portion of the act by eleven.
Moutalvan then went out—not a little proud
of what he'd done, no doubt—to look for
Lope.  He found him in his garden, very
deeply occupied with an orange-tree that had
been frost-bitten in the night.  What! not
at work?  Montalvan doubtless thought he'd
got him now!  He asked him how he had
got on with his task, when Lope answered,
"I set about it at five; but I finished the
act an hour ago; took a bit of ham for breakfast,
wrote an epistle of fifty triplets; and
have watered the whole of the garden, which
has not a little fatigued me."

Then taking out the papers, he read to his
collaborateur the eight leaves and the triplets,
"a circumstance," Montalvan adds, "that
would have astonished me, had I not known
the fertility of his genius, and the dominion
he had over the rhymes of our language."

Well might it have astonished him, indeed!
It would have surprised us, if anything could.
But then it can't—at least when it relates to
Lope de Vega.

And now, out of all the astounding
of his works, how many are there that are
ever heard of now?  Lord Holland mentioned
nine that were still played in his time.  More,
many more than these are read.  But yet
how small a portion of the mighty whole!

Poor Johnson!  Your collected works
must form a very much more bulky volume,
before you've any right to grumble.

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