ART. IX-1. Prospectus and Specimen of an intended National 
  Work, by William and Robert Whistlecraft, of Stowmark, 
   Suffolk, Tsarness and Collar Makers, intended to comprize the 
  most interesting particulars relating to King Arthur and his 
  Round Table.—London, 1818. 

2. The Court of Beasts, freely translated from the Animali Pas- 
  'lanti of Giambattista Casti, a Poem, in seven Cantos. By 
  William Stewart Rose. London. 1819. 

+ GIAM BAITISTA Casti published his Animali Parlani. 1802: Mr. Rose has therefore taken the most recent narrative poem of the Italians as his text-book. On the other hand, the unknown poet who comes forward disguised in the working jacket of the Whistlecrafts, has imitated the earliest of the Italian romantic poems, the Morgante Maggiore, which was written by Pulci about the year 1470. If these two writers wished to emi


ploy their talents in copying from Italian models, models, too, very susceptible of improvement, the choice could not have been made with greater judgment. Casti, like most modern Italian writers, is often meagre and diffuse; and the energetic lay of Pulci is stamped with the rudeness and severity of antiquity. Mr. Rose has condensed his original. The pseudo-Whistlecraft has refined on what he has imitated. But in order to appreciate the ‘Court of Beasts,’ and the ‘Tale of King Arthur, it is absolutely necessary that our readers should be enabled to form a just idea of their Italian prototypes. The narrative poems of the Italians, which in other countries would be all grouped together as epics, have been classed with great nicety by their litterati. The Orlando Furioso, according to their poetical momenclature, is their chief romantic, and the Gerusalemme Liberata their first heroic poem. The Secchia Rapita of Tassoni is accounted a chef-d'oeuvre in the heroic-comic style. Burlesque poetry is exemplified in the Ricciardetto, and the Animali Parlanti is considered wholly as a satire. The Ultramontani cry out against these subtle classifications, as not existing in nature. We content ourselves with stating the Italian theory as a matter of fact: and perhaps some other facts which we intend to bring forward may tend to elucidate the question, “whether it be right or wrong to arrange the different species of poems under distinct names, and according to laws supposed to be essential to each class?’ It is possible that the Italians may have been compelled to sort their epics into families, in order to assist themselves in making way through the multitude: for during the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries, the narrative poems published in Italy nearly equal in bulk and number the volumes of voyages, and travels and history which have appeared in England during the present reign. Every line of the Animali Parlanti discloses the object of the author. Satire was his only aim. He does not ridicule the religion, or the politics, or the ethics of any peculiar sect, or nation; he laughs at all faith, and all patriotism, and all morality; yet his satire has not been always understood: and politicians and party-men have been so simple as to quote the verses of Casti, imagining that the laughers would be on their side. Casti was born in the Papal dominions, about the year 1720. He was a priest and a professor of rhetoric; but he soon quitted his college, and turned his back upon the altar. He rambled through most of the continental courts as a professional bel-esprit. Poor, yet independent, he was the guest of the great; and he died in 1803, full of years, as he was leaving an entertainment. Castinever - w praised praised any one of the kings and princes who protected him in their turns; but he successively ministered a more poignant treatto their vanity by ridiculing their royal neighbours. As soon as he was out of the reach of the claws of one sovereign, he immediately satirized his discarded patron at the court of another. When his royal protectors read his verses, and enjoyed the satirical portraits of their compeers, they laughed at each other, and the world at large laughed more heartily at them all. The Casti breed is no rarity in common life; but the individuals who compose it excite little attention, because they do not write, and because they carry on their operations in private sets and circles. They existed in ages less civilized than our own: such was the Thersites of Homer.

Awed by no shame, by no respect control’d, In scandal busy, in reproaches bold: With witty malice studious to defame, Scorn all his joy, and laughter all his aim. But chief he gloried, with licentious style, To lash the great, and monarchs to revile. His figure such as might his soul proclaim.—Il. b. ii. Casti was even uglier than the Grecian: Partly through disease, and partly through the doctor, he had lost a piece of his nose, and his palate. He snuffled out his licentious verses: and the unblushing cynical impudence with which he recited his metrical bawdr), formed a whimsical contrast to his name, and a hideous one to his sacerdotal character, for he never ceased to reckon himself an Abbé, the petit collet being always accepted in continental sociel, as an apology for plebeian extraction. Casti acquired great celebrity by his ‘Novelle Galanti.” Therease few men so graceless as to confess that they have read the book; yet the French and Italian booksellers continue to male money by reprinting it in secret. Since the days of Boccaccio, Italy has been infested by works of this description. Yet with the exception of Casti, and the infamous Aretine,” these authors do not appear to have written with the deliberate intent of corrupting the morals of their readers; and greatly as they have degraded themselves, they only participated in the common pollution of the

*The real name of Aretino, who acquired the epithet of the Infamous, was Pietro Bucci. Another Aretino, Leonardo Bruni, was called “the Historian.” Both were born at Areno the historian in 1369, and Peter the Infamous in 1492. The bones of the historian to at Florence, near the remains of Galileo and Michael Angelo. Peter died at Venice; but where he is buried no one knows, or wishes to know. Madame de Staël and the Re", Mr. Eustace were ignorant of the existence of the historian, and therefore they imagined they saw the tomb of the infamous Aretine by the side of the tombs of Galileo an Michael Angelo, and they have moralized thereon. The learned lady and the revered gentleman also saw the tomb of Boccaccio in the same church. It happens, howevo, that the tomb is twelve miles off.

:

times. Ariosto only versified the table-talk of the Italian nobles, 
may of the Italian pontiffs. In the 16th century the spirit of 
chivalry was blended with the spirit of licentiousness. A thousand 
such contradictions may be found in the history of civilized society, 
and they must be carefully observed by him who wishes to study 
human nature. The nobles of the court of Elizabeth broke their 
spears in honour of their royal mistress, or they fought around 
the fortress of Beauty, besieged, and besieged in vain, by Love, and 
Wantonness, and Desire. At the same time, Sir John Harring- 
ton dedicated his version of Ariosto to the Virgin Queen. The 
loose yet romantic poetry of Ariosto agreed with the manners 
of the age. The good knight therefore did not scruple to trans- 
late the licentious passages of his original word for word. He 
professes indeed to apologize for the indelicacy of Ariosto, but the 
apology is a curious specimen of the mock-modesty which it was 
then usual for authors to affect. 
   “It may be, and is by some objected, that although Ariosto wrote 
 Christianly in some places, yet in others he is too lascivious, as in that 
 of ........ Alas! if this be a fault, pardon him this one fault, though 
 I do not doubt but that too many of you, gentle readers, will be too 
 exorable on this point; yea, methinks I see some of you searching al- 
 ready for those places of the book, and you are half offended that I 
 have not made some directions, that you might find out and read them 
 immediately; but I beseech you stay awhile, and as the Italian saith, 
pian piano, fair and softly, and take this caveat with you, to read them as 
my author meant them, to breed detestation and not delectation.’ 
  We are far from suspecting the ‘gentle readers' of our days, like 
 Sir John Harrington: but his apology, as well as his good advice 
 at the end, is fallacious. The tone taken by Ariosto at the open- 
 ing of the adventure plainly proves that he felt he was somewhat 
 guilty, 
          ‘You ladies, ye that ladies hold in prize, 
         Give not (perdie) your eare to this same tale, 
        The which to tell mine host doth here devise 
        To make men thinke your vertues are but small: 
         Though from so base a tongue there can arise 
        To your swet sexe no just disgrace at all; 
          Fooles will find fault without the cause discerning, 
        And argue most of that they have no learning. 
           Turn o'er the leaf, and let this tale alone, 
           If anythink the sex by this disgraced, 
              I write it for no spite, normalice none; 
         But in my author's book I find it placed. 
      My loyal love to ladies all is known, 
           In whom I see such worth to be imbraced, 
         That theirs I am, and glad would be therefore 
        To shew thereof a thousand proofes and more. 
                                                          Peruse 
- Peruse it not; or if you do it read, 
        Esteme it not, but as an idle bable; 
        Regard it not, or if you take some heed, 
         Believe it not, but as a foolish fable.’ 

This is a very pleasing specimen of the happiness of the old translator. The original is equally characteristic of the jocundity of Ariosto.” It must be recollected that his errors are somewhat more venial than they would have been, had he lived in the present age. We cannot judge of ancient decency by a modern standard. The Queen of Navarre imitated the Decameron; and Boileau, the stern guardian of public morals, drew a parallel between La Fon. taine and Ariosto, and invited the French public to the perusal of an indecent novel. Such levity, to give it no harsher name, could not now be tolerated. We may or may not be purer in our morals than our ancestors were; but it is quite evident that our taste is most chaste. It therefore becomes the duty of every writer to avoid offending delicacy; and if he sins against the feeling of the age, the genius which he prostitutes will not redeem him from contempt. The turpitude of Casti is rendered still more conspicuous by another circumstance. He wrote at a period when moral feeling was just dawning in Italy; and this feeling he laboured to extinguish. He does not wanton like Boccaccio or Ariosto; he spits his venom at virtue and religion, seeking to degrade them, as the sole expediel by which he can palliate his own immorality. Had Casti's mosals been correct, he night have been denominated a wit, according to the true import of the term. His common conversation it. sembled the dialogues of his comic operas. Of these he composed but few; and they are the only ones of which the text pleases without the fiddle. ‘King Theodore' is a master-piece. The subject is taken from Candide; but Casti enhanced the humour of Voltaire's outline, by introducing certain traits which he had copied from nature, from a contemporary monarch, more remarkable for his quixotism than his power; and whose character, according to his usual practice, he had studied with the intention of turning him into ridicule when the good time should arrive. He made just 4. free with the great names of antiquity. In an opera buffa, entitled

* “Donne, e voiche le donne avete in Mettendolo Turpino, anch'io lo messo,

pregio, Non per malivolenzia né per gara; , , Per Dio non date a questa istoria orecchia, Ch'io v ami, oltre mia lingua cle "" A questa che l’ostier dire in dispregio espresso,

E invostrainfamiae biasmos’ apparecchia: Che mai non fu di celebrarvi avara, 
Ben che ne macchiavi pud dar me fregio N’ ho fatto mille prove; e v'ho dimo" 

Lingua si vile, e sia l'usanza vecchia, Ch'io son, né potreiesser se non vosts". 
Ch’’l volgare ignorante ognun riprenda Passi chivuol tre carte, o quattro, seu” 
E parli più di quel che meno intenda. Leggerne verso, e chipur legger vuole 
   Lasciate questo canto, chè senz’esso Glidia quella medesima credenza 
Puð star l’istoria, e non sarà men chiara. Che si suol dare a finzionie *: ill 
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Catilina, he plays the fool with Cicero and Cato. This opera has never been published; but we venture to prophesy that it will soon be given to the world. There are a great many pretended apostles

of truth, who maintain that our happiness is promoted by dispelling

all illusions, even those which incline us to believe that human na- 
ture has been ennobled by its virtues: some of these will print 
the Catilina of Casti. 
   After amusing himself with kings in comedy and heroes in tra- 
gedy, he renewed his satires upon royalty in the person of Cathe- 
rine the Second; with whom he made free in a very long poem 
entitled Tartaro. Casti succeeded the Abbate Metastasio as 
Poeta Cesareo, and lived at Vienna in high favour with Joseph the 
Second, who used to set him on against the monks and friars. When 
the “Poema Tartaro' appeared the Emperor Joseph was on very 
ill terms with the Empress Catherine; but when each had got a 
slice of the kingdom of Poland, they made up their differences. 
The Czarina insisted that the Poeta Cesareo should be turned away; 
and Casti was banished from Vienna: but the emperor directed 
that the poet's pension should continue payable during the remain- 
der of his life. Casti, with a spirit which would have honoured a 
better man, refused the gift, and when Joseph remitted the money 
to him, he would not touch it. The pecuniary losses consequent 
upon the publication of the Tartaro were not made up in fame. 
Foreigners did not relish it, and the Italians did not understand it; 
for they knew nothing of the court of St. Petersburgh beyond what 
they read in the newspapers. Neither did it add much to Italian 
literature. The style is unimpassioned, and the diction without grace 
or purity. But the poem abounds with point, and it succeeded 
amongst certain readers, in the same way that small wits take in 
society. They amuse for a moment because they flatter the bad 
passions of the human heart, and they end by becoming tedious. 
   Casti employed the last years of his life in the composition of 
the Animali Parlanti. He had been an acute observer both of 
the follies of the multitude and of the absurdities of their rulers; 
and he brings his knowledge in full play against mobs and cour- 
tiers, against the sottishness of the demagogue and the ravings 
of the tyrant. Professing to be a lover of liberty, he mocks at 
popular freedom as a thing which cannot exist in reality: he at- 
tacks monarchy and religion with less ambiguous irony, but always 
by insinuating that it is impossible to change the nature of the 
human species; and that man is created to be ever bullied by the 
strong, and cheated by the crafty. Yet what is the result of such 
principles: They cause the multitude to lose themselves in Pyr- 
rhonism, or to sink in the “slough of despair’; and no situation 
can be more productive of wretchedness to the individual, and of 
                                                                                                 - mischief 


mischief to society at large. ... Ridicule is not so powerful a weapon against tyranny as it is usually supposed to be. A nation accustomed to laugh at every thing is exactly that which a government may insult with the greatest impunity. At the time when Didot printed the Animali Parlanti, and when the military court of King Lion amused the Parisians, Buonaparte proclaimed himself consul for life. In the name of Liberty and Equality he surrounded himself with all the glare of monarchy, and he summoned round him those praetorian bands which were soon to be transformed into the imperial guard.

Casti's poem is an AEsopian fable spun out into three volumes. In a short apologue, the fiction which gives speech and reason to animals is accompanied by a sort of propriety and probability; they are made to express themselves conformably to their nature and their habits. The contrast between the practical wisdom of animals and human folly is impressive; we feel that the example may be applied to us: our curiosity is roused by the allegory, and our reason is satisfied when we discover the truth which it wells, The charms of the apologue appear to arise from these causes, but if they do not act simultaneously, rapidly and gracefully, the pleasure is lost.

Friend Bee, exclaimed a Fly, pray tell 
The means you use to look so well? 
With a mere scanty summer fare 
You're fat and sleek throughout the year, 
Whilst we, who eat much more than you, 
Can never live the winter through. 
We Bees, replied the other, eat 
The sweetest, most delicious meat, 
Whilst you, and all the race of Flies, 
Will feast on every dog that dies. 

Whatever moral may be appended to our little fable, it has the characteristics which are indispensable in this species of composition. In the poem of Casti the character of the fable is exactly the contrary. The animals do not occupy themselves according to their real habits; they are introduced as actors in political scenes, and placed in situations for which nature never intended them. They debate about laws with which they have nothing to do, and they prate about the pope and the mufti, although they do not want any one to take care of their souls. The fiction is destitute of probability. King Lion is a despot; Queen Lioness is no better than she should be, and betrays her husband into the bargain. Cub-Lion is a stupid ‘crown prince; the Dog preaches democracy, and sells himself to the ministry; Jack As becomes prime minister, and so on. After we have made i.

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this fine-drawn allegory the spirit of the poem flags. It could 
only have been sustained by inducing us to take an interest in the 
actions of the personages; but their actions can excite none: 
they are mere abstract ideas, merely the generalizations of the cha- 
racters of despots, and ministers, and courtiers. The events of the 
time gave a literary importance to the poem, which it lost when 
those events lost their novelty. Every body endeavoured to recog- 
nize a leading personage of the day in the disguise of some one 
brute or another. Occasionally right guesses were made. But 
the allusions of Casti begin even now to become enigmatical. In 
the course of half a century no creature will be able to expound 
them without the help of a commentary; and the commentators, as 
usual, will work to no purpose, because many of the characters are 
persons whom history will forget; and those whose actions deserve 
the notice of posterity will certainly not be judged according to the 
malignant caricatures of the satirist. 
  At the time of the publication of the Animali Parlanti, Buo- 
naparte had put an end to the revolutionary struggles between par- 
ties and factions, but he had not silenced them. They busied them- 
selves in disputing whether Buonaparte was bound to maintain the 
republic, or whether he had the right of re-establishing the monar- 
chy. Casti kept clear of all subtle reasoning. In politics the war 
of words has three stages which succeed each other at short in- 
tervals. At the outset of a revolution, disputes increase its fury, 
and they are too serious to admit of pleasantry: but when one 
faction has gained the victory, the conquered continue skirmish- 
ing in print, and the conquerors laugh at their arguments and 
lamentations. Thus Butler ridiculed the presbyterians and the 
independents when the civil wars had ceased; and Casti, whether 
by chance or by design, profited, in like manner, by the interval of 
peace. Lastly, the generation which has beheld a revolution, drops 
off; the political disputes and arguments which agitated the com- 
batants are buried in their graves; and the fame of political or 
party poetry will then depend upon its intrinsic worth. 
   Casti bantered all parties alike; and this boldness contributed 
greatly to the success of the poem. When Buonaparte became an 
emperor he suppressed the French translation, and prohibited the 
reprinting of the original in Italy; this ‘coup de police' reminded 
the people of the existence of a satire which they had almost 
forgotten. 
  The poetry of Casti is poor and spiritless; he never paints, 
he describes. We shall hereafter explain the meaning which we 
affix to these words. He treats upon his subject, and it seldom 
happens that a sentence of his rhymed dissertations remains fixed 
in the memory of the reader. His jokes are destitute of *: 
                                                                                 1S 

his expressions of propriety, and there is no variety of harmony in his verse. He employed the sesta rima, a system of versification which, not being as short, or linked as closely as the terra rima of Dante, conveys the ideas of the poet with less energy. The ottava rima, the stanza of Ariosto, seems less monotonous bo. cause its cadences recur at longer intervals; and its length assists the development of poetical imagery. No one but Casti ever adopted the sesta rima in a long poem. It is an easy measure, agreeing with the garrulity of old age, and well adapted to one who wishes to gossip in verse, and whose enfeebled faculties cannot sustain much mental labour. Casti drawls, and he attempts to gain the semblance of vigour by the help of points and epigrams; but he resembles a withered beauty who flirts in the dance, exciting selsations which are at once ludicrous and mournful. Mr. Rose speaks too modestly, we might almost say that he misleads his readers, in producing his ‘Court of Beasts' as a transl. tion from the Animali Parlanti. In his introduction he apologists for the liberties which he has taken.—‘I have let go, he says,

—“my author's skirt 
Whenever he has plunged through filth and dirt.’ 

And he has condensed the twenty thousand lines of his originali seven hundred English verses. Mr. Rose is too well acquailled with the classical authors of Italy not to despise the coarsenes with which Casti burlesqued AEsop; but we regret that Mr. Rose has followed the measure of Casti instead of employing the stanza of the older poets. However, he has purified his sault. He has omitted whatever might offend delicacy, “in rejectingll. gallantries of the Lion court, and whatever is or might be consided as a satire on a subject on which the public has a right to be jo lous.' We do not know whether he has introduced any politial anecdotes; but he never adopts the principles of any party in Po litics, though he often amuses himself at the expense of party-mill The eloquence of the Mob of Beasts is copied from real life.

“The Tyger first was put in nomination: 
 His tail, pied coat, the lightning of his pat, 
 But for the Dog's insidious intimation, 
 Had told. “But he—he's after all a cat, 
 A better.breed of cat.” Here lay the sting, 
 For who is there would choose a cat for king 

A mountain democrat propos'd the Bear:

On this the Dog: “I honour his long pole; 
I own him first jack-pudding of the fair; 
A rogue in spirit, while he plays the droll. 
But shall we choose a king, to make us laugh, 

And change the sceptre for the ragged staff?” T 0
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  To him the Bear: “Who better plays his part 
On this wide stage, it matters not two grains, 
I a buffoon by nature, you by art, " - 
At least you will not fail for want of pains.” 
Although the assembly laugh at Bruin's sally, 
The barren jest procured him not a tally. 
  The previous sarcasm on the Bear's unfitness 
Laid the foundation of eternal hate. 
Though Hockley is no more, you still may witness 
Th’ effect in sore and sanguinary bait.— 
  The Bull was next expos'd to nomination, 
With many more brute beasts of straw and lath, 
Successively rejected in rotation; 
And last the Mule, oh tell it not in Gath ! 
Put up the Ass 'mid laughing, scraping, fleering, 
But he was hooted off on half a hearing. 
  My Ass, console thyself; the time is coming, 
When thou, blest beast, like Dog shalt have thy day; 
When kings, thy grave and modest merits summing, 
Council and court shall echo to thy bray, 
And puissant peers thy proud pretensions own, 
And thou be held best bulwark of the throne.’ 

His allusions to the foibles of individuals are poignant without

o, being ill-tempered. In complaining of the frivolousness of society, , and the ennui of a town life, he makes us smile at the vacant indolence of a lounging man of letters. If the cap fits any one of is our friends in particular, they must take their share of the verse without being angry at the Poet, for we may be quite sure that he has not spared himself.

“Or if foul fiends and phantoms will intrude 
 With reason, or upon perverse pretences, 
 And I must pass a melancholy mood, 
 Through all its vast varieties of tenses, 
  It is some consolation, when they work ill, 
 To pin my devils in their own small circle. 
   But this I see is clear, and glad return 
 To thee, gay Gundimore, thy flowers and fountain, 
 Statue, relief, or cinerary urn. 
  It seems as if thy genius took a mountain 
 From off my breast, I feel repriev'd from death, 
  I move more lightly, breathe with other breath. 
    Blest spot! within thy walls I never hear 
 That Mr.--—'s, with lady — a sinner: 
 Nor what Sir What d'ye call him has a year. 
  I never sit ten minutes after dinner. 
 Nor when digestion has her hands full, piece 
 A half concocted meal with tea and grease. 

vo L. XXI. No. LXII. I I No

  No common jokes I heed, or friends who bring'em, 
Such as, I have not room to swing a cat; 
I recollect I never want to swing 'em, 
And then the poison'd dart falls blunt and flat. 
The worst I do by them, as stories say, 
 ls give them pepper on a rainy day." 
   I shun whatever causes bile or vapours, 
 Upon one level runs my lazy life; 
 I hear not of the stocks, nor read the papers, 
And vote ambition but a name for strife. 
 Yet rise one point above mere passive pleasure; 
 For there I mooncalf, mooncalf without measure. 
  “But what is mooncalf" a strange voice may cry. 
 I answer, mooncalf's easy contemplation, 
 Or vacant action: lose no time, but try; 
 You'll find it a delightful recreation. 
 But definition, though precise and ample, 
 Is dark without the daylight of example. 
   Berni illustrates it in choicest measure; 
 He tells you he was box’d up with a parcel 
 Of lords and ladies, and some fays of pleasure, 
 In what may be entitled Lazy Castle. 
 All guests an amorous fairy ran to earth, 
 And bagg'd, to make her prison'd gallant mirth. 
   While these their time in feasts and fooling fleeted, 
 He (for all had their will) bade make a bed, 
 Spacious and comfortable, and well sheeted, 
 A table by its side; and thus he fed, 
 And slept, by turns. Another was possess'd 
 By a congenial and well-natured guest. 
   Nor lack'd they matter for their waking dreams: 
 One pleasure was to lie upon their back, 
 To lie at gaze, and count the ceiling beams, 
 And mark in which was nail-hole, flaw, or crack; 
 And which worm-eaten were, and which were sound, 
 And if the total sum was odd or round. 
   Then, when they had for somewhile slept and eat, 
 The one perhaps would stretch himself, and say, 
 “D'ye hear those fools above? they're needs well met; 
  I mean those rogues and trulls who dance the hay." 
 The other then would cease awhile to chew, 
 Yawn down his soup, and say “I—th... ink—so too." 

* Administered in 'sandwiches with a small bonus of beef, it produces of

vanic effect.

t. Those who desire to see what use Mr. Rose has made of the autographi; "

of Berni may consult the Orlando Innamorato (lib. 3. cant. 7. st. 35, &c.) and to of Leo X. (vol. iii.) where it has been quoted by Mr. Roscoe, whose observation* tremely judicious. f


But other mooncalf's mine. By Chewton's dingle,

Or Hordle's cliff, where peevish sea-fowl screech,

I love to pace the solitary shingle,

so What time tall breakers tumble on the beach, Without a book or thought; such rolling base, o Fills all my mind, and serves me in their place. *

. More picturesquely rapt, I sometimes range And see the mighty stage of ocean clear'd,

* As nature were preparing for a change; Mark the beach'd buss and fish-boat homeward steer'd, o

And listen in the distant din and bluster

o 
-: To th’ elements in arms, their march and muster; 
 3 See Solent” tossing in distemper'd sleep, 

o Breathe hard and long, his bosom heaving slow,

Save where to shore the curling waters creep, There work and whiten, though no tempest blow, While hatching secret mischief, like a spy, Th’ unsettl'd wind veers restless round the sky. Last, from the south forth sallying, sweeps along o The billows, mixing seas and skies together. i * I muse meantime, and mutter from old song - Such snatches, as best sort with the wild weather: Until, self-fool'd, I almost think my lore “Hath set the troubled waters in a roar.” -o Then seek my cell and books, and trim my hearth, And call to Caliban, to fetch in firing, A crack-brain'd knave, that often makes me mirth : But when stern Winter, from our seas retiring, - “Hath broke his leading staff,” I play no more -- At Prospero, upon the sea-beat shore: But give my fountain vent, and set it spouting,

o Or scheme a freeze for some exotic's tub;

- "Or measure myrtles, which persist in sprouting o Without a sun; or murder obvious grub;

, ot

Or heat and hammer some reluctant rhyme; 
And so 'mid nothings fleet away my time.” 
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... Mr. Rose has infused a new life into his model, but he is enslowed with such a happy vein of originality, that we sincerely regret that he has chosen rather to be an imitator than an inventor, t oarticularly as the species of composition which he has copied, | a lowever ably executed, can only be considered as marring *he beauty, and destroying the utility, of the fictions of Æsop. _Somewhat similar is the Hind and the Panther. Nothing can *urpass the admirable versification of that poem, yet Dryden has Jenaturalized the character of the apologue and of the anionals which appear in it; and his talents have not protected him

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* The Solent, or Solent-sea, is the channel between the Isle of Wight and mainland. I I 2 against
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against the criticisms which he deserves. Voltaire has justly cen: sured La Fontaine himself, whose later fables are expanded to a greater length than his earlier ones. Besides, the poet must write without shewing himself on the stage, and without any tincture of ridicule or sarcasm. Æsop is neither laborious, nor witty, MOI impassioned: he observes the scenes which nature has presented to him, and he reports them with the impartiality of nature. It will appear from our observations on the Animali Parlani that, according to the Italian classification, the satirical poem neither seeks to surprize us by varied incident, nor to move us by exalt sentiments. It is a poem in which the action and the personage are only subservient instruments employed to lead us to despise the opinions which we venerate, and to laugh at events in which we sympathise. Therefore the persons speak more than they at On the contrary, it is the end and object of romantic poetry, to through its medium, this rude world may appear more interests; than it actually is. The romantic poet seeks to astonish his readio by marvellous adventures, by human characters which range also mortality, by chivalrous exploits, by excessive tenderness and he roism, sometimes exaggerated even into absurdity. Poets oftlists profit by any theme which presents itself: they are capable ofte stowing animation upon any object, therefore they do not rol the ludicrous scenes which happen to fall in their way; but do never go a step out of it to search for them. Such are the poet on Charlemaine and his Peers by Pulci, Boiardo, Beni o Ariosto. The ‘Prospectus and Specimen of the National Woło, William and Robert Whistlecraft' has undoubtedly been so gested by these poems, and most particularly by the Morgan" Maggiore, of which we shall speak anon; but there is one impo tant difference between them. The English author has filled his poem with sprightly humour, whilst the Italian romantic poets oil laugh now and then. In examining the four cantos which ho been published of the ‘Specimen, we shall discover whetherto alteration has succeeded. The poem opens, like the Morgante Maggiore, and the Otho Innamorato, with a scene of holy-tide festivity at the court oft king of chivalry. “The great King Arthur made a sumptuous feast, And held his royal Christmas at Carlisle.’ To those who do not understand Italian, the following slato will afford an accurate idea of the interest which Pulci's vio gives to the most trivial scenes, and of the easy grace which Bo contrives to bestow upon them. : The noise and uproar of the scullery tribe, All pillering and scrambling in their calling,
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Was past all powers of language to describe— 
The din of manful oaths and female squalling; 
The sturdy porter, huddling up his bribe, 
And then at random breaking heads and bawling, 
Outcries, and cries of order, and contusions, 
Made a confusion beyond all confusions. 
  Beggars and vagabonds, blind, lame, and sturdy, 
Minstrels and singers with their various airs, 
The pipe, the tabor, and the hurdy-gurdy, 
Jugglers, and mountebanks with apes and bears, 
Continued from the first day to the third day 
An uproar like ten thousand Smithfield fairs; 
There were wild beasts and foreign birds and creatures, 
And Jews and foreigners with foreign features.’ 

The portraits of the British knights and British beauties of the court of King Arthur are painted with the bold decided pencil of

  “They look'd a manly, generous generation; 
Beards, shoulders, eye-brows, broad and square, and thick, 
Their accents firm and loud in conversation, 
Their eyes and gestures eager, sharp, and quick, 
Shew'd them prepard, on proper provocation, 
To give the lie, pull noses, stab and kick ; 
And for that very reason it is said 
They were so very courteous and well-bred. 
. The ladies look'd of an heroic race,— 
At first a general likeness struck your eye, 
Tall figures, open features, oval face, 
Large eyes, with ample eyebrows arch'd and high ; 
Their manners had an odd peculiar grace, 
Neither repulsive, affable, nor shy; 
Majestical, reserv'd, and somewhat sullen, 
Their dresses partly silk, and partly woollen.’ 

Near Carlisle was a valley inhabited by a race of giants, from which they sallied forth for the purpose of carrying off the ladies. This adventure was the beginning of a furious war. The author traces the characters of his personages with consummate art.

  ‘Sir Tristram was prepared to sing and play, 
Not like a minstrel earnest at his task, 
But with a sportive, careless, easy style, 
As if he seemed to mock himself the while. 

  From realm to realm he ran—and never staid; 
Kingdoms and crowns he won—and gave away; 
It seem'd as if his labours were repaid 
By the mere noise and movement of the fray; 
No conquests nor acquirements had he made ; 
His chief delight was on some festive day 

I 1 3 "To

To ride triumphant, prodigal and proud, 
And shower his wealth amidst the shouting crowd. 
   His schemes of war were sudden, unforeseen, 
Inexplicable both to friend and foe, 
 It seem'd as if some momentary spleen 
 Inspir'd the project and impell'd the blow; 
And most his fortune and success were seen 
With means the most inadequate and low ; 
Most master of himself, and least encumber'd, 
When overmatch'd, entangled, and out-number'd. 
   Sir Gawain may be painted in a word, 
He was a perfect loyal cavalier; 
His courteous manners stand upon record 
A stranger to the very thought of fear, 
The proverb says, As brace as his own sword; 
And like his weapon was that worthy peer; 
Of admirable temper, clear and bright, 
Polish'd yet keen, though pliant, yet upright. 
  A word from him set every thing at rest, 
His short decisions never fail'd to hit; 
His silence, his reserve, his inattention, 
Were felt as the severest reprehension. 
   In executing schemes that others plann'd, 
He seem'd a very Caesar or a Márius; 
Take his own plans, and place him in command, 
Your prospect of success became precarious. 
   Adviser general to the whole community, 
He serv'd his friend, but watch'd his opportunity.’ 

Whenever the author composes in a serious strain, he becomes poetical in no ordinary degree. As a specimen of his success when he is in this mood, we shall quote his description of the valley of the giants.

    * Huge mountains of immeasurable height 
Encompass'd all the level valley round 
With mighty slabs of rock, that slop'd upright, 
An insurmountable and enormous mound. 
The very river vanish'd out of sight, 
Absorb’d in secret channels under ground; 
That vale was so sequester'd and secluded 
All search for ages past it had eluded. 

  A rock was in the centre, like a cone, 
Abruptly rising from a miry pool, 
Where they beheld a pile of massy stone, 
Which masons of the rude primaeval school 
Had rear'd by help of giant hands alone, 
With rocky fragments unreduc’d by rule. 
Irregular, like nature more than art, 
Huge, rugged, and compact in every part. 
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  A wild tumultuous torrent rag'd around, 
Offragments tumbling from the mountain's height; 
The whistling clouds of dust, the deafning sound, 
The hurried motion that amazed the sight, 
The constant quaking of the solid ground, 
Environ'd them with phantoms of affright; 
Yet with heroic hearts they held right on, 
Till the last point of their ascent was won.” 

Whoever compares this passage with any long prosaic description of mountain-scenery will be convinced that poetry is best calculated to represent the works of nature with effect, as well as with precision. The simplicity of style of some descriptive travellers passes almost into silliness; and the turgid eloquence of others wearies without impressing the imagination.

In the vicinity of the Giant's Valley was a convent of Benedictime monks, who had long enjoyed themselves in peace and quietmess. However they nearly brought destruction upon themselves by starting an entire new ring of bells, by the noise of which the giants were mightily offended. This episode was partly suggested by Pulci; but the English author, availing himself of its capability, has developed it by the introduction of more humorous scenes, and more pertinent allusions. The war had scarcely begun, when the abbot died suddenly of a fit of the gout.

“The convent was all going to the devil, 
  Whilst he, poor creature, thought himself belov'd 
  For saying handsome things and being civil; 
  Wheeling about as he was pulled and shoved, 
 By way of leaving things to find their level.' 

At this crisis, one Brother John (who had hitherto lived almost unnoticed) becomes a man of consequence—he exhorts the monks to defend themselves against the giants, and he ends by taking the supreme command. All this however is to be considered as poetry, and not by any means as politics. The author does not deviate into reflexions or expositions—he presents us with a sample of the natural course of human affairs, and with characters faithfully copied from mankind; and he leaves it to his readers to reflect, or to seek for the application. We presume that there are living poets who chuse to say that they have behaved like cowards on the field of battle, and who compare themselves to the lyric poets of antiquity. We cannot give any other interpretation of the following lines.

  “Poets are privileg'd to run away— 
Alcaeus and Archilochus could fling 
Their shields behind them in a doubtful fray; 
And still sweet Horace may be heard to sing - 
                               I I 4 His 


His filthy fright upon Philippi's day. 
(You can retire, too—for the Muse's wing 
Is swift as Cupid's pinion when he flies, 
Alarm'd at perriwigs and human eyes.) 
  This practice was approv’d in times of yore, 
Though later bards behav'd like gentlemen; 
And Garcilasso, Camoens, many more 
Disclaim'd the privilege of book and pen; 
And bold Aneurin, all bedripp'd with gore, 
Bursting by force from the beleaguer'd glen, 
Arrogant, haughty, fierce, of fiery mood, 
Not meek and mean, as Gray misunderstood.’ 

One allusion, indeed, is clear. The ancient bard concludes his lay: At ego ipse bardus Aneurim sanguine rubens; alter ad hanc ànào, faciendam vivus non fuissem. Gray has given a kind of sentimental modesty to his bard, which is quite Out of place. “And I the meanest of them all Who live to sing and wish their fall.”

The allusions, however, are sometimes so delicate, that it is not easy to seize them. We shall indicate a few lines which we this we have guessed.

The absurd employment of Latinisms and Gallicisms—

  “Dear people! if you think my verses clever, 
Preserve with care your nobler parts of speech, 
And don't confound the language of the nation 
With long-tailed words in asity and ation.’ 

Violent personifications in poetry—

  “Meanwhile the solemn mountains were surrounded; 
The silent valley, where the convent lay, 
With tintinnabular uproar was astounded, 
When the first peal burst forth at break of day. 
Feeling their granite ears severely wounded, 
They scarce knew what to think or what to say; 
And (though large mountains commonly conceal 
Their sentiments, dissembling what they feel, 

  Yet) Cader-Gibbrish from his cloudy throne 
To huge Loblommon gave an intimation 
Of this strange rumour, with an awful tone, 
Thund'ring his deep surprise and indignation. 
The lesser hills, in language of their own, 
Discussed the topic by reverberation; 
Discoursing with their echoes all day long, 
Their only conversation was “ding-dong.” 

We fear that general readers are not sufficiently informed to be

able to relish the poignant wit of these and similar *:::: Ilúttu,
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Indeed, it is not very easy to understand the nature of the part 
which the poet is acting; nor do we always know how to take 
him. Sometimes he is really Mr. Whistlecraft, the harness and 
collar-maker; and in this character his digression upon Pericles 
and the Elgin marbles is a chef-d'oeuvre of amenity. It is an exqui- 
site transcript of the sensations and ideas of a working man, who, 
being well read in Plutarch done into English, and the Sunday 
mewspapers, talks learnedly about Athens and the fine arts. But 
then this workman quotes Hoschylus in the right place, corrects the 
false translation of Gray, and explains the fable of Orpheus by 
means of the fragments of a Greek elegy, scarcely known even 
to profound scholars. It is true, that 
         Squire Humphry Bamberham of Boozley Hall 
        (Whose name I mention with deserv'd respect) 
       On market-days was often pleased to call 
       And to suggest improvements, and correct. 
  But the facility with which the poet masters every variety of style, 
and the classical air which breathes in every line, “disclose the 
traces of learning and superior reading.’ His readers lose sight 
of the collar-man; and the more they perceive that he is a person 
of high intellect, and a finished scholar, the less are they willing 
to believe that he wrote without an object. 
  About an hundred years ago, a poem, bearing a certain degree 
of affinity to the ‘Specimen,’ was produced by Monsignor Forte- 
guerri, a writer who in genius and means was far inferior to the 
English poet, though his Ricciardetto is happily executed. Some- 
times, like Master Whistlecraft, he puzzles his readers by his am- 
biguous tone; but generally his intent is marked. The Prelate 
 is not merely playful—he is farcical, and, in fact, he wrote to en- 
 tertain his friends. He began the Ricciardetto in order to prove 
 that romantic poetry might be written with great facility, and 
he finished the first canto in the course of a night. But as he 
perceived that instead of composing romantic poetry he had only 
produced a parody, he resolved to continue in the same tone. 
He denies that Orlando recovered his senses by the good offices 
 of Astolfo, and that the wits of the hero were brought again from 
 the moon; but maintains that he became same in consequence 
 of the judicious treatment adopted by the kind Paladims his friends, 
 by spare diet, plenty of water, and the cudgel. 
           ‘Cinquante bastonate a ciascun ora 
          Gli davano i pietosi Paladini; 
      E ritornaro Orlando in sanitate 
          Molt' acqua, poco pane, e bastonate.’ 
  The heroes of romance are the poorest devils imaginable in the 
poem of Forteguerri. True it is that they are all * 
                                                          follow 

follow some honest calling or other to get their living. Orlando becomes a maitre d'hotel, Rinaldo a cook, Ricciardetto a barber, and Astolfo an innkeeper. Astolfo understands trade—‘il a l'esprit de commerce en bon Anglais :' and he makes a great deal of money, which he spends as freely, by treating his friends with good liquor, which he does not put down in the bill. The Astolso of Forteguerri is a caricature of the ancient British knight whom Berni has taken from Boiardo. Astolfo, Paladin of England, can never bring himself to stay at home: he traverses one kingdom after another, not on the business of knight-errantry, but merely for the sake of travelling; and he wishes to make the tour of the world with such rapidity, that at the risk of breaking his neck he mounts the hippogriff. He carries on the wars of Charlemagne at his own expense, and out of pure generosity. He is handsome, well made, very rich, and very liberal. He courts all the ladies who come within his reach, without much refinement, and without being too fastdious respecting their attractions. He pays great attention to his toilette, and he never comes out of his room till he has completely settled his dress before the looking-glass, and until, after having bestowed a long ‘coup d'oeil' upon his gloves, he convinces him. self that they are in right order. Such is the Astolfo of the romantic poets, and he did not deserve to be degraded by Forteguerri. The diction of Forteguerri, who was a native of Pistoia, is pure, but without elegance; his jokes are vulgar. The giants in Ricciardetto extinguish a fire which broke out in the royal palace, by the same expedient which Captain Gulliver devised when he saved the palace at Lilliput from destruction. It is a whimsical coincidence that two contemporary dignitaries of the church, one in Ireland and the other in Italy, should have invented the same scurrilities. Compensation is made for the faults of his style, and his want of urbanity, by the astonishing facility of his vein and the activity of his fancy. He never copies any one, and if he presents us with common-plate remarks, he presents them so spiritedly that they come upon the reader as new. * Quando si giunge ad una certa età Ch'io non voglio descrivervi qual é, Bisogna stare allora a quel ch’un ha, Nè d'altri amanti cerca più la fê: Perchè, Donne mie care, la Beltà Ha l'ali al capo, alle spalle, ed a piè; La vola si che non si scorge più, Echi la vide non pud dir: Qui fü. We quote these lines with greater pleasure, because their coulo , terpart
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terpart is to be found in Beppo, where the same ideas are presented with fresh graces.

“She was not old, nor young, nor at the years Which certain people call a “certain age:" Which yet the most uncertain age appears, Because I never heard, nor could engage A person yet by prayers, or bribes or tears, To name, define by speech or write on page The period meant precisely by that word, Which surely is exceedingly absurd.’ Forteguerri acquired great popularity by his burlesques of the Eremitic character.” In the old erromantic poems, Ferrau, the Ferrargus of the English romances, is a Spanish warrior, without pity and without faith. Forteguerri exhibits him in Ricciardetto as a pious hermit, repenting of his past sins, and ever ready to open a new account of iniquity. He is a bigot, a hypocrite, and a satyr, all at once. He fights like a hero in the wars, but he never can withstand temptation. At each new vagary the Paladins drub him, and he returns the favour with liberality; but as he is terribly afraid of Satan, he allows himself to be reconverted by their exhortations. Scarcely is Ferrau reclaimed when he again relapses; and on his death-bed, whilst he regrets that he has sinned, he regrets still more that he cannot sim again. Forteguerri frequently becomes farcical; but his humour is lively, and intelligent. The originals of his caricatures are always before the Italians, and, without scandalizing any individual, he amuses all the world. Yet in this poem the satire is only accessary, it neither bears upon politics, nor society, nor manners. In the poetical nomenclature of the Italians, therefore, the Ricciardetto ranks as a mere burlesque. The author only wants to make you laugh. He saw that the fictions of romantic poetry could be easily adapted to his views, for the slightest degree of exaggeration renders them absurd. Yet in treating these fictions they became poetical. He contracted a species of kindness for romantic poetry—he continued his work with greater care; and the tone of his poem is not in unison with his first intent. Somewhat similar is the turn which the author of the ‘Specimen’ has given to his lay of King Arthur; but as he is placed far above Forteguerri by his knowledge of the art, no less than by his talents, he will easily correct this error. We are persuaded, by the perusal of the four cantos now before us, that in the sequel of the poem, the adventures, the action and the style, and, above all, the characters of his personages, will command the attention of his readers, and they will not require that their interest should be excited by setting themselves at work in tracing out his allusions. Throughout his ‘Specimen, the author has mastered the greatest of his difficulties; he has united the playfulness of wit to good poetry without degenerating, like Forteguerri, into vulgarity. It is very difficult to form an alliance between comic humour and the dignity of epic poetry. Tassoni succeeded in effecting this combination: he was almost the only Italian poet of the era in which he flourished, who withstood the general corruption of taste introduced by Marino and his followers, and by the “imitated imitators’ of Lope de Vega; and he opened a new path, in which a crowd of pretenders have vainly endeavoured to follow him. Tassoni distinguished himself in all his pursuits by the strength of his character and the accuracy of his judgment. In spite of all the terrors of the Inquisition, he was a bold and original thinker: he was a courtier, but without servility, and a patriot who did not worship the faults of his native country;-a subtle writer and an accurate grammarian, yet not a pedant;-a laborious historian, and at the same time a wit, and a humourist. The reader, who wishes to be informed respecting the life of this extraordinary character, will be fully satisfied by consulting Mr. Walker's accurate work; but his account of the Secchia Rapita is less satisfactory than his biography of the author. We could, indeed, only expect the information which he collected, from Italian writers; and they, unfortunately for themselves, can never speak out. In Italy, when a work of imagination has a political bearing, the history of its origin seldom reaches posterity. Mr. Walker relates that “a similar cause gave rise both to the Dunciad and to the Secchia Rapita. While Tassoni's mind was in a state of irritation from the repeated attacks of the critics, he conceived the idea of writing a mock-heroic poem; in which, while he permitted his vein of wit and humour to flow freely, he might indulge in the virulence of invective against the open and secret enemies of his literary reputation.’ This gratuitous conjecture, for it is really nothing more, had already misled the critics and commentators of Pope and Boileau. They can scarcely be called imitators of Tassoni. The Secchia Rapita merely gave the hint to the authors of the Rape of the Lock and Lutrin. If Tassoni ridicules the habits and manners and opinions of private life and private individuals, this was only accessary to his main plan; he had higher objects in view. Tassoni detested the foreign rulers of Italy. He wished to give a vivid picture of the miseries consequent upon the civil wars and domestic quarrels of the Italians. He therefore took the leading facts of his poem from authentic history. The Modenese had

* A sort of Begging Friars; the Tartuffes of the Italian villages. hi 1S.


had waged a bloody war with the citizens of Bologna during half a century, each party had availed itself of the assistance of foreign armies, and a “wooden bucket' was all they had to boast of, as the fruit of this victory. This took place in the days of the Guelfs and Ghibellins, but the heroes of Tassoni's poem are his contemporaries. He has introduced his friends as well as his enemies, ard the latter are not treated with much delicacy. His portraits are copied from nature, and though some of the features are caricatured, he has taken care not to deprive each individual of his peculiar cast of countenance. Thus also he preserves the provincial character and identity of the inhabitants of the different states. He makes them speak in their native dialects, and act in conformity to their manners. The Iliad is an' accurate illustration of the topography of Greece. Tassoni is equally precise in the ethnography of modern Italy. His language is pure and elegant, without the slightest trace of affectation. When he becomes animated, he borrows the dignified warmth of the historian, rather than the fire of poetical wit. And yet when he indulges in ornament, he vies with those who have bestowed most labour in polishing their verse. Dormiva Endimion fra l'erbe e i fiori, Stanco dal faticar del lungo giorno; E mentre l'aura e il ciel gli estivi ardori Gli gian temprando, e amoreggiando intorno; Quivi discesi i pargoletti amori Gli avean discinta la faretra e il corno : Ch'a' chiusi lumi e a lo splendor del viso Fu loro di veder Cupido avviso.”

Though he is sparing of his jests, they are severe and cutting, and he generally places them with propriety. It must have cost him great pains indeed to refrain from joking. He could scarcely think, or speak a word, or write a line, even of his last will and testament, without finding food for his humour, and with him the gravest subjects elicited an unexpected jeer.

  Del celeste monton già il Sole uscito 
Saettava co’ raile nubi algenti: 
Parean stellati i campi, e il ciel fiorito, 
E sul tranquillo mar dormiano i venti; 

* Worn with the labour of a tedious day, 
  Stretch'd on the ground the young Endimion lay; 
  His fragrant breath attemper'd zephyrs sip, 
  Feed on his smile and linger on his lip. 
  And now a group of loves, that hover'd round, 
  His shining quiver, and his horn unbound, 
  They thought, exhausted as his eyelids clos'd, 
  Their brother Cupid languish'd and repos'd-–M. M. Clifford. 

Sol

Sol zefiro ondeggiar facea sullito L'erbetta molle, e i fior vaghi e ridenti, E s' udian gli usignuoli al primo albore Egliasini cantar versi d'amore.* The last line of this stanza seems to allude to the poetasters, who tried to sigh like Petrarch. Tassoni's motives in passages of this nature must not be misunderstood. It was not hostility towards his critics, but zeal for the promotion of good taste which provoked his sarcasms both against the Della Cruscan school and the Petrarchists. Pope and Boileau have inlaid their little epics with happy imitations of the most celebrated passages of the ancient classics. Tassoni imitates them with less ostentation. His irony blends almost insensibly with the character and plan of the Iliad and the AEneid, and the Gerusalemme Liberata. His personages were of less importance to him than his subject. For the purposes of his satire, he has borrowed the general colouring of epic poetry, whilst parodies of particular passages were more useful to Pope and Boileau, to whom the fables of their poems only served as vehicles for their sarcasms upon peculiar classes of society. If the characteristic humour of the Secchia Rapita be compared with the satire of the Animali Parlanti, and the burlesque drollery of Ricciardetto, it will appear that Tassoni thought fit to designate his production as an heroic-comic poem, because he did not intend, like Casti, to make a mockery of things really important in themselves, but to ridicule the false importance which is given to trifling matters. He did not seek, like Forteguerri, to raise a laugh at all events, by introducing coarse drollery and indecency, and by giving a vulgar travestie of the characters and style of epic poetry; but he sported with the follies of individuals and of nations, and he chose the solemn march of heroic poetry, in order to obtain the contrasted effect which a painter would produce by arraying an Adonis in the mail of Achilles, and arming him with the club of Hercules. We have willingly indulged in this digression, because we think that the author of the ‘Specimen' has often succeeded, like Tassoni, in uniting great playfulness with poetical dignity; and we hope that he will be induced to continue this style in chastening and correcting the extravagant fancies of Pulci and the romantic poets. The acumen and acquirements of the man of letters, and the originality of the poet, will undoubtedly enable him to mellow and harmonize the materials which he derives from these writers, and perhaps to create a style which, retaining the blithesomeness and ease of his models, will become completely English, and be truly naturalized by English wit and English feeling. But he must do his best to gain the suffrages of the ladies, who, in every country, and particularly in England, are, after all, the supreme arbiters of the destiny and reputation of the new poetry. This he may easily effect by exciting the softer passions. Since the irrevocable decree of Sancho Panza, such warlike beauties as Bradamante and Marfisa are no longer in fashion; and a damsel, who hath once cut off the head of a giant, ceases thenceforward to be killing, nor do we sympathize with her, whatever misfortunes may afterwards befal her. But if the author will only condescend to introduce a heroine, crowned with poetical laurels, driving out of the Campidoglio in her triumphal car, chanting an altisonant ode in prose, and making love by algebra, many fair readers will be dissolved in tears and rapt in ecstasy. An important difference will, however, distinguish this poem from its Italian models. The author will always continue to act the part of a tradesman, who attunes his lofty lay of chivalry and love with an unconscious talent. But Pulci and Berni and Boiardo and Ariosto do not put off their real station, or disguise their genius:

* Now had the sun the heav'nly ram forsook, 
  Darting thro' wint'ry clouds his radiant look; 
  The fields with stars, the sky with flow’rs seem'd drest, 
  The winds lay sleeping on the sea's calm breast; 
   Soft zephyrs only breathing o'er the meads, 
   Kiss'd the young grass, and wav'd the tender reeds; 
  The nightingales were heard at peep of day, 
  And asses singing am’rous roundelay.—Ozell. 

poets.

they are in earnest when they treat

Of dames, of knights, of arms, of love's delight.

They availed themselves of the romantic fictions which were recited to the common people by the story-tellers of Italy, of the traditionary poems which celebrated the exploits performed by Christian heroes in their wars against the infidels: therefore their themes were equally dignified and popular. Critics and antiquaries have laboured hard to discover the birth-place of the muse of chivalrous romance. As soon as they became aware of her existence, they began to dispute about her descent. Some said she was an Arabian maid; and others maintained as stoutly that she was a Goth. Warton attempted to conciliate both classes of disputants by assuring them that they were both in the right: he maintained that the subjects of Mithridates fled from Asia to Scandinavia, and that the romantic muse accompanied them in their migration. From thence she travelled through Europe; she sojourned awhile in Britain and in Spain, and afterwards in France, and at length she arrived in Italy decked with the riches which she had acquired in the different nations through which she passed. As these learned men formed their theories partly upon their own conjectures, and partly upon works which we have never read, we think it prudent 1]Ot not to meddle with the controversy. We had rather confine ourselves to matters of fact, to which these disputants have not much attended. They will point out the sources whence the Italian poems of chivalry obtained their materials, and their characteristic and permanent forms. We may distribute the materials of these poems under five heads. I. Historical traditions. II. The mythology of the middle ages. III. Fragments and reminiscences of classical literature. IV. Fictions derived from the Saracens and Normans, and arising from the feudal system. V. Fictions gradually added by the story-tellers. I. With regard to historical traditions, Charlemagne was considered principally, nay, almost solely, as a religious conqueror; and the fame of all his other exploits merged in the warlike missions which he undertook for the purpose of converting the heathen to the Christian faith. In those days the defeat of his army at Roncesvalles created a greater sensation in the world than the destruction of the French army in Russia did in ours; because Charlemagne and his heroes were deemed invincible, and it was thought that angels led them on. The uninformed and illiterate nations of Europe could neither separate truth from falsehood, nor rouse themselves from their state of stupid wonder by learning to attribute human events to natural causes. A few judicious writers endeavoured, yet in vain, to dispel this mental darkness. They had not the power of dispersing their works amongst the multitude; even sovereigns could not read, and it is said that Charlemagne himself was unable to write his name. Great events became known to the public chiefly by oral communication; whilst the task of committing them to writing devolved wholly upon the clergy, and it was their interest to bring religion into action on every occasion. When Charlemagne fought for the propagation of the faith, his victories were attributed to the co-operation of the celestial hierarchy: and when he was defeated in the Spanish passes, the credit of his defeat was given to Belzebub and Satan. The preachers acted exactly the part of story-tellers, as it is now sustained by the Turkish dervises; and whenever they wrote on the subject they converted the life of Charlemagne into a tissue of legends and miracles. In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries the church began to recover its learning and dignity: at that period legendary lore became the property of the story-tellers by profession. The marvellous tales which had once been repeated in the temples were retailed by the road side. They quoted, as their authority, a chronicle ascribed to Archbishop Turpin, but which he certainly never wrote. Pope Calixtus the Second declared this chronicle to be authentic. Perhaps he was influenced by the advantages which resulted to the Papal See by encouraging the growth of every species of credulity. The The highest sanction was thus given to a collection of all the lies and absurdities concerning the court of Charlemagne and his exploits, which had ever been sung, or preached, or written. It may be easily conceived that these tales bear no resemblance to the truth, except that here and there an historical name may be discovered amongst the heroes. It has been justly observed by Mr. Merivale, that there is only one authentic document of the middle ages in which we find any mention of Orlando, the Roland of the French, and in this he appears as Ruitlandus, Governor of the Marches of Brittany; yet this obscure chieftain is the Achilles of romantic poetry. Dante himself, in spite of his historical accuracy, has adopted some fabulous traditions relating to this hero, and to the battle of Roncesvalles. ‘Dopo la dolorosa rotta, quando Carlomagno perdè la Santa gesta, Non sonó si terribilmente Orlando.’

II. The marvels of magic were superadded to the wonders of spurious history, and whoever ventured to doubt their reality was in danger of being burnt as a heretic; on the other hand any one who was less ignorant than his contemporaries was considered as a conjuror. Silvester the Second was compelled to abdicate the pontificate merely on this ground. In the primitive ages of Christianity, the fathers of the church seldom denied the existence of the oracles of paganism, but they accounted for them by attributing them to the devil, who, as they maintained, had received full power to mislead mankind. We believe that this hypothesis is still received as a Catholic dogma. And Forteguerri, though a prelate, did not scruple to admit in the last century—

Il Diavol, donne mie, puð far gran cose 
Basti solo che Dio lo lasci fare: 
Peró non siate punto dubitose 
Di ció che udiste ed udrete cantare 
De l'opere di lui meravigliose. 

Pur troppo e vero che si dan le Fate, 
Sidan pur troppos e cosi fosse spento 
Il seme loro, come ancora è vivo. 
   E poile Sacre Carte, non son piene 
Di maghi e streghe, e cose somigliantif 
E in chiesa l'acqua santa a che si tiene * 

The Bible makes mention of giants. Texts, ill understood, were received as proofs that the race had not become extinct; and thus the actual existence of giants became a dogma which could not be contradicted without incurring excommunication. The Titans of mythology were introduced with more poetical aptitude V () L. X X 1. N.O. XI. l I. K K and


and consistency. They were created before the human race; and deities alone were their antagonists: but the story-tellers of the middle ages made a clumsy incorporation of their own fables with the relics of classical poetry, in order to embellish the giants whom they fashioned out of holy writ. III. Classical literature was strangely corrupted, in fact it was scarcely known; and this state of things lasted till the age of Petrarca. It is a mistake to suppose that Dante was acquainted with Homer: before his time the Italians often quoted a Latin translation of the Iliad ascribed to one Pindar, a poet of Thebes. Forty years after the death of Dante, and not till then, Homer was really translated from the original by Leontius, a learned Calabrese, who made his translation at the suggestion of Boccaccio; and Petrarca, who did not understand the Greek language himself, induced the novelist to urge the accomplishment of the task. It is au error to suppose that Dante alludes to Homer in the following verses. “Di quel Signor de l'altissimo canto Che sovra gli altri come aquila vola.’ If these lines are read attentively, and compared with the context, and if, at the same time, the reader takes care not to look at the commentators, it will be clear that the praises of Dante are to be applied only to Virgil. Dante employed a few words of Greek origin, which he found in the Latin poets. When his commentators adduce these vocables as proofs of his knowledge of Greek, they do their best to deceive the world; the contrary appears most plainly from his own confession: in quoting a passage from Aristotle in his Convito he acknowledges his difficulties; ‘because,” as he says, “the two Latin translations, which I use, contradict each other.’ And in one of his songs he states in the plainest terms that he was wholly ignorant of the Greek language. The allusions which Dante makes to the Troian war refer to events which are not related in the Iliad; and the history of the voyage of Ulysses in the twenty-sixth canto of the Inferno is wholly different from that contained in the Odyssey. Dante made use of the matter, which he found in Virgil; he also consulted the apocryphal traditions of Guido delle Colonne, which served also as a text-book to Chaucer and Shakspeare. On this occasion the commentators of Shakspeare have not been more fortunate than their fellow illustrators of Dante. Dryden maintained that an Italian translation of Guido delle Colonne written by Lollius existed in England in the sixteenth century: Mr. Stevens triumphs over Dryden and contradicts him, and he assures us that Lollius was the historiographer of the duchy of Urbino. If we are not greatly mistaken, there never was an Italian historian of that name; it might almost be be suspected that Mr. Stevens has confounded the Lollius of the sixteenth century with Lollius Urbicus the historian of the Emperor Severus. As to the opinion of Dryden, it is not supported by proofs, neither can it be contradicted by arguments: but we can state that a manuscript of the poem of Guido existed in England fifty years before Chaucer flourished. It is (or rather was) preserved in the archives of York Cathedral, and ends with these words: Factum est prasens opus dominica incarnationis 1287. This colophon must be understood of the transcript; the original was finished at least fifteen years before, for it is dedicated to an archbishop of Salerno who died in 1272. If John Bonston, a contemporary of Chaucer, does not deceive us, Edward I. became acquainted with Guido at Messina, on his return from the Holy Land, and, appreciating the talents of the poet, he brought him over to England; and in this country Guido may have allowed a transcript to be made of his poem. We earnestly request the antiquaries (for it is solely to please them that we have entered into these details) to ascertain whether the manuscript be yet to be found in the Minster library. Our readers, who know how easily modern historians and travellers gain credit for veracity, on the strength of their own assertions, ought not to be surprized that the imposture of Guido succeeded in a less cultivated age. He said that Homer (whom he certainly never read) was a downright liar: that the true history of the Trojan war had been written by Dares the Phrygian (Hector's secretary), and Dictys Cretensis (the aidede-camp of Idomeneus), both of whom had been eye-witnesses thereof. Cornelius, the nephew of Sallust the historian, (Guido renders the name Nepos as indicating consanguinity,) translated. Dictys and Dares into Latin; and he, Guido, having added many details hitherto unknown, offers to the world the genuine and authentic history of Troy. The Greek Christians and the Italians hated each other most cordially during the Crusades. This antipathy may have induced Guido to dress himself in the Trojan uniform, for he calumniates the heroes of the camp of Agamemnon, and is warm in his praises of good King Priam and all his royal family. Religion is blended in all the fictions of the earlier ages as well as the romances of subseQuent date, In Ariosto and Bojardo we are told that Ruggiero is lineally descended from Constantine, and Hector is placed at the head of the genealogy of the first Christian emperor. With respect to the works ascribed to Dares and Dictys, and other authors of this class, we do not think that they are monkish forgeries, but that the monks merely imitated the romances which appeared under the lower empire, and which were composed to gratify the vanity of the descendants of Coustantine. The discussion of this question K K 2 We

we willingly leave to the antiquaries, and shall content ourselves with pointing out the fragments of classical literature which found their way into the tales of the story-tellers. The euchantments to which we alluded in a former paragraph were also combined with pagan literature and heathen customs. This delusion had not been kept alive by books; for human nature always seems to long after the society of supernatural beings. Doctrines and opinions which excite terror are carefully cherished by the multitude, and ignorance fosters and increases them. The Tempest bears a near affinity to the enchantments of Medea. Shakspeare, without consulting the Metamorphoses, might have availed himself of the traditions of the common people; and if he had borrowed directly from the classics, his auditors would not have been prepared to believe him. It is true that in romantic poetry, both the names and the accompaniments are changed, and we are ignorant of the etymology of the word sata (fairy). But if we compare the transformations of Proteus and of Vertumnus, and the palace of Thetis, and the island of Calypso, with the Gardens of Falerina and Alcima and Armida, no material difference is discoverable. In the loves of Aurora and Cephalus we discover the origin of the ideas entertained by the inhabitants of Messina and Reggio respecting the Fata Morgana; they suppose that the Fata," out of compliment to his young lover, produces the well-known aerial phaenomenon seen in the summer over the straits which divide Italy from Sicily. A peasant of the Ionian isles cannot be persuaded to venture out of his cottage at noon during the month of July, he is then afraid of the fairies whom he calls Aneraides, i. e. Nereides. These sea-damsels, together with their sister nymphs, exercise the same power over man as the sylphs of the Cabalists. IV. The popular story-tellers found another source of fiction in the manners of the Saracens and the Normans, and in feudal chivalry in general. We dissent however from the general opinion, that much was derived directly from the Arabs, or from the crusaders on their return to Europe. The adventures of Antar prove that the Arabs were far more metaphysical in their ideas respecting love and religion than the Italian story-tellers; besides which, no traditions respecting the crusades were transmitted by the latter to the romantic poets, who never allude to the holy wars: but we refer the influence of oriental manners and of western chivalry to an earlier period, during which the Lombards, the Greeks, and the Saracens contested the dominion of the various provinces of the kingdom of Naples, and ending in the year 1030, when they were all expelled by the Normans. From these wars, and from the revolution of the nations who were ongo in them, them, originated all the delineations of Asiatic and European knights, who figure in the tales of romance. The crusaders had a better opportunity of becoming acquainted with the Mahometans; but during the tenth and eleventh centuries the Turks were considered as pagans. The Macome of the romantic poets is evidently a corruption of Mahomet, for the Italians do not aspirate the h, they pronounce it like a k. And Trivigante, whom the predecessors of Ariosto always couple with Apollino, is really Diana Trivia, the sister of the classical Apollo, whose worship, and the lunar sacrifices which it demanded, had been always preserved amongst the Scythians. The feudality of this period assumed a romantic cast, the expeditions undertaken by the lords against their neighbours, their fortified castles in the midst of trackless deserts, the dangers to which they exposed themselves in destroying the wild beasts which them infested Italy, then covered with wood, their exploits against troops of robbers and banditti, and lastly the slavery and misery of the great mass of the population, all these causes concurred to give a feudal chieftain the character of a being of a superior order. Parental vigilance and severity inflamed the passion of love; Christianity refined it, honour supplied the place of laws. Each was obliged to revenge his own wrongs; but sometimes men were found sufficiently powerful and generous to revenge the wrongs of others, and their generosity exalted their valour. The story-tellers were not able to examine these warriors with minuteness, they consequently exaggerated all their qualities, both good and bad, and without being aware of the transformation that they were producing, they added those ideal features which convert the man into the hero. W. And lastly, the story-tellers obeyed the maxim of Homer, although they learnt from experience, and not from the Odyssey, That novel lays attract our ravished ears, But old, the mind with inattention hears. Thus their tales contain narrations of lengthened wars, which no historian ever heard of; descriptions of nations and kingdoms, which cannot be discovered on the map; episodes wholely unconnected with the main subject; and exploits which surpass probability. Yet they were always careful to adhere to the staple groundwork, the exploits of Charlemagne, and his Paladins. In a more cultivated age their practice was applauded and imitated by Ariosto. Instead of ‘inventing an entire new story, he proposed continuing the Orlando Innamorato of Bojardo, because if he had introduced strange names and events till then unknown, he could not have attained the same degree of attention, and instead of amusing the Italians, would have tired them.' These are nearly his own expressions. Humbler artifices were employed by the story-tellers: - K K 3 Sonnesometimes, for the purpose of raising the attention of their auditors, and sometimes, for the purpose of illustrating the fictions of heroic existence by analogous events taken from common life, they enlivened their narratives by the insertion of laughable anecdotes; they joked and jested, and uttered many a sarcasin on female and sacerdotal chastity; and as the originals of their jests were better known to the crowd than the Paladius of Charlemagne, the comic prototypes of the picture were drawn more accurately by the artist, and best appreciated by the hearers. If we have entered with so much boldness into the darkest periods of the middle ages, it is because we have been guided in our conjectures by the Italian story-tellers of the present day. The profession has never become extinct in Italy. In the year 1819 we were often present at their recitations in the Piazza of St. Mark, at Venice; and were again convinced that the usages of the common people possess more durability than their government, than the monuments raised by their architects, or even than the works of their best writers. The favourite subject of one of these reciters was the Persecution of the Christians under Nero. At first we imagined that he had been reading an Italian translation of Tacitus, and that he combined the facts of the historian with the miracles of the legend; but after much research we discovered that he derived his stories from certain political romances, written to wards the beginning of the 17th century, when the ambition of Philip II. and the system of the balance of power made the cabinets and hearts of kings the objects of scrutinizing curiosity. Amongst other historical novels of the age in question, we disco yered one entitled Agrippina Minore, a prototype perhaps of the historical romances of Madame de Scudery, which was the text of the tale of the Venetian story-teller; but the writer disguised her ancient heroes in the fashionable court-dress of Louis XIV., whilst the additions made to the novel by our story-teller were wholly of a different nature. According to him, Rome was peopled by three million of Christians; the soldiers of Nero murdered them all every morning: in the course of the day they were all miraculously raised from the dead by Saint Peter and Saint Paul, who were confined in the tyrant's prisons, and on the morrow, the martyrs of yesterday were all ready to be killed over again. . As the story-teller was aware that the common peo ple delight in horrors, he gratified them with agonies and tortures to their heart's content. The narrative of the murder of Agrippina created an amazing deal of horror and delight. Whilst speaking of the Roman empress and the Roman princesses, he illustrated their characters by comparing them to certain Venetian ladies, who held a conspicuous station in the scandalous chronicle of Venice. The - - crowd


crowd laughed heartily at these digressions, but the story-teller gradually brought them to a more poetical mood. Poppaea was represented as a fascinating beauty; Burrus as a conjuror, who had the devil at his elbow; Seneca was described as a good christian in his heart, who by the advice of St. Paul continued an outward pagan. He always repeated the same story, but with slight variations: the method and form of his narrative appeared to result from the nature of his occupation, rather than from any premeditated plan, and we therefore conclude, that the story-tellers of the middle ages being placed in the same situation, necessarily adopted a similar method, which indeed can be retraced in all the romantic poems of Italy. The peculiar forms of Italian romantic poetry may be reduced to the following,I. The narrative is naturally complex, story is interwoven with story, and the current of the main subject is perpetually broken by episodes, introduced to keep the auditors in suspense, and to induce them to assemble day after day to hear the end of the tale. Thus, although the Giant Morgante is the hero of Pulci, and Orlando of Boiardo and Ariosto, yet their adventures occupy the smallest portions of the poems; the wars of Charlemagne constitute the rest, but interrupted and varied by the loves and exploits of the knights of either party. II. Religion predominates in their poems. While the poet deals in the greatest absurdities, he appeals to the authority of Archbishop Turpin, and invokes the aid of saints and angels. Pulci never begins a canto without a pious invocation, borrowed from the service of the Catholic church; Ariosto, though still professing to admit the authenticity of the chronicle of Turpin, has wholly dropt these irrelevant prayers. III. The customary forms of the narrative all find a place in romantic poetry: such are the sententious reflexions suggested by the matters which he has just related, or arising in anticipation of those which he is about to relate, and which the storyteller always opens when he resumes his recitations; his defence of his own merits against the attacks of rivals in trade; and his formal leave-taking when he parts from his audience, and invites them to meet him again on the morrow. This method of winding up each portion of the poem, is a favourite among the romantic poets; who constantly finish their cantos with a distich, of which the words may vary, but the sense is uniform. * All' altro canto ve farò sentire, Se all' altro canto mi verrete a udire.’—ARIosto. Or at the end of another canto, according to Harrington's “I now cut off abruptly here my rhyme, And keep my tale unto another time.’ The forms and materials of these popular stories were adopted by writers of a superior class, who considered the vulgar tales of their predecessors as blocks of marble finely tinted and variegated by the hand of nature, but which might afford a master-piece, when tastefully worked and polished. The romantic poets treated the traditionary fictions just as Dante did the legends invented by the monks to maintain their mastery over weak minds. He formed them into a poem, which became the admiration of every age and nation : but Dante and Petrarca were poets, who, though universally celebrated, were not universally understood. The learned found employment in writing comments upon their poems, but the nation, without even excepting the higher ranks, know them only by name. At the beginning of the fifteenth century, a few obscure authors began to write romances in prose and in rhyme, taking for their subject the wars of Charlemagne and Orlando, or sometimes the adventures of Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. These works were so pleasing, that they were rapidly multiplied: but the bards of romance cared little about style or versification, they sought for adventures, and enchantments, and miracles. We here obtain at least a partial explanation of the rapid decline of Italian poetry, and the amazing corruption of the Italian language, which took place immediately after the death of Petrarch, and which proceeded from bad to worse until the era of Lorenzo de' Medici.-It was then that Pulci composed his Morgante for the amusement of Madonna Lucrezia, the mother of Lorenzo; and he used to recite it at table to Ficino, and Politian, and Lorenzo, and the other illustrious characters who then flourished at Florence: yet Pulci adhered strictly to the original plan of the popular story-tellers; and if his successors have embellished them so that they can scarcely be recognised, it is certain that in no other poem can they be found so genuine and native as in the Morgante. Pulci accommodated himself, though sportively, to the genius of his age: classical taste and sound criticism began to prevail, and great endeavours were making by the learned to separate historical truth from the chaos of fable and tradition: so that, though Pulci introduced the most extravagant fables, he affected to complain of the errors of his predecessors. , ‘I grieve,’ he said, “for my Emperor Charlemagne: for I see that his history has been badly written and worse understood.’ ... " - Edel mio Carlo imperador m'increbbe; - Estata questa istoria, a quel ch'io veggio, Di Carlo, male intesa e scritta peggio.

translation, K K 4 * I now

- And

And whilst he quotes the great historian Leonardo Aretino with respect, he professes to believe the authority of the holy Archbishop Turpin, who is also one of the heroes of the poem. In another passage, where he imitates the apologies of the story-tellers, he makes a neat allusion to the taste of his audience. “I know,' he says, “that I must proceed straight forward, and not tell a single lie in the course of my tale. This is not a story of mere invention: and if I go one step out of the right road, one chastises, another criticises, a third scolds—they try to drive me inad —but in fact they are out of their senses, and therefore I have chosen a solitary life. My academy (here he jokes on the academy of Lorenzo de' Medici) and my gymnasium were formerly in my woods. Thence I can see Africa and Asia. The nymphs come there with their baskets, and bring me the fairest fruits. Here I avoid all the evils of great towns, therefore I will not return to your tribunals, Messieurs les gens d'esprit.” E so che andar dirit to mi bisogna, Ch'io non ci mescolassi una bugia; Che questa non è istoria da menzogna ; Che come io esco un passo de la via, - * Chi gracchia, chi riprende, echi rampogna; o Ognun poi mi riesce la pazzia, Tanto, ch' eletto ho solitaria vita; Chè la turba di questi è infinita. Lamia accademia un tempo e mia ginnasia E stata volontier ne' miei boschetti, E puossiben veder l'Africa e l’Asia: Vengon le Ninfe con lor canestretti, E portanmi o narcisso o colocasia: E. cosi fuggo mille urban dispetti; Si ch'io non torno a' vostri areopaghi, Gente pur sempre di mal dicer vaghi. - - Pulci's versification is remarkably fluent, and these lines are good specimens of his style. Yet he is deficient in melody; his language is pure, and his expressions flow maturally; but his phrases are abrupt and unconnected, and he frequently writes ungrammatically. His vigour degenerates into harshness : and his love of brevity prevents the development of his poetical inagery. He bears all the marks of rude genius; he was capable of delicate pleasantry, yet his smiles are usually bitter and severe. His humour never arises from points, but from unexpected situatious strongly contrasted. The Emperor Charlemagne sentences King Marsilius of Spain to be hanged for high treason, and Archbishop Turpin kindly offers his services on the occasion. E’ disse: , Io vo’, Marsilio, che tu muoja Dove tu ordinasti il tradimento. Disse Disse Turpino: Io voglio fare il boja. Carlo rispose: Ed io son ben contento Chesia trattato di questi due cani L'opera Santa con le Sante mani. Here we have an emperor superintending the execution of a king who is hanged in the presence of a vast multitude, all of whom are greatly edified at beholding an archbishop officiating in the character of a finisher of the law. Before this adventure took place, Caradoro had dispatched an ambassador to the emperor, complaining of the shameful conduct of a wicked Paladin, who had seduced the princess his daughter. The orator does not present himself with modern diplomatic courtesy— Macon t'abbatta come traditore, O disleale e ingiusto imperadore A Caradoro è stato scritto, O Carlo, O Carlo l O Carlo! (e crollava la testa) De la tua corte, che non puoi negarlo, De la sua figlia cosa disonesta.”

Such scenes may appear somewhat strange; but Caradoro's embassy ind the execution of King Marsilius are told in strict conformity to the notions of the common people: and as they must still be described if we wished to imitate the popular story-tellers. If Pulci be occasionally refined and delicate, his snatches of amenity resulted from the national character of the Florentines, and the revival of letters. But at the same time, we must trace to national character and to the influence of his daily companions the buffoonery which, in the opinion of foreigners, frequently disgraces the poem. M. Ginguené has criticised Pulci in the usual style of his countrymen. He attributes modern manners to ancient times, and takes it for granted that the individuals of every other nation think and act like modern Frenchmen. On these principles, he concludes that Pulci, both with respect to his subject and to his mode of treating it, intended only to write burlesque poetry; because, as he says, such buffoonery could not have been introduced into a composition recited to Lorenzo de' Medici and his enlightened guests, if the author had intended to be in earnest. In the fine portrait of Lorenzo given by Machiavelli at the end of his Florentine history, the historian complains that he took more pleasure in the company of jesters and buffoons than beseemed such a man. It is a little singular that Benedetto Varchi, a contemporary historian, makes the same complaint of Machiavelli himself. Indeed many known anecdotes of Machiavelli, no less than his fugitive pieces, prove that it was only when he was acting the statesman that he wished to be grave: and that he could laugh like other men when he laid aside his dignity. We do not think he was in the wrong. But whatever opinion may be formed on the subject, we shall yet be forced to conclude that great men may be compelled to blame the manners of their times, without being able to withstand their influence. In other respects the poem of Pulci is serious, both in subject and in tone. And here we shall repeat a general observation which we advise our readers to apply to all the romantic poems of the Italians—That their comic humour arises from the contrast between the constant endeavours of the writers to adhere to the forms and subjects of the popular story-tellers, and the efforts made at the same time by the genius of these writers to render such materials interesting and sublime. This simple elucidation of the causes of the poetical character of the Morgante has been overlooked by the critics; and they have therefore disputed with great earnestness during the last two centuries, whether the Morgante is written in jest or earnest; and whether Pulci is not an atheist, who wrote in verse for the express purpose of scoffing at all religion. Mr. Merivale inclines, in his Orlando in Roncesvalles, to the opinion of M. Ginguené, that the Morgante is decidedly to be considered as a burlesque poem, and a satire against the Christian religion. Yet Mr. Merivale himself acknowledges that it is wound up with a tragical effect, and dignified by religious sentiment, and is therefore forced to “leave the question amongst the unexplained and perhaps inexplicable phaenomena of the human mind.' If a similar question had not been already decided, both in regard to Shakspeare and to Ariosto, it might be still a subject of dispute whether the former intended to write tragedies, and whether the other did not mean to burlesque his heroes. It is a happy thing, that with regard to those two great writers, the war has ended by the fortunate intervention of the general body of readers, who on such occasions form their judgment with less erudition and with less prejudice than the critics. But Pulci is little read, and his age is little known. We are told by Mr. Merivale, that ‘ the points of abstruse theology are discussed in the Morgante with a degree of sceptical freedom which we should imagine to be altogether remote from the spirit of the fifteenth century.’ Mr. Merivale follows M. Ginguené, who follows Voltaire. And the philosopher of Ferney, who was always beating up in all quarters for allies against Christianity, collected all the scriptural passages of Pulci, upon which he commented in his own way. But it is only - Slil Ce

* O Charles, he cried, Charles, Charles' King Caradore has ascertained the thing, —And as he cried Which comes moreover proved and verified He shook his head—a sad complaint I bring By letters from your own side of the water Of shameful acts which cannot be denied: Respecting the behaviour of his daughter.

Sanne


since the Council of Trent, that any doubt which might be raised on a religious dogma exposed an author to the charge of impiety; whilst, in the fifteenth century, a Catholic might be sincerely devout, and yet allow himself a certain degree of latitude in theological doubt. At one and the same time the Florentines might well believe in the gospel and laugh at a doctor of divinity: for it was exactly at this era that they had been spectators of the memorable controversies between the representatives of the eastern and western churches. Greek and Latin bishops from every corner of Christendom had assembled at Florence for the purpose of trying whether they could possibly understand each other; and when they separated, they hated each other worse than before. At the very time when Pulci was composing his Morgante, the clergy of Florence protested against the excommunications pronounced by Sixtus IV., and with expressions by which his holiness was anathematized in his turn. During these proceedings, an archbishop, convicted of being a papal emissary, was hanged from one of the windows of the government palace at Florence: this event may have suggested to Pulci the idea of converting another archbishop into a hangman. The romantic poets substituted literary and scientific observations for the trivial digressions of the storytellers. This was a great improvement: and although it was not well managed by Pulci, yet he presents us with much curious incidental matter. In quoting his philosophical friend and contemporary Matteo Palmieri, he explains the instinct of brutes by a bold hypothesis—he supposes that they are animated by evil spirits. This idea gave no offence to the theologians of the fifteenth century, but it excited much orthodox indignation when Father Bougeant, a French monk, brought it forward as a new theory of his own. Mr. Merivale, after observing that Pulci died before the discovery of America by Columbus, quotes a passage “which will become a very interesting document for the philosophical historian.’ We give it in his prose translation :- The water is level through its whole extent, although, like the earth, it has the form of a globe. Mankind in those ages were much more ignorant than now. Hercules would blush at this day for having fixed his columns. Vessels will soon pass far beyond them. They may soon reach another hemisphere, because every thing tends to its centre; in like manmer, as by a divine mystery, the earth is suspended in the midst of the stars; here below are cities and empires, which were ancient. The inhabitants of those regions were called Antipodes, They have plants and animals as well as you, and wage wars as well as you."—Morgante, c. xxv. st. 229, &c.

The more we consider the traces of ancient science which break in transient flashes through the darkness of the middle ". - an

and which gradually re-illuminated the horizon, the more shall we be disposed to adopt the hypothesis suggested by Bailly, and supported by him with seductive eloquence. He maintained that all the acquirements of the Greeks and Romans had been transmitted to them as the wrecks and fragments of, the knowledge once possessed by primaeval nations, by empires of sages and philosophers, who were afterwards swept from the face of the globe by some overwhelming catastrophe. His theory may be considered as extravagant; but if the literary productions of the Romans were not yet extant, it would seem incredible, that, after the lapse of a few centuries, the civilization of the Augustan age could have been succeeded in Italy by such barbarity. The Italians were so ignorant that they forgot their family names, and before the eleventh century individuals were known only by their Christian names. They had an indistinct idea, in the middle ages, of the existence of the antipodes; but it was a reminiscence of ancient knowledge. Dante has indicated the number and position of the stars composing the polar constellation of the Austral hemisphere. At the same time he tells us, that when Lucifer was hurled from the celestial regions, the arch-devil transfixed the globe; half his body remained on our side of the centre of the earth, and half on the other side. The shock given to the earth by his fall drove a great portion of the waters of the ocean to the southern hemisphere, and only one high mountain remained uncovered, upon which Dante places his purgatory. As the fall of Lucifer happened before the creation of Adam, it is evident that Dante did not admit that the southern hemisphere had ever been inhabited; but about thirty years afterwards, Petrarch, who was better versed in the ancient writers, ventured to hint that the sun shone upon mortals who were unknown to us. “Nella stagion che il ciel rapido inchina Vers' occidente, eche il di nostro vola A gente che di là forse l'aspetta.' . - In the course of half a century after Petrarch, another step was gained. The existence of the antipodes was fully demonstrated. Pulci raises a devil to announce the fact; but it had been taught to him by his fellow-citizen Paolo Toscanelli, an excellent astronomer and mathematician, who wrote in his old age to Christopher Columbus, exhorting him to undertake his expedition. A few stanzas have been translated by Mr. Merivale, with some slight variations, which do not wrong the original. They may be considered as a specimen of Pulci's poetry, when he writes with imagination and feeling. Orlando bids farewell to his dying horse. “His faithful steed, that long had served him well In peace and war, now closed his languid eye, Kneel'd

Kneel'd at his feet, and seem'd to say “Farewell! 
 I've brought thee to the destined port, and die.” 
Orlando felt anew his sorrows swell 
When he beheld his Brigliadoro lie 
Stretch'd on the field, that crystal fount beside, 
Stiffen'd his limbs, and cold his warlike pride: 
  And “O my much-loved steed, my generous friend, 
Companion †. better years!" he said; 
“And have I lived to see so sad an end 
Of all thy toils, and thy brave spirit fled? 
O pardon me, if e'er I did offend 
With hasty wrong that mild and faithful head"— 
Just then, his eyes a momentary light 
Flash’d quick;—then closed again in endless night.” 

When Orlando is expiring on the field of battle, an angel de scends to him, and promises that Alda his wife shall join him in paradise. - ‘Bright with eternal youth and fadeless bloom Thine Aldabella thou shalt behold once more, Partaker of a bliss beyond the tomb With her whom Sinai's holy hills adore, Crown'd with fresh flowers, whose colour and perfume Surpass what Spring's rich bosom ever bore— . Thy mourning widow here she will remain, And be in Heaven thy joyful spouse again.”

Whilst the soul of Orlando was soaring to heaven, a soft and plaintive strain was heard, and angelic voices joined in celestial harmony. They sang the psalm, ‘When Israel went out of Egypt,’ and the singers were known to be angels from the trembling of their wings. “Poisi senti con unsuon dolce e fioco Certa armonia con si soavi accenti Che ben parea d' angelici stromenti. In eritu Israel, cantar, de AEgypto, Sentito fu dagli angeli solenne Che si conobbe al tremolar le penne.’ Dante has inserted passages from the Vulgate in his Divius Commedia; and Petrarch, the most religious of poets, quotes Scripture even when he is courting. Yet they were not accused of impiety. Neither did Pulci incur the danger of a posthumous excommunication, until after the Reformation, when Pius W. (a Dominican, who was turned into a saint by a subsequent pope) promoted the welfare of holy mother church by burning a few wicked books and hanging a few troublesome authors, The notion that

Pulci was in the odour of heresy influenced the opinion of Milton, who
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who only speaks of the Morgante as a ‘sportful romance.’ Milton was anxious to prove that catholic writers had ridiculed popish divines, and that the Bible had been subjected to private judgment, notwithstanding the popes had prohibited the reading of it. His ardour did not allow him to stop and examine whether this prohibition might not be posterior to the death of Pulci. Milton had studied Pulci to advantage. The kuowledge which he ascribes to his devils, their despairing repentance, the lofty sentiments which he bestows upon some of them, and, above all, the principle that, notwithstanding their crime and its punishment, they retain the grandeur and perfection of angelic mature, are all to be found in the Morgante as well as in Paradise Lost. Ariosto and Tasso have imitated other passages. When great poets borrow from their inferiors in genius, they turn their acquisitions to such advantage that it is difficult to detect their thefts, and still more difficult to blame them. The poem is filled with kings, knights, giants, and devils. There are many battles and many duels. Wars rise out of wars, and empires are conquered in a day. Pulci treats us with plenty of magic and enchantment. His love adventures are not peculiarly interesting; and with the exception of four or five leading personages, his characters are of no moment. The fable turns wholly upon the hatred which Gamellon, the felon knight of Maganza, bears towards Orlando and the rest of the Christian Paladins. Charlemagne is easily practised upon by Ganellon, his prime confidant and man of business. So he treats Orlando and his friends in the most scurvy manner imaginable, and sends them out to hard service in the wars against France. Ganellon is dispatched to Spain to treat with King Marsilius, being also instructed to obtain the cession of a kingdom for Orlando; but he concerts a treacherous device with the Spaniards, and Orlando is killed at the battle of Roncesvalles. The intrigues of Ganellon, his spite, his patience, his obstinacy, his dissimulation, his affected humility, and his inexhaustible powers of intrigue, are admirably depicted: and his character constitutes the chief and finest feature in the poem. Charlemagne is a worthy monarch, but easily gulled. Orlando is a real hero, chaste and disinterested, and who fights in good earnest for the propagation of the faith. He baptises the giant Morgante, who afterwards serves him like a faithful squire. There is another giant, whose name is Margutte. Morgante falls in with Margutte, and they become sworn brothers. Margutte is a very infidel giant, ready to confess his failings, and full of drollery. He sets all a-laughing, readers, giants, devils, and heroes, and he finishes his career by laughing till he bursts. We hope this is a sufficient abstract of the poem of Pulci, and we shall not be more diffuse when we come to those of Bojardo Matteo Maria Bojardo, count of Scandiano, was born in the year 1430. His birth preceded that of Pulci by a few months only, and he probably survived him by about ten years. We are ignorant both of the date and the circumstances of the death of the author of the Morgante Maggiore, and we seek his tomb in vain. Yet it is certain that he died almost immediately after he had finished his poem in 1484. And since Bojardo had not completed his work in the year 1495, it may be conjectured that he did not plan it until he had seem the Morgante. The title announces that love is the theme of Bojardo. Morgante, converted by Orlando, may be considered as the symbol of brutal strength yielding to religion; and Orlando, in his turn, is exhibited by Bojardo as an example of heroism and devotion, conquered by the charms of woman. Angelica arrives from Cathay at the palace of Charlemagne, and presents herself before that monarch on the festival when he is holding his cour plenière, at which every knight was welcomed with honour. Heedless of the crowd of lovers whom she charmed, she became madly fond of Rinaldo, who could not abide her; whilst for her sake, Orlando forgot his wife, his sovereign, his country, his glory, in short every thing except his religion. Angelica became heartily tired of the passion of the hero, though she kindly allowed him to dangle after her. It is true, that she was forced to tolerate his attentions, in order to obtain his assistance against the princes, who first fought in her service, and afterwards against her; besides which, her vanity was a little flattered by numbering such a hero amongst her slaves. Agrican, king of the Tartars, besieges her in Albracca with an immense army. Orlando defeats the hostile lover. But, after his death, she finds herself in greater danger; and she is menaced even by Rinaldo, who vows her destruction. Orlando is the cousin and the dearest friend of Rinaldo, but they remember neither their friendship nor their consanguinity. The quarrels of the knightly cousins furnish matter for the loftiest and most energetic passages of the poem. Orlando, notwithstanding his passion, never ceases to labour in converting the pagan knights. When the bravest Paladins are far away from the empire, Charlemagne is attacked by Agramante, emperor of Africa, who commands a host of minor kings. The passage of this tremendous army being impeded by a storm, Rodomonte, one of the royal vassals of Agramante, determines to cross the sea at all events, and he lands to the eastward of Genoa. He arrives with few followers, most of his ships having been wrecked, but he disperses the Christian army, which attempts to oppose his disembarkation. Gradasso, king of Sericana, followed by his vassals, ‘crowned kings,” who never dared to address him but on their knees, also invaded France on his own aCCOullt.

and Ariosto. Matteo


account. Gradasso was instigated by the desire of winning the sword and courser of Rinaldo. These wars follow one another in awkward succession. The battles are too numerous, nor are Bojardo's descriptions of them sufficiently varied. But the embellishments of his poem are splendid. Monsters, and giants, and enchantments, are so wonderfully multiplied, and presented with such an inexhaustible profusion of imagination and ornament, that they dazzle and distract, while they excite our admiration. The genius of Bojardo is displayed to great advantage in his delineations of character. Ariosto has ennobled the personages of his predecessor; and developed their characters with greater consistency and taste. . His heroes move with more grandeur, and they speak with more eloquence and dignity; but it is from Bojardo that he derived their portraits, and even the physiognomy of their souls. Bojardo taught him the art of peopling his poem with an endless multitude of personages, and of bestowing upon each a distinct and decided individuality; and although the characters of Bojardo are conceived more wildly than those of Ariosto, yet they are more natural and affecting. In the Orlando Furioso, Angelica is a fascinating coquette; but we sympathise with her in the Innamorato, when we behold her kneeling in despair to Rinaldo, who spurns her. When he is plunged in an enchanted dungeon, she appears before him and proffers freedom; she implores him with tears to pardon the sufferings which the enchanter inflicted on him for her sake, and supplicates his pity: but Rinaldo turns a deaf ear to her prayers, and prefers being eaten up alive by the monsters that surround him. Yet Angelica delivers him. He abandons her without deigning even to bestow a look upon her; and whilst kings and nations are warring only for her, she remains alone weeping, and deploring her unrequited love. All the other personages of Bojardo act naturally, and conformably to their ages and characters. When Ariosto brings forward any of his personages, he still keeps his eye upon the rest, mindful of the general effect of the poem. Bojardo, on the contrary, is more absorbed in the delineation of individuals: he shares their joys and their sorrows, and forgets all his other characters; he even forgets his readers. He seeks to amuse himself, and though he tells his tale to a popular audience, we may yet discern that the story-teller is a feudal baron seated in his castle. He does not appear, like Pulci, in the guise of a poet invited to the table of the great, and surrounded by a learned and critical, though friendly, circle: but as a powerful chieftain, who condescends to gratify his guests by adding the recitation of his poem to the pleasures of the lordly banquet. Bojardo himself was so much delighted with his compositions, that during the last ten years of his life they constituted i VOL. XXI. N.O. XLII. L L his his sole employment. According to his plan, the Orlando Innamorato was to have consisted of one hundred cantos; but he only lived to complete sixty-nine, which are arranged in three books. In the last, which remains imperfect, mention is made of the invasion of Italy by Charles VIII. Bojardo died in the same year: He was the most accomplished nobleman of his age; and filled various high situations, civil, military, and diplomatic; but his employments never diverted him from literature. His Timone, a comedy in rhyme, is one of the earliest specimens of the Italian drama. He published the ‘Historia Imperiale di Roccobaldo, as a translation from the Latin; but Muratori has shewn that this work is really the composition of Bojardo. He translated the history of Herodotus from the original Greek, and the romance of Apuleius from the Latin, and his Latin poetry is sufficiently elegant, if allowance be made for the taste of his age: but he was not master of the beauties of the Italian language; his versification is harsh and abrupt; his style, though less confused than that of Pulci, is more ungrammatical. Pulci enlivened his poem with his native Florentine idioms. Bojardo, who lived at Ferrara, employed the provincialisms of Lombardy, which are neither significant nor graceful, But these faults are more than counterbalanced by the wonders of his fable, by the living passion of his personages, and, above all, by the uninterrupted flow of his narrative, which proceeds with unexampled vigour. Hence he always commanded the favour of the public; and hence Ariosto was induced to complete his romantic lay. Bojardo began by making Orlando fall in love—Ariosto finished consistently by driving him

out of his senses. Ferrara, and many other towns which then formed part of the dominions of the house of Este, contend amongst themselves for the honour of being the birth-place of Ariosto and Bojardo. But it has been ascertained with tolerable certainty that Ariosto was born at Reggio and Boiardo at La Frata. The question is of no importance except to those inconsiderable towns: but since both writers were subjects of the same state, and passed the greater part of their lives in a town where they had forefathers, and where they left descendants, it is to those circumstances that we may attribute the continuation which the younger bard added to the poem of his predecessor. When Bojardo died, Ariosto was twenty years old, . He began his poem in his thirty-first year, and he finished it in his forty-first, in 1515. Agramante invades the empire of Charlemagne in the poem of Bojardo, Ariosto represents him as conqueror of part of France, and as marching round the walls of Paris, The general fable of the poem results from the wars between all Christendom and all the infidels in the world. / - The The suspension of the final catastrophe depends upon the love of Orlando and his consequent madness. Thus in the poems of Pulci and of Bojardo the action is protracted by the same reasons which retard the progress of the fable of the Iliad. Whilst Achilles and Orlando are away from the field, the Greeks and the Christians cannot be victorious. In the mean while other heroes appear, great actions are performed, and interesting events succeed each other. The art of Homer appears in the manner in which he detains us with the narrative of sundry events. We may quote the death of Patroclus, which fills three books; the last of which is employed in rescuing his corpse from the power of the Trojans; and we dwell upon this episode with pleasure, because we anticipate that Achilles will decide the chance of war at the sight of the body. In the Orlando Furioso the web is entangled, and the memory of the reader can scarcely assist him in tracing each complicated narration to its end. The events do not lead to one grand catastrophe, neither do they arise out of the main action of the poem. On the contrary many of the cantos might be arranged into a complete poem, in which not an action would appear bearing any relation to the madness of Orlando, or to the siege of Paris. His heroes jostle each other; and at the point when the reader becomes most anxious about the prosecution of their adventures, and most curious to learn their destiny, the poet breaks off abruptly and wanders elsewhere: and as he does not resume the interrupted narrative until it is nearly forgotten by the reader, he recommences with a few stanzas containing a summary of its leading circumstances. But we must remember that this plan was sanctioned by ancient usage, and that the romantic poem was intended for recitation. Ariosto had the advantage of long experience; he had reflected upon his art and upon the taste of his contemporaries. And it cannot be doubted that he was satisfied that his plan produced a-powerful effect, since in talking with his friend Pigna, whom we have already mentioned, respecting other poems which he had planned, he observed: “That he would never, discontinue his practice of complicating the principal action of his poem by introducing a great variety of secondary fables, which, although they might distract and bewilder the reader, would at length surprize him by conducting him to the catastrophe of the poem, where he would meet with the development of so many various adventures.’ Plans are easily formed in theory, yet the greatest men find it difficult to carry them into execution. In the Orlando Furioso the chief personages disappear long before the catastrophe. Helen weeps over the corpse of Hector at the end of the Iliad; but we lose sight of Angelica, the cause of Orlando's madness, and of I. L. 2 SO so many bloody wars, before we get half through the Orlando Furioso. But such conclusions are ineffectual; we know that we are in the right, but we feel that the poet does not care for our reasonings. He intoxicates the imagination, compels us to be pleased with whatever pleases him, and to see only what he sees. —Aerial palaces—fairies—the ring of invisibility—the golden lance of victory—the winged horse—the flight to the moon, and many other wild fictions, while they amuseus in other poets, though they cause us to pity the credulity of the multitude, are all presented by Ariosto as fantastic creations of nature herself. If we pause and reflect, we cannot give credit to them; but whilst we read it is scarcely possible to pause for reflection. Ariosto increases the power which he obtains over us by the suspense in which we remain during such a varied series of events, and the confusion which they produce in our memory. At the moment when the narrative of an adventure rolls before us like a torrent, it suddenly becomes dry; and immediately afterwards we hear the rushing of other streams, whose course we had lost but which we were desirous of regaining. Their waves mingle and separate again, and precipitate themselves in various directions; and the reader remains in a state of pleasing perplexity, like the fisherman, who, astonished by the harmony of the thousand instruments which sound in the isle of Circe, drops his nets, and listens to their music. “Stupefatto, Perde le reti il pescatore; e ode.” Ariosto, in the full consciousness of his power, has created more personages, more intrigues, more battles, more enchantments, more empires, more nations than any of his predecessors. He has not abused his power, yet he is frequently entangled in the exuberance of his invention. Sometimes he says homestly, ‘ I have forgotten myself, but usually he does not appear to be aware of his mistakes, and we must read him again and again before we can convict him. No one (except the celebrated Dr. Cochi, whose manuscript observations on Ariosto are yet extant at Florence in the Bibliotheca Riccardiana) has remarked that many a warrior fights, after having been killed outright in the field of battle. Italian poets had hitherto imitated the ancient classics without plan, or meaning. Ariosto enriched his poem with the spoils of Greece and Rome. He places Olimpia in the situation of Ariadne, and exposes her to a sea-monster like Andromeda. He does not hesitate to repeat the incident, and Angelica meets with the same perils. But the circumstances are varied with so much ingenuity, and the poet has gained such an ascendancy over us, that we should not object to a third repetition of the story. Perhaps no poet has imitated other writers oftener than Ariosto, and - - yet

yet there is no one who has a stronger claim to the merits of invention. Profoundly skilled in nature and in mankind, he uses the

thoughts and images of his predecessors as a conqueror. The .

madness of his hero seems entirely his own idea; but we find Or

lando raving in the Morgante, when irritated beyond measure by

Charlemagne, he determines to quit France; he rages, and loses his senses, and attempts to kill his wife Alda whom he mistakes for Gano the traitor.

  Orlando, che smarrito avea il cervello, 
Com’Alda disse, Ben venga il mio Orlando; 
Gli volse su la testa dar col brando, 
Come colui che la furia consiglia 
Egli parea a Gandar veraménte.—Pulci, Cant. I. 

From various and in some measure discordant sources, Ariosto has borrowed a great proportion of the materials which he has incorporated in his poem. The Odyssey, the AEmeid, the Argonautic poems, Ovid, and numberless writers of greater or less repute, Greek, Roman, and Italian, have all been laid under contribution by him : thus the Venetians built the church of St. Mark with columns of every order, and of marbles of every tint, with fragments from the temples of Greece, and the palaces of Byzantium. The poem which has resulted from this system cannot be termed either classical or Gothic, but it is perfect in its kind, and though filled with imitations, the whole is original. Instances occur in which Ariosto has ruined passages from the classics in fitting them into his poem; but he not unfrequently surpasses his masters, and embellishes the poetry which appears to be inimitable. “La verginella e simile alla rosa Che in belgiardin su la nativa spina Mentre sola e sicura si riposa, Nègregge ne pastor se leavvicina: L'aura soave, e l'alba rugiadosa, L'acqua, la terra al suo favors' inchina; Giovani vaghi, e donne innamorate Amano averne e seni e tempie ornate.’

  “Come orsa che l'alpestre cacciatore 
Nella pietrosa tana assalitaabbia, 
Sta sopra i figli con incerto core 
Efreme in suono di pietà e di rabbia: 
Ira la invita e natural furore 
A spiegar l'ugne ea insanguinar le labbia; 
Amor la intenerisce e la ritira 
A riguardare ai figli in mezzo all'ira.’ 

As Harrington had not the boldness to translate this stanza, and - L L 3 Hoole


Hoole has spoiled it, we think it best to place here the fine

verses of Statius which have been the model of the finest of all imi

tations. 
       Ut Lea quam saevo foetam pressère cubili 
         Venantes Numidae, natos erecta superstat 
        Mente sub incerta, torvum et miserabile frendens : 
           Illa quidem turbare globos et frangere morsu 
         Tela queat; sed prolis amor crudelia vincit 
         Pectora, et in media catulos circumspicit ira.-Theb. lib. r. 

But when he depends upon himself, or when his beauties are from his own imagination and style, he is himself inimitable, and no future poet will ever be able to profit by the riches of Ariosto as he has profited by those of others. Yet he is not always equal to himself; the length of his career exhausts him. Occasionally he lingers till he recovers his strength, and then he darts forward with all his pristine vigour. Unfortunately he made it his duty to celebrate the princes of Ferrara, and in the execution of this courtly task he is often compelled to return to many a solemu prediction of the heroic descendants of Bradamante and Ruggiero. Sometimes they are given in sculpture on the walls of an enchanted palace, or in embroidery on the drapery of a magnificent tent, or Merlin's voice is heard to prophesy from his tomb. On all these occasions, in spite of his earnest endeavours to maintain his dignity, he resembles a Savoyard exhibiting the galantee-show to children at a fair; and might almost justify the famous interrogation of the Cardinal d'Este, ‘ In the devil's name, Master Louis, where did you pick up such a heap of foolery P−At all events, the poet was sufficiently punished by feeling the weariness which he imparted; and he made an honourable reparation for his servility by refusing to follow the cardinal as a household courtier. ‘If his Eminence wishes to chain me like a slave, to worry me in winter and in summer without caring for my health or my life, because he allows me five and twenty crowns every four months, which are not always paid on demand—do not suffer him to retain this opinion; but tell him that I can bear poverty with greater composure than slavery.”

  ‘Se avermidato onde ogni quattro mesi 
Ho venticinquescudi, né si fermi 
Che molte volte non misian contesi, 

  Mi debbe incatenar, schiavo tenermi, 
Obbligarmi ch'io sudi, e tremi, senza - 
Rispetto alcun ch'io muoja, o ch'io m'infermi, 

  Non gli lasciate aver questa credenza: 
Ditegliche più tosto ch” esser servo 
'Forrè la povertade in pazienza.' 

'This is the conclusion of his first satire.

The satires of Ariosto are worthy of a place by the side of those of Horace. He produced those poems towards the close of his life. Strong and honest feelings, tempered by an indulgent disposition, elegant language, profound knowledge of human nature, the frankness with which he lays open his private history and character; all these causes contribute to stamp them as master-pieces which, in the course of three centuries, have not been equalled in Italy. In strictness perhaps they should be considered less as satires, than as confidential letters addressed to his relatives, and to his most intimate friends. As such they are frequently quoted by Harrington, who employed them in the composition of the life of Ariosto prefixed to his translation. Other interesting particulars respecting his private life may be collected from the notes of his natural son Virginio, which have been lately published from the original manuscript. This curious document informs us that Ariosto was no great reader, and that he would pass weeks together without opening a book. He occasionally looked into Virgil, Horace, Tibullus, and Ovid; he studied Catullus more frequently as a model of composition. Propertius was no favourite. When he was not confined by the business which the Duke entrusted to him, he amused himself by attending to the workmen whom he employed in altering his house, retouching his poems, and working in his garden. He prided himself on his skill in gardening, but he killed his plants with kindness; and he was so impatient, and meddled so often with his trees and shrubs, that they never could thrive. He was absent and reserved when his company did not please him, but sprightly when with his friends, He ate voraciously, but any cook good or bad pleased his palate; and turnips would satisfy him more than the daintiest diet. He was an affectionate father, and never hesitated to make any sacrifice which could promote the welfare of his numerous brothers and sisters. Even if we had not the testimony of Virginio, we could discover his affectionate temper in his works. “I must not suffer our house to fall into ruin,’ he says, “and I am its only support. My brother Gabriel is here, but what can he do? His sad destiny has condemned him from infancy to utter helplessness (being afflicted with the palsy, he had lost the use of his hands and feet.) I also owe a dowry for the marriage of my fifth sister. The old age of my mother grieves me to the heart; we should deserve

to be branded with infamy if we were all to abandon her.’

“L’eta dinostra madre mi percuote 
 Di pietà il cor; che da tutti in untratto 
 Senz' infamia lasciata esser nonpuote.’ 

He did not like travelling, and as he had studied geography to o 
                          L L 4 likišll 

nish himself with kingdoms and nations for his poem, he exulted in having encircled the globe, and in having become acquainted with distant cities and their inhabitants ‘without having occasion to quarrel with innkeepers.' Neither did he pursue his studies to a greater distance; he repented that he had neglected to learn Greek when an opportunity offered. “Either laziness or destiny (says he) has prevented me from conducting my son to the gates of Apollo at Delos: I can only guide him to the Gate of the Palatine Apollo by introducing him to the poets of Rome. Gregorio of Spoleto, my preceptor, possessed the treasures of both the ancient languages—but fortune removed him from me, and the oportunity which I then had of learning Greek was lost for ever.’ his is taken from the satire addressed to Bembo. When Ariosto imitated the Greek poets he employed the Latin translation; he wrote in Latin with elegance. Pigma, his encomiast, states that when he was at Rome, he used to explain the poets of the age of Augustus to Bembo and Flaminius, and the other learned men of the court of Leo X. ; and that he frequently pointed out beauties in the classics which had escaped these accomplished scholars. If this be true, we must attribute it not so much to his learning as to his genius. The ascendancy which he gained over his contemporaries was universally acknowledged though not always openly expressed. Machiavelli and Ariosto, the two writers of that age who really possessed most excellence, are the two who were least praised during their lives. Bembo was approached in a posture of adoration and fear: the infamous Aretino extorted a fulsome letter of praises from the great and the learned. Ariosto, in finishing his poem, exclaims that he is arriving in the harbour; and he names many contemporary poets who await him with their congratulations on the shore. A letter written by Machiavelli has lately been discovered, in which he complains, though in a friendly tone, that Ariosto had forgotten to notice him: on the other hand, it appears by a letter from Bernardo Tasso that some were angry at having been introduced, whilst others were still more offended because they did not take precedence in the poetical muster-roll. Thus we are equally in danger whether we praise or censure contemporary writers, or whether we are wholly silent concerning them. Ariosto was not envious of the fame of others, neither was he so impatient as to be fretful about his own reputation; he rested on the full consciousness of his strength; he felt his own powers in his early youth, and his first literary attempts were his metrical comedies—a species of composition which he practised at a more advanced age, but in which he displayed more taste than energy. Neither is he peculiarly happy in his lyrical poetry: a few amatory elegies which pass under his name are

 are above mediocrity, but still they are unworthy of his genius— 
 perhaps they are apocryphal. Except a few short epistles which 
 were never printed, and are indifferently written, we have not read 
 a line of Ariosto's prose. Love, ardent and unceasing, at once ex- 
 cited and repressed the faculties of his mind and the qualities of his 
 heart. “You laugh,’ says he, in a satire addressed to his cousin, 
 “you think it is not the love of my hero and of poetry, but “ladies 
 love and druerie,” which induces me to despise wealth and honour. 
 I will answer you freely, for I never take arms to defend a lie—it 
 is so.” We are assured by Father Bettinelli in his Risorgemento 
 d'Italia, that Ariosto's fair one insisted upon his writing a canto of 
 his poem every month, and that if he disappointed her, she 
 threatened to shut her doors against him. This anecdote is con- 
 firmed by his apprehensions lest he should become as crazy as 
 Orlando; by the invocations which he addresses to his mistress as 
 though she were a muse, and by the testimony of his contempora- 
 ries. But he never tells us the name of his mistress. The cover 
 of his inkstand is surmounted by a little Cupid, who puts his finger 
 to his lip counselling secrecy. - * 
                 ‘ Ornabat pietas et grata modestia vatem: 
          Sancta fides, dictidue memor: munitaque recto 
            Justitia: et nullo patientia victa labore: 
         Et constans virtus animi: et clementia mitis, 
         Ambitione procul pulsa.’ - 
 Perhaps it is to his endeavours to please the ladies and the readers 
 whom he had immediately in view, that we owe the diffuseness 
 occasionally perceptible in his works. In order to satisfy them he 
 employs himself in describing: he knew that when he painted, his 
' poem required a tension of mind in his readers of which they 
 were incapable: these words, apparently synonymous and often 
 confounded together, are so different in meaning, and so important 
 in poetical criticism, that we must endeavour to define the sense in 
 which we employ them. Olympia, abandoned by Bireno, awakes 
 and rushes to the shore; seeing the vessel on the verge of the hori- 
 zon she loses all hope. This passage, according to our opinion, 
 is mere description. 
         - ‘Corre di nuovo in su l'estrema sabbia, 
       E rota il capo e sparge all’ aria il crine; 
       E sembra forsennata. . . . . . . . . . o 
        Or si fermas' un sasso, e guarda il mare; , 
       Ně men d'un vero sasso un sasso pare. 
         Again she sought the beach in wild despair, 
         Loose to the breezes flowed her scatter'd hair. 
        At last she sitteth on the rocks alone, 
        And seems as senseless as the senseless stone.' 

The
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The first couplet is by Hoole, the second by Harrington. Hoole changed the conclusion so as to render it irrecognisable; and Harrington mutilated the commencement. But in the single verse of Catullus which represents Ariadne in the same situation,

‘Saxea ut effigies Bacchantis prospicit,’ we see at once the expressions of astonishment and eager haste, and in her fixed countenance and the rigid immobility of her figure, absolute despair. Young writers may study the parallel passages of Ariosto and Catullus, and of Ovid who has treated the same subject in his Epistles. The more the poet paints, the more sparing is he of his words; but he only writes for those who have a habit of thinking, and are capable of intense feeling. Common readers are wonderfully pleased when they read the elegant stanzas which detail the charms of Angelica: but with those who are capable of forming an idea, what idea remains of her? We know not whether Helen was fair or dark, or tall or short; but when she passed by the venerable fathers of the city who were consulting on the dangers of the war, and the misfortunes which she had caused, “They cried—no wonder such celestial charms For nine long years have set the world in arms.’

And our imagination expands and we create an idea of that exquisite beauty which could cause old age to forget its wisdom and its anger. Caesar in Horace “had conquered all the world except the soul of Cato;' and the gods in Lucan “favour the fortune of the conquerors, but Cato the cause of the conquered.’ These passages are not descriptions, but strongly contrasted thoughts, which strike without painting. But when Virgil leads us into the Elysian Fields, and points out the shades of the future Romans, from Romulus to the nephews of Augustus, he expresses, in half a verse, the loftiest

praise which the human intellect can conceive,

“Et his dantem jura Catonem,' there is neither description, nor contrast, nor sentiment. In poetical painting the poet imitates nature herself: she prepares her creation in secrecy and darkness, in order to present it in its entirety and fullness. The poetical picture is not laboured in the detail; the painter is not ambitious to display his art. Ariosto's * white tall coursers running with the wind,” “Candidi grandi e corrono col vento,” pass before us like the productions of nature rather than of the poet; but the horses of the AEmeid, “surpassing the snows in whiteness and the wind in swiftness,’ are the works of art, and we are more sensible of the elegance of the diction than of the presence of the steeds. In this passage Virgil is only a descriptive poet. In these verses of Tasso our eyes follow Columbus round the earth;


\earth; and in contemplating the boldness, rapidity and glory of the enterprize our mind darts into the heavens. * E misuró la terra, immensa mole, Vittorioso ed emulo del sole.” When the spirit of Laura soars to heaven, angels and blessed souls descend to meet her, and she looks back upon earth to see if Petrarch follows her, and seems to pause in her aerial way. ‘Si volge a tergo Mirando s'io la seguo; e par ch' aspetti.’ These few words contain a sublime and impassioned picture, requiring only the colouring of Titian. Petrarch never states distinctly that Laura loved him; and if he occasionally seems to hint that she returned his passion, he still speaks in doubt and hesitation. But he could not give us a greater proof of the force and purity of her love, than by making her delay her flight to heaven in waiting for her lover. It is true that these inferences are left to the reader, and that they are obvious only to the few: but after all, it is by this chosen few that posterity is taught to value poetic genius. In the delineation of his personages, Ariosto was more fancifully romantic than his predecessors: but his exaggerations of human nature are limited to such heroic dignity and to such vigour and consistency of character, that he persuades us to believe in their existence. His characters are infinitely varied, and when they bear a general resemblance to each other, for instance in the cases of Rodomonte and Mandricando, they are distinguished by characteristics so well marked, that we can almost anticipate how each will act when he reappears on the scene. The dramatic portion of the Orlando Furioso (if we exclude the tedious love soliloquies) appears to us to be frequently superior to any other poem, ancient or modern, not even excepting the Iliad. Orlando having converted Brandimarte to Christianity, dispatches him to Agramante, who, though he had lost his army, was yet desirous of renewing the battle, with proposals of peace; one condition upon which Orlando insisted was, that the infidel monarch should also renounce his errors. Brandimarte states his instructions with great candour, feeling and dignity. Agramante answers— Temerita per certo, e pazzia vera E la tua, e di qualunque che si pose A consigliar maicosa o buona oria, Ove chiamato a consigliar non sia. Ch'io vinca o perda, o debba nel mio regno Tornare antiquo, o sempre starne in bando,

* Eucompassing this ample globe, to run A course on earth co-rival with the sun.

- In

In mente sua n' ha Dio satto disegno, Il qual ne tu, né io, ne vede Orlando. Sia qual che vuol; non potra ad atto indegno Dive, inchinarmi mai timor nefando: ' ' S’io fossi certo dimorir, vo’ morto Prima restar, che al sangue mio far torto. Or tipuoi ritornar: chèse migliore Non sei dimani in questo campo armato Che tu misia paruto oggioratore Mal troverassi Orlando accompagnato. In the Orlando, Charlemagne retains the simplicity of character which is attributed to him in other romantic poems: but . still he conducts himself like the sovereign of a nation of heroes. And when he is unfortunate, he becomes interesting by his resignation and the sacrifices which he is ready-to make for the good of his people. M. Ginguené has well understood the character of Orlando, and he has traced it with a masterly hand. We quote the French passage with greater pleasure, because it gives us an opportunity of praising this critic, who often compels us to contradict him. “Dans toutes les descriptions de la folie d'Orlando, il n'y a pas une seule plaisanterie. Ariosto se garde bien de le rendre plaisant. C'est partout un fou que l'on fuit, mais dont on ne rit pas. Non seulement sa démence est l'effet d'une passion profonde, elle est encore une punition divine. Unseul rire du lecteur détruiroit ce caractère; mais ce rire, qu'un trait d'extravagance pourroit quelquefois appeler, est toujours repoussé par un acte de violence qui frappe de terreur. La terreur et la pitié sont les seuls sentimens que le poète excite dans ce tableau sublime et entièrement nouveau en poésie!' . . When Orlando is in his senses, he never speaks of his own exploits, and even glory is disdained by him. Ruggiero, the fictitious ancestor of the dukes of Ferrara, is the most amiable of Ariosto's heroes, yet we care the less about him because the poet has laboured to render him interesting. Bradamante, his favourite heroine, the bride of Ruggiero, is in the same predicament. When Ariosto wishes to make us sympathize with her, we regret that he severs us from other less hardy heroines who never speak without moving us even to tears. Isabella, accompanying the corpse of her lover Zerbino, falls into the hands of Rodomonte, who becomes enamoured with her. In order to elude his violence she persuades him that she possessed the secret of distilling a liquor from plants and herbs which rendered the human frame invulnerable. When he is intoxicated, she washes her neck with the magic potion, and persuades him that he cannot wound her. Quell'uom bestial le prestà fede, e scorse Si con la mano, e si col ferro crudo,

Che

Che del bel capo, già d'amore albergo, Fe' tronco rimanere il petto e il tergo: Quel fe tre balzi, e funne udita chiara Voce che uscendo nominò Zerbino, Per cui seguire ella trovò sì rara Via di fuggir di man del Saracino. Alma che avesti più la fede cara E il nome quasi ignoto e peregrino Al tempo nostro, della Castitade, Che la tua vita, e la tua verde etade, Vattene in pace, alma beata e bella! . Vattene in pace alla superna sede, - E lascia all'altre esempio di tua fede. When Brandimarte was about to meet his enemy in single combat, the fears of his wife Fiordiligiare strengthened by this dreamLa notte che precesse a questo giorno, Fiordiligi sognò che quella vesta Che per mandarne Brandimarte adorno Avea trapunta e di sua man contesta, Vedea per mezzo sparsa d'ogn'intorno Di goccie rosse a guisa di tempesta, Parea che di sua man cosi l'avesse Ricamata ella, e poi se ne dolesse; E parea dir : “ Pur hammi il signor mio Commesso ch'io la faccia tutta nera; Or perchè dunque ricamata holl'io Contra sua voglia in sì strana maniera ?”

She raises a mausoleum to her husband, in which, notwithstanding the remonstrances of Charlemagne, she secludes herself, and prays day and night beside the tomb. Stava ella nel sepolcro; e quivi attrita

Da penitenzia, orando giorno e notte,

Non duro lunga età. Ariosto has increased Boiardo's original stock of humorous characters in a greater proportion than any others. They belong entirely to his pencil, to his experience of the passions and propensities of human nature, and to his knowledge of man as he

* As Flordelis at night in slumberlay 
  The night preceding that unhappy day, 
  She dreamt the mantle which her pious care 
  Had fashioned for her Brandimart to wear, 

His ormament in fight, now, strange to view,

Was sprinkled o'er with drops of sanguine hue: 
She thought her erring hand the vest had stain'd, 
And thus in slumber to herself complain'd: 
Did not my lord command these hands to make 
His vest, his mantle, all of mournful black ? 
Why have I then, against his bidding, spread 
The sable ground with fearful spots of red ? HooLE. 

appears

appears in every class of society. His abhorrence of vice is unaffected; and his humour is free from bitterness. He speaks of erimes, and he laughs at follies, not like a stern censor who is out of humour with mankind, but as a playful and charitable observer of human nature. Such indeed was Ariosto's character. He was a philosopher, but his wisdom was cheerful and practical ; and in his writings, no less than in all the actions of his life, he practised the doctrines which he professed, without effort or labour. Ariosto brought the main action of the Orlando Furioso to a close by the death of Agramante, and the defeat of the pagans. Yet Rodomonte is not dismissed from the scene; he remains concealed in France in a kind of hermitage: and in the concluding cantos, Messer Ludovico detains us by recounting the further exploits of Ruggiero, and the obstacles which prevent his obtaining the hand of his beloved Bradamante. At the very moment when the nuptials are about to be solemnized, Rodomonte reappears before the gates of Paris, and the glory of delivering Christendom from this dangerous enemy is allotted to the hero of Ferrara. Ariosto begins his poem by borrowing two lines from Dante; he ends it with a paraphrase of the last lines of the AEneid, and Rodomonte dies like

Turnus. Ariosto's powers of composition did not keep pace with the exuberance of his imagination. The first edition of the Orlando appeared in 1516. Another was published in 1532. During this interval, he employed himself in the correction of his poem, almost to the total exclusion of all other pursuits. If the two editions of the Orlando are collated—and a most instructive lesson to all young poets results from the comparison—it appears inconceivable that a writer who began by sinning so grossly against the laws of good taste and of poetical diction, should have been able to weed out his faults and to replace them by so many transcendant beauties. During a few months Ariosto resided at Florence, and in this short period he acquired the native graces of the Tuscan dialect, and in adapting its peculiarities to his style, he dignified the most familiar words and household phrases of the Florentines. It might be said that amongst his other intellectual organs he possessed one which acted as a crucible for melting and refining the terms which he required. In addition to the modes of diction sanctioned by the example of the Italian classics, he employed all the expressions which he could find in obscure and vulgar poetry, all the Latinisms, all the Lombardisms, which best expressed his ideas. Yet his lively genius gives an uniform tint to these heterogeneous elements; he places them where they become most effective and harmonious, and he has amalgamated them into a new language, at once copious and diggnified, emergetic and correct. The language of Ariosto is equally Satrssatisfactory to the reader who merely seeks to amuse himself with the story, and to him who can appreciate the most delicate beauties of poetical diction. It is only after the third or fourth perusal of the Orlando we discover that these higher excellences of Ariosto's poetry do not lie on the surface. Voltaire, in his youthful days, expressed his contempt for the Orlando. At a more advanced age, he exclaimed ‘ I used to consider Ariosto as the first of grotesque poets. Now I find him at once entertaining and sublime, and I humbly apologize for my error. He is so rich, so diversified, so abounding in beauties of every description, that after having read the poem completely through, I have often had no other wish except that of perusing it again.'—(Dictionnaire Philosophique, Article Epopée.) Sir Joshua Reynolds has given a happy explanation of this intellectual process, and the inferences which he draws may be as useful to the poet as to the artist. He confesses that at the commencement of his studies the paintings of Raphael made no impression upon him, and he adds—‘Having frequently revolved this subject in my mind, I am clearly of opinion that a relish for the higher excellencies of art is an acquired taste, which no man ever possessed without long cultivation and great labour and attention. Nor does painting in that respect differ from other arts. A just poetical taste and the acquisition of a nice discriminative musical ear are equally the work of time. Metastasio always complained of the great difficulty he found in attaining correctness in consequence of his having been in his youth an improvvisatore.’ An incontestable proof of this observation is found in the painful correction which Ariosto bestowed upon his poem. His cares ceased only with his life; and his incessant labour in the edition of 1532 caused a malady which brought him to the grave

in the fifty-eighth year of his age. Whilst Ariosto, unwearied in the correction of his poem, was preparing an inexhaustible fund of poetical diction, which future poets were to emulate and envy, the Italian language was receiving new accessions of excellence from the playful pen of Berni. By him, the rugged stanzas of Bojardo were translated into a style of versification possessing graces till then utterly unknown; and still utterly inimitable. Berni was a Florentine by birth: he excelled Ariosto in erudition; but he purposely discarded the refinements of the Tuscan idiom, which he termed ‘se lascivie del parlar Toscano: and not a classical allusion, not a symptom of classical taste, can be found in the new Orlando Innamorato. Berni deliberately avoids all the conventional elements of poetry. His beauties seem to flow from inspiration, to result from a momentary impulse, not from the premeditated combinations of the poetic art; yet his manuscripts have as many erasures and corrections as those of Ariosto.


Ariosto. Passages are found in which Berni recomposed one line upwards of thirty times. But he bestowed this labour with the express intent of freeing his imagery and his descriptions from the ornaments which other writers seek with anxious care. There is a celebrated stanza in the Furioso in which Ariosto describes a sea storm. He corrected and recorrected it till his rough draught literally filled a quire of paper. Berni has a few lines on the same subject, which probably cost him equal pains. We may quote these passages as an exemplification of the diversity of the style of the two authors. Stendon le nubi un tenebroso velo Che ne sole apparir lascia në stella, Di sotto il mar, di sopra mugge il cielo, Il vento d'ogn’ intorno e la procella Che di pioggia oscurissima e digelo I naviganti miseri flagella; E la motte più sempre si diffonde ... " Sopra le irate e formidabil onde.” Canto 18. st. 140. Here the artist has copied from nature, but he has embellished his painting with an ideal colouring. The poet charms the reader by the dignity of his expressions. His verse is richly rhythmical and harmonious; his expressions are sublime. Ariosto is stationed on a rock, from whence he contemplates the dangers which are embodied in his poetry: but Berni is actually in the midst of the danger. His readers think neither of poetry nor of inspirations; they tremble in the tempest. Cominciansi l’agumine a sentire E le strida crudel de le ritorte Torbido 'l mare, angi nero apparire E il mare e il cielo a far color di morte; Grandine epioggia e folgori a venire Or questo vento or quel si fa più forte. E Tramontana e Libeccio ad un tratto Hanno del mare un guazzabuglio fatto. Or non è luce se non di baleni Ně s' ode altro che tuoni e ventifieri, E la nave percossa d'ogen banda Nessuno e ubbidito; ognun comanda. L' intrepido empio altiero Rodomonte Al mare, al cielo, a Dio volta la faccia,

* Harrington has not translated this stanza: indeed he has omitted more than half of the eighteenth Canto, which he generally does when he feels that he cannot do justice to his original. He fears poetical passages, and avoids them. Hoole has more courage, but no ability. He cuts in morsels the ideas of Ariosto, and scatters them. This is partly owing to the nature of the English couplet. Ariosto constantly endeavours to concentrate all the accessories of his paintings in one point of view. In this stanza the darkness increases more and more till it enwraps the navigators.

Pro

Profonda il ciel di pioggia e di tempesta, 
Egli sta sopra, ed ha nuda la testa. 

In the substance of the narrative, Berni follows closely in the footsteps of Bojardo: but the moral introductions to each canto, and his digressions, sometimes moral and sometimes satirical, are entirely his own. In the former he even excels Ariosto. The corresponding portions of the Furioso are gay or ethical, or gallant, or eloquent, and always displaying that philosophy which the poet gathered by a studious observation of human character and of human life. Not such is the tone of Berni,-his morality seems to proceed from the singleness of his mind and the simplicity of

his heart.

  Io non son sì ignorante nè sì dotto 
Che voglia dir d'Amor nè ben nè male– 
  Dimmi ti prego, Amor, s'io ne son degno 
Che cosa e questa tua ? che pensi fare?- 
Forse chi t'insegnò di trarre a segno 
Con quel tuo arco, a non volere errare, 
Ti disse che la vera maestria 
Era a dar nella testa tuttavia ? 
  Amor non mi risponde; onde anch'io taccio 
Che cercar gli altrui fatti non conviene: 
Pur di non dir quel poco ch'io ne straccio 
Di buon, non mi terrebbon le catene. 
  Basta che un male è Amor, malvagio e strano; 
E Dio guardi ciascun dalla sua mano. 

When his remarks are most profound, he appears most unconscious of the truths which he teaches.

Notate amanti, e tu nota anche, Amore, Sendo fatta per voi l'istoria mia; Ed io non volendo esser un autore Pazzo tenuto e che contra si dia,Vorrei cortesi e dilicati amanti Anime grazioze, anime mie, Vorrei vedervi savj tutti quanti; E quando veggo farvi le pazzie, I canti miei si convertono in pianti ln far rabbuffi e dirvi villanie. His reflections usually arise from the interest which he takes in his personages. He breaks off a canto, and leaves Orlando and Rinaldo fighting, on account of Angelica, with the utmost fury. This dispute vexes him, and he opens the succeeding canto with mild remonstrances, which at length rise into anger. Amor, tu mi vien tanto per le mani
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Ch'io ti riprenda de' tuoi modi strani Della tua maladetta gelosia Fai combatter insieme due Cristiani— D'un paese, d'un sangue, anai fratelli. Gelosi, sciocchi, pazzi, spiritati' Berni frequently displays much severity and bitterness in his invectives; not that he was fond of satire, but he would not dissemble his indignation at the crimes of the great, nor repress his pity for the wretched. He was an eye-witness of the plundering of Rome by the troops of Charles V. Si come in molti luoghi vider questi Occhi infelici miei per pena loro—

Fino alle ossa sepolte fur molesti 
Gli scellerati per trovar tesoro. 

We could have wished to transcribe the excursus in which he describes this event; but most of the editions of Berni, even of those which appeared in his life-time, have been sadly corrupted by the ignorance of their printers or the learning of their editors: those who are fortunate enough to possess a correct edition of him, will find the passage in question at the beginning of the fourteenth Canto. We have been forced to quote (heaven knows how!) from memory.

We have attempted to illustrate and analyze four of the principal classes of Italian narrative poetry, viz. the satirical, the burlesque, the heroic-comic, and the romantic. The heroic alone remains to be noticed. The lines of demarcation between these classes cannot be always laid down with accuracy: they run into each other; and Italian literature possesses many narrative poems of great length, in which the style of every class is blended. But the number of these compositions is terrific, and they have not sufficient celebrity to allow us to force them on our readers. We could not hope to excuse the unconscionable length of this article, but by observing that the authors on whom we have written have great claims upon the attention of posterity; and we shall therefore not fear to enlarge on the literary character of that transcendent writer who produced the principal heroic poem of Italy. A nation possessing an heroic poem worthy of the name may consider the work as its chiefest honour: for it is the proudest effort of the noblest faculties of man.

The narrative of an heroic poem should be placed in an era comprehending those events in the early history of a nation, which are most capable of being aggrandized and embellished in poetical narration, without concealing the historical substratum. It should introduce the exploits of the ancient heroes of the people,

SO

so told as to excite our wonder, without placing them above our comprehension, or beyond our powers of imitation. The period thus selected should also precede the age of literary civilization: for if it abounds in sound philosophers and sober historians, if it can be seen too distinctly and understood too accurately, the imagination of the reader will refuse the fictions of the poet. On the contrary, when the bard has the good fortune to flourish in an era anterior to the diffusion of letters, he is the only pharos which can guide us through the darkness of antiquity, the only oracle which can be consulted by posterity. A single verse of Homer settled the dissensions which arose between the states of Greece, respecting their possessions. The isle of Salamis was adjudged to the Athenians solely on the authority of a line in the Iliad.* This deference was neither misplaced nor extravagant: for this was not one of the facts which required the admixture of poetical fiction. Thucydides acknowledged that neither he nor any other Grecian historian could trace the history of the Greeks two centuries preceding the age of Solon. But the poets of that dark age, when history was silent, had already sung the confederacy which armed the Greeks against the power of Asia; and immortalized the boldness of the navigators of the Argonautic expedition. These enterprizes produced a total revolution in the state of society, both in Greece and in Asia; and if they did not give rise to such a stream of successive events as flowed from the Crusades in the middle ages, yet they gave the same powerful impulse to entire nations; they afforded to the brave the same opportunities of encountering danger and earning renown; and they furnished the poet with a subject at once combining religious feeling, and historical recollections, and national glory. Milton once intended to become the bard of Arthur and the Round Table. . . " Si quando indigenas revocabo in carmina reges, ARTURU Asque etiam sub terris bella moventem, Aut dicam Invicta sociali foedere Mensae Magnanimos heroas. - -In his youth, Tasso also planned several romantic poems. But these great men would not condescend to please alone: they wished to become truly useful to their contemporaries. Romantic poetry had also begun to lose its freshness in Italy, nor were new romances acceptable to the public. The Amadis of Bernardo Tasso (the father of Torquato) is excellent as far as an inexhaus-,
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tible profusion of the beauties of diction and versification can confer excellence; but Amadis could not support himself in the presence of Orlando; and the attempts of other contemporary poets met with the same fate. An heroic poem was earnestly desired by the Italian litterati; but the poets were discouraged by the miserable failure of Trissino. Tasso had sufficient confidence in his own strength to attempt the task; and the glory of completing it. The choice of his subject constitutes one of the principal merits of the poem. Europe has no era in her history equal in importance to the age of the Crusades. Had it not been for these holy wars, the human race would, perhaps, even now have been degraded to the lowest depth of slavery and barbarity. Besides the moral dignity of these events, the history of the delivery of Hierosolyma had then a pregnant political application. Christendom was awed by the power of the Ottomans; and in the age of our poet, between the years 1529-1592, the countless myriads of the Turkish armies had appeared before the ramparts of Vienna in four successive invasions. The sovereigns of Europe were not sufficiently impressed with the common danger; for, as usual, each was absorbed by his own affairs. Yet religion still gave a powerful impulse to the human mind; and leagues had been negociated for the purpose of expelling the Mussulmen from the empire of Constantine. Tasso cherished a solemn and mystic veneration for the Christian faith. A spirit of tranquil dignity emanated from his religious feelings, and was transfused into his poem. If he had lived in our days, he must have sought another theme. Perhaps he would have found none. Writers, upon whose heads the double flames of religious and poetical enthusiasm have descended, demand a race of readers with whom they can assimilate, readers who exist in the medium of religious contemplation, whose hearts and souls are embued and preoccupied with devotional thoughts. It is said that we are more enlightened: the truth is, that we are only more perplexed. Reason has reduced dogmatism of belief into philosophical probability. In the age of Milton, the subject of the Paradise Lost interested not only the English nation, to whom religious tenets were the sources of revolution, but, all mankind. Had the Messiad of Klopstock appeared during the Thirty Years war, whilst the heroes of Sweden were defending liberty and the gospel against Austria and the Jesuits, perhaps that poem would have found the world much more anxious in recommending it to posterity. Writers who endeavour to give an impulse to a nation must win their way by appearing, in the first place, to conform to the passions and prejudices, and opinions,

whether religious or political, of their contemporaries. Tasso could not deliver historical truth through the medium of poetry,


poetry, like Homer, because he lived in a cultivated age. Neither could he raise a fabric of illusion like Virgil, who founded his poem upon historical traditions, known to be fables by his contemporaries. But he took the plot, and selected the personages of the Gerusalemme Liberata from authentic monuments, availing himself nevertheless of their sources with the licence which must always be allowed to a poet. The crusades have been described by contemporary writers who witnessed the events which they record. Modern historians have turned their works to good account; but in the time of Tasso they were unknown, or at least forgotten. Hence he drew all his details from the Gesta Dei per Francos : there he found the topography of his fields of battle, and the names and exploits of his heroes. These monkish records taught him the customs of the Turks, the policy of the Grecian emperors, and the military discipline of the Christian besiegers of Jerusalem. If we read the chronicles published by Muratori, we certainly gather more correct information than is furnished by the poem of Tasso, and we gain a truer, yet a more afflicting, knowledge of human nature. But Tasso is the first who dispelled the shades which covered the holy war. His tale is true in its essential parts; and if he deviated from the plain path of history, it was with the intent of exciting posterity to emulate the virtues which adorned their ancestors. Therefore he invokes the muse, who, crowned not with the perishable laurels of Helicon, but with etermal radiance, is throned above, and implores her pardon for the ornaments which he has woven into the web of truth, O Musa, tu che di caduchi allori Non circondi la fronte in Elicona Malassú in cielo fra’ beati cori Hai di stelle immortali aurea corona, Tu spira al petto mio celesti ardori, Turischiara il mio canto, e tu perdona, Se intesso fregial ver. Homer displays the same attachment to historical tradition; and he extols the omnipotence and wisdom of the immortals by a comparison with the ignorance and weakness of mankind. His invocation is sublime, Pope has tamed it by his luxuriancy. “Say, virgins, seated round the throne divine, All-knowing goddesses, immortal nine, Since earth's wide regions, heaven's unmeasured height, And hell's abyss, hide nothing from your sight, We wretched mortals, lost in doubts below, But guess by rumour, and but boast we know.’

When such invocations were poured forth by Homer and Tasso, their verses were as sacred to their contemporaries as the orisons M M 3 - of
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of the priest at the altar. Homer and Tasso, like Dante and Milton, did not consider poetry as mere amusement, nor did they seek alone to entertain an idle reader; they wrote with heartfelt warmth and dignity on subjects which they considered to be

sublime and beautiful in themselves, and important to the world. Romantic poetry is separated from heroic poetry by a boundary so definite and so clearly marked, that it is strange the distinction should hitherto have escaped observation. Entertainment alone is the object of the poet of romance; he endeavours to inflame the imagination by an endless succession of diversified adventures and fairy visions. While the heroic poet strives to ennoble our intellect; he labours to afford instruction, by compelling us to listen with breathless attention to a narrative of which the substratum is historical truth; and in which he details events of such magnitude, that they must ever excite the curiosity of posterity. Though ages have rolled away, the topographer still studies the situation of the towns which fitted out the navy of Agamemnon. We plan the Grecian camp, and measure the site of Troy, and ascend the sepulchral mounds which cover the ashes of the besieging warriors. New nations may people the civilized world, new doctrines may be held, new languages may be spoken, and yet the pilgrim will be guided by Tasso to the rock from whence the very ruins of Jerusalem may have disappeared. Tasso did not err against poetical probability by introducing magic and enchantments, and sprites and demons; we have already made some observations on these subjects, which prove that he was justified in adopting the creed of popular superstition. We must not indeed judge of poetical machinery according to our present belief, but according to the opinions which prevailed when the poet was writing: he could

not foretell either our credulity or our incredulity.

Whole academies have been leagued in conspiracy against Tasso. His laurels have been nibbled by critics, who, strange to say, united the discordant characters of pedants, poets, and courtiers: and foreigners of unquestionable talent, forgetting the respect which was due to their own celebrity, have sat in judgment on a poem which they could not read. This perhaps may be considered as a venial offence: but they have wantonly stigmatized the reputation of the author for the poor pleasure of saying” a good thing. Sometimes Tasso has been censured because because he copied fewer classical passages than Ariosto; sometimes he has been blamed as loudly on account of his frequent imitations. Perhaps he does occasionally appear to be too close an imitator of detached passages from the ancients: his copies preserve the severity of the originals; but if he cannot equal Homer, he is often superior to Virgil. According to the just observation of Mr. Payne Knight, the simile of the nightingale lamenting her young ones, which Virgil introduced in the Georgics, and which he borrowed from the Odyssey, is not borrowed from nature. Tasso has graced it with an expression which comes home to the human heart. Lei nel partir, lei nel tornar del sole Chiama con voce mesta e prega e plora; Come usignuol cui villan duro invole Dal nido i figli non pennuti ancora; Che in miserabil canto afflitte e sole Piange le notti, en' empie i boschi e l’ ora. Alfin co’l nuovo di rinchiude alquanto I lumi; e il sonno in lor serpe fra il pianto. Tasso was sated to be exposed to contradictory censures. He was persecuted by the admirers of Ariosto, because the Gerusalemme Liberata was unlike the Orlando Furioso. On the other hand, the cold scholastic critics of Italy were equally anxious to depreciate the merits of a poem, whose author had not chosen to become a slavish imitator of the plan of classical epics, Homer and Virgil, their exclusive standards. National prejudices also came into play against him. He wrote at Ferrara, surrounded by the friends and disciples of Ariosto, and there he was a stranger. The Florentines were equally ungenerous; they tried to blast the fame of Tasso, because his native soil was not on the banks of Arno; and because he had committed another grievous sin in their estimation: he would not submit to the rule of those far famed triflers, the Della Cruscan academicians. The authority of this tyrannical oligarchy arose about thirty years after the death of Ariosto. The Florentines, who could no longer occupy themselves with their political independence, which they had lost, found serious employment in the discussion of grammatical questions. Even the noble-minded Galileo could not resist the contagion, but shared in the petty illiberality of his countrymen, and imbibed all the pedantry of the Tuscan sciolists. It had been long known, from the correspondence of Galileo, that he had drawn a parallel between Tasso and Ariosto; the work, however, was not published till within the last twenty years, when Serassi discovered

* ‘A lucky word in a verse, which sounds well and every body gets by heart, goes farther than a volume of just criticism. The exact but cold Boiseau happened to say something of the clinquant of Tasso, and the magic of this word, like the report of Astolfo's horn in Ariosto, overturned at once the solid well-built reputation of Italian poetry. It is not so amazing that this potent word should do the business in France; it put us into a fright on this side of the water. Mr. Addison, who gave the law in taste - here,

here, took it up and sent it about the kingdom in his polite and popular essays. It became a sort of watchword amongst his critics here; and on the sudden, nothing was heard on all sides but the clinquant of Tasso.”—Dr. Hurd's Remarks on the Fairy Queen. M M 4 1t

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it in a Roman library. It is imperfect, and we suspect that parts have been suppressed by the editor, the enthusiastic biographer of Tasso. Galileo owed the richness, the purity, and the luminous evidence of his prose to his constant study of poetry; but he has anatomised the ornate diction of the Gerusalemme with sternness and severity; and certainly, in style and language, the poem cannot be thought equal to the Orlando Furioso. Galileo compares passages taken from Tasso and Ariosto, which describe the same objects, and where the heroes are placed in equivalent situations. This process ensures a triumph to Ariosto, for he never scrupled to sacrifice the harmony of his entire poem to its scattered beauties; whilst Tasso always endeavoured to keep the details in due subordination to his general plan. Tasso, according to Galileo, ekes out his stanzas by dovetailing them with intarsiature (or inlaid work). This is true; but it is a fault which Tasso shares in common, not only with Ariosto, but with all other writers of rhyme—shall we say in common with all other writers of poetry? The Greek and Latin poets were not condemned to write in rhyme. They were extremely anxious to preserve the simpler dumtarat et unum in all their images and phrases; yet they were frequently compelled to have recourse to mosaic. If many of the hexameters of Virgil come down to us as hemistichs, he left them so on account of his dread of intarsiature. And Horace, in defiance of his own maxim, has only composed his odes by piecing them, though with infinite skill and workmanship. d. forgets these examples. His criticism is incontestable as an abstract truth; but he applies it to Tasso with dogmatical harshness. Frequently his criticisms are nothing but paltry sophisms uttered in abusive language. Galileo was the least envious and the most benevolent of men; a genius to whom Sir Isaac Newton acknowledges many obligations, and who, both as a writer and a philosopher, is ranked by Hume above Lord Bacon: but he affords another proof that the human mind is elevated or degraded by the task on which it is employed, and by its

passions and feelings. . . . . . . . . . . . . Innumerable volumes of affected criticism have been produced by the literary factions, which in Italy are yet called by the names of Ariostisti and Tassisti. The former, like Galileo, marshal phrases against phrases; the latter expound the precepts of Aristotle and Horace in favour of the Gerusalemme. Tasso intended to confine his career within a definite bound. He never allows himself to deviate from the main path, save only on those occasions when he can justify his deviations by their fitness. He measures his strength so as to reach the goal without fatigue, and he becomes more rapid whilst he advances. In the first cantos of his Gerusalemine, we are guided by the poet; in the next series We we are invited to proceed; and in the last we are absolutely hurried on with delight. When the Gerusalemme has been once perused with attention, it is presented to the mind like a Grecian temple, of which the entire can be contemplated in a single glance. Additional study is not required to further our comprehension, but it will convince us that the artist gave proportion to his details by maturing his genius with thought and reflection. When the subject is luxuriant, and Tasso feels that his imagination becomes too exalted by the theme, he instantly restrains his fancy. We see him in the car, the steeds “have quenched their thirst with the fount of Hippocrene, they are fed with flame and air, and their harness is the gift of the sun; but at the instant that they are dashing along the skies he reins them in.' - - Presente odi il nitrito De' corsieri Dircei; benchè Ippocrene Li dissetasse, e li pascea dell' aure Eolo, e prenunzia un’ aquila volava, E de'suoi frenigli adornava il Sole; Pur que' vaganti alipedici contenne. Tasso is delicate and even scrupulous; he avoids all objects but those which are intrinsically beautiful, and whose grandeur is incontrovertible. The description of the gardens of Armida has been successfully translated and amplified by Spenser; and the English poet has shewn that an admirable effect may be produced by freedom of fancy and unstudied irregularity. But in whatever manner the descriptions of Tasso are imitated, they preserve their primitive beauty. He had not only selected and arranged his materials, but he had settled the place which each was to occupy. Before he wrote a line, he had the poem complete and finished in his mind, like Michael Angelo, who saw the statue in the block of marble lying before him. Compare Rodomonte and Orlando with Soliman and Tancred, and the heroes of romantic chivalry appear gigantic; but they are beings whom other mortals cannot emulate, and as soon as our astonishment ceases, our admiration is checked. But we think longer on the warriors of Tasso, because their characters are more within compass. Argante is an undaunted partisan: the love of glory and hatred of the Christian name are his only passions; his virtues are barbarian pride and candour. But he does not attack an entire army single-handed, like a hero of romance; on the contrary, he prepares himself for his enterprizes with the wary caution of an experienced leader. After the conquest of Jerusalem, he enters a valley where he meets Tancredi, to finish the mortal combat. Qui si fermano entrambi: e pursospeso Volgeasi Argante a la cittade afflitta.

Vede Tancredi che il pagan difeso 
                                       Non 


Non è discudo, e il suo lontano eigitta. 
Poscia lui dice: Or qual pensier to ha preso 
Pensi che giunta è l'ora tua prescritta? 
Se antividendo ció timido stai, 
Eil tuo timore intempestivo omai. 
  Penso (risponde) a la Città del Regno 
Di Giudea, antichissima regina * 
Che vinta or cade e indarno esser Sostegno 
Io procurai de la fatal ruina. 

Soliman defends himself to the last with dignity and self-devotion. He is fearless in adversity: his dominions are conquered, but he will yet try to defend the religion of his forefathers, and to avenge the faithful soldiers who perished before him in the field of battle. Tasso describes him alone and wounded. He has no hope but in his sword, and no consolation but in the recollection of his glory. He goes up in secret towards Jerusalem and treads upon the corpses of his friends.

Sife negli occhi allor torbido, e scuro, E. di doglia il Soldano il volte sparse: Ahi con quanto dispregio ivi le degne Mirè giacer sue già temute insegne. E scorrer lieti i Franchi; e i petti, e i volti Spesso calcar de'suoi più noti amici, E con fasto superbo agl’ insepolti L'arme spogliate e gli abiei infelici: Sospirò dal profondo. In the chronicles and legends of the middle ages Goffredo appears as a saint. Tasso has availed himself of this attribute, and created a religious hero: Livy and Plutarch give the outlines of this character; but no poet, not even Virgil, has ever delineated it with equal grandeur. Godfrey is invested with all the noble qualities which are worthy of the leader of the chivalry of Christendom. He solicits not the authority which his fellow-warriors are eager to bestow; and he rules but to guide them onwards in the path of pure and virtuous honour. Wise in the camp and valiant in the field, his eager yet prudent courage is excited not for the sake of victory, but for the fulfilment of his vow. The glare of military glory does not delude him, whilst he combats to deliver the sacred tomb : and amidst the turmoil of human passions and the bloodshed of incessant warfare, nought can disturb the sacred calmness of his mind, still wrapt in holy contemplation. The real Rinaldo of history was a knight, but not of ‘high emprise,’ allied to the family of Este, who is said to have fought in the holy wars. Tasso rescued him from oblivion. Rinaldo was to become the fated hero of the Gerusalemme, and yet Tasso has

failed to sustain him in the epopée. Rinaldo combines the characters of Achilles and Ruggiero. We cannot participate in the partiality which the poet bears towards him, and we see too clearly the endeavours which are made for the purpose of exalting him. Loyalty towards the princes of Ferrara did not ensure their gratitude. The grandfather and the uncle would not even thank Ariosto for his prophecies and praises; and the grandchildren repaid Tasso by disgrace, poverty, and the dungeon. Tancred became the effective hero of the Gerusalemme. Tasso wished to reproduce the image of a true knight of ancient Italy, and he found the original of the portrait in his own heart. The scene of a lover who kills his beloved could not be devoid of interest, but the event is developed with unequalled dignity and pathos; nor could it have been described thus but by one possessing Tasso's elevated mind, and one who had grieved like him. His heroines are rather seducing than affecting, and he has depicted them rather from fancy than from the life. Erminia is perhaps a solitary exception. In fact, Tasso, whose morals were singularly pure, had only a visionary acquaintance with womankind: in his imagination, the woman whom he loved became a deity. Ariosto, who had more experience, knew the nature of women a great deal better. Hence in the Orlando Furioso all the female characters are commanded by their passions. Love exalts them into virtue; scorn impels them to vice, and in either case they proceed to extremes; yet they are consistent in extravagance and impetuosity. But in the Gerusalemme, the tricking jilt Armida loves most violently and most sentimentally. The virtuous Sofronia has no heart: when she is placed with Olindo on the fatal pile which is to consume both, she will not console him by confessing that she loves him. Clorinda, who is susceptible of no passion except the love of military fame, is represented as inspiring the most tender affection. Yet the genius of Tasso triumphs over his conceptions. The death of Clorinda is deeply pathetic; and the pastoral tenderness of Erminia awakens all our sympathies: she becomes the prisoner of Tancred, and she loves him. He, generously, as he supposes, refuses to retain the orphan princess in captivity, and she returns to Jerusalem where she finds no friend but King Aladin, who had been in alliance with her father. When she hears that Tancred has received a dangerous wound, she leaves the city in the dead of the night. In exploring her way, she stops on a hill which overlooks the encampment of the Italian army, and the moon is shining on the tents. Poirimirando il campo, ella dicea : O belle agli occhi miei, tende Latine, Aura Aura spira da voi chemi ricrea

E mi conforta purche mi avvicine !

Raccogliete me dunque, e in voisi trove

Quella pietà chemi promise Amore;

E ch'io già vidi prigioniera altrove

Nel mansueto mio dolce signore.”

The Aminta of Tasso possesses an indescribable charm. Its delicacy and pathos proceeded from his inmost soul. Guariui has given a lively and amplified imitation of this pastoral in his well known Pastor Fido : common readers are better pleased with the copy than with the original; but all competent judges (even including Tasso's Italian critics) value the Aminta as a matchless specimen of Italian poetry. We must except an English critic, who considered the Aminta as trash; but this learned gentleman dealt his contempt with wonderful impartiality, for he despised Milton's Lycidas and the Odes of Gray and Pindar, . Such sentences are usually pronounced with oracular gravity; and, like all oracles, they are venerated by half their hearers, and laughed at by the other half. The sonnets of Tasso are only inferior to those of Petrarch; and his odes deserve much more attention than , has hitherto been bestowed upon them. Two of them are singularly affecting. He addressed one to the Princesses of Ferrara, from bis prison. He began the other when he fled without hope, and without a friend, nor had ever the courage to terminate the fragment.f. Tasso composed many philosophical essays, several of which

are in dialogue. He gave this form to his disquisitions for the purpose of testifying his admiration of Plato, and also in conformity to the literary fashion of the age. In these argumentative productions, his prose is florid yet majestic. His style is clear; his diction is pure; his thoughts are new and profound; and his mode of reasoning is close and logical, Tasso is worthy of being placed by the side of Dante and Milton. Like them, his erudition was unbounded, his character was dignified; and he adhered to literature in despight of every misfortune which

* “Beholding then the campe (quoth she) O faire And castle-like pavilions, richly wrought ! From you how sweet me thinketh blowes the aire, How comforts it my heart, my soul, my thought ! Receive me then, and let me mercie finde, As gentle love assureth me I shall, Among you had I entertainment kinde, When first I was the Prince Tancredie's thrall.” Fairfar. t We cannot consult the lyrical works of Tasso. The first ode begins O figlie di Renata;' and the second ‘0 gran Padre Appenino.” call

can afflict human nature. Disease and poverty, and the malignity of his persecutors, all tended to shorten his days. He died at the age of fifty-one. If we were not assured of this fact, the number and variety of his writings would induce us to suppose that he had enjoyed a long and tranquil life: but he found no friend and no resource except his pen. His feelings were too intense, and his intellectual labours too incessant. He knew the sorrows which he was bringing down upon his own head, when he composed the Aminta; he was then in his thirtieth year. He was aware that the world would consider him as a madman. “Aye,’ said he, speaking of himself, under the name of Tirsi, “He wanders in the woods—he is distracted because his heart is consumed by fire— they pity him, and yet they laugh at him; but if they laugh at his actions, they will not dare to ridicule his writings.’ In his letters to his friends, he repeats, ‘solitude is my most dangerous enemy.” Meditating upon religion, he often drew inferences which terrified him, and then he would hasten to the Inquisitor and denounce himself, and humbly crave absolution. The rank of his mistress inspired him with awe. The ideas which he had formed respecting the exalted virtue of the female sex were unearthly and unnatural; he therefore withered away beneath the influence of hopeless love; nor did he find a remedy either in experience or in despair. Conscious of his superior excellence, and homestly proud of his noble birth, he was incessantly fretted and galled by poverty and dependance. ‘Pur son gentilhuomo, he exclaims with sorrowful indignation, in a letter written after he had been villamously treated by the orders of the duke. In great minds, the desire of attaining perfection is at once inherent and injurious; and he was always wrestling with his own spirit. Tasso kept up a voluminous correspondence with the learned of his age. He solicited their advice; and in these communications he unguardedly indicated many of the grounds of the evil judgments which were afterwards passed upon his poem. He would not submit to the whims and caprices of his literary contemporaries: they attacked him in return with the very weapons which he had placed in their hands; and not confining their attacks to his immortal poem, they goaded him to the quick. In all things he was too unsuspicious and unguarded; and his candour was repaid by malice and treachery. At length, in his old age, his sufferings convinced him of the necessity of caution, and then he became more unhappy than before; for he could not live without confidence and friendship. Tasso never learnt to sustain contempt: this was another ceaseless source of misery to him. He dreaded lest his passions should gain the mastery; he was ever anxious to curb his impetuous imagimation; and he cherished a fierce and devouring flame in the in

Ill OSt

most recesses of his soul. Thus also the fire of his fancy is concentrated in his veins: its glow is not always visible, and yet we feel a genial unextinguishable warmth.

Tasso thought that he had written only for the erudite. He died,—and they were earnestly contesting the merits of his poem, and they yet continue the wordy war. But during two centuries the verses of the bard of Palestine have cheered the humble toils of the peasant and the fisherman, and the gondolier.

Not many years ago we met a gang of galley-slaves near Leghorn, who

“Chain'd down at sea beneath the bitter thong, 
 To the hard bench and heavy oar so long,' Rogers. 

were returning at night-fall from their labours. They were chained two and two, and as they passed slowly along the shore, they sang the Litany with sorrowful devotion, but in the verses in which Tasso has clothed the prayer of praises and supplication chaunted by the army of the Crusaders when proceeding to battle.

  Ně s udian trombe o suoni altri feroci; 
Ma di pietate, e d'umiltà sol voci: 

  E ne suonan le valli imee profonde, 
F. gli alti colli, e le spelonche loro 
E da ben mille parti Eco risponde; 
Si chiaramente replicar s' udia 
Or di Cristo il gran nome, or di Maria. 
Sommessi accenti, e tacite parole, 
Rotti singulti, e flebilisospiri 
Della gente che in uns' allegra e duole 
Fan che per l'aria un mormorio s'aggiri.’