Cly.—­Aegisthus! ...  Stop! ...  Wilt thou
     Murder my son?  Thou first shalt murder me.

     SCENE VII

     ELECTRA

          Elec.—­O night! ...  O father! ...  Ah, it was your deed,
     Ye gods, this thought of mine to place Orestes
     In safety first.—­Thou wilt not find him, traitor.—­
     Ah live, Orestes, live:  and I will keep
     This impious steel for thy adult right hand. 
     The day, I hope, will come, when I in Argos
     Shall see thee the avenger of thy father.

          Translation of Edgar Alfred Bowring, Bohn’s Library.

ALFONSO THE WISE

(1221-1284)

“Alfonso,” records the Jesuit historian, Mariana, “was a man of great sense, but more fit to be a scholar than a king; for whilst he studied the heavens and the stars, he lost the earth and his kingdom.”  Certainly it is for his services to letters, and not for political or military successes, that the meditative son of the valorous Ferdinand the Saint and the beautiful Beatrice of Swabia will be remembered.  The father conquered Seville, and displaced the enterprising and infidel Moors with orthodox and indolent Christians.  The son could not keep what his sire had grasped.  Born in 1226, the fortunate young prince, at the age of twenty-five, was proclaimed king of the newly conquered and united Castile and Leon.  He was very young:  he was everywhere admired and honored for skill in war, for learning, and for piety; he was everywhere loved for his heritage of a great name and his kindly and gracious manners.

In the first year of his reign, however, he began debasing the coinage,—­a favorite device of needy monarchs in his day,—­and his people never forgave the injury.  He coveted, naturally enough, the throne of the Empire, for which he was long a favorite candidate; and for twenty years he wasted time, money, and purpose, heart and hope, in pursuit of the vain bauble.  His kingdom fell into confusion, his eldest son died, his second son Sancho rebelled against him and finally deposed him.  Courageous and determined to the last, defying the league of Church and State against him, he appealed to the king of Morocco for men and money to reinstate his fortunes.

In Ticknor’s ‘History of Spanish Literature’ may be found his touching letter to De Guzman at the Moorish court.  He is, like Lear, poor and discrowned, but not like him, weak.  His prelates have stirred up strife, his nobles have betrayed him.  If Heaven wills, he is ready to pay generously for help.  If not, says the royal philosopher, still, generosity and loyalty exalt the soul that cherishes them.